I glanced at a faded blue baseball cap hanging on a wooden coatrack in the corner of my office, with the words “It’s Heavenly…” embroidered on the brim. The cap had belonged to Chris Raleigh. He’d given it to me during a beautiful weekend up at Heavenly Valley, where the outside world had seemed to disappear for a while and both of us had opened up to what was starting to take place between us.
“Don’t let me mess up,” I whispered. I felt my eyes begin to sting with tears. God, I wished he was here. “You sonofabitch…” I shook my head at the hat. “I miss you.”
Chapter 15
IT TOOK NO MORE than a minute of settling back in our old booth at Susie’s to feel the magic begin to spark, and to realize it was happening all over again.
A troublesome case that was getting worse. A pitcher full of high-octane margaritas. My three best friends, all at the top of law enforcement. I was afraid that our murder club was back in business.
“Just like old times?” Claire smiled, scooting her large frame over to make room for me.
“In more ways than you know.” I sighed. Then, pouring myself a frothy drink, “Jesus, do I need one of these.”
“Tough day?” Jill inquired.
“No,” I shook my head. “Routine. Piece of cake.”
“That paperwork, it’ll drive anyone to drink.” Claire shrugged, taking a sip of her margarita. “Cheers. Great to see you wenches.”
There was an obvious level of anticipation buzzing through the group. As I took a sip myself, I scanned around. All eyes were focused on me.
“Uh-uh.” I almost spit into my drink. “I can’t get into it. Don’t even start.”
“I told you,” Jill croaked with a confirming smile. “Things have changed. Lindsay’s management now.”
“That’s not it, Jill. There’s a gag order. Mercer’s got this thing shut down. Besides, I thought we were here for you.”
Jill’s sharp blue eyes twinkled. “The representative from the district attorney’s office is willing to cede the floor to her esteemed colleague from the third floor.”
“Jesus, guys, I’ve been on this case for two days.”
“What the hell else is anybody in the city talking about?” said Claire. “You want to hear about my day? I did a full frontal at ten, then a talk at SFU on the pathology of—”
“We could talk about global warming,” Cindy said, “or this book I’m reading, The Death of Vishnu.”
“It’s not that I don’t want to talk about it,” I protested. “It’s just that it’s sealed, confidential.”
“Confidential, like what I turned you on to in Oakland?” Cindy asked.
“We have to talk about that,” I said. “After.”
“I’ll make you a deal,” Jill said. “You share it with us. Like always. Then I’ll share something. You judge which is juicier. Winner pays the check.”
I knew it was only a matter of time before I gave in. How could I keep secrets from my girls? It was all over the news—at least part of it. And there weren’t three sharper minds anywhere in the Hall.
I let out an expectant sigh. “This all stays here.”
“Of course,” Jill and Claire said. “Duh.”
I turned to Cindy. “And that means you don’t go to press. With any of it. Until I say so.”
“Why do I get the sense I’m always being blackmailed by you?” She shook her head, then acquiesced. “Fine. Deal.”
Jill filled up my glass. “I knew we’d eventually break you down.”
I took a sip. “Nah. I decided to tell you when you said, ‘Tough day?’ ”
Piece by piece, I took them through the case so far. The decal Bernard Smith had seen on the getaway van. The identical drawing I had found in Oakland. The possibility that Estelle Chipman might have been murdered. Claire’s thought that Tasha Catchings may not have been an accidental target after all.
“I knew it,” Cindy shouted with a triumphant beam.
“You’ve got to find out what that lion image represents,” insisted Claire.
I nodded. “I’m on it. Big-time.”
Jill, the A.D.A., inquired, “Anything out there that actually ties these two victims together?”
“Nothing so far.”
“What about motive?” she pressed.
“Everyone’s reading them as hate crimes, Jill.”
She nodded cautiously. “And you?”
“I’m starting to read them differently. I think we have to consider the possibility that someone’s using the hate crime scenario as a smoke screen.”
There was a long silence at the table.
