Hi, everyone, sorry for the long delay. I had other things going on. A lot of other things. And before you ask, yes, I'm going to continue Truth or Dare...very, very soon.

This is a story I've been working on for a long time. It's an AU where Lincoln is a homicide detective in LA and tracks a violent home invading serial killer. It's a little different from my usual stuff, but I had fun with it. I hope you like it.

Lincoln Loud threw back his head and let out a long, low groan. Before him, spread out across the coffee table, the scattered papers of the Mancini file stared mockingly back, statements, crime scene photos, blah, blah, blah.

And all of it meant nothing.

Sighing, Lincoln rubbed his grainy eyes. It was early, barely nine-thirty, but he'd been going over the damn thing since he got home at four.

And he was still no closer to solving it.

Shit.

It happened like this: Ray Mancini, an associate of Tommy "Little Hawk" Ruzito, a suspected capo in the Los Angeles Crime Family, was walking down the street after leaving a nightclub downtown where rappers, actresses, and posers danced to strange electronic music and did designers drugs Lincoln had never heard of. A block out, drunk as a skunk, Mancini stepped into an alley, where someone put three bullets in his stomach. His wallet was missing, so it could have been a robbery, but all of Lincoln's instincts told him it wasn't. What it was was...well, Lincoln didn't know. At first he figured it was a hit. Mancini did something to incur the wrath of the mob and paid with his life. Case closed.

The thing was: No one was talking. Mafia guys are notorious for keeping their mouths shut. Lincoln remembered reading somewhere that one of the guys who got shot during the St. Valentine's Day Massacre told the cops, "No one shot me," even though he had twenty bullet holes in him. Usually witnesses are a huge part of an investigation, but when you run up against the mob, or street gangs, or communities distrustful of the police...fuhgeddaboutit.

A door slammed, and Lincoln jumped.

"Jeez, dad," Lemy said. He was standing by the kitchen island, a can of Coke raised partly to his lips. He was tall, like Lincoln, but thinly built, with a sweep of chestnut brown hair and soft hazel eyes, both of which came from Luna. He was wearing ripped jeans, a black AC/DC band T, and a short-waisted leather jacket. He favored his mother, and sometimes Lincoln couldn't help but feel a twinge of loss when he looked at him. He and Luna were both young when Lemy was born, and neither was ready for a child; the discussed the possibility of getting an abortion but ultimately decided against it. Lincoln thanked God every single day that they did.

"Why are you all dressed up?" Lincoln asked.

Lemy rolled his eyes. "The show?"

For a moment Lincoln had no idea what the boy was talking about, then it hit him.

"Shit."

Lemy played guitar in a rock band with a couple friends of his. They'd been at it three years, playing nights and weekends in the garage (they were pretty good, Lincoln thought, and that was only half bias); tonight was their first real show, at a bar in Santa Monica.

Lincoln had wanted to be there.

Lemy was grinning. "You can't come."

It wasn't a question.

Lincoln opened his mouth to speak, but Lemy cut him off.

"It's okay. Really. I mean, who wants their old man hanging around, anyway?"

It was supposed to be a joke, but it hurt Lincoln. He could see a faint glimmer in Lemy's eyes. To him, it looked like disappointment.

Disappointment was a look he was used to seeing in his son's eyes. Being a homicide detective meant missing out. Little League games. School plays. Birthday parties. In an instant, Lincoln's mind flashed back over all the events he'd missed, all the memories, and his heart clenched. "I'll be there," he always told himself, but he wound up working instead, so lost in the pursuit of justice that hours passed like minutes.

"You're obsessed," Luna used to say. He'd smile and said, "No, I'm dedicated." But now, three years after the cancer took her away, he finally agreed. He was obsessed. He worked each case like his life depended on it.

"You take things too personal," Clyde McBride, his partner, told him. Like with Luna, Lincoln disagreed at first, but eventually acquiesced. He did take his cases personal. But why shouldn't he? Why shouldn't he take the rape and murder of innocent people personally?

Why shouldn't he take it seriously when the first girl he ever loved was raped and murdered?

"I'm sorry," Lincoln heard himself saying, slipping into the apology like an old glove; it occurred to him he'd said those two words to Lemy more than he'd said anything else to him.

Lemy smiled. "Really. It's fine. Don't beat yourself up about it." He finished the soda and tossed it into the trash can. He slapped the quartz counter and pointed at Lincoln. "I'll see you later."

Lincoln muttered something as Lemy walked out. When he heard the front door close and lock, he turned back to the coffee table and sighed.

