The 9th Judgment

I swung my shoulders slowly, giving Conklin enough time to turn away. The train was slowing for the next stop when a canned voice came over the PA system. It announced the station- Civic Center.

The killer said, "Judy. Get out now."

"You said the airport."

"Get out now."

Conklin was wedged into a corner, dozens of people between the two of us. I knew he didn't see me leave until I was off the train and the doors were closing. I saw the worried look on my partner's face as the train pulled out of the station.

"Take off your jacket and put it in the trash can," the killer said.

"My house keys are in the pocket."

"Throw your jacket into the trash. Don't question me, sweetmeat. Just do what I say. Now, go to the stairs. On the first landing, pan around so I can see if anyone is following you."

I did it, and the killer was satisfied.

"Let's go, princess. We've got a date at the Whitcomb."

Chapter 61

I CAME OUT of the underground into Civic Center Plaza, a clipped, tree-lined park flanked by gilded government buildings, banks, and cultural institutions-a fine public place encroached upon by the hopelessly addicted.

I searched parked cars with my eyes, hoping to see backup as I walked from the BART station to the Hotel Whitcomb. I heard a car take a fast left onto Market and saw a plain gray Ford pull up on its brakes. I couldn't turn without showing the camera who was driving, so all I could do was hope that Jacobi or someone was on my tail.

I crossed Market to the Whitcomb, an elegant four-hundred-room Victorian hotel, and entered the opulent lobby, glittering with crystal chandeliers, marble floors underfoot, wood paneling everywhere, and humongous floral bouquets scenting the cool air.

My personal tour guide sent me with instructions to the Market Street Grill, a beautiful restaurant that was nearly empty. The trim young woman behind the restaurant's reception desk wore her dark hair pulled back and a name tag on her blue suit jacket reading SHARRON.

Sharron asked if I'd be dining alone, and I said, "Actually, I'm here to pick up a letter for my boss. Mr. Tyler. He thinks he left it here at breakfast."

"Oh yes," Sharron said. "I saw that envelope. I put it away. Hang on a minute."

The hostess dug inside the stand and, with a little cry of "I've got it," handed me a white envelope with "H. Tyler" written in marker pen.

I wanted to ask if she'd seen the man who'd left the envelope, but the killer's warning was loud in my head. "Screw with me in any way, and I'll hang up. After that, I'll kill a few more people, and their deaths will be on you."

I thanked the hostess and walked down the hallway from the restaurant toward the lobby.

"Open the envelope, sweetheart," the killer said, and, gritting my teeth, I did it.

Inside, I found a ticket stub and twenty-five dollars in crisp bills. The stub was marked TRINITY PLAZA. I knew the place, an all-day lot nearby.

"Having fun?" I asked the Lipstick Killer.

"Loads," he told me. "If you're bored, tell me about yourself. I'm all ears."

"I'd rather talk about you. Why did you shoot those people?" I asked.

"I'd tell you," he said, "but you know how the saying goes: then I'd have to kill you-Lindsay."

"Who is Lindsay?" I asked, but I was rocked. My stride faltered and I nearly stumbled down the hotel steps. How did he know my name?

"Did you think I didn't recognize you? Gee, princess, you're almost a celebrity around this town. I knew, of course, that they'd put a cop on this gig. But, to my delight, it's you. Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, my girl on a leash."

"Well, as long as you're happy."

"Happy? I'm ecstatic. So listen up, Lindsay. I'm just a Google click away from knowing where you live, who your friends are, who you love. So I guess you've got an even better reason to make this a payday for me, don't you, sweetmeat?"

I pictured Cindy in the camera's eye, Conklin, Joe working in his home office, Martha at his feet. I saw myself with my Glock in my hand, sights lined up between the no-color eyes of a guy in a baseball jacket. I squeezed the trigger.

Problem was, I didn't have the Glock.

Chapter 62

"YOU'RE QUIET, PRINCESS," said the voice in my ear.

"What do you want me to say?"

"No, you're right. Don't think too much. Just execute the mission."

But I was thinking anyway. If I saw his face and lived, I would quit the force if I had to in order to get the job done. I would look at all the thousands of photos of every former soldier, sailor, coastguardsman, and marine in San Francisco.

And if he wasn't living in San Francisco, I'd keep looking at photos until I found him, if it was the last thing I ever did.

But, of course, he wouldn't let me see his face and walk away. Not this guy.

I walked along Market, turned, and finally saw the parking lot. The guy in the booth was leaning against the back wall with his eyes closed, deep into his iPod. I rapped on the window and handed him the ticket stub, and he barely looked at me.

"That's twenty-five bucks," he said.