Women's Murder Club [09] The 9th Judgment Page 11

  “I can’t guess what this is,” she said.

  “Don’t guess.”

  Holding the box in both hands, Heidi pried up the lid, then took out the chain and the pendant, a brilliant yellow, very faceted stone. Heidi gasped and flung her arms around Sarah’s neck, asking her to please help her put it on.

  Sarah beamed, moved Heidi’s soft red hair off the nape of her neck, and connected the clasp. The bead guy at Fisherman’s Wharf had done a wonderful job of fitting the stone into the new setting, not asking questions or even looking at her as he took the twenty dollars for the work.

  “I love this. It’s the most beautiful gift, Sarah. What kind of stone is it?”

  “It’s a citrine, but I think of it as a promise stone.”

  Heidi looked into Sarah’s eyes and nodded.

  Sarah touched the gem hanging sweetly from Heidi’s neck and told herself that she would do the last job on her list, that she would hook up with a fence, that she would get Heidi and Sherry and Steven out of San Francisco, that somehow she and Heidi and the kids would stop being afraid every single day of their lives.

  Chapters 58

  THE REPLY TO the Lipstick Killer’s “ransom letter” ran in the Chronicle, and within hours, the planet slammed on the brakes and all eyes became fixed on San Francisco. Media of every type and stripe materialized in satellite vans and on foot, surrounding the Hall of Justice and the Chronicle Building, swamping Tyler’s phone lines with requests for interviews and dogging cops and newspaper employees on the street. Every man, woman, and child with an opinion and a computer fired off letters to the editor.

  Interviews were denied, and the mayor pleaded with the press to “let us do what we need to do. We’ll provide full disclosure after the fact.”

  Rich Conklin, Cappy McNeil, and I were embedded at the Chronicle, charged with screening out the garbage from the real thing: a reply from the killer with instructions on how to deliver two million in blood money in exchange for leaving San Francisco alone.

  It was a sickening lose-lose situation that could only turn in our favor if we trapped the murderer. We had a simple plan. Follow the money.

  At 2:15 in the afternoon, the mail cart arrived on the executive floor, carrying a fat brown envelope addressed to H. Tyler. I put on latex gloves and said to the mailroom kid, “Who delivered this?”

  “Hal, from Speedy Transit. I know him.”

  “You signed for it?”

  “About eight or ten minutes ago. I rushed it right up.”

  “What’s your name?”

  “Dave. Hopkins.”

  I told Dave Hopkins to go down the hall and ask Inspector McNeil, the big man in the brown jacket, to interview Hal pronto. Then I called out to Conklin, who exited the cube across the hall and followed me to Tyler’s doorway.

  I said, “Henry, this could be it. Or it could be a letter bomb.”

  Tyler asked, “Do you want to drop it in a toilet or open it?”

  I looked at Conklin.

  “I feel lucky,” he said.

  I placed the packet in the center of Tyler’s leather-topped desk. We all stared at the envelope with Tyler’s name and the word “URGENT” in big black letters. Where the return address should be were three letters written in red: “WCF.”

  We’d withheld the killer’s specific signature from the press, so there was little doubt in my mind that this packet was from him. Tyler picked up a letter opener, slit the envelope, and tilted it gingerly until the enclosed objects slid onto his desk.

  Item one was a phone. It was a prepaid model, the size of a bar of hand soap, complete with neck straps, a headset with earbuds, a chin mic, and a built-in camera.

  Item two was a standard envelope, white, addressed to “H. Tyler.” I opened it and shook out the folded sheet of white paper inside. The message was typed and printed out with an ink-jet. The note read: “Tyler. Use this phone to call me.”

  There was a number and the signature: “WCF.”

  Chapter 59

  “CAN YOU TRACE a call on a prepaid phone?” Tyler asked.

  I shook my head. “Not effectively. There’s no GPS device, so there’s no way to track the phone’s location, either.”

  Tyler picked up the cell and dialed the number. I stooped beside him and put my ear next to his. There was ringing, and a man’s voice said, “Tyler?”

