The 9th Judgment (13 page)

Because of Conklin’s work and mine, Madison Tyler had
not
been found dead in a ditch. Instead, she was playing the piano, going to school, and romping with her little dog.

Tyler and his wife had been so grateful to Conklin and me for saving Madison’s life, Tyler had said he owed us a big favor.
I hoped he’d remember that promise—and then he was on the line.

“MR. TYLER,” I said into the phone, calling up a mental image of the tall, gray-haired man. The last time I’d seen him, he’d
been in the park with his little girl. He’d been laughing.

“Lindsay, I’ve told you, call me Henry,” Tyler said now. “I’ve been expecting your call. It’s too bad it has to be about this
guy.”

“We’re glad he’s surfaced,” I told Tyler. “It’s an opportunity, but only if we have time to work up a plan. Can you stall
him, Henry? What if you don’t run his letter tomorrow, maybe give us another day?”

“How can I do that? If I don’t run his letter and he kills more people, it’ll be my fault—and I can’t live with that. But,
Lindsay, I can get the money for him. I was hoping you could be our go-between.”

“You’re paying him the two million?”

“It’s cheap any way you look at it,” Tyler said to me. “He could have asked five times as much, and paying him off would still
be the right thing to do. He’s going to keep killing kids and their mothers unless we give him what he wants—you know that.
I’m sure that he’s had this payout in mind from the beginning.”

I was startled to hear Henry Tyler say he was going to pay off the killer and even more stunned at his conclusion: that the
Lipstick Killer’s spree had been about the money all along.

“Henry, what worries me is that buying off the killer won’t stop him from killing, and it will only encourage others to make
similar threats.”

“I understand, Lindsay. We have to trip him up somehow. That’s why I’ll be working with you.”

My headache had gone molten right between my eyes. I was a cop, nothing more. I couldn’t see through walls or into the mind
of a psycho. While it was flattering that Henry Tyler thought I could stop the Lipstick Killer, it was obvious the murderer
was smart—too smart to fall for your basic van full of cops waiting for him to pick up a briefcase of money.

The worst-case scenario was the one that seemed the most likely: Killer gets the cash. Killer gets away. Killer continues
to kill. And he inspires terrorism all over the country. There weren’t enough cops in America to cover an epidemic of sickos
killing for money.

“I want to be sure I understand,” I said to Tyler. “You haven’t been in touch with the Lipstick Killer. He doesn’t know you’re
going to give him the money?”

“He doesn’t know about me at all. He’s paid for us to run the letter, and he’ll be waiting for a response by way of a return
letter in the paper. I can stall, get the money, and write a reply to run the day after tomorrow.”

“So we have two days.”

“Yes. I guess that’s right.”

“You’ve got a new secretary starting tomorrow morning,” I said to Tyler. “I’ll be with you round the clock.”

THERE WAS A pile of doughnuts in the coffee room, and I went for them. I hadn’t eaten a square meal in almost two weeks, and
hadn’t had more than five consecutive hours of sleep in that time, either. As for exercise, zero, unless my brain running
24-7 on a hamster wheel counted for something.

I sugared my coffee, went back into the squad room, and saw Cindy sitting at my seat, smiling over the desk at Conklin and
shaking her bouncy blond curls.

“Linds,” she said, getting up to give me a hug.

“Hey, Cindy,” I said, hugging her a little too tightly, “Rich and I have something to tell you—off the record.”

“That Hello Kitty is female?”

I glared at my partner, who shrugged at me.

“That’s not for publication,” I said, swinging down into my seat, watching Cindy pull up a chair. I piled my doughnuts on
a paper napkin and placed my coffee cup on a file folder.

“I had put together this whole list of social-register guys who could climb up the side of a house,” Cindy said, pulling a
sheet from her computer case. “Duke Edgerton, William Burke Ruffalo, and Peter Carothers are rock climbers. They were on top
of my all-star list, but now they’re the wrong gender, right? Since Kitty’s a girl.”

“We have no idea if the woman in the Morleys’ house was Hello Kitty or a party guest Jim Morley didn’t know,” I said to Cindy,
“so let’s not get crazy and print that, okay?”

“Hmmmm.”

“Cindy, we will not be able to vet a single lead that comes in if you print that Hello Kitty is female.”

