The 20th Victim Read online

  I said, “I need…”

  “Tell me.”

  “I need to push back.”

  He pinned my wrists to the bed with his big hands and I submitted. Then I got free, turned him onto his back. He gave me what I wanted and more, and I gave him as good as I got. I couldn’t remember when making love with my husband had ever been more satisfying, more cleansing, and at such a deep level—and it was because I loved and trusted him entirely.

  Afterward we lay on our backs, touching side to side, hands clasped together, and then Joe rolled over and looked into my eyes.

  “Who hit you? I want his name and contact information.”

  I laughed. I laughed some more. And when I was all laughed out, I told him about the saloon fight in a country church cemetery and that the guy who’d hit me was in jail awaiting arraignment.

  And I told Joe that I loved him.

  He said, “No kidding. I love you, too.”

  “I know. Put your clothes back on.”

  He swatted my butt. We dressed, and after we looked in on our little girl, we walked our family dog in the moonlight.

  I thanked God that we were all well and together.

  I counted my blessings.

  Chapter 93

  The next morning I called Claire’s hospital room—again.

  Edmund had been keeping me up-to-date on her condition through texts, and I’d sent messages to her through various nurses, who’d passed them on. But Claire hadn’t called, and all that I could learn from Edmund was that she was healing from the surgery, walking a little more every day.

  I missed her and wanted very much to get my own sense of how she was feeling. I wanted to hear in her own voice how she felt, and I had a couple of tales to tell her.

  I called her as I dressed for work—and she actually answered the phone.

  There was a moment of stunned silence before I said, “Claire?”

  “Who were you expecting?”

  “You’re awfully fresh. I’ve been worried out of my mind.”

  She laughed, and that cheered me up, but I was still feeling both worried and in need of a one-on-one conversation.

  “When are they sending you home?”

  “I guess that’s up to the parole board.”

  “Yer a riot, Butterfly. Are you free for lunch?”

  “You bet I am. I’ve watched as much Rachael Ray and CNN as I can stand. I need Boxer news.”

  “Well, I’ve got some.”

  “Bring it,” she said. “Noontime is good.”

  I left Julie in her booster seat next to Joe at the breakfast table. I kissed them and Martha good-bye, and once inside my Explorer, I headed toward the Hall. My spirits had transformed overnight. My skin was pleasantly whisker burned, and I had a lunch date with Claire. She hadn’t seen my face, and she was going to give me the business. I thought about picking up something she might like. Perfume. A nightie?

  My wandering mind was jolted back to the present by my phone buzzing. It was the same buzz as always, but I knew, just knew, that it was Brady.

  He said, “There’s been another shooting. Actually, a threesome.”

  I said, “For Christ’s sake. A triple homicide—” but he talked over me.

  “Outside the jazz center. Northern Station got the call, but you’ve gotta be there.”

  I changed course toward that large glass-and-steel building on the corner of Franklin and Fell. I ran my tongue over the chip in my tooth and turned up the scanner. It began crackling like a forest fire with codes that were becoming commonplace: Ambulance requested. CSI. Medical Examiner.

  The jazz center is a beautiful building, but today all anyone would notice was the jam-packed area around the base of the building. There were squad cars, unmarked cars, paramedics schmoozing outside their vehicles, the CSI van, and the ME’s van just arriving, and they were in the process of closing off the immediate area.

  And there was something else, or rather someone else, only I would notice.

  My good bud, still mad at me, was startled when I pulled the car up to where she stood at the intersection waiting for the light to change. I lightly honked my horn. Spinning around, she recognized my vehicle, then turned her eyes to me.

  She came toward the window.

  “Oh, man,” she said. “Rich said you got punched. I hope your lip doesn’t scar.”

  “Did he tell you I punched back?”

  I showed her the cuts on my knuckles and the artistic bruise changing color as it rose up my hand to the wrist.