I'm a failure, he thought. A failure as a father.

Looking at the papers, Lincoln felt a wave of disgust wash over him. You already missed your son growing up. Are you gonna miss everything else, too?

When I finish this case, he thought, I'll make it up to him.

Lemy Loud lit a cigarette and leaned against the stone mailbox as he waited for his ride. He took a deep drag, held it, and let it out slowly; blue smoke hung in the dry air like nuclear fallout over a black, bombs blasted hellscape. He scanned the houses on the other side of the street, all stucco siding and terra cotta roofs, wilted palms overhanging brown front lawns that crunched when you walked across them. Another summer, another drought/

He pinched the filter between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, pulled it away from his lips with a flourish, and blew another plume.

It's okay, Dad, I don't mind, he said. I don't care that you never have time for me. It's totally fine, man, really.

But it wasn't fine. It was the opposite of fine.

Maybe it isn't cool to watch your father's approval...maybe it isn't cool to wanna hang out with him and shit like that, but Lemy honestly didn't give a fuck what was cool. It really hurt that Dad never had time for him, it hurt that every time he went to go see if they could do something together, he got shot down, again, and wound up feeling two inches tall.

It hurt bad.

Taking another drag, he glanced down the street as a pair of headlights appeared, creeping slowly forward. It drew closer, and he recognized Gordon's Trans Am. He flicked the cigarette away as the car pulled up, and went up to the passenger side door, pulling it opening and climbing in. Gordon, black with short dreadlocks, sat behind the wheel, a satisfied little grin on his face. "Hey, man," Gordon said as Lemy slammed the door behind him. "You ready for this?"

"I've been ready," Lemy said.

"Not as long as I have," Lyra said from the back seat. She leaned forward and kissed Lemy on the cheek. Tall with long, dark hair and freckles, she was older than Lemy by six months, a fact that she never let him forget. Sometimes he wondered why he put up with her...then they had sex and he remembered.

Lemy turned his head and their lips brushed; her eyes were big and sparkly in the semi darkness. She was more excited for this than him and Gordon combined. She pecked his mouth and drew away with a laugh when he stuck his tongue out and licked her bottom lip. "None of that, man," she said, "it's bad luck to French before a show."

"Who the hell told you that?" he asked as Gordon pulled away from the curb.

"Common knowledge, dude," she said.

Lemy snickered. Yeah. Common knowledge. Totally.

As the car crept away, Lemy spared one last look at the house, catching a fleeting glimpse of a shadow in one lighted window. It might not be cool to be disappointed that your dad can't come to your show, but Lemy was really disappointed, and if that made him a lame-o, he was a lame-o.

A giant lame-o.

At 11:58 PM on the evening of June 28, the killer left the freeway and followed Martin Luther King Jr Blvd west toward Leimert Park, passing shopping centers and restaurants flanked by tall, wavering palms and low, bushy tangles of California Live Oak. Though it was nearly midnight, the streets were alive with activity, the night haunted by pimps, pushers, and prostitutes. In front of a twenty-four hour grocery, a group of black men talked and took turns drinking from a bottle. As he passed, the killer thought of opening fire on them and speeding off, but decided against it.

After several blocks, he turned onto S. Western Ave, which ran past Martin Luther King Elementary and Martin Luther King Park. Lot of Martin Luther King. Tells you what kinda neighborhood this is.

Before coming to Exposition Blvd, the killer swung onto W. 38th Street, a short, wide avenue lined with small middle class homes, their yards tiny and fenced in, their pitched terra cotta roofs reaching for the mess of power lines overhead. He parked at the curb behind an old Monte Carlo and killed the engine, leaving the radio on. Motley Crue was singing Looks That Kill.

The killer lit a cigarette and inhaled; the smoke made lazy whorls in the still summer air.

The killer liked Motley Crue. He liked most of the classic metal bands. Even Dokken. Hell, compared with the shit on the radio now, even Bon Jovi was good.

#RobinThicke.

Yeah.

#FuckYou.

The killer liked a lot of things, not just music. He liked reading, for one; at home he had a

library dedicated to serial killers, mass murderers, and mobsters. He also liked attention. Oh, yes. How nice to rise above the masses? To be somebody in a world of vacant-eyed no ones? At one time he thought he might be a musician or a writer, hell, even a politician. He could do it, too. He could make the world love him.