“The Morleys had fifty guests last night,” Cindy said. “You think the word’s not going to get out?”

“There’s a difference between rumor and a police confirmation,” I said. “But you already know that.”

Cindy sniffed. “What if I say, ‘Sources close to the police department have confirmed to the
Chronicle
that they have new information that could lead to the identity of the cat burglar known as Hello Kitty’?”

“Okay,” I said. “Write that. Now just in case your boss didn’t already tell you—”

“Henry? Oh, he did. What a scorcher, huh? A letter from the Lipstick Killer going into the front section.”

“Well, you’re up to speed. Is there anything else, Cindy, dear?”

“I’m off to interview Dorian and Jim Morley. This is a heads-up.”

“Thanks,” Conklin said.

“Off you go,” I said to Cindy. “Have fun.”

“You’re not mad about anything?”

“Not at all. Thanks for the list.” I waggled my fingers.

“See you later,” she said to Conklin. I turned my face when she touched his cheek tenderly and kissed him. When Curlilocks
had gone, I lifted my coffee, opened the file folder, and spread the morgue pictures of Elaine and Lily Marone out on the
desk.

“Let’s get back to work,” I said to Conklin. “What do you say?”

I hung icicles from every word.

“I TOLD HER nothing,” Conklin said to me.

“Whatever,” I said back. My mind was splitting, I think, literally. Hello Kitty. Lipstick Killer.

Lipstick Killer trumped everything.

“I didn’t even mention the Morleys to Cindy.”

“I believe you. It’s over. She’s going to run the story about Kitty being female, and the phone lines are going to burn up
all over again.”

“Cindy got a tip from one of the Morleys’ friends. She did it all herself.”

“Can we please move on?”

I didn’t want to believe Conklin hadn’t spilled the new info to Cindy, but I did. I do. He’s honest. We’ve been partners for
more than a year and, in that time, I’ve put my life in his hands more than once—and he’s put his in mine. Crap. Images of
the two of us working through bombings and firestorms and covering each other while trading shots with homicidal punks washed
over me.

We had a bone-deep connection as partners, and then there was what Claire called the “other thing.”

There was still a lot of spark in our relationship that had never been fully resolved. I remembered us grappling half naked
on a hotel bed, an action that I’d stopped before it was too late. I recalled confessions of feelings. Promises to never discuss
them again, that we had to keep our relationship professional, that it was the best and only way.

And now Rich was head over heels in amour with Cindy. That had to be why I was being a bitch. Had to be that, because I love
Joe. I love him a lot—and Cindy and Rich are perfect together.

I took apart my stack of doughnuts and gave the chocolate one to Conklin.

“Wow. The chocolate one. For me?”

“I’m sorry. I’m hormonal. All the time.”

“Just take it easy on yourself, okay, Linds?”

“I’m trying.”

Conklin got up from his seat, came over to my side of our abutting desks, and sat in the chair Cindy had just vacated.

“Are you sure about Joe?” he asked me.

I was mesmerized for half a second. Conklin’s good looks have that effect on me, and there’s also something about the way
he smells. Whatever the heck soap he uses.

“I’m sure,” I said, looking away.

“He’s the one?”

I nodded and said, “He’s the one.”

I felt Conklin’s lips on my cheek, right there in the squad room, a decidedly unpartnerlike gesture, but I didn’t care if
anyone saw it.

“Okay, then,” he said.

He went back to his chair and put his feet on the desk.

“If Hello Kitty’s a female, what changes? Why would she shoot Casey Dowling?”

IT WAS THEIR lunch break, and Sarah had left the building first. Now Heidi entered the diner and saw Sarah at a booth near
the window.

Heidi broke into a smile, waved, and slid across the red leatherette banquette so she could sit next to Sarah and hold her
hand. She kissed Sarah quickly, then looked over her shoulder, making sure there were no other teachers around.

“Happy birthday, darling,” Sarah said. “You’re a flirty thirty.”

Heidi laughed. “I don’t feel any different than when I was twenty-nine. I thought I would.”

Menus were brought to the table and hot open-faced turkey sandwiches were eaten quickly because the lunch break was short
and there was a lot on their minds. Heidi blurted, “If we could be together for real, without being afraid of getting fired,
or of Terror or Beastly going ballistic, do you think we’d feel differently about each other?”