  “Impressive,” she said, turning to leave. “Anyway, I gotta go, Linds.”

  I said, “Wait. Cindy. Do you know anything about the victims?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Cindy, have you heard any victim names?”

  She gave me a hard look that said, You must have mistaken me for someone who gives tips to cops.

  I sat in the car for a long moment, watching her walk ahead, thinking that this situation totally sucked. Maybe she was in the right. Or maybe she just refused to understand that I couldn’t give her unsubstantiated information on an investigation in progress.

  Maybe Brady would cut her a break.

  I grabbed my phone and I called him.

  He didn’t wait for me to say hello.

  “There were two more hits,” he said. “Both in Baltimore. Where are you, Boxer? Clapper is looking for you.”

  Chapter 94

  Cindy and her college friend, TV reporter Lori Hines, sat up front in the KRON4 sound van.

  The front seats were cramped, but the windshield gave them a wide view of the cordoned-off street and the mob of law enforcement on both sides of the tape. Inside the van, behind them, sound equipment and video monitors lined both long sides, where a half dozen video techs edited Lori’s interview and maintained contact with production at the studio.

  Dead ahead was the jazz center, a modern, nearly transparent corner building. The lobby and café inside it had been open to the public. Until now. The sidewalk outside the open doors was the scene of a triple homicide, a horrific crime.

  Upon arrival, law enforcement, both local and FBI, had cleared the teeming lobby. The streets on both sides of the building and all access points were closed to anyone without a badge.

  Lori, having squeaked inside before the police perimeter was locked down, had gone live with her report fifteen minutes ago.

  By the time Cindy had arrived, police cruisers had been parked across the lanes as barricades, yellow tape and the thin blue line were in place. Cindy felt damned lucky that she’d seen the KRON4 van and that Lori had invited her inside.

  Now Lori’s cameraman ran the unedited video for Cindy. He had captured thirty seconds of the bodies lying on the sidewalk in front of the jazz center. Cindy had seen many murder scenes, but something about the bodies lying in broad daylight on a public sidewalk was frightening to her.

  In the video the camera turned to Lori, who, with her voice catching in her throat, told her audience that guitarist Neil Kreisler had been shot dead with one bullet to his head. This murder had happened just outside the entrance to the jazz center. Kreisler’s two bodyguards, names still unverified, had also been brought down by single kill shots to the head.

  Lori said to the camera, “There was another person in this group of musician and bodyguards, a minor who was unharmed, and in his best interests this station will not release his name. But I did speak with him before he was taken away by a police escort.

  “This witness told me that he didn’t see the shooter. One minute he was walking up the stairs near Kreisler. One bodyguard was in the lead. The other was bringing up the rear. According to the young man, the guard behind him was shot first. The leading guard screamed, ‘Get down,’ and this young man did get down and that probably saved his life.”

  Lori went on to say that the witness didn’t know anything about the shootings or why the victims were killed. He had told her that it all happened super fast, and after the first s
hooting he didn’t see anything because he was lying on the pavement with his arms crossed over the back of his neck. When it was quiet and he looked up, he realized that he was the only survivor.

  “Thank God he was spared,” Lori said. “And now the investigation into this terrible crime begins.”

  Lori gave a hotline number and signed off.

  But the Lori of right now was sitting next to Cindy, and she told Cindy what she couldn’t say on air.

  “The witness is Kreisler’s son, Anton. Security guards who work for the jazz center heard the shooting, and when it stopped, they came outside, grabbed the poor kid, and let him call his mother. The security people saw no sign of the shooters.”

  “Thanks for the guided tour,” Cindy said. “It’s good of you to share.”

  “Happy to do it, Cindy. But a shorter version of this video went live. Every news outlet in the country has the story, but maybe you can get it onto your blog while it’s still warm. Don’t mention the witness’s name unless you can get it from someone you love in the SFPD.”

  Cindy thought, That’ll be the day.