  “Yes, this is Henry Tyler. To whom am I speaking?”

  “Do you have what I asked for?”

  “I do,” said Tyler.

  “Turn on the phone cam. Show me the money.”

  Henry lifted a briefcase to his desk, opened the hasps, and pointed the phone at two million dollars in neat bundles. He snapped off a shot, then asked, “Did you receive the picture?”

  “Yes. I asked you to choose a go-between.”

  “I’ll be your contact,” Tyler said.

  “You’re too recognizable,” said the killer.

  “I have a good man in ad sales,” Tyler said, looking at Conklin. “And against my wishes, my secretary has volunteered.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Judy. Judy Price.”

  “Put Judy on the phone.”

  Tyler handed the phone to me. I said, “This is Judy Price.”

  “Judy. This phone can stream video to my computer for three hours. I hope we can conclude our business in less time than that. Use the neck straps and wear the phone with the camera lens facing out. Keep it on until I have the money. I’ll direct you as we go. Do you read me?”

  “You want me to keep the phone on and wear it facing out so that it sends streaming video to you.”

  “Good girl. Hesitate to follow my directions, screw with me in any way, and I’ll hang up. After that, I’ll kill a few more people, and their deaths will be on you.”

  “Hey, what if I lose service?” I asked.

  “I’ll call you back. Make sure the line is available. Don’t try any stupid phone tricks, Judy.”

  “What should I call you?”

  “Call me ‘sir.’ Are we clear?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now hang the phone around your neck and do a little pirouette so I can see who’s with you.”

  I turned on my heel, panning the office.

  “I recognize Tyler. Who’s the other guy?”

  “That’s Rich in ad sales.”

  “Turn on the speakerphone,” the killer said.

  I located the speaker button and turned it on.

  “Rich, do not follow Judy. That goes for you, too, Tyler. And it goes without saying, if I see cops, anything that makes me think that Judy is being followed, I’ll hang up. Game over. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Point the camera at yourself, Judy.”

  There was a pause. Longer than I expected. Then the killer’s voice was back.

  “Nice rack, Judy. And let’s hope you’re a smart blonde. Now connect the headset to the phone and put in the earbuds. Can you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Okay, sweet stuff, take the elevator down to the street. When you get to the corner of Mission and Fifth, I’ll give you instructions.”

  “I can hardly wait,” I muttered.

  “You’re coming in loud and clear,” the killer said with an edge in his voice. “I’m warning you again, Judy. This is a lucky break for the city. Don’t screw it up.”

  Chapter 60

  THE PHONE HANGING from my neck felt like an explosive charge. The Lipstick Killer could see everything I saw, hear what I was hearing and saying, and if that vile, crude psychopath became unhappy, he’d cut down more innocent lives.

  We’d been warned.

  I walked out of the Chronicle Building into a dull gray afternoon. I took in the shoppers and the yellow-light runners, and wondered if the Lipstick Killer recognized the unmarked cars on Fifth and Mission. I saw Jacobi and Brady, Lemke and Samuels and Chi.

  By now, Conklin had put out the word that I was the go-between and w
orking undercover. Still, to prevent a shout-out, I caught Jacobi’s eye and, being careful to keep my hand away from the lens, pointed two fingers to my eyes and then to the phone, signaling to Jacobi that I was being watched.

  That’s when I glimpsed Cindy. Her eyes were huge, and she was hanging back against the wall of the Chronicle Building, looking at me as though I were heading for the guillotine. I was suffused with love for her. I wanted to hug her, but I winked instead, holding up crossed fingers.

  She squeezed out a smile.

  I turned back to the street and hefted Tyler’s ZERO Halliburton case in my right hand. I was afraid, of course. Once I handed “sir” the briefcase, he wouldn’t want a witness. Odds were good that he’d shoot me. If I didn’t shoot him first.

  I said into the microphone, “I’m on the corner of Fifth and Mission. What now?”

  “Drop your handbag into the trash can. And show me.”

  “My handbag?”

  “Do it, princess.”

