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  “By a vicious, gun-happy chick cop,” I interrupted.

  “I was going to say blindsided by a sixteen-wheeler, but whatever.” She laughed. “Let’s get together and strategize. Can we make a plan?”

  My calendar was so sparkling clean it was practically virginal. Yuki, on the other hand, had booked depositions, meetings, and trials almost every hour for the next three weeks. Still, we picked a date a few days before the trial.

  “Right now the media are churning up the waters,” Yuki continued. “We leaked to the press that you’re staying with friends in New York so they won’t hound you. Lindsay? Are you there?”

  “Yep. I’m here,” I said, eyes fixed on the ceiling fan, ears ringing.

  “I’d suggest that you relax if you can. Keep a low profile. Leave the rest to me.”

  Right.

  I showered, dressed in linen slacks and a pink T-shirt, and took a mug of coffee out to the backyard. I had a question for Penelope as I scooped breakfast into her trough: “How much chow can a big pig chow if a big pig chows pig chow?”

  City girl talking to a pig. Who woulda thunk it?

  I considered Yuki’s advice as the sea breeze wafted across the deck. Relax and keep a low profile. It made good sense, except that I was in the clutches of a monster desire to do something. I wanted to shake things up, bang heads, right wrongs.

  I really couldn’t help myself.

  I whistled to Martha and started up the Explorer. Then we headed out toward a certain house in Crescent Heights—the scene of a double homicide.

  Chapter 47

  “BAD DOG,” I SAID to Martha. “You can’t keep out of trouble, can you?” Martha turned her melting brown eyes on me, wagged her tail, then resumed her surveillance of the boulder-sculpted highway.

  As I drove south on Highway 1, I was bristling with excitement. Three miles down the road, I turned off at Crescent Heights, an idiosyncratic collection of houses freckling the face of the hill at the tip of Half Moon Bay.

  I pointed the Explorer up the gravelly one-laner, feeling my way along until the scene of the crime nearly jumped out at me. I pulled over and turned off the engine.

  The yellow clapboard-sided house was a charmer, with three gabled dormers, an overgrown flower garden, and a whirligig of a lumberjack sawing wood attached to the post-and-rail fence. The name Daltry was painted on the handmade mailbox, and a half mile of yellow plastic tape was still wrapped around this, the American dream.

  Crime scene. Do not enter by order of the police.

  I tried to imagine that two people had been brutally murdered in this homey little cottage, but the images didn’t fit together. Murder should never happen in a place like this.

  What had drawn a killer to this particular house? Was it a targeted hit—or had the killer just happened on this home-sweet-home by chance?

  “Stay, girl,” I told Martha as I got out of the car.

  The murder had occurred more than five weeks ago, and by now the police had relinquished the crime scene. Anyone who wanted to snoop could do so, as long as they didn’t break into the house—and I saw signs of snoopers everywhere: footprints in the flower beds, cigarette butts on the pavement, soda cans on the lawn.

  I stepped through the open gate, ducked under the tape, and walked around the house, slowly frisking the scene with my eyes.

  There was an abandoned basketball under the shrubbery, and a single child’s sneaker on the back steps, still wet from last night’s dew. I noticed that one of the basement windows had been removed from its frame and was leaning against a wall of the house: the probable point of entry.

  The longer I stayed at the Daltry house, the harder my heart pounded. I was creeping around a crime scene instead of taking charge of it, and that made me feel weird and bad, as though this crime was none of my business and I shouldn’t be here. At the same time, I felt driven by what Claire had told me on the phone last night.

  The Daltrys of Crescent Heights weren’t the first murder victims to be whipped. Who else had been savaged this way? Did these killings connect with my unsolved case, John Doe #24?

  Relax and keep a low profile, Yuki had said. I actually laughed out loud. I got into the Explorer, patted my furry sidekick’s flank, then bumped down the gravelly road to the highway.

  We would be back in the center of Half Moon Bay in ten minutes. I wanted to see the O’Malley house.