“A racial serial killer,” Claire said.
Chapter 16
I HAD SHARED MY NEWS, all of it bad. Everyone ran it over glumly.
I nodded to Jill. “Now you…”
Cindy jumped the gun. “Bennett’s not going to run again, is he?” In her eight years in the prosecutor’s office, Jill had shot up to be his number two in command. If the old man decided to step down, she was the logical choice to be appointed San Francisco’s next D.A.
Jill laughed and shook her head. “He’ll be propped up at that oak desk the day he dies. That’s the truth.”
“Well, you’ve got something to tell us,” pressed Claire.
“You’re right,” she admitted. “I do….”
One by one, Jill met each one of our gazes as if to ratchet up the suspense. Those normally piercing cobalt eyes had never looked so serene. At last, a crooked little smile crept across her face. She let out a sigh, then said, “I’m pregnant.”
We sat there, waiting for her to admit that she was just putting us on. But she didn’t. She just kept those sharp eyes blinking right in our faces, until thirty seconds must have gone by.
“Y-you’re joking,” I stammered. Jill was the most driven woman I knew. You could catch her at her desk most any night until after eight. Her husband, Steve, ran a venture fund for Bank America. They were fast-track achievers: They mountain-biked in Moab, windsurfed on the Columbia River in Oregon. A baby…
“People do it,” she exclaimed at our amazement.
“I knew it,” Claire exclaimed, slapping the table. “I just knew it. I saw the look in your eyes. I saw that sheen on your face. I said, something’s toasting in that oven. You’re talking to an expert, you know. How long?”
“Eight weeks. I’m due the end of May.” Jill’s eyes sparkled like a young girl’s. “Other than our families, you’re the first people I’ve told. Of course.”
“Bennett’s gonna shit graham crackers.” Cindy cackled.
“He’s got three of his own. And it’s not like I’m trading it in to go off and grow grapes in Petaluma. I’m just having a baby.”
I found myself smiling. Part of me was so pleased for her, I almost wanted to cry. Part of me was even a little jealous. Most of me still couldn’t believe it. “This kid better know what he’s in for.” I grinned. “He’ll be rocked to sleep by tapes of California case law.”
“No way.” Jill laughed defiantly. “I won’t do it. I promise I won’t do it. I’m gonna be a really good mom.”
I stood up and leaned across the table to her. “This is so great, Jill.” For a moment, we just stared at each other, our eyes glistening. I was so damned happy for her. I remembered when I was scared shitless because of a blood disease I had, and Jill had bared her arms to us and showed us her terrible scars; she explained how she had cut herself in high school and college, how the challenge to always go to the top had so deeply ruled her life that she could only take it out on herself.
We threw our arms around each other, and I squeezed her.
“Was this something you’ve been thinking about?” Claire asked.
“We’d been trying for a couple of months,” Jill answered, sitting back down. “I’m not sure it was any conscious decision, other than the timing seemed right.” She looked at Claire. “The first time I met you, when Lindsay asked me into your group and you talked about your kids… it
just sort of set off a spark in me. I remember thinking, ‘She runs the M.E.’s office. She’s one of the most capable women I know, at the top of her profession, yet this is what she talks about.’ ”
“When you start out working,” Claire explained, “you have all this drive and focus. As a woman, you feel you have to prove everything. But when you have kids, it’s different, natural. You realize it’s no longer about you at all. You realize… you no longer have to prove anything. You already have.”
“So, hey…,” Jill said with glistening eyes, “I want a little of that, too.
“I never told this to you guys,” she went on, “but I was pregnant once before. Five years ago.” She took a sip of water and shook the dark hair off the back of her neck. “My career was in overdrive—you remember, there was that La Frade hearing—and Steve had just started running his own fund.”
“It just wasn’t the right time for you then, honey,” Claire said.
“That wasn’t it,” Jill answered quickly. “I wanted it. It was just that everything was so intense. I was pulling stints at the office until ten. It seemed like Steve was always away….” She paused, a remote cloudiness in her eyes. “I had some bleeding. The doctor warned me to cut back. I tried, but everyone was pushing on this case, and I was always alone. One day, I just felt my insides explode. I lost it… in the fourth month.”
