The 9th Judgment

I stepped behind the rear of the Impala and put up my hand. The driver of a peacock-blue Honda sedan leaned on his horn as he flew past me, followed by a Corvette, the guy behind the wheel leering but not pulling over. What did he think? That I was a prostitute?

I held my ground out there on that highway in my panties, my hand in the stop position, every part of me prickling from the fear of being flattened by a driver with his head up his ass-and then a baby-blue BMW slowed, pulled ahead of the Impala, and braked.

I leaned into the passenger side. "I'm a cop. I need your phone now."

There was a gawking eighteen-year-old boy at the wheel. He handed me his phone, and I pointed to a newspaper on the seat beside him. He passed it to me, and I held the front section to my chest as I called Dispatch, giving my name and shield number.

"Lindsay! Oh God. Are you all right? What do you need? Where are you?"

I knew the dispatcher, May Hess, self-described Queen of the Bat Phone. "I'm on the bridge-"

"With that naked suicide?"

I barked a laugh, then caught myself before I went into hysterics. I told May to get a chopper over the bay PDQ and why-that I needed the coast guard to pick up a boater. May said, "Gotcha, Sergeant. Bridge Patrol will be at your location in thirty seconds, tops."

I heard the sirens. With the newspaper fluttering against my chest, I leaned over the railing and watched as the small Boston Whaler motored closer to the floating gun case. A chopper whirred overhead, and the pilot bore down on the motorboat, herding it toward the southern shore.

The Boston Whaler dodged left and right like a quarter horse at a roping competition, ducked under the bridge, and powered beneath it, the chopper following the boat under the bridge deck, crowding the vessel until it stalled off Crissy Field.

The Lipstick Killer bailed out of the boat and ran in slow motion through hip-deep water. And then a coast guard vessel closed in on him.

A bullhorn blared, telling the killer to hit the ground and keep his hands in full sight. Squad cars tore down the beach and surrounded him.

Game over, psycho.

Chapter 67

I WATCHED HARBOR Patrol pull the Pelican case out of the water, and then there was the deafening sound of sirens all around me.

I turned and saw a fleet of cars-unmarked and black-and-whites-screeching to a halt behind the Impala, and driving those cars were just about every cop I'd ever met, now piling out and heading toward me.

My attention was drawn to a Land Rover stopping in the opposite lane, somehow making it through the perimeter before the bridge was closed off. A bearded man jumped out of the driver's seat holding a camera with a long SLR lens. He started snapping pictures of me wearing a look of horror on my face, the Chronicle plastered to my chest, pink panties and all.

To my left, a yell: "HEY!"

A man burst from the back of a police cruiser, a big hunka guy, built like a football player. He crossed the roadway to the man with the camera and shouted, "Give me that!"

The big hunka guy was Joe.

The camera guy refused to give it up, so Joe grabbed him by the throat, extracted the camera from his hand, and threw it over the rail. He left the dude on the hood of the Land Rover and shouted out over his shoulder, "Sue me."

Then the man I love ran toward me with a look of anguish on his face. He held out his arms, and I fell against him and began to cry. "We got him," I said.

"Did that bastard hurt you?"

"No. We got him, Joe."

"You sure did, honey. It's all over now."

Joe put his big jacket around me and folded me into his arms again. Conklin and Jacobi got out of a gray unmarked car and came over to where I stood with Joe, asking in unison, "Are you okay, Lindsay?"

"Never better," I chirped, my cheeks wet with tears.

"Go home," Jacobi said. "Clean up. Have a meal, then come back to the Hall. We'll take our time booking that freak. Should take us about three hours to print him and do the paperwork. He's all yours, Boxer. No one will talk to him before you do.

"Good job."

Chapter 68

MY HAIR WAS still wet from my shower when I arrived back at the Hall, geared up and ready to confront the guy who'd humiliated me, terrified me, and killed six innocent people.

I walked to Jacobi's office and said, "What have we got?"

"His ID says he's Roger Bosco, former Park Service employee, currently a maintenance man at the San Francisco Yacht Club. No military background, no sheet of any kind. He hasn't asked for counsel."

"Let's do it," I said.

The observation room behind the glass was packed with cops, brass, and folks from the DA's office. The cameras were rolling. We were good to go.

The suspect looked up from his seat at the table when Jacobi and I walked into the interrogation room, and I was surprised at his appearance and demeanor.