“You mean, would we care less about each other if we felt safe?”

“Yeah.”

“No. I think it would be better. Will be better. That’s a promise. Look, Heidi—”

Three waitresses came out of the kitchen, the one in front holding the cake, cupping her hand in front of the thirty small
pink candles. The waitresses clustered at the head of the table and sang, “Happy birthday, dear Heidi. Happy birthday to you.”

Applause sounded up and down the length of the narrow diner, and Heidi looked at Sarah, squeezed her hand, and then blew out
the candles, every one of them on the first try.

“Don’t tell me what you wished for,” Sarah said.

“I don’t have to. You know.”

The two hugged, Sarah’s heartbeats picking up speed as she thought about the gift in the pocket of her jeans.

“I have something for my birthday girl,” Sarah said. She dug into her pocket and came out with a packet so small only something
really good could be inside. Heidi exchanged a mischievous glance with Sarah, peeled away the silver wrapping paper, and held
the small leather box shaped like a round-topped trunk.

“I can’t guess what this is,” she said.

“Don’t guess.”

Holding the box in both hands, Heidi pried up the lid, then took out the chain and the pendant, a brilliant yellow, very faceted
stone. Heidi gasped and flung her arms around Sarah’s neck, asking her to please help her put it on.

Sarah beamed, moved Heidi’s soft red hair off the nape of her neck, and connected the clasp. The bead guy at Fisherman’s Wharf
had done a wonderful job of fitting the stone into the new setting, not asking questions or even looking at her as he took
the twenty dollars for the work.

“I love this. It’s the most beautiful gift, Sarah. What kind of stone is it?”

“It’s a citrine, but I think of it as a promise stone.”

Heidi looked into Sarah’s eyes and nodded.

Sarah touched the gem hanging sweetly from Heidi’s neck and told herself that she would do the last job on her list, that
she would hook up with a fence, that she would get Heidi and Sherry and Steven out of San Francisco, that somehow she and
Heidi and the kids would stop being afraid every single day of their lives.

THE REPLY TO the Lipstick Killer’s “ransom letter” ran in the
Chronicle,
and within hours, the planet slammed on the brakes and all eyes became fixed on San Francisco. Media of every type and stripe
materialized in satellite vans and on foot, surrounding the Hall of Justice and the Chronicle Building, swamping Tyler’s phone
lines with requests for interviews and dogging cops and newspaper employees on the street. Every man, woman, and child with
an opinion and a computer fired off letters to the editor.

Interviews were denied, and the mayor pleaded with the press to “let us do what we need to do. We’ll provide full disclosure
after the fact.”

Rich Conklin, Cappy McNeil, and I were embedded at the
Chronicle,
charged with screening out the garbage from the real thing: a reply from the killer with instructions on how to deliver two
million in blood money in exchange for leaving San Francisco alone.

It was a sickening lose-lose situation that could only turn in our favor if we trapped the murderer. We had a simple plan.
Follow the money.

At 2:15 in the afternoon, the mail cart arrived on the executive floor, carrying a fat brown envelope addressed to H. Tyler.
I put on latex gloves and said to the mailroom kid, “Who delivered this?”

“Hal, from Speedy Transit. I know him.”

“You signed for it?”

“About eight or ten minutes ago. I rushed it right up.”

“What’s your name?”

“Dave. Hopkins.”

I told Dave Hopkins to go down the hall and ask Inspector McNeil, the big man in the brown jacket, to interview Hal pronto.
Then I called out to Conklin, who exited the cube across the hall and followed me to Tyler’s doorway.

I said, “Henry, this could be it. Or it could be a letter bomb.”

Tyler asked, “Do you want to drop it in a toilet or open it?”

I looked at Conklin.

“I feel lucky,” he said.

I placed the packet in the center of Tyler’s leather-topped desk. We all stared at the envelope with Tyler’s name and the
word “URGENT” in big black letters. Where the return address should be were three letters written in red: “WCF.”

We’d withheld the killer’s specific signature from the press, so there was little doubt in my mind that this packet was from
him. Tyler picked up a letter opener, slit the envelope, and tilted it gingerly until the enclosed objects slid onto his desk.