“Oh, Jesus.” Claire gasped. “Oh, Jill.”
Jill sucked in a breath, and a hushed silence fell over the table.
“So how are you feeling?” I asked.
“Ecstatic…,” she replied. “Physically, strong as ever…” Then she blinked remotely for a moment and faced us again. “Truth is, I’m a total wreck.”
I reached for her hand. “What does your doctor say?”
“He says we’ll keep a close watch and keep the sensationalist cases down to a minimum. Run it in low gear.”
“Do you have that gear?” I asked.
“I do now.” She sniffed.
“Wow.” Cindy chuckled. “Jill’s suddenly got drag,” referring to the dot-com term for anything that could keep you from your job 24 / 7.
In Jill’s eyes, I saw a glorious transformation taking place, something I had never seen before. Jill was always successful. She had that beautiful face, that hard-charging drive. Now I could see at last that she was happy.
Beautiful tears welled up in her eyes. I had seen this woman stand up in court against some of the toughest bastards in the city; I had seen her go after murderers with an undeterred conviction. I had even seen the scars of self-doubt on the insides of her arms.
But until that moment, I had never seen Jill cry.
“Dammit…” I smiled. I reached for the check. “I guess I pay.”
Chapter 17
AFTER A FEW MORE giddy hugs with Jill, I made my way home to my apartment on Potrero Hill.
It was the second floor of a renovated blue Victorian. Cozy and bright, with an alcove of wide windows overlooking the bay. Martha, my affectionate Border collie, met me at the door.
“Hey, sweetie,” I said. She wagged up to greet me and threw her paws against my leg.
“So, how was your day?” I nuzzled close, smooching her happy face.
I went into the bedroom and peeled off my work clothes, pulled up my hair, putting on the oversize Giants sweatshirt and flannel pajama pants I lived in when the weather turned cool. I fed Martha, made myself a cup of Orange Zinger, and sat in the cushioned alcove.
I took a sip of tea, Martha perched in my lap. Out in the distance, a grid of blinking airplane lights descending into SFI came into view. I found myself thinking about the unbelievable image of Jill as a mom… Her thin, fit figure with a bulging belly… a shower with just us girls. It made me chuckle. I smiled at Martha. “Jilly-bean’s gonna be a mommy.”
I had never seen Jill look so complete. It was only a few months ago when my own thoughts had run to how much I would have loved to have a baby. As Jill said, I wanted some of that, too. It just wasn’t meant to be….
Parenting just didn’t seem like the natural occupation in my family.
My mother had died eleven years before, when I was twenty-four and just entering the Police Academy. She had been diagnosed with breast cancer, and my last two years of college, I helped take care of her, rushing back from class to pick her up at the Emporium, where she worked, preparing her meals, watching over my younger sister, Cat.
My father, a San Francisco cop, disappeared on us when I was thirteen. To this day, I didn’t know why. I had grown up hearing all the stories—that he handed his paycheck over to the bookies, that he had a secret life away from Mom, that the bastard could charm the pants off of anyone, that one day he lost heart and just couldn’t put the uniform back on.
Last I heard from Cat, he was down in Redondo Beach, doing his own thing, private security. Old-timers down in the Central district still asked me how Marty Boxer was. They still told stories about him, and maybe it was good someone could think about him with a laugh. Marty, who once nabbed three perps with the same set of handcuffs… Marty Boxer, who stopped off to lay a bet with the suspect still in the car. All I could think about was that the bastard let me tend and nurse my mother while she was dying and never came back.
I hadn’t seen my father for almost ten years. Since the day I became a cop. I’d spotted him in the audience when I graduated from the police academy, but we hadn’t spoken. I didn’t even miss him anymore.
God, it had been ages since I had examined these old scars. Mom had been gone for eleven years. I’d been married, divorced. I had made it into Homicide. Now I was running it. Somewhere along the way, I had met the man of my dreams….
