The 9th Judgment Page 9

  SARAH WRIGGLED OVER the sill and dropped to the carpet.

  Her head swam with a high-octane blend of elation, urgency, and fear. She glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand beside the Morleys’ huge four-poster bed and registered the time. It was 9:14, and Sarah swore to herself that once the blue digits read 9:17, she’d be gone.

  The spacious room was dimly lit from the light in the hall. Sarah took in the heavy, Queen Anne-period maple furnishings, evidence of an inheritance as well as the bazillions the Morleys had made in sporting goods. There were little oil paintings near the bed, a huge plasma-screen TV in the armoire, photos along the walls of the handsome Morley clan in sailboats-walls that now thrummed with a pounding rock-and-roll beat.

  Sarah was on her mark and ready to go. She crossed the long, carpeted room, then shut the door leading out to the hallway and locked it. Now, except for the blinking blue light of the digital clock, she was completely in the dark.

  It was 9:15.

  Sarah felt along the wall, found the closet door, opened it, and threw on the switch to her headlamp. The room-sized closet was fantastic, and she wouldn’t have expected less from the Morleys. There were racks and racks of clothes, hers on one side, his on the other; a triple-paned floor-to-ceiling mirror at the back wall; everything you could ever ask from a closet-except a safe. Where was it?

  Sarah worked quickly, looking behind evening gowns and running her fingers along baseboard moldings and shelves, feeling time whiz by as she inventoried the Morleys’ frickin’ closet.

  She would have to leave. Empty-handed.

  Sarah had just turned off her light and exited the closet when she heard footsteps on the hardwood. They stopped outside the bedroom. The doorknob twisted back and forth, then a man’s voice shouted, “Hey! Who locked the door?”

  Sarah froze. Should she hide? Break for the window in the dark?

  The man called out again: “It’s Jim. I need to use the can.” His laugh was sloppy with drink. He put on a high-pitched, fruity voice. “Hello Kitty? Is that youuuu?”

  Sarah’s heart nearly stopped. It was Jim Morley, and he was pounding on his bedroom door.

  “Hey. Open up!”

  Chapter 47

  SARAH RAN TO the window, whatever might be in her way be damned. She had her hand on the sill when a door opened into the room and light poured in. Morley had entered the bathroom from the room next door, and his hulking frame was silhouetted by the bathroom light.

  He called out as he fumbled for the switch on the bedroom wall. “Is someone here?”

  Sarah’s mind did a backflip. Without the light, she could see him better than he could see her. She had to brazen it out. “Jim,” she said, “can you give us some privacy, please?”

  “Laura? Laura, is that you? Jesus. I’m sorry. You and Jesse, take your time. Take all the time you need.”

  The bathroom door closed. The darkness returned. Take all the time you need, Morley had said, but when he got back to the party, he’d see Laura and Jesse, and he’d sound the alarm.

  It was 9:20.

  Sarah had a foot up on the sill when an image appeared in the corner of her mind’s eye. She’d been in a rush to get to the closet, but she’d half noticed a particular painting of a wheat field right next to the bed. Had it been hinged to the wall?

  Thirty seconds, no more, but she had to check it out.

  Sarah found the four-poster by the pale blue light of the clock and used it to guide her. Her fingers ran across the edges of the small picture frame, and then she pulled it toward her.

  She exhaled as the painting swung open. Behind it was a cool metal box with its padlock hanging open. Sarah moved quickly. She pulled the box from the wall, set it down on the bed, and flipped back the lid. Then she opened the empty duffel bag she’d brought for the loot and began to transfer small bulging envelopes and boxes out of the safe.

  When her bag was full, she zipped it closed and returned the empty box to its sleeve in the wall.

  Time to go!

  Sarah peered out the window and saw a man walking his rottie. He stopped to talk to the valet, then continued up the street. Sarah vaulted onto the sill and turned so that she faced into the room. She placed her hands on the ledge between her bent legs and then let herself down and over the side. She jammed her climbing shoes against the wall of the house, then dropped.

  Her foot hit a hollow in the lawn, and her ankle turned.