  Because I was in my role as Tyler’s secretary, I’d secreted my gun and my cell phone inside my shoulder bag. I dropped it into the trash can, then tilted the camera so the killer could see that I’d done it. That son of a bitch.

  “Good girl,” the Lipstick Killer said. “Now let’s head out to the BART on Powell.”

  The Powell Street BART was a block and a half away. As I crossed Market, I saw Conklin coming up behind me outside of camera range and felt a rush of relief. I had no gun, but my partner was with me.

  I made my way down the stairs and reached the platform for trains going out to the airport. BART trains are sleek bullets that sound a warning whistle when they come into the station—which was happening now.

  Brakes screeched. Doors opened. I got into the train marked SFO and saw Conklin get into the same car at the far end. The train started up, and the killer’s voice piped into my ears, breaking up slightly. “Pan the car,” he said.

  I swung my shoulders slowly, giving Conklin enough time to turn away. The train was slowing for the next stop when a canned voice came over the PA system. It announced the station—Civic Center.

  The killer said, “Judy. Get out now.”

  “You said the airport.”

  “Get out now.”

  Conklin was wedged into a corner, dozens of people between the two of us. I knew he didn’t see me leave until I was off the train and the doors were closing. I saw the worried look on my partner’s face as the train pulled out of the station.

  “Take off your jacket and put it in the trash can,” the killer said.

  “My house keys are in the pocket.”

  “Throw your jacket into the trash. Don’t question me, sweetmeat. Just do what I say. Now, go to the stairs. On the first landing, pan around so I can see if anyone is following you.”

  I did it, and the killer was satisfied.

  “Let’s go, princess. We’ve got a date at the Whitcomb.”

  Chapter 61

  I CAME OUT of the underground into Civic Center Plaza, a clipped, tree-lined park flanked by gilded government buildings, banks, and cultural institutions—a fine public place encroached upon by the hopelessly addicted.

  I searched parked cars with my eyes, hoping to see backup as I walked from the BART station to the Hotel Whitcomb. I heard a car take a fast left onto Market and saw a plain gray Ford pull up on its brakes. I couldn’t turn without showing the camera who was driving, so all I could do was hope that Jacobi or someone was on my tail.

  I crossed Market to the Whitcomb, an elegant four-hundred-room Victorian hotel, and entered the opulent lobby, glittering with crystal chandeliers, marble floors underfoot, wood paneling everywhere, and humongous floral bouquets scenting the cool air.

  My personal tour guide sent me with instructions to the Market Street Grill, a beautiful restaurant that was nearly empty. The trim young woman behind the restaurant’s reception desk wore her dark hair pulled back and a name tag on her blue suit jacket reading SHARRON.

  Sharron asked if I’d be dining alone, and I said, “Actually, I’m here to pick up a letter for my boss. Mr. Tyler. He thinks he left it here at breakfast.”

  “Oh yes,” Sharron said. “I saw that envelope. I put it away. Hang on a minute.”

  The hostess dug inside the stand and, with a little cry of “I’ve got it,” handed me a white envelope with “H. Tyler” written in marker pen.

  I wanted to ask if she’d seen the man who’d left the envelope, but the killer’s warning was loud in my head. “Screw with me in any way, and I’ll hang up. After that, I’ll kill a few more people, and their deaths will be on you.”

  I thanked the hostess and walked down the hallway from the restaurant toward the lobby.

  “Open the envelope, sweetheart,” the killer said, and, gritting my teeth, I did it.

  Inside, I found a ticket stub and twenty-five dollars in crisp bills. The stub was marked TRINITY PLAZA. I knew the place, an all-day lot nearby.

  “Having fun?” I asked the Lipstick Killer.

  “Loads,” he told me. “If you’re bored, tell me about yourself. I’m all ears.”

  “I’d rather talk about you. Why did you shoot those people?” I asked.

  “I’d tell you,” he said, “but you know how the saying goes: then I’d have to kill you—Lindsay.”