  She watched through the windshield as CSI unloaded the halogen lights. They were still taking pictures, but soon the ME would take the bodies away.

  “I have a tidbit for you,” Cindy said. “Before I left the office, I heard that two drug dealers were shot in Baltimore.”

  “Huh. So the war on drugs heads east.”

  Cindy said, “And that’s not all. The Baltimore victims were shot at different times; one at around midnight, the other at about 3 a.m. Plus, those shootings didn’t happen at the same time as the jazz center shootings.”

  “I see what you’re saying. The killings weren’t synchronized,” Lori said. “The MO is changing. Where is Kill Shot when you really need him?”

  “I’ve kept the porch light on,” Cindy said, “but Kill Shot has gone dark. Maybe all he wanted was a platform, some limited exposure—and we gave it to him.”

  “Or maybe,” said Lori, “he’s dead.”

  Chapter 95

  After leaving Lori, Cindy drove back to the Chronicle, taking a few chances with the speed limit.

  She parked in the garage across the street from the newspaper building, made a dash for the entrance against the light, and took the elevator to the second floor.

  Once in the newsroom, she stopped at McGowan’s cube and filled him in on what she’d learned from Lori.

  “I saw the coverage. Pretty gory. That poor kid. I’ll bet he was Kreisler’s son. I predict he’ll be in therapy for about forty years.”

  “Jeb, have you gotten anywhere with the Baltimore victims?”

  “I’ve got one name. Robert Primo was twenty-nine, killed while walking toward a gay club called Occam’s Brain. He was picked off about twenty feet from the entrance, and a bullet fragment cracked the front window. I’ve got pictures.”

  He stood beside her and held up his phone, swiped his thumb across the screen, showing her snapshots of Primo. First one, he was with a group of people his age, and they were all laughing. Next there was a shot of Primo’s body lying on the sidewalk outside the club, followed by a close-up of the crack in the front window. The last was a photo of innumerable bottles of Xanax on a tabletop in what looked to be a police station evidence room.

  “Tell me this is an exclusive,” Cindy said.

  “Sorry, Cindy, as fantastic as I am, I got this off the net. The Baltimore Sun ran it. But I’ll keep trying,” he said. “I have faith.”

  Cindy said, “Hand this off to the new intern. I want you on Kreisler. Everything you can find on him, his family, his greatest hits, and if you can get the names of his body men, that would be a plus.

  “If this was a Moving Targets hit, where’s the drug connection? This happened in San Francisco. If we work fast, Henry will want this on the front page,” she said.

  Cindy went to her office and opened her computer. Her email inbox was full. She scrolled from top to bottom, hoping to see an email from Kill Shot, but he still hadn’t written to her.

  She opened a file and called it “Jazz Center Homicides.” Her readers checked her blog several times a day. Accordingly, she started a new thread and planned to update it as news broke. At the same time, it could run as a major story on the Chronicle’s front page.

  Cindy was off to a fast start with Lori Hines’s quotes. She gave attribution to Lori and KRON4, and added incoming notes from McGowan on Neil Kreisler’s career.

  She asked the question, “If Kreisler’s murder was part of the ‘new war on drugs,’ where are the drugs?”

  She let the question hang and then closed the piece with her take on the triple homicide.

  She wrote: “In addition to the execution of Neil Kreisler and two men who worked for him, two men were killed in Baltimore before sunup by the same method. A precision kill shot to the head. No sign of a shooter.

  “The Chronicle has been running biographies of the previous single-shot victims, and even when the victims were killed in different cities, the times of death were synchronized.

  “But today’s crimes differ.

  “Item: The men killed in Baltimore were shot at approximately midnight and 3 a.m. The three men killed in San Francisco were executed at some time prior to the morning rush hour.

  “Are the ‘new war on drugs’ snipers going rogue? Or has the original pattern changed and is now encompassing a wider area and a looser time frame? If so, what’s the battle plan?

