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  I got onto Potrero under the underpass to 101, heading south. The blue van turned.

  To my surprise, I saw that same white Toyota lurking thirty yards behind.

  I continued on. A silver BMW sped up in the left lane and pulled up behind me. Behind it, a city bus. It looked as if the mystery car was gone.

  Who could blame you for getting a little jumpy, with what’s going on? I said to myself. My picture had been in the paper and on the TV news.

  I made my usual right on Connecticut and started the climb up the Potrero hill. I was hoping Mrs. Taylor next door had come by to walk Martha. And I was thinking of stopping in the market on Twentieth for some Edy’s vanilla twirl.

  Two blocks up, I glanced a last time in my rearview mirror. The white Toyota crept into view.

  Either the sonofabitch lived on the same block I did, or the bastard was following me.

  It had to be Chimera.

  Chapter 51

  MY HEART WAS POUNDING; the hairs on the back of my neck stood erect. I squinted in the rearview mirror and ran the plate numbers over in my head: California… PCV 182. I couldn’t make out the person driving. This was insane.… But I sure wasn’t imagining it.

  I pulled into an open parking spot in front of my apartment. I waited in the car until I saw the hood of the Toyota rise over the lip of Twentieth Street, then pause at the base of the last hill. My blood ran cold.

  I had let the bastard trail me right to my house.

  I reached in the glove compartment and took out my Glock. I checked the clip. Stay calm. You’re gonna take this asshole down. You’re going to nail Chimera right now.

  I hunched in my car, scrolling through my options. I could call it in. A patrol car could be here in a matter of minutes. But I had to find out who it was. The appearance of a police car would scare him away.

  My heart beat madly. I palmed my gun and opened the car door. I slipped out into the night. Now what?

  On the first floor of my house, there was a back door that led to an alley underneath my terrace. From there, I could wrap around the block near the park at the top of the hill. If the bastard stayed outside, I could double back and maybe surprise him.

  I hesitated in the doorway, just long enough to see the Toyota creeping slowly up the street. My hands fumbled in my bag for the key. I jammed it in the lock.

  I was inside. Out a small window, I watched the Toyota. I strained to catch a glimpse of the driver, but his interior lights were off.

  I undid the bolt to the back door and crept out into the alley behind my building.

  I ran behind the cover of the houses to the cul de sac at the top of the hill. From there, I reversed back, hugging the shadows of the buildings along the opposite side of the street.

  Behind him…

  The Toyota had parked across from my building, its lights off.

  The driver in the front seat was smoking a cigarette.

  I crouched behind a parked Honda Accord, clasping my gun. This is what it’s all about, Lindsay….

  Could I take Chimera in the car? What if the doors were locked?

  Suddenly, I saw the car door open, the interior light flash on. The bastard’s back was turned to me as he climbed out of his car.

  He was wearing a dark weatherproof jacket, a floppy cap pulled over his eyes. He was glancing up at my house. My apartment.

  Then he headed across the street. No fears.

  Take him down. Now. The bastard had come for me. He’d threatened me in Mercer’s book. I moved out from the cover of the line of parked cars.

  My heart was racing so fast and loud, I was afraid he would suddenly spin around. Now. Do it! You’ve got him!

  I stepped up, the Glock firm in one hand. I wrapped the other around his neck, pulled, kicked his legs out from under him.

  He toppled to the ground, landing hard on his front. I pinned him there. I pressed the barrel of my gun to the back of his head.

  “Police, asshole! Hands out wide.”

  A painful groan came from him. He spread his arms. Was it Chimera?

  “You wanted me, you bastard, well, you got me. Now, turn around.”

  I relaxed my knee just enough for him to maneuver around. As he did, my heart almost stopped.

  I was staring into the face of my father.

  Chapter 52

  MARTY BOXER rolled onto his back and groaned, the air squeezed out of his lungs. He still had a glimmer of the rugged handsomeness I remembered, but it was different—older, leaner, worn. His hair had thinned and the once-lively blue eyes seemed washed out.