  “Who is Lindsay?” I asked, but I was rocked. My stride faltered and I nearly stumbled down the hotel steps. How did he know my name?

  “Did you think I didn’t recognize you? Gee, princess, you’re almost a celebrity around this town. I knew, of course, that they’d put a cop on this gig. But, to my delight, it’s you. Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, my girl on a leash.”

  “Well, as long as you’re happy.”

  “Happy? I’m ecstatic. So listen up, Lindsay. I’m just a Google click away from knowing where you live, who your friends are, who you love. So I guess you’ve got an even better reason to make this a payday for me, don’t you, sweetmeat?”

  I pictured Cindy in the camera’s eye, Conklin, Joe working in his home office, Martha at his feet. I saw myself with my Glock in my hand, sights lined up between the no-color eyes of a guy in a baseball jacket. I squeezed the trigger.

  Problem was, I didn’t have the Glock.

  Chapter 62

  “YOU’RE QUIET, PRINCESS,” said the voice in my ear.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “No, you’re right. Don’t think too much. Just execute the mission.”

  But I was thinking anyway. If I saw his face and lived, I would quit the force if I had to in order to get the job done. I would look at all the thousands of photos of every former soldier, sailor, coastguardsman, and marine in San Francisco.

  And if he wasn’t living in San Francisco, I’d keep looking at photos until I found him, if it was the last thing I ever did.

  But, of course, he wouldn’t let me see his face and walk away. Not this guy.

  I walked along Market, turned, and finally saw the parking lot. The guy in the booth was leaning against the back wall with his eyes closed, deep into his iPod. I rapped on the window and handed him the ticket stub, and he barely looked at me.

  “That’s twenty-five bucks,” he said.

  I pushed the bills at him, and he handed me the keys.

  “Which car is it?” I said to the presence hanging from my neck.

  “Green Chevy Impala, four cars down and to your right. It’s stolen, Lindsay, so don’t worry about tracing it to me.”

  The car looked so old, it could’ve been from the ’80s, not the kind of junker someone would be in a hurry to report stolen. I opened the door and saw the brand-new Pelican gun case—long enough to hold an assault rifle—resting on the backseat.

  “What’s that for?” I asked the Lipstick Killer.

  “Open it,” he said.

  Pelican is known for its protective cases. They are lined with foam, have unbreakable locks, and can withstand anything fire or water or an explosive blast can thro
w at them.

  I opened the padded case. It was empty.

  “Put the money inside,” said the Lipstick Killer.

  Again, I followed his directions, transferring the money from Tyler’s special briefcase, stacking the bills, closing the locks, all the while raging—I was helping a psycho get away with holding up a city. I couldn't help thinking about the Nazis putting the screws to Paris in World War II.

  “Slide Mr. Tyler’s briefcase under the Lexus to your left,” the killer said. “Just another precaution, princess. In case there’s a tracking device in there.”

  “There’s no tracking device,” I said, but there was. Tyler’s case had a GPS built into the handle.

  “And take off your shoes,” the killer said. “Slide them under the car with the case.”

  I did what he said, thinking how Jacobi would follow the GPS signal to this parking lot and find the case—and it would be a dead end.

  “Feel like going for a ride?” my constant companion asked me.

  “I’d love to,” I said with false brightness.

  “I’d love to, what?” said WCF.

  “I’d love to, sir,” I answered.

  I got into the driver’s seat and started the car.

  “Where to?” I asked, sounding to myself as though I were already dead.

  Chapter 63

  “WELCOME TO THE mystery tour,” the killer told me.

  “Which way do you want me to go?”

  “Take a left, princess.”

  I looked at my watch. I’d been wearing the devil around my neck for what seemed like forever, and I still knew nothing about him, nothing about what he intended to do. Since our genius “follow the money” plan had been canceled by the killer, my brain was on overdrive, trying to come up with another. But how could I? I didn’t know where this guy was going to execute the drop.

  I left the parking lot and drove past the Asian Art Museum. The killer told me to follow Larkin. I glanced at the rearview mirror, seeing nothing that looked like an unmarked car.