  She stifled a yelp, clenching her teeth in a grimace. Then, hidden by clouds crossing the moon, Sarah hobbled through the dark toward her car.

  Chapter 48

  SARAH ALMOST CRIED out in relief when she saw her red Saturn parked along the street not far from the Morleys’ house. She got inside, whipped off her lamp and knit hat in one movement, and stripped off her gloves. She stuffed them into the duffel with the jewelry cases and slid the bag under the front seat.

  She sat in the comforting dark of night, gripping the steering wheel, her ankle throbbing as she marveled at her minutes-long, heart-stopping escapade.

  It was unbelievable.

  Jim Morley had called her “Hello Kitty.”

  He’d opened the bathroom door and stared right at her. And still she hadn’t gotten caught.

  Hadn’t gotten caught yet, Sarah reminded herself. She was carrying enough evidence under her car seat to get her locked up for twenty years, and that’s if she wasn’t charged with murder.

  Sarah fluffed up her hair, slipped on the blue quilted shirt she kept in the backseat, and started up the engine. She rolled out onto Columbus, carefully keeping to the speed limit as she headed toward Bay Street, passing Chestnut and Francisco, her mind floating on the aftermath of her success, starting to think now about seeing Heidi.

  She imagined telling Heidi the truth about herself, about how the loot she’d stolen would fund their freedom for maybe the rest of their lives, how their fantasies of living together as a family would come true.

  As she thought about Heidi clapping her hands and throwing her arms around her, a distant sound nagged at Sarah until she couldn’t ignore the whine any longer. The looping, high-pitched wail came from behind, getting louder as it approached. She could see red flashers in her rearview mirror.

  Cops.

  They couldn’t be coming for her, could they? Had Jim Morley called the police after all? Maybe the valet had seen her limping down the street when Morley sounded the alarm. Still, she was sure no one had followed her to the car.

  How had she screwed up?

  Sarah’s mind churned and her heart nearly pounded out of her chest as she pulled over to the side of the road. She pushed the duffel bag even farther under the seat, and then, keeping her eyes on the rearview mirror, Sarah Wells watched as the police cruiser pulled up behind her and braked.

  Chapter 49

  IN THE MOMENTS Sarah needed to construct an alibi, her mind foundered. She was far from her own neighborhood, and she was sure she looked guilty of something. Her whole body filmed over with sweat as the cruiser door opened and the man with the brimmed hat stepped out and walked toward her.

  His eyes were shadowed by his hat, but Sarah took in the square jaw, the straight nose, the unsmiling mouth. He looked every bit like an official with no slack to cut.

  “License and registration, please.”

  “Yes, sir,” Sarah said, fumbling in the glove box, finding her wallet on top of the maps, hands slippery from nerves, credit cards shooting out of her fingers and onto the floor. Sarah picked up her driver’s license, dove back into the glove box to retrieve the registration card, and handed one after the other to the officer.

  “Sir, did I do something wrong? Was I speeding?”

  The officer shined his light on the documents and, saying he’d be back in a moment, returned to his car to run her name through the computer.

  Cherry lights flashed in her mirror. Sarah’s only cogent thought was that the Morley burglary was the stupidest thing she’d ever done. She imagined t
he officer ordering her out of the car, telling her to put her hands on the hood. She saw how easily he would find Dorian Morley’s jewelry.

  As time dragged on, she imagined other police cars coming, cops surrounding her, laughing at how she’d been caught red-handed. She imagined the interrogation that would go on until she confessed-which would be immediately, because there would be no explaining away the evidence.

  The pain in Sarah’s ankle was excruciating, and along with it was a swooping dizziness that turned to nausea.

  What would happen to her? What would happen to Heidi?

  A beam hit her eyes; the officer had returned, one hand holding the flashlight, the other handing back her documentation.

  “Your left taillight is busted,” he said. “You need to get that fixed right way.”

  Sarah apologized, sounding ridiculously guilty to her own ears, saying she hadn’t realized the light was broken, promising she’d go to the auto shop-and then it was over. As the cruiser sailed past her, Sarah opened the car door and vomited into the street. Then she rested her forehead against the steering wheel.