But infamy, the killer decided, is better than fame. Fame fades, but infamy doesn't. Who knows Gretta Garbo? Fatty Arbuckle? No one, that's who. But everyone knows Hitler. People never forget a man like that. And not only did they never forget, they became obsessed. They loved reading about it. It fed something in them. Oh, they smiled and tucked their shirts in, but when they got behind closed doors, they were all just as sick as they said he was.

The only difference is that he was done playing society's game. Like Judas Priest said:

If you think I'll sit around as the world goes by

You're thinkin' like a fool 'cause it's a case of do or die.

Out there is a fortune waitin' to be had

If you think I'll let it go you're mad

You've got another thing comin'

Bundy, Dahmer, and Gacy had found their fortunes. Tonight, the killer would find

his. The books, the movies, the TV specials. All of it would be his. He tittered at the thought of what was to come. He especially looked forward to the climax.

Across the street, a battered Chevy pulled into the driveway of a small stucco house, its headlights washing across the garage. Two women tumbled out, a short brunette and a tall blonde. The blonde said something to the driver and laughed. The car then backed into the street, swung left, and honked. As it passed, the killer got a good look at the guy inside: Middle age, bald, glasses.

The girls let themselves into the house, switching on a light as they went, the dark windows suddenly afire. The killer took a drag and watched.

He'd been watching the house for nearly a week, and he knew the rituals of the inhabitants better than he knew his own. There were three of them, all students at the University of Southern California. The blonde and brunette worked at a restaurant waiting tables, the redhead worked for the newspaper, and usually got home around four in the morning. Too bad. She'd miss the fun.

The killer waited nearly an hour. Motley Crue gave way to Metallica, who in turn gave way to Krokus singing "Our Love." Midnite Maniac would have been more appropriate, but he didn't complain.

At 1:00 AM, he reached into the passenger seat. In his lap, the murder kit was heavy and warm, as if it were alive and waiting. From its shadowy depths, he selected a knife, a roll of duct tape, and a heavy flashlight. Ready, he grabbed the ski mask from the glove compartment, and, after a brief inner debate, took the pistol as well.

Ready, the killer got out of the car and crossed the street. At the foot of the flagstone walk, he paused and swept the street with his gaze. A car passed on a cross street, but otherwise, the neighborhood was silent.

The light was still on in the living room.

At the door, the killer knocked.

Lincoln Loud was hovering on the edge of sleep when the shrill cry of the phone filled the house, startling him. Nighttime phone calls weren't rare...at all...but the damn phone still got him every time.

Switching on the bedside lamp, he grabbed the phone and hit TALK.

"Hello?"

"Lincoln, we got a homicide," Clyde McBride said. Clyde was his partner and had been for nearly ten years.

"Where?"

"Two-five-two, West 38th."

"I'll be there."

Lincoln hung up the phone and got out of bed, his mind clear and his body tense. He dressed mechanically, pulling on pants, a white shirt, and a brown blazer. The house was dark and quiet. He stuck his head into Lemy's room. The boy was face down on the bed, snoring. Probably got shitfaced after the show.

Lincoln wished he'd gone.

He wished he'd done a lot of things, though; what's one more?

Outside, the night was warm and quiet, the air redolent of flowers. Next door, a mass of roses, marigolds, petunias, tulips, and a thousand other flowers crowded old Mrs. Johnson's tiny Cape Cod.

West 38th was eighteen blocks south, just west southwest of the campus of the University of Southern California. Not the best neighborhood in the city, but not the worst, either.

As he navigated the nighttime surface streets, Lincoln wondered what he'd find as he always did before walking into a homicide. He liked to think he was used to death and depravity, but every cop had that one little thing that got through their armor no matter how long they'd been on the force or how tough they were. For Lincoln, it was kids. You know how many homicides in the City of Angels involved children? Too goddamn many. Once, he walked into a house where a guy hacked his twin daughters up with an ax. Two little blonde girls, six, one in a pink dress and the other in overalls. When Lincoln walked into their bedroom and found them strewn across the floor in pieces, he turned right back around and walked out. Sometimes he still had nightmares about it.

And on those nights, he always got up and checked on his son.

Ten minutes later, he pulled onto W. 38th. Down the block, several black-and-whites were parked at the curb, their rack lights dancing blue and red. He pulled in behind one of them and cut the engine. Across the way, uniforms moved in and out of a small bungalow. He saw Clyde McBride by the door, talking to a cop. Tall and thin, Clyde was dressed in a light brown windbreaker and a pair of jeans, his badge clipped carefully to his belt, opposite his piece.

Lincoln got out and walked across the street. When Clyde saw him, he lifted a hand.