  “The San Francisco Chronicle wants to hear from you.”

  Cindy entered her blog post, wrote a note to Tyler that she and McGowan were on the story. She copied McGowan, too. She packed up to go and was standing at the elevator when her cell phone rang.

  Richie said, “You still love me?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I love you. I want to take you out to dinner tonight. I need your company while we’re both awake.”

  Cindy said, “Great idea. Stupendous.”

  The elevator doors opened and Cindy left the building, looking forward to seeing Richie over a restaurant dinner. She crossed Mission to the garage, walked down the ramp to her spot, and was unlocking her car when Jeb McGowan appeared.

  “Everything okay, Cindy?”

  “I’m absolutely fine. What about you?” she said.

  She organized her bags and the radio on the passenger seat and closed the door. She was walking around the back of her car to the driver’s side when McGowan blocked her path.

  “What’s this?” she said.

  McGowan put his hand behind Cindy’s neck and pulled her toward him. Then he kissed her.

  Cindy could not believe what had happened, but she had to believe it. McGowan had put his lips on hers and stuck his tongue into her mouth, and now he was grinning at her.

  He said, “Wow, I’ve been waiting a long time to do that. Admit it, Cindy. You liked it.”

  “Let me be clear. If you ever do that again,” Cindy hissed, “I will have you fired.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said McGowan. “Are you imagining things, Cindy? Because absolutely nothing happened.”

  Chapter 96

  When Yuki opened her eyes that morning, she knew that the day she’d been dreading had arrived.

  She was still conflicted. The kid was a patsy. But as Parisi had told her at the top of his lungs, it didn’t matter what she felt. She had a job to do. A good prosecutor can prosecute anyone. And since the defendant had refused to cooperate, she couldn’t do anything for him.

  So in two hours Yuki would drop the hammer on Clay Warren.

  Careful not to wake Brady, Yuki showered, blew out her hair, dressed in a classic blue suit, and stepped into her high-heeled blue suede shoes.

  There was a note on the table in the foyer next to her keys that read, “XXX ♥ B.” She smiled, pressed her lips to the back of the note, and after returning the lipstick kiss to the table, Yuki gathered her stuff and drove to the Hal
l.

  During the drive Yuki reviewed her prep for the trial.

  She’d rehearsed her opening and saw no holes in her argument. She’d prepared her witness and set up the props, and she liked the jury. And she thought about opposing counsel, her friend Zac Jordan.

  Yuki had worked pro bono with Zac at the Defense League and learned a lot from him. He was smart, had a passion for the underdog, and had a gift for connecting with a jury. She’d also learned that Zac lacked a killer instinct.

  But even if he sprinkled broken glass on his cereal, his teenage client was facing grand theft auto, possession of a firearm, and holding a kilo of an illegal substance with intent to distribute—to name three.

  The really bad news for Clay Warren was that even if he hadn’t stolen the car, owned the gun, or possessed the drugs, a cop had been killed during the commission of those felonies. That made Clay just as guilty as the guy in the passenger seat.

  The charge was felony murder, and the penalty was twenty-five to life. Yuki had gone way out on a very weak limb for Clay, but her sympathy for him had been wasted.

  The kid had brought the hammer down on himself.

  Minutes after leaving her car at the All-Day lot across from the Hall, Yuki reached her office with time to spare.

  Danusa Freire a recent graduate of Berkeley Law and her second chair, popped out of her cubicle and followed Yuki to her desk.

  “Hey, Danusa Anything happening that I need to know?”

  Danusa said, “No calls, no walk-ins, and no semaphore signals from sinking ships. I checked your mail ten minutes ago, and there was nothing regarding Clay Warren.”

  She placed the thick folder of highlighted deposition transcripts and Yuki’s opening statement on her desk and handed her a container of milky coffee.

  The young lawyer said, “I just have to tell you, I’m pretty excited. I wish my parents could see this trial.”