The 9th Judgment

I SWEAR CONKLIN got the car up to three G's in three seconds. I gripped the dash as the Crown Vic roared up Leavenworth and then took us through the stomach-turning roller-coaster climbs, sudden-death drops, and hairpin turns of our city's streets.

When I wasn't mentally trying to steer the car from the passenger seat, I thought about the Lipstick Killer. He wasn't just insane.

He was crazy.

He'd killed four people-and now maybe more. His signature was so cryptic, it was meaningless. How could we predict his behavior if we didn't get his point?

Conklin wrenched the wheel right at the bottom of a hill, sending us into a gridlocked intersection. I wanted to get out and beat on car roofs until the road was clear, but instead I shouted into the bullhorn, "Move your vehicles. Pull over now!"

We started and stopped as cars stalled trying to climb over one another, the seconds dragging until we cleared the jam. Minutes later, Conklin nosed the squad car between a small herd of parked black-and-whites outside the garage at Union Square. I was out of the car before Conklin set the brake.

Together we waded into the panicky throng of shoppers who had left their cars in the garage. I saw the fear on their faces and could almost hear their collective thoughts: The killer was here. He could have shot me.

I made a path through the crowd with my badge, signed the log, and asked Officer Sorbero to fill me in.

"Dj vu all over again," Joe said. "The crime scene's on the fourth floor. We shut the elevators down."

Conklin held up the tape and we ducked under it, entering the chill of the garage. There were dark, tunneled access points on the ground floor, passageways coming from all sides-the huge Macy's, the Saks, the Sir Francis Drake Hotel-perfect opportunities for a predator to stalk his victims unseen.

As Conklin and I strode up the winding center double aisles between the rows of parked cars, I braced myself for what Jacobi had described as a "horror show." We found him talking with Chief Anthony Tracchio on the third-floor landing. The chief's face was blanched, and Jacobi's hooded eyes were drawn almost closed, both men looking as though they'd peered over the abyss into the devil's own lair.

"Chi and McNeil are on four," Tracchio said, his mouth hardly moving. "Swing shift is canvassing the perimeter. I've expanded the team to any cop who volunteers or who crosses my path."

"Were there any witnesses?" I asked. It was more a small, doomed wish than a question.

"No," Jacobi said. "No one saw or heard a fucking thing."

Chapter 39

CONKLIN AND I climbed past the angled rows of parked cars, my feelings of dread increasing the higher we went. By the time we greeted McNeil and Chi at the top of the fourth floor, I felt as if spiders were using the tops of my arms as a freeway, working their way under the hair at the back of my neck.

I didn't want to see the victims, yet I had to look. I forced my eyes down. And there, lying in an empty parking space between two vehicles, were the bodies.

The woman had been pretty, and she still retained grace in death. Her white sweater and long brunette hair were soaked with blood, which pooled around her and ran in long runnels down the sloping concrete floor. There were bloody footprints around her and blood on the bottoms of her shoes.

The child was tucked into the curl of the woman's body. It looked as though they had been posed.

My vision started to fade. I felt the ground shift under my feet and heard Conklin's voice. "Linds? Lindsay?" His arm around my waist stopped me from dropping to the floor.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

I nodded and mumbled, "I'm fine. Fine. I haven't eaten today." I was annoyed at myself for looking weak. For looking female. My superiors, the guys, my friends in the squad, would be looking to me for leadership. I had to get a grip.

The victims were bracketed between a red Dodge Caravan and a silver Highlander. An open handbag lay on the ground, and the contents of the victim's purse were scattered.

All of the Caravan's doors were open. I lifted my eyes to the windshield and saw the letters "CWF" written in red.

That strange signature again. What the hell did it mean?

Paul Chi called my name from behind my shoulder, and I turned to see his blanched face. I knew that, like me, Chi was shocked to the core by this terrible crime.

"The vic's name is Elaine Marone," Chi said. "Mrs. Marone was thirty-four. She had fifty-six dollars in her wallet, credit cards, a driver's license, and so on. We don't know the little girl's name."

"Did you find the lipstick?" I asked, hoping that it had rolled under a vehicle, that the killer had left a fingerprint on its shiny case.

"We found no makeup of any kind," Chi said. "But here's something new: check out the bruising on Mrs. Marone's wrist. Maybe she tried to disarm the shooter."