"What're we lookin at?" Lincoln asked.

"It's a bad one," Clyde said, gesturing into the house. "Two victims, female, stab wounds. Their roommate walked in on it. The guy came after her but she got away."

A cop brushed past Lincoln, jogged out to his cruiser, and opened the door.

"Let's have a look."

The front door opened onto a tiny hall. On the right was a living room, on the left a dining room. The vics were in the living room; when Lincoln saw them, his stomach turned.

"Jesus," he muttered.

One of the women, a blonde, was lying in a corner on her side. The other, a brunette, was in the middle of the room, her dead eyes gazing skyward. Her dress was hiked up around her hips, and her blood soaked panties had been stuffed into her mouth. Her stomach cavity was open, and from where he stood, Lincoln could see her entrails, pink and rope like.

A shiver raced down his spine and a rush of stomach acid threatened to rise in his throat.

"Told you," Clyde said.

Lincoln glanced at him, and furrowed his brows when he noticed a pockmark in the wall. "What's that?" he asked and nodded to it.

Clyde turned. "Oh, yeah, the perp took a shot at our witness."

"Where is she?"

Outside, the survivor, Kelly Frank, a thin woman with white skin and dark red hair, was huddled in the back of a cruiser, a wool blanket draped over her shoulders despite the warmth of the night.

"Kelly?" Lincoln asked, approaching. She looked up. "I'm Detective Loud. Can I ask you a few questions?"

She gazed up at him, dazed, and then nodded. "Yeah. Sure."

"Tell me what happened."

"I-I got off work early. I came in, and I saw him..."

She trailed off, her throat visibly contracting.

"It's okay if..."

She shook her head. "He was raping Linda."

"She's the brunette?"

Kelly nodded. "He heard me. For a minute I was so scared I couldn't move. Then I saw the gun in his hand and...I just ran."

"Did you get a good look at his face?"

She shook her head. "No. He was wearing a mask."

"Like a ski mask?"

Kelly nodded.

"Where do you work?"

"The newspaper plant on Chestnut."

"You deliver papers?"

She nodded.

Lincoln removed a notepad from his coat pocket and jotted down what he could. "What kind of build did this guy have? Tall, short, skinny...?"

Kelly considered the question. "I don't know. Skinny, I guess. And kinda tall."

Lincoln nodded. "Could you tell if he was white or black?"

Kelly shook her head. "I think he was white."

Lincoln nodded again. "Do you know anyone who would want to hurt your friends? Did they have any stalkers, boyfriends...enemies?"

Kelly shook her head. "Maggie has a boyfriend, but he's a football player, a big guy. Linda didn't. She's the teacher's pet type. Always studying."

"Who's Maggie's boyfriend?"

"His name's Chuck."

"Do you know where he lives?"

"On campus, I think. I have his number."

"Can I have it?"

Kelly gave it to him, and he jotted it down. "I'm going to need you to come down to the station at some point. Where can I reach you?"

She gave him her own number.

"Do you have a place to stay tonight?"

She nodded. "My boyfriend's coming."

Lincoln met Clyde at the front door. "She said the guy was wearing a ski mask, but she thought he was white. Skinny, tall."

"That narrows the field," Clyde said.

"It's what we have," Lincoln said. "I want that slug out of the wall as soon as possible. Have a rape kit done on the brunette. Kelly says she caught the guy on top of her."

Clyde nodded.

Lincoln watched him go back into the house. It was going to be a long day.

Chuck Spenser, short, squat, and sporting a dirty blonde crew cut, already knew his girlfriend was dead: Even in a city like L.A., news travels fast.

Lincoln was reluctant to talk to the boy so soon. It was barely five in the morning, and already he was tired, but he knew he wouldn't be able to rest until it was done and out of the way.

So, at five-thirty, Lincoln drove over to the University of Southern California campus and called on Chuck Spenser.

Now, nearly an hour later, they were sitting in the living room of the frat house, Chuck and his buddies on the couch, and Lincoln in an overstuffed armchair.

"We swear he was with us, Detective," one of them said. "You could check with the club. I'm pretty sure they have video cameras."

"What time did you leave the club?"

Chuck considered. "Twoish."

Lincoln nodded and wrote that down. It was called The Cherry Lounge. A strip club off the beaten path in Skid Row. Lincoln knew the place. A lot of bad guys hung out there.