I was right when I told Mercer the old fire was back.
But I was lying when I told myself I had put Chris Raleigh in the past.
Chapter 18
IT WAS ALWAYS THE EYES that got him. Naked on his bed, in the stark, cell-like room, he sat staring at the old black-and-white photographs he had looked at a thousand times.
It was always the eyes… that deadened, hopeless resignation.
How they posed, even knowing that their lives were about to end. Even with the nooses wrapped around their necks.
In the loosely bound album, he had forty-seven photos and postcards arranged in chronological order. He had collected them over the years. The first, an old photograph, dated June 9, 1901, his father had given him. Dez Jones, lynched in Great River, Indiana. On the border, someone had written in faded script: “This was that dance I went to the other night. We sure played afterwards. Your son, Sam.” In the foreground, a crowd in suit coats and bowler hats, and behind them the limply hanging corpse.
He flipped the page. Frank Taylor, Mason, Georgia, 1911. It had cost him $500 to get the photo, but it was worth every penny. From the back of a buggy parked under an oak, the condemned man stared, seconds before his death. On his face, neither resistance nor fear. A small crowd of properly dressed men and women grinned toward the camera as if they were witnessing Lindbergh arriving in Paris. Dressed up as if it were a family portrait.
Their eyes conveyed that the hanging was something proper and natural. Taylor’s, simply that there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it anyway.
He got off the bed and dragged his slick, muscular frame to the mirror. He had always been strong. He had lifted weights for ten years now. He flinched as he drew blood and mass into his swollen pecs. He massaged a scratch. That old bitch had dug her nails into his chest as he wrapped the coil around the ceiling pipes. It had barely drawn blood, but he looked at the scratch with contempt. He didn’t like anything that disturbed the surface of his skin.
He posed in front of the mirror, looking at the seething lion-goat tattooed across his chest.
Soon, all the stupid assholes would see that it wasn’t just about hate. They would read his pattern. The guilty had to be punished. Reputations needed to be restored. He had no particular antipathy for any of them. It wasn’t
hate. He climbed back on the bed and masturbated to the photo of Missy Preston, whose tiny neck was snapped by a rope in Childers County, Tennessee, in August of 1931.
Without even a groan, he ejaculated. The forceful rush made his knees quake. That old lady, she had deserved to die. The choir girl, too. He was pumped up!
He massaged the tattoo on his chest. Pretty soon, I will let you free, my pet….
He opened his photo scrapbook and flipped to the last blank page, just after Morris Tulo and Sweet Brown, in Longbow, Kansas, 1956.
He had been saving this spot for the right picture. And now he had it.
He took a tube of roll-on glue and dabbed all over the back of the photo. Then he pressed it onto the blank page.
Here’s where it belonged.
He remembered her staring up at him, that sad inevitability etched all over her face. The eyes…
He admired the new addition: Estelle Chipman, eyes stretched wide, looking at the camera just before he kicked the chair out from under her feet.
They always posed.
Chapter 19
FIRST THING THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I called Stu Kirkwood, who ran a hate crimes desk assigned to the police department. I asked him, personally, for any leads on these types of groups that might be operating in the Bay Area. My people had talked to Stu earlier, but I needed action fast.
So far, Clapper’s CSU team had scoured the area around the church with nothing to show for it, and the only thing we came back with on Aaron Winslow was that no one had a negative thing to say about him.
Kirkwood informed me over the phone that a few organized supremacist groups operated out of Northern California, offshoots of the Klan or some crazy neo-Nazi skinheads. He said that maybe the best thing would be to contact the local chapter of the FBI, who kept a much more active eye on them. Gay bashing was more his thing.
Bringing in the FBI at this stage didn’t fill me with enthusiasm. I asked Kirkwood to give me what he had, and an hour later he came up, carrying a plastic bin crammed with blue and red folders. “Background reading.” He winked, dropping the bin heavily on my desk.
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