  “Thank you, God,” she said out loud.

  Her hands were still shaking as she started up the car again and headed to Marina Boulevard. Skimming along the street, she turned her eyes to the Golden Gate Bridge, the chains of lights blazing. It was a sign, that necklace of lights, and Sarah’s optimism was reborn, this time as euphoria.

  She hadn’t made any costly mistakes. She’d done her homework on the Morleys and had pulled off a first-class heist that brought her that much closer to her goal. And now she had a brilliant idea.

  Along with getting her taillight fixed as soon as possible, she was going to call Maury Green’s widow. She’d make Mrs. Green an offer, a finder’s fee if she’d hook Sarah up with another fence.

  And more thoughts came flooding in, those envelopes full of Dorian Morley’s everyday diamonds. She couldn’t wait to see what else she’d taken from the safe.

  Chapter 50

  SARAH OPENED THE door to the one-bedroom apartment she shared with her revolting, hair-trigger husband. She stood listening for a moment in the small foyer, and when she heard snoring, she stepped into the living room. “Terror” was slumped in his brown leather recliner, asleep in his wife beater and shorts, his plaid underwear not only showing but unsnapped and open.

  She wrinkled her nose at the porn couple silently humping on the TV, then slipped past her husband and into the bedroom, where she closed the door and quietly threw the lock.

  Only then did she feel that it was safe to draw a real breath. She jerked the curtains closed and flicked on the overhead light. Then she opened her duffel bag full of loot and spilled the bulging envelopes onto the bedspread.

  Sarah’s breathing was shallow and her eyes were bright as she unsnapped each little packet and liberated the contents. Diamond necklaces spilled out like streams of faceted ice. She touched each of the jewel-encrusted bracelets and brooches and pendants and rings with the tips of her fingers, stunned by her audacity and at the same time mesmerized by each splendid work of art.

  Dorian Morley’s taste was wonderful. The diamond necklaces were new but the packets of finely worked antiques seemed to be part of a personal collection. And so Sarah wondered if this treasure had been inherited or collected piece by piece by Dorian Morley herself.

  And for the first time since she’d started stealing from the rich, Sarah knew that the woman who had owned these jewels was going to be grief-stricken when she discovered the loss.

  This was not a good thought for a jewel thief, so she scrubbed it from her mind, reminding herself that the Morleys of this world had insurance and means, while she and Heidi had no fallback, no rescuers but themselves, and that each day they lived with their husbands was one of loathing and terrible risk.

  Sarah returned the pieces to their packets and opened the bottom drawer of her dresser. She pushed the T-shirts and sweatpants aside, lifted the thin board of the false bottom, and deposited the tool bag.

  Before she stowed the Morley jewels, Sarah had to see it one more time. She reached into the back right corner of the secret stash and felt for the little leather box shaped like a round-topped trunk.

  The box fit perfectly in her closed hand. She opened the lid and stared at Casey Dowling’s wonderful ring. It glittered under the light as if it were alive.

  That yellow stone. Wow. It was magnificent.

  Chapter 51

  CONKLIN MUTTERED TO me as he parked the squad car in front of the Tudor-style mansion on Russian Hill.

  “What a coincidence, huh? Hello Kitty does a job the same night the Lipstick Killer attacks Elaine Marone and her child.”

  “Rich, when my eyes flash open, you know? After three hours of sleep, I think it’s all too much, that the Job is getting to me, that I should quit before it kills me. And then I ask myself what the hell I would do after that.”

  “When I get those thoughts, I think of opening a scuba shop in Martinique.”

  “Well, be nice to the Morleys. They can probably help you out with that.”

  Conklin stifled his laugh as the massive front door opened. Dorian Morley was tall, about forty, an attractive woman in a flowered tunic and black pants, her brown hair twisted up and pinned with a clip. She was also red-eyed and looked shaken. She invited us into the kitchen-a vast, well-lit space with sea-green glass counters and stainless-steel everything else. Her husband was sitting at the table with a mug of coffee in his large hand. He stood as she introduced us.