Satisfied, he left just as the feeble rays of the morning sun were beginning to cascade over the campus. The tall, ancient buildings lining the commons reminded Lincoln of prison movies he'd seen as a kid. Luna took classes here for a while; that was before he went to the academy to be a beat cop. Like Lemy, she loved music, and wound up teaching it at an elementary school.

Melancholy sadness rose in his chest as he reached the car. He'd been thinking of Luna a lot lately; he missed her so bad sometimes he ached, and when he was in bed alone at night, he occasionally hugged her pillow to his chest, her lingering scent comforting him.

Standing by the front end, he whipped out his cell and called Clyde. He answered on the second ring.

"Yeah?"

"Get anything?" Lincoln asked.

"Maybe," Clyde said. He was still back on 38th, going door-to-door and asking if anyone had seen or heard anything. A few people heard the gunshot, he said, but the only person to actually see the guy jumping into his car and speeding away didn't get the license plate number, but they were fairly certain that it was an Oldsmobile.

"He didn't see the color?"

Clyde clucked his tongue. "He said it was either light blue or black."

"Light blue or black?"

"Yep."

"There's a big difference between light blue and dark blue and black."

"I know."

Lincoln sighed. "Alright. See you in twenty."

The bullpen was abuzz with activity: Phones ringing, guys talking, people going back and forth. Jamison, a fifteen year veteran, went into the captain's office, and Lincoln wondered if it had to do with that black guy he shot in Crenshaw the other night. The media was already trying to turn it into a cause célèbre. "RACIST COP KILLS POOR INNOCENT BLACK MAN." Lincoln didn't know particulars, but the guy had a rap sheet longer than a baby's arm, including assaulting a police officer and attempted murder.

He sure wasn't Trayvon Martin, in other words

At the desk they shared, Clyde dropped into his chair.

"Anything from the lab?"

It was half past seven. Not even twelve hours had passed since the killings. Lincoln knew they wouldn't have the lab results before the end of the day at the earliest, but he could hope.

Clyde shook his head. "No fingerprints, either."

That was odd. Their guy seemed thorough, but he was disturbed in the middle of the killing and had to make a quick exit. He should have left something behind.

"Gloves," Lincoln said.

"Maybe," Clyde replied.

"I wanna check to see if any of the people we talked to owns an Olds. Bring up the DMV registry."

Clyde sighed, leaned over his computer, and started punching buttons. A half an hour later, he sat back, defeated. "Nope."

"Try the sex offender registry."

Of all the sex offenders in the Los Angeles area, only one owned an Oldsmobile, and he died the previous week.

Clyde drew up the DMV registry again, and got a list of everyone in L.A. who owned an Oldsmobile.

"That's a lot of names," Lincoln pointed out.

Clyde matched them against known felons.

There were three hits.

Jonnie Kuza, a former Triad who did ten years in jail for manslaughter, owned an Olds, as did Tommy Dem and Walt Parker, both of whom did time in prisons in other states, Dem for forgery and Parker for assault.

"Walt Parker?" Lincoln asked.

Clyde nodded. "Might as well."

Parker lived in an apartment building in Westmont overlooking the freeway. When he answered the door, a short, balding guy with three days' growth on his face, his eyes immediately darted to the badge on Clyde's belt.

"What do you want?" he asked contemptuously.

"I'm Detective McBride and this is my partner Detective Loud. Can we come in?"

"Whatever."

The place was cramped and dingy; Lincoln's shoes stuck on the linoleum floor in the kitchen, and he was sure he saw roaches scurrying into the shadows.

As succinctly as possible, Lincoln told Parker why they were there, and as the realization dawned on him, his face went white.

"You don't think I did it, do you?"

"That's why we're here."

"I was here all night. You can ask my daughter. She was here too."

"Where is she now?" Clyde asked.

"Work."

Parker gave them the number to his daughter's place of employment, and she backed him up, just as Lincoln thought she would. Parker was short and pudgy. The man Kelly saw last night was tall and thin.

Outside, Clyde said, "I don't know about you, but I'm bushed. How about we pick this up later?"

Lincoln checked his watch. It was just after ten. He felt as though he'd been up for two days, which, in fact, he had. Now that Clyde mentioned it, the weight of his sleeplessness was heavy upon him.

"Yeah," Lincoln relented, "alright."

After dropping Clyde off at the station so he could pick up his own car, Lincoln drove home, avoiding the freeway. The morning was bright and hot, and by the time he reached his driveway, he was so tired he didn't think he'd make it into the house.

Inside, it was cool and dark; he collapsed onto his bed and fell straight to sleep. His last waking thought, as it usually was, was of Luna.

I miss you.