“It’s unlawful, it’s dangerous to innocent citizens, and since guilt had not been proven in a court of law, all of these snipers’ victims were not guilty.
“It’s time for voters and those of us with the power of the pen to take a stand against this criminal movement.”
Cindy checked the time. Five to six. No time to double-check it, but that’s why she was sending the article to McGowan. She watched as he read it on his screen, and while he did that, she texted Tyler. I’m just doing a quick polish, she wrote. I need thirty seconds.
McGowan knocked on her door.
“Well,” she said. “What do you think, Jeb?”
“In three words? It’s. Not. News.”
Cindy said, “Well, I guess we’ll see if Henry agrees.”
She attached the Sleep Well Motel story to an email and sent it to Tyler. She turned her back on McGowan and listened to her scanner while she waited, and then her computer pinged. She looked and was elated to see that it was the return mail from Tyler. She couldn’t open it fast enough.
Tyler wrote, “It’s thin. Wait until the SEAL/shooter, if that’s what he is, is in custody. Or until you get a new interview with Kill Shot. Have McGowan keep going with the victim profiles that are confirmed by police.”
McGowan held the elevator door for her.
“What did he say?”
Cindy showed him her fist, then rotated it and pointed her thumb down.
The elevator door opened and they got out.
“See you tomorrow,” Cindy said.
She didn’t wait for a reply.
CHAPTER 92
I LOVE WHAT I do, but these past weeks making me wish I’d become a schoolteacher, like my mom wanted me to be.
After the Sleep Well Motel witness roundup and the transfer of Randi Barkley to her cozy unjail, I’d collaborated with Conklin on a seven-page report for the brass. Following that, we’d gone to Zuckerberg San Francisco General to check in on Nardone and Healy, as well as Bettina Sennick, the motel housekeeper.
Nardone and Sennick were being released in the morning.
Healy was still in the ICU.
Leonard Barkley, damn him, was still at large.
I got home at around eight. Mrs. Rose had fed Julie, but she was still awake, and hungry again. So we split a bowl of leftover noodle soup. Plus a salad. I insisted on greens. Plus a glass of wine for me. Because I deserved it. Plus a cookie for Julie because she demanded it. And one for me, just because.
By nine Julie was sleeping with Martha and Mrs. Mooey Milkington. I was standing in the shower, still streaming adrenaline out to my fingertips. The hot water beat at my bruises, but my mental and muscular tension was unrelenting.
I was occupied with my hydrotherapy and churning thoughts when I heard Joe calling me.
“Lindsayyy. I’m hooome.”
I yelled toward the bathroom door. “Don’t come in!”
“You’re joking.”
“I have to prepare you first.”
“Prepare me? I’m starting to worry.”
“Aw, nuts,” I said. “Come on in.”
Joe slowly inched the door open, so that by the time he was fully standing in the doorway, I was ready to scream. I parted the curtain just enough to show my face. He stared.
“What happened, Blondie?”
“Can I tell you later? It’s not that interesting and I’d rather you go first.”
Joe brought a towel over to the shower, pulled back the curtain, turned off the taps, and wrapped me in a white terry-cloth bath sheet. He helped me step over the side of the tub and took me into his arms. His tenderness so moved me that tears welled up and spilled over, and then cry, I did.
“What happened, sweetie?” he said. “Don’t tell me you walked into a door.”
“I got punched in the face.”
“Look at me, Lindsay.”
I looked into Joe’s eyes and remembered when, not long ago, while he was attempting to rescue people from a bombed glass-and-steel building, a second bomb had gone off. A heavy structure had fallen on his head, and I had thought I would lose him. The operation to relieve the pressure on his brain had been successful. He was as smart and funny as always. His brain was intact, and now he also had a winding scar road from the top of his head to behind his left ear.
“Lindsay?”
I returned to the moment and my dear husband kissed each of my eyes and then my split lip very carefully.
I said, “Please take me to bed.”
Joe picked me up as if I were weightless and carried me to our king-size pillow-top mattress. He laid me down and stripped off his clothes. Then he got under the covers and took me into his arms again, this time stroking me while I only wrapped my arms around his neck.
He made love to me tenderly, but I was in a different kind of mood. I was reeling from adrenaline overload. I felt the punch to my face and the one I’d thrown. I was charged up about Barkley—the beating he’d given to Healy and that he’d gotten away, again. I was enraged about that and couldn’t find relief.
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 wanderin
g 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 Serena Jackson, 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 Serena’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.
Serena, 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 Serena had invited her inside.
Now Serena’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 Serena, 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.
Serena 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.”
Serena 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 shooting 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,” Serena said. “And now the investigation into this terrible crime begins.”
Serena gave a hotline number and signed off.
But the Serena 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,” Serena 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 Serena, “he’s dead.”
CHAPTER 95
AFTER LEAVING SERENA, 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 Serena.
“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 be
side 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 closeup 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 Serena Jackson’s quotes. She gave attribution to Serena 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.
20th Victim: (Women’s Murder Club 20) (Women's Murder Club) Page 20