  “I feel like an ass,” Jim Morley said when we’d taken seats at the table. “The bedroom door was locked. That was weird. I said, ‘Hello Killy? Is that youuuu?’” He made a gagging noise and shook his head. “Why is it you never think it could happen to you?”

  Morley went on to say that he’d gone through the guest room and gotten into the bathroom that way.

  “You saw the burglar?” I asked, hoping against disbelief.

  “Nah, the lights were out in the bedroom,” Morley said. “She pleaded with me, asked me to give her some privacy, and that’s what convinced me it was a friend of ours, Laura Chenoweth. She and her husband, Jesse, are going through a rough patch, and I thought they were making up, you know, in private.

  “Anyway, the newspapers keep referring to Hello Kitty as a man, right?”

  I was reeling from this new information.

  If Hello Kitty was a woman, it was our first real lead. A blind lead to be sure, but something!

  “I just tossed the jewelry from the party on top of the dresser,” Dorian Morley said. “I didn’t even know we’d been robbed until I went to put my jewels in the safe.”

  She lowered her head into her hands and began to cry softly. Her husband said to us, “A lot of the jewelry belonged to Dorian’s mom. Some of it was her grandmother’s. What are the chances of getting it back?”

  I was still stuck on the idea that our cat burglar was a woman. I heard Conklin say that so far none of the stolen goods had surfaced from the previous Hello Kitty burglaries, and then Dorian Morley lifted her head and said, “It’s not just about the jewelry, Jim. It’s about the fact that a murderer was inside our house. Inside our bedroom.

  “What if you had challenged her instead of walking away? My God, Jim, she could have shot you!”

  Chapter 52

  BEING SUMMONED TO Tracchio’s office is always an adventure. You never know if you’re going to get a high five or a front-row seat on a meltdown.

  Tracchio hung up the phone as Jacobi, Chi, and I took seats around the curve of his mahogany desk and watched him pat his comb-over. I don’t dislike Tracchio, but I never forget that he’s a bureaucrat doing a job only a real cop should do.

  “The mayor has me on his speed dial,” he was saying as his assistant brought him a fresh cup of tea. “I’m in his ‘favorites’ list, you understand, one of the top five. This morning, I made it to number one-when he saw this.”

  Tracchio flashed
the morning’s Chronicle with its photo of Claire leaning out her car window under the headline “Get a Gun.”

  I flushed, both scared and embarrassed for my best friend.

  “One of our own said this,” Tracchio said, his voice rising. “Told our citizens to carry guns, and the mayor says that all of us, and that includes you, you, and especially you,” he said, stabbing a pudgy finger at Jacobi, “don’t know your ass from a lemon tart.”

  Jacobi half rose to his feet in defense, but Tracchio put out a hand to silence and seat him.

  “Don’t say anything, Jacobi. I’m not in the mood. And I’ve got something else to show you.”

  Tracchio opened a folder on his desk, took out a sheet of newsprint, turned it around, and pushed it toward us. “This is going to run in tomorrow morning’s Chronicle. The publisher sent an advance copy out to the mayor, who passed it around.”

  I read the headline: “An Open Letter to the Residents of San Francisco.” Tracchio leaned back and said, “Go on, Boxer. Read that out loud.”

  “‘An open letter to the residents of San Francisco,’” I read obediently. “‘I have a proposition to make. It’s very simple. I want two million dollars in cash and a contact person I can trust. Once I have the money, I will leave San Francisco for good and the killings of the women and children will stop. I expect a published reply and then we’ll work out the details. Have a nice day.’ It’s not signed, but I guess we know who wrote this.”

  My head throbbed at the idea of it.

  “Sir, you’re not really thinking we’re going to pay off the Lipstick Killer?” I asked Tracchio.

  “Not out of our budget, of course, but a private citizen has already stepped forward with the cash, yes.”

  “Chief, we can’t let anyone pay off a murderer. It opens the way for every freak with a gun and a sick idea-”