  Chapter 48

  OCEAN COLONY ROAD WAS lined with patrol cars on both sides of the street. The insignias on the car doors told me that the local cops were finally getting the help they badly needed. They’d called in the state police.

  As I drove past, I saw that a uniformed officer was guarding the front door of the house and another cop was interviewing the UPS man.

  Detectives and crime scene techs entered and left the house at irregular intervals. A media tent had been set up on a neighbor’s lawn, and a local reporter was going live from Half Moon Bay.

  I parked my car down the block and walked toward the house, blending in with a clump of bystanders who were watching the police process the scene from the sidewalk across the street. It was a good enough vantage point, and as I stood there, I sifted through my impressions, hoping for a nugget of insight.

  To start with, the houses of the victims were as different as chalk and cheese. Crescent Heights was a blue-collar community with Highway 1 whizzing between the unpretentious homes and their view of the bay. Ocean Colony backed up onto a private golf course. The O’Malley house and the others around it fairly glistened with all of the nicest things money could buy. What did the two homes and the people who’d lived in them have in common?

  I studied the O’Malleys’ spiffy colonial, with its slate roof and boxwood topiaries in pots by the door, and once again I ran through the preliminary questions. What had drawn a killer here? Was it a personal hit or a random killing of opportunity?

  I turned my eyes up to the blue-shuttered windows on the second floor, where Lorelei O’Malley had been stabbed to death in her bedroom.

  Had she been whipped, too?

  I was concentrating so intently, I must have attracted attention to myself. A young uniformed cop with a florid face and an excitable manner was headed toward me.

  “Miss? Miss? I’d like to ask you some questions.”

  Damn. If I had to show my badge, this cop would run me through the database. Pass the news along: Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD, was at the scene of the crime. In twenty minutes the media would be ringing the doorbell and camping out on Cat’s lawn.

  I assumed my most innocent expression.

  “Just passing through, Officer. I’m leaving now.”

  I flipped a little wave, turned around, and walked quickly to the Explorer.

  Nuts. I saw him do it.

  That cop wrote down my plate number as I drove past.

  Chapter 49

  THE QUAINT LITTLE WATERING hole was named for a soaring seabird, the Cormorant, an elegant facsimile of which hung from the ceiling over the bar.

  The place had a raw bar, six kinds of beer on tap, loud music, and a full Friday-night crowd. I looked around until I spotted Carolee Brown at a table near the bar. She was dressed in slacks and a hot pink pullover; a gold crucifix glinted discreetly at her throat.

  The Cookie Lady on her night off.

  Carolee saw me a split second after I saw her, and she smiled broadly, gesturing for me to join her. I shimmied my way through the crowd and hugged her lightly as she stood to greet me.

  We ordered Pete’s Wicked Ale and linguini with clams, and, as women sometimes do, we got personal within minutes. Carolee had been briefed by my sister, Cat, and knew about the shooting that had left me twisting slowly in the California legal system.

  “I misjudged the situation because they were kids,” I told Carolee now. “After they shot my partner and me, I had to bring them down.”

  “It really sucks, Lindsay.”

  “Doesn’t it ever? Killing a kid. I neve
r thought I could do such a thing.”

  “They forced you to do it.”

  “They were murderers, Carolee. They’d killed a couple of kids, and when we apprehended them, they saw only one way out. But you’d think kids with all the advantages these two had wouldn’t be so whacked.”

  “Yeah, I know. But judging from the hundreds of kids who’ve come through my school, believe me, psychologically damaged kids come from everywhere,” Carolee said.

  When Carolee spoke of damaged children, something slammed into my brain. I saw myself as a kid, flying across my bedroom, careening into my bureau. “Don’t talk back to me, missy.” My father swaying in the doorway, king of the hill. I was a damaged child myself.

  I struggled to drag myself back to the Cormorant.

  “So what are you, Lindsay?” Carolee was saying. “Single? Divorced?”

  “Divorced—from a guy I think of as the brother I never had,” I said, relieved that she’d changed the subject. “But I could be talked into hooking up again.”