  I hadn’t seen him in ten years. I hadn’t spoken to him in twenty-two years.

  “What are you doing here?” I wanted to know.

  “Right now,” he gasped, rolling onto his side, “having the shit beat out of me by my daughter.”

  I felt a hard slab jutting out of his jacket pocket. I pulled out an old department-issued Smith & Wesson .40 caliber. “What the hell is this? How you say hello?”

  “It’s a dangerous world out there.” He groaned again.

  I rolled off him. The sight of him was an affront, a sudden illumination of memories I’d shut off years ago. I didn’t offer to help him up. “What were you doing? Following me?”

  Slowly, he edged himself into a sitting position. “I’m gonna pretend you didn’t know it was your old man dropping in, Buttercup.”

  “Please don’t call me that,” I shot back at him.

  Buttercup was his pet name for me when I was about seven and he was still at home. My sister, Cat, was Horse-fly; I was Buttercup. Hearing that name brought a surge of bitter memories. “You think you can drop in here after all these years, scare the shit out of me, and get away with it by calling me Buttercup? I’m not your little girl. I’m a homicide lieutenant.”

  “I know that. And you deliver a hell of a takedown, baby.”

  “Consider yourself lucky,” I said, clicking my Glock onto safety.

  “Who the hell were you expecting, anyway?” he said as he massaged his ribs. “The Rock?”

  “That doesn’t matter. What does matter is just what you’re doing here.”

  He sniffed guiltily. “I’m definitely starting to pick up, Buttercup, that you might not be entirely thrilled to see me?”

  “I don’t know that I am. Are you sick?”

  His blue eyes sparkled. “Can’t a guy check up on his firstborn without his motives being called into account?”

  I studied the lines on his face. “I haven’t seen you in ten years, and you act like it’s been a week. You want an update? I was married, now I’m divorced. I got into Homicide. Now I’m lieutenant. I know that’s a bit sketchy, but it brings you up to date, Dad.”

  “You think so much time has passed that I can’t look at you as a father?”

  “I don’t know how you look at me,” I said.

  My father’s eyes suddenly warmed, and he smiled. “God, you do look beautiful… Lindsay.”

  His expression was that same twinkling, guiltless mug I had seen a thousand times as a kid. I shook my head in frustration. “Marty, just answer my question.”

  “Look.” He swallowed. “I know sneaking up on you didn’t win me any style points, but do you think I could at least talk my way into a cup of coffee?”

  I stared incredulously at the man who had left our family when I was thirteen. Who had stayed away all the time my mother was sick. Whom I had thought of as a coward or a cad or even worse for most of my adult life. I hadn’t seen my father since he’d sat in the back row on the day I was sworn in as a cop. I didn’t know if I wanted to slug him or take him in my arms and give him a hug.

  “Just one…,” I said, holding out a hand and hoisting him up. I brushed some loose gravel from his lapel. “You talked yourself into one cup of coffee, Buttercup.”

  Chapter 53

  I MADE A POT OF COFFEE for my father and a cup of Red Zinger for me. I gave him a quick tour, introducing him to Martha, who almost against my silent i
nstructions took a liking to dear old Dad.

  We sat on my white canvas couch, Martha curled up at my father’s feet. I gave him a damp cloth, and he dabbed at a scratch on his cheek.

  “Sorry about the bruise,” I said, cradling the hot mug on my knees. Kind of sorry.

  “I’ve earned worse.” He shrugged with a smile.

  “Yeah, you have.”

  We sat facing each other. Neither of us knew quite where to begin. “So, I guess this is where you bring me up to date on what you’ve been up to for the last twenty-two years?”

  He swallowed and put down his mug. “Sure. I can do that.” He took me through his life, which seemed more like a sputtering spiral of bad luck. He had been an assistant chief, which I guess I knew, down in Redondo Beach. Then he left to go into private security. Celebrities. Kevin Costner. Whoopi Goldberg. “Even went to the Oscars.” He chuckled. He’d gotten married again, this time for only two years. “Found out I was underqualified for the job,” he quipped with a self-effacing wave. Now he was back in security, no celebrities, doing odd jobs.

