She said “Hey” to McGowan, “Morning, Henry” to her boss, and took a seat next to McGowan on the edge of the leather sofa. She hoped that Tyler wasn’t going to give her hell for airing an unconfirmed story with McGowan in the room.
Tyler said, “Cindy, I just saw your interview. Well done. I’ve got to ask if you’ve got confirmation that your tipster has an actual connection to the shooters.”
“Not yet, but then again, he called me, Henry, a few minutes ago. He disguised his voice and used a throwaway phone, but he let me know that there’d been a shooting in Chicago. Same kind as the others. One kill shot from a distance. I sent you a memo.”
“Sorry, I missed it.”
“I posted the article on my blog. We broke it first.”
Tyler said, “A solid verification and in that order? Victim of a shooting. Call from your source, and that shooting is confirmed?”
She nodded yes, and Tyler said, “Okay. Very good. Two scoops in one hour. Nice work, Cindy. You’re on a great streak.”
He smiled at her from behind his desk, then said, “I called you both in because the SFPD still has nothing on the Jennings murder, and likewise, the Baron case is getting cold. Also, Houston and San Antonio have nothing on their victims. I want you two to work together. See if you can’t get something on what appears to be a cabal of military-grade killers.
“McGowan, report to Cindy on this and make yourself useful.”
“Yes, sir,” McGowan said.
“Cindy, you still have my mobile number?”
“Tattooed on the palm of my hand.”
Tyler smiled.
“Go get ’em,” he said.
Chapter 65
McGowan held the door for Cindy, and as they made their way around the newsroom together, Cindy couldn’t help but notice that McGowan was high on enthusiasm.
“Wow, Cindy. Look. I’m going to help you in every way I can. I’m your guy.”
“You asked Henry to give you this assignment, right?”
“Wait, Cindy. He said that we should work together, didn’t he? In my mind, we’re on track to land the story of the year.”
He gave her an undeniably winning smile, which Cindy did not return. She thought, We, huh? but said, “Okay, then.”
Once inside her office, she closed her door and called Richie.
“This is an official on-the-record call,” she told the man she loved. “Got anything on the dead man shot on the Riverwalk in Chicago at the crack of dawn? Anything at all?”
He said, “We’re working with Chicago PD. I can only tell you this as my friend and lover. Confidentially, Cindy. Okay?”
“Damn it. I mean, okay.”
“Chicago police have a suspect in custody. As soon as I’ve got something I can talk about, I’ll call you first.”
Cindy said, ”Gee, Richie. I can never thank you enough.”
He laughed, said, “Be good.”
She clicked off, swiveled her chair so she was looking out over Mission Street rather than through her office wall at McGowan’s cube only twenty feet away. The killer or killers had committed the Chicago murder less than four hours ago.
The story was so hot it was sizzling.
The combined killings amounted to a killing spree that was unprecedented in style and geographic range. It had started here in San Francisco. Her beat.
And now the fear and fascination with this peripatetic shooting gallery had galvanized the country.
Who would be next?
Cable news, even the president, had weighed in on this spate of assassinations. “We’re a nation of laws,” the White House spokesman had said. “We deplore vigilantism. Innocent people will be killed, and they are all innocent—until proven guilty by a court of law.”
Cindy agreed in principle, and she still had a job to do.
She had to unlock this story.
She went to her doorway and called out to McGowan, who stood up and came over to her.
“Jeb, work on this morning’s Chicago victim. Who, what, when, where, and if you uncover a shiny new why, that would be great. Then, separately, build a timeline starting with Jennings. Next, the Barons. Roccio. Peavey. The three Texas victims. Today’s guy, too. Profile of each. We’ll update this timeline, keep running it as a sidebar—”
McGowan held up his phone.
“Chicago victim’s name is Patrick Mason.”
“Good. Follow up and I’ll reach out to Houston. See if the killers there had the same MO.”
McGowan smiled and did a pretty good imitation of Henry Tyler, saying, “Go get ’em.”
Chapter 66
Cindy was in a fury when she sat back down at her desk.
Jeb mocking Henry. That snotty kid.
She opened the email from her anonymous source who’d tipped her to the war on drugs and given her today’s scoop. Drug dealer shot dead in Chicago.
Cindy had the feeling that this was another Zodiac or Son of Sam, other serial killers who’d buddied up to the press. This time it was serial killers, plural. But who were they, and why and how were the shooters and their intended victims chosen? She wanted to read the email again, this time looking for dropped bread crumbs or any lead that she had missed.
He had written, “If you’re part of the problem and value your life, stop selling drugs now whatever it costs you. Destroy your product and get straight.
“Or spin the wheel. You’ll never know when your number comes up.”
Spin the wheel was an odd phrase. Was it his manner of speech? Was it something meaningful? She’d like to know.
That’s when it hit her.
Her source had written to her. And he had called her.
Her return call to the burner phone had failed, but she hadn’t written back to him.
She had to do that, and if she made a good enough pitch, maybe he’d write back. Maybe she could sell him on her being his press conduit to the world. She was known. The Chronicle had reach. Tyler was a friend and mentor. It was a good idea.