  “Now I remember,” Carolee said with a smile. “If I’m not mistaken, you had company when I came around with my cookies.”

  I grinned at the memory of answering the door in Joe’s shirt. I had opened my mouth to tell Carolee about Joe when my attention was drawn to the movement behind her.

  I’d been aware of three guys drinking steadily at the bar. Suddenly two of them left. The remaining guy was strikingly handsome: dark wavy hair, a symmetrical face, rimless glasses, pressed pants, and a Ralph Lauren polo shirt.

  The bartender rubbed the bar with a rag, and I heard him ask, “Ready for another?”

  “Actually, I’d like some of that pint-size brunette. And I might go for that tall blonde as a chaser.”

  Although this remark was accompanied by a pleasant smile, I felt that there was something wrong about this guy. He looked like an ex-jock JP Morgan banker, but he sounded more like a salesman living on his draw.

  My jaw tensed as he swiveled on his bar stool and turned his gaze on me.

  Chapter 50

  I NOTED THE GUY’S stats automatically: white male, maybe six two, a fit 190, forty to forty-two years old, no distinguishing marks except for a healing wound between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. As if he’d been cut with a knife.

  He got down off his bar stool and came toward us.

  I said quietly to Carolee, “This is my fault. I looked at him.” I did my best to head the guy off, making a big show of turning my face toward Carolee, but he kept coming.

  “How are you two ladies tonight? You’re both so pretty, I just had to say hello.”

  “Thanks,” said Carolee. “Nice of you to say.” Then she turned her back on him.

  “I’m Dennis Agnew,” he said, pressing on. “Sure, you don’t know me, but listen, we can change all that. Why don’t you girls offer me a seat? Dinner’s on me.”

  “Thanks anyway, Dennis,” I said, “but we’re having a nice time on our own. You know. Girls’ night out.”

  A frown suddenly crossed the guy’s face, like the lights dimming during a brown-out. A fraction of a second later, his cockiness surged back, as did his beautiful smile.

  “You couldn’t be having such a good time. Come on. Even if you’re the kind of girls who don’t like guys, it’s okay with me. It’s just dinner.”

  Dennis Agnew was a crazy blend of smooth and crude, but whatever he was up to, I’d had enough of it.

  “Hey, Dennis,” I said, fishing my badge out of my handbag and flashing it at him. “I’m a police officer and this conversation is private. Okay?”

  I could see the pulse beating in his temple as he tried to strike a face-saving pose.

  “You really shouldn’t make snap judgments, Officer. Especially about people you don’t know.”

  Agnew walked back to the bar, put down some bills, and gave us a final look.

  “You take care, now. I’ll be seeing you around.”

  Then he stiff-armed the door that led out to the parking lot.

  “Nice work, Lindsay.” Carolee made a cocked gun of her hand and blew imaginary smoke off the end of her finger.

  “What a creep,” I said. “Did you see the look on his face? Like he couldn’t believe we were blowing him off. Who does he think he is? George Clooney?”

  “Yeah,” said my new friend. “His mom and his mirror have been telling him that he’s irresistible for his whole life.”

  Too funny! We laughed hard, clinked glasses. It was great to be with Carolee; I felt that I’d known her for years. Because of her, I stopped thinking about Dennis Agnew, killers and corpses, and even my looming court date.

  I lifted my hand and ordered another round of Pete’s Wicked.

  Chapter 51

  THE SEEKER STASHED HIS new knife under the front seat of his car, then got out and opened the door to the convenience store. He was instantly refreshed by the air conditioning, the soothing sight of the tall, frosty coolers filled with soda and beer.

  He was especially gratified to see a small dark-haired woman wearing an expensive Fila tracksuit in line at the checkout counter.

  Her name was Annemarie Sarducci, and the Seeker knew that she had just finished her nightly run. She’d buy her bottle of imported spring water, then walk home and have dinner with her family in their home overlooking the bay.