  “Still gambling?” I asked.

  “Only mind bets. In my head,” he replied. “Had to give it up when I ran out of funds.”

  “Still root for the Giants?” When I was a kid, he used to take me after his shift to this bar called the Alibi on Sunset. He’d prop me up on the counter where he and his buddies would watch the afternoon games from Candlestick. I loved being with him back then.

  He shook his head. “Nah, gave them up when they traded away Will Clark. I’m a Dodger fan now. I would like to go to the new park, though.” Then he looked at me for a long time.

  It was my turn now. How to relate the past twenty-two years of my life to my father?

  I took him through as much as I could handle, leaving out anything related to Mom. I told him about my ex, Tom, how it hadn’t worked out. (“Chip off the old block.” He snickered. “Yeah, but at least I stayed,” I replied.) How I pushed for Homicide and finally got it.

  He nodded glumly. “I read about that big case you worked on. Even down south, it was all over the news.”

  “A real résumé launcher.” I told him how, a month after, I’d been offered the job as lieutenant.

  My father leaned forward and placed a hand on my knee. “I wanted to see you, Lindsay. A hundred times… I don’t know why I didn’t. I’m proud of you. Homicide’s top of the line. When I look at you… you’re so… strong, in control. So beautiful. I only wish I could take a little of the credit.”

  “You can. You taught me I had no one to rely on but myself.”

  I got up, refilled his cup, and sat down again facing him. “Look, I’m sorry things haven’t worked out for you. I really am. But it’s been twenty-two years. Why are you here?”

  “I called Cat, to see if you’d want to hear from me. She told me you’d been sick.”

  I didn’t need to relive that. It was hard enough, just looking at him. “I was sick.” I nodded. “I’m better now. Hopefully, I’ll stay that way.”

  My heart was tight against my chest. This was starting to get uncomfortable. “So, how long have you been following me?”

  “Since yesterday. I sat across from the Hall in my car for three hours, trying to figure out the way to approach you. I didn’t know if you’d want to see me.”

  “I don’t know if I do, Daddy.” I tried to find the right words, and I felt the edge of tears welling in my eyes. “You were never there. You ran out on us. I can’t just change the way I’ve felt for all these years.”

  “I don’t expect you to, Lindsay,” he said. “I’m becoming an old man. An old man who knows he’s made a million mistakes. All I can do now is try and reverse some of them.”

  I looked at him, half shaking my head in disbelief, half smiling, and dabbing at my eyes. “Things are crazy here now. You heard about Mercer?”

  “Of course.” My father exhaled. I waited for him to say something, but he simply shrugged. “I saw you on the news. You are stunning. Do you know that, Lindsay?”

  “Dad, please. Don’t.” This case needed everything I had right now. It was madness. Here I was facing my father again. “I don’t know if I can handle this now.”

  “I don’t know either,” he said, tentatively reaching out for my hand. “What about we try?”

  Chapter 54

  NINE THE NEXT MORNING, Morris Ruddy, the FBI senior agent, scribbled a point on a yellow legal pad. “Okay, Lieutenant, when did you first determine the chimera symbol pointed toward the white supremacist movement?”

  My head was still whirring from the events of the night before. The last place I wanted to be was cooped up in a task force meeting, talking to the Feebies.

  “Your office clued us in,” I replied, “in Quantico.”

  It was a bit of a lie, of course. Stu Kirkwood had only confirmed what I had already learned from Cindy.

  “Subsequently, since you had that knowledge,” the FBI man bored in, “how many of these groups have you checked out?”

  I gave him a frustrated look that read, We might actually start making some progress if we could get out of this goddamn room.

  “You read the files I gave you. We looked into two or three.”

  “You looked into one.” He raised an eyebrow.

  “Look,” I explained, “we don’t have a history of these groups operating in this area. The method used in these killings seemed consistent with other cases I had worked. I made a determination that we were dealing with a serial killer. I’ll admit, it’s a gut call.”