But before she fired off her return email, she wanted to think about it some more.
Cindy opened her blog and her mail, checked every feed in the US and abroad, noting how much coverage the sniper killings had drawn.
She also detected something else that surprised her. The public was cheering on the vigilantes. When she opened the comments section on her blog, that same unexpected element was present. Readers were thinking that the shooters who were picking off drug dealers were the good guys.
She left her office deep in thought, headed toward the coffee station. McGowan was outside his cubicle, standing with his back to her. He was chatting with a pretty, young intern.
He was talking about her.
“Cindy does a good yeoman’s job,” McGowan said. “She has ten years in grade here, so she knows what she’s doing, but she has no style. She’s not a writer’s writer, if you know what I mean.”
“A hack, you’re saying?” said the intern.
McGowan laughed. “Right word. Exactly.”
Cindy had to decide quickly.
Show McGowan that she’d overheard him? Or hold it back for a better, more pivotal time? She walked around him to the coffee station, poured herself a paper cup of hazelnut bold, feeling the back of her neck getting hot.
She heard McGowan calling out to her over the din of the newsroom. He was saying, “Cindy. Cindy, I want you to meet Robin Boyd. She just started working here as an intern. Her father works for—”
“Nice to meet you, Robin. McGowan. Get to work. I want those profiles, every one of them, before noon. Show me what kind of writer you are. Try not to let down the team.”
Chapter 67
Claire’s room was lined with flowers of all heights and colors, grouped on the windowsills, in a row along the chair rail across from her bed, and there were bunches of get-well cards woven into the slats of the window blinds.
I was so glad to see her. When she smiled and stretched out her hand, I went to her
, gave her a long, gentle hug.
“Be careful of my lifelines,” she said of the tubes running hither and thither from IV bags, into and out of her thin cotton hospital gown.
“Bossy even now,” I said, moving a big chair up to her bed. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been run over by a team of horses. Those Budweiser ones. Clyde-somethings.”
I laughed with her, picturing that.
“Well, they didn’t trample your sense of humor.”
“No, thank God. I need it, but I’ll tell you a little secret.”
“What’s that?”
She signaled me to come close. I moved in so my ear was almost against her mouth.
“You can ask me anything,” she said. “I’m so doped up, I’ll spill all my beans.”
I paused to wonder if she had any secrets that I hadn’t already discovered over the last dozen years.
“How about this? Tell me what the doctors told you.”
“Thassit?” she drawled. “That’s like you got one of those genie lamps with the three wishes and you wished for a sausage on the end of your nose.”
I couldn’t help cracking up at the image from that ancient parable or fable or whatever it was. But I refused to be sidetracked. And so I persisted.
“What did Dr. Terk say?”
“Oh, you know. Looks like they got it all, but they’re not committing, not yet.”
“When are they letting you out of here?”
“What day is it?”
“Tuesday?”
“What year?”
“When, Claire? When can you go home?”
“When the docs are sure my lung isn’t leaking.”
“Do you hurt?”
“Not now. Man, I never realized how boring you are, grrfren’.”
I laughed out loud. I knew it was the drugs talking, but still, I was so glad to be in her face, annoying her to death.
“And work? Did they say when you can come back to work?”
“Why? Did someone die?”
I laughed again. “The usual number. Lots. And no more pushing me around. Doctor said you have to go for a walk, so we’ll go together to the end of the hall.”
“He did not. You’re lyin’.”
I buzzed the nurse, and when she arrived a moment later, she detached a few lines and helped Claire from her bed. I got a laugh out of her flashing her big butt down the hallway, and she laughed, too, wheezing some, telling me she’d get me for this. I put my arm around my best friend’s waist and told her to shut the fuck up.
She said, “Did you catch that sniper or snipers yet?”
“Working on it.”
And then she started to sing. Yeah. As I had one arm around her waist and was holding the IV pole with the other.
“Hup two, three, four. What the hell we marching for? Sound off.”
I stared at her.
“Lindsay. You say ‘sound off.’”
“Sound off.”
“Thassit. Sound off, one, two. Three, four,” she sang.
I shook my head and helped her make a two-point turn.
“What? What are you thinkin’, Lindsay?”
“I’m thinking I want what you’re having.”
She laughed and laughed some more, wobbling enough on her slippered feet to scare me. The nurse and I used considerable strength to hold Claire up and walk her back to her room, and it took three of us to get her into bed.
I promised her I’d come back the next day, and not long after that I hugged her good-bye.
Chapter 68
I checked my phone as I walked through the exit doors out to my car.
Richie had called a couple of times. I climbed into the driver’s seat and called him back, and he picked up on the first ring.
I wasn’t expecting him to say, “Bad news.”
“What is it? Please don’t make me beg.”
“Kennedy. That detective in Houston. He was shot a couple of blocks from the Moving Targets storefront he was checking out. He took one slug to the back of his head. This can’t be a coincidence.”
I was stunned. I liked Kennedy. He was perceptive. Curious. Outgoing. Proactive. I’d felt as if I knew him.