  The Seeker already knew a great deal about Annemarie: that she was vain about her size-three, 112-pound figure; that she was screwing her personal trainer; that her son was dealing drugs to his classmates; and that she was insanely jealous of her sister, Juliette, who had a long-running role in a daytime soap filmed down in Los Angeles.

  He also knew that she authored a blog under the screen name Twisted Rose. He’d probably been her most attentive reader for months. He’d even signed her “guest book” with his own screen name.

  “I like the way you think. The SEEKER.”

  The Seeker filled a paper cup with strong black coffee from the urn in the corner of the store, then joined the line behind Mrs. Sarducci. He jostled her a little, brushed her breast as though it were an accident.

  “I’m sorry. Oh. Hey, there, Annemarie,” he said.

  “Yeah. Hi,” she answered, dismissing him with a bored glance and a nod. She handed a five to the sallow young girl behind the cash register, accepted her change for the bottled water, and left without saying good-bye.

  The Seeker watched Annemarie leave the store, wiggling her little ass because it was her habit to do so. In a couple of hours he’d be reading her online diary, all the kinky things she didn’t want people in her real life to know.

  See you later, Twisted Rose.

  Chapter 52

  WHEN CAROLEE CALLED AND asked me to keep Allison for a few hours, I wanted to plead, “Please don’t ask me to babysit.” But Carolee got to me before the words left my mouth.

  “Ali misses that pig,” she’d said. “If you’ll let her visit Penelope, she’ll amuse herself and I can get my molar fixed. I’d really appreciate it, Lindsay.”

  A half hour later, Allison bounced out of her mom’s minivan and ran up to the front door. Her dark glossy hair was in two bunches, one on either side of her head, and everything she wore, including her sneakers, was pink.

  “Hi there, Ali.”

  “I brought apples,” she said, pushing past me into the house. “Wait’ll you see.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said, faking some enthusiasm.

  As soon as I opened the back door, Penelope trotted over to the fence and began grunting a noisy string of squeals and woofles—and Allison squealed and woofled back. Just about the time I thought the neighbors would call the animal warden, Allison grinned at me and said, “That’s what we call Pigese.”

  “So I’ve been told,” I said, smiling back at her.

  “It’s a real language,” Allison insisted. She raked the pig’s back and Penelope rolled over, assuming her ecstatic, feet-in-the-air stupor. “When Penelope was a piglet, she lived in a bi
g house near the sea with pigs from all over the world,” Ali told me. “She used to sit up all night and talk Pigese with the other pigs and during the day she gave pedicures, called pigatures.”

  “Is that right?”

  “Pigs are a lot smarter than people think,” Ali confided. “Penelope knows lots of things. More than people would ever realize.”

  “I simply had no idea,” I said.

  “Look,” Ali continued. “You feed her the apples. I have to paint her nails.”

  “Really?”

  “It’s what she wants.” With Allison assuring me that it was okay to let the pig onto the back deck, I did what I was told. I held Granny Smith apples so that Penelope could chomp them while Allison chattered to us both and painted the pig’s cloven hooves with pearly pink nail polish.

  “All done, Penny.” Ali beamed proudly. “Just let them dry. So,” she said to me. “What can Martha do?”

  “Well, as a matter of fact, border collies also have a language. Martha is trained to herd sheep on command.”

  “Show me!”

  “Do you see any sheep around here?”

  “You’re silly.”

  “Yes, I am. But you know what I love most about Martha? She keeps me company and she warns me about bad guys or even about things that go bump in the night.”

  “And you have a gun, right?” Ali asked with an almost cagey look on her sweet face.

  “Yup. I have a gun.”

  “Wow. A gun and a dog. You rock, Lindsay. You might be the coolest person I know.”

  I finally threw back my head and laughed. Ali was such a cute and imaginative child. I was shocked at how much I liked her and how fast. I’d come to Half Moon Bay to rethink my whole life. Now I was being visited by a vivid fantasy of me, Joe, a home, a little girl.

  I was turning this shocking thought around in my mind when Carolee came into the backyard with a lopsided Novocain smile. I couldn’t believe two hours had gone by and I was so, so sorry to see Ali go.