  “From these four distinct acts,” Ruddy said, “you narrowed it down that this was the act of a single UNSUB, right?”

  “Yeah. From that and seven years working Homicide.” I didn’t like his tone.

  “Look, Agent Ruddy, this isn’t a hearing,” Sam Ryan, my chief of detectives, finally said.

  “I’m merely trying to determine how much of an effort we still have to coordinate in this area,” the FBI man replied.

  “Look,” I insisted, “these chimera clues weren’t exactly popping out at us in press releases. The white van was sighted by a six-year-old kid. The second was on a wall of graffiti at the crime scene. Our M.E. suggested that the Catchings shooting might not have been a random bullet.”

  “But even now,” Ruddy said, “after your own chief of police has been murdered, you still believe these killings aren’t politically motivated?”

  “The killings might be politically motivated. I don’t know the killer’s total agenda. But it’s one guy and he’s a nutcase. Where the hell is this going?”

  “Where it’s going is murder number three,” the other agent, Hull, cut in. “The Davidson shooting.” He hoisted his solid frame out of his seat and stepped over to a flip chart on which each separate murder and the pertinent details were listed in neat columns.

  “Murders one, two, and four,” he explained, “all had ties to this Chimera. Davidson’s murder doesn’t tie in at all. We want to know what makes you so sure we’re dealing with the same guy.”

  “You didn’t see the shot,” I said.

  “According to what I have”—Hull leafed through his notes—“Davidson was killed with a bullet from a totally different weapon.”

  “I didn’t say ballistics, Hull, I said the shot. It was precision, marksman caliber. Just like the one that killed Tasha Catchings.”

  “I guess my point,” Hull continued, “is that we have no tangible evidence linking the Davidson murder with the other three. If we stick to simply the facts, not Inspector Boxer’s hunch, there’s nothing to suggest we’re not dealing with a politically motivated series of events. Nothing.”

  At that moment, there was a knock at the conference room door, and Charlie Clapper stuck his head in. Sort of like a shy groundhog peeking out of his burrow.

  Clapper nodded toward the FBI guys, then winked at me. “I thought you’d be able to use this.”

  He put on the table a black-and-white rendering of a larg
e sneaker tread.

  “You remember that shoe print we pulled off of the tar at the shooter’s position of Art Davidson’s killing?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  He placed a second rendering beside the first. “This is one we were able to take from a patch of wet soil at the Mercer scene.”

  The imprints were identical.

  A hush filled the room. I looked at Agent Ruddy first, then Agent Hull.

  “Course, they’re just a standard pair of Reebok cross trainers,” Charlie explained.

  From a pocket in his white lab coat, he removed a slide. On it were tiny grains of powder. “We picked this up at the chief’s crime scene.”

  I leaned over and stared at traces of the same white chalk.

  “One killer,” I said. “One shooter.”

  Chapter 55

  I CALLED THE GIRLS TOGETHER for a quick lunch. I couldn’t wait to see them.

  We met at Yerba Buena Gardens, and sat in the courtyard outside the new IMAX, watching the kids play in the fountains, munching on take-out salads and wraps. I went through everything, from the moment I left them at Susie’s, to the suspicion someone was following me, to taking down my father outside my apartment.

  “My God,” uttered Claire. “The prodigal father.”

  For a moment, it was as if a dome of silence had shut us off from the rest of the world. Everybody fixed on me with incredulous faces.

  “When was the last time you’d seen him?” Jill asked.

  “He was at my graduation from the academy. I didn’t invite him, but he knew somehow.”

  “He followed you?” Jill gasped. “From our meeting? Like some kind of creepy perp? Yick,” she said, cringing.

  “Typical Marty Boxer.” I exhaled. “That’s my dad.”

  Claire put her hand on my arm. “So, what did he want?”

  “I’m still not sure. It’s like he wanted to make amends. He said my sister Cat told him I was sick. He followed the bride and groom case. He said he wanted to tell me how proud he was of me.”