I didn’t speak, and so Rich said my name a couple of times.
“I’m here.”
“I know, I know how you feel,” he said. “It’s sick. They’re going after cops now?”
“How could they have known he was a cop? Did he tell them? Or did they just make him when he walked into the shop? And then what? They followed him out, tailed him for a few blocks, and shot him?”
“Houston PD is on it. They crashed Moving Targets and the space was empty. No computers. No nerds. No fingerprints. No cameras. Back door open to the loading dock. No one was home but the dust bunnies and a sign hanging inside the door.”
“Sign saying what?” I asked him.
“‘Gone Fishing.’”
“That’s a sly way of saying ‘Gone hunting.’”
“Right you are.”
I told Rich I was on the way back to the Hall, but in fact I wasn’t ready to drive.
After we hung up, I sat in my car looking out at the hospital parking lot, and I thought of Carl Kennedy. He’d been upbeat, quick with an idea, and now he was dead. He and Clapper had been tight, having worked together in homicide, LVPD. I didn’t want Charlie to hear about Kennedy on TV or the internet.
I tapped Clapper’s office number into my phone and waited for his assistant to locate him. When he got on the line, he said, “Boxer, you heard about Kennedy? He told me he was working with you.”
“I just heard. Charlie, I’m very sorry.”
He said, “Thanks,” but his voice was all wrong.
He sounded removed.
“Charlie?”
“Lindsay, got a minute? I’ll take this to my office.”
I turned off the police radio, pressed my phone to my ear, and waited for Clapper. And then he was back on the line.
“Boxer, what do you know about what happened?”
I gave Clapper background on Moving Targets and said that Kennedy knew of an in-real-life location that was possibly Moving Targets’ HQ.
I said, “Kennedy was going to check them out. Then he was shot a few blocks from their store. Houston PD found the store had been cleaned out.”
“I hadn’t heard that part, Boxer. I’m starting to form a theory.”
“Tell me.”
“What if Kennedy knew these Moving Targets people? I should tell you, he was known to cross the line.”
“Like how?”
“Skim cash. Pocket drugs. Stash a gun. My just-formed theory is based on his character, Boxer, not on evidence. Maybe he told Moving Targets he wanted to make them an offer. They pay him off. He keeps the cops in the dark.”
“And so they shot him.”
“Evidence will tell, Boxer. Regards to Richie.”
And then he hung up the phone.
Chapter 69
Cindy drafted an email to the mystery man who had given her the tip of a lifetime: the motive for nine killings and counting, a manifesto on a “new war on drugs,” followed by a lead to a new shooting in Chicago.
The man wanted exposure. He had proven that he had inside knowledge. He wanted to get the word out that he and/or others were eliminating drug dealers, one piece of crap at a time.
He’d obscured his identity, but he wasn’t being coy.
His message to drug dealers was twofold: Do you want to live? Or do you want to “spin the wheel”?
The final draft of her email to him was short and simple. “I am sympathetic to your cause and have an idea for spreading your message. Please write or call me again so we can discuss.”
In fact, she abhorred frontier justice, but if she could be this man’s conduit to the worldwide press, he might give her the key to the whole shooting match. She would love to draw the killers out of their hidey-holes and into the hands of the SFPD.
But s
he was impatient. She felt a breeze. It was the passage of time. The clock on her computer screen read a couple of minutes after noon. Where was the mystery man right now? Was he at his computer, reading the news, basking in the growing public praise for what he was calling the “new war on drugs”?
Cindy sent her two-sentence email. Got the Message sent notification. And now she was on the hook, waiting for his reply.
She turned her mind to other things. She spoke with Claire, who told her she’d never been so bored in her life. They laughed when Cindy added, “Better bored than dead.”
She texted Richie to say, Can you tell me ANYTHING?
Ah. No.
Screw you, buster, she responded, forcing herself to add, Kidding! She got up, made a wide counterclockwise circle around the newsroom so that she could avoid not only McGowan but Tyler as well. The lunch wagon was in the outer corridor near the elevator. She bought an egg salad sandwich and a bag of pretzels, then took the long way back to her desk.
She checked her email, hoping that the man of the spinning wheel had replied in the ten minutes since she’d invited him to be her confidential informant.
Nope. He hadn’t. And he hadn’t called, either.
So she opened her crime blog, skimmed the new comments on her original post, and found a thread she was least expecting. It was about the love of killing, the high of shooting, of slicing arteries, of stabbing and hacking off body parts, of taking trophies.
Oh, my God. What door to hell had she opened?
Chapter 70
Cindy skimmed the new comments on her blog, gobbled them down, then went back to the top of the page and read them again. The posts were about the love of violence and, to her mind, had been written by psychopaths.
Like this one: “Daily life is gray. When you’re a soldier, you’re trained to kill, given direct orders from your CO, and compensated with the guilt-free experience that’s the greatest high in the world. Then you come home, and everything is gray again. If you’re like me, gray is not good enough.”
The post had been signed with a screen name, and the writer hadn’t confessed to a specific killing. Interestingly, he’d gotten dozens of likes.
The 20th Victim Page 14
