The 9th Judgment (14 page)

Item one was a phone. It was a prepaid model, the size of a bar of hand soap, complete with neck straps, a headset with earbuds,
a chin mic, and a built-in camera.

Item two was a standard envelope, white, addressed to “H. Tyler.” I opened it and shook out the folded sheet of white paper
inside. The message was typed and printed out with an ink-jet. The note read: “Tyler. Use this phone to call me.”

There was a number and the signature: “WCF.”

“CAN YOU TRACE a call on a prepaid phone?” Tyler asked.

I shook my head. “Not effectively. There’s no GPS device, so there’s no way to track the phone’s location, either.”

Tyler picked up the cell and dialed the number. I stooped beside him and put my ear next to his. There was ringing, and a
man’s voice said, “Tyler?”

“Yes, this is Henry Tyler. To whom am I speaking?”

“Do you have what I asked for?”

“I do,” said Tyler.

“Turn on the phone cam. Show me the money.”

Henry lifted a briefcase to his desk, opened the hasps, and pointed the phone at two million dollars in neat bundles. He snapped
off a shot, then asked, “Did you receive the picture?”

“Yes. I asked you to choose a go-between.”

“I’ll be your contact,” Tyler said.

“You’re too recognizable,” said the killer.

“I have a good man in ad sales,” Tyler said, looking at Conklin. “And against my wishes, my secretary has volunteered.”

“What’s her name?”

“Judy. Judy Price.”

“Put Judy on the phone.”

Tyler handed the phone to me. I said, “This is Judy Price.”

“Judy. This phone can stream video to my computer for three hours. I hope we can conclude our business in less time than that.
Use the neck straps and wear the phone with the camera lens facing out. Keep it on until I have the money. I’ll direct you
as we go. Do you read me?”

“You want me to keep the phone on and wear it facing out so that it sends streaming video to you.”

“Good girl. Hesitate to follow my directions, 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.”

“Hey, what if I lose service?” I asked.

“I’ll call you back. Make sure the line is available. Don’t try any stupid phone tricks, Judy.”

“What should I call you?”

“Call me ‘sir.’ Are we clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Now hang the phone around your neck and do a little pirouette so I can see who’s with you.”

I turned on my heel, panning the office.

“I recognize Tyler. Who’s the other guy?”

“That’s Rich in ad sales.”

“Turn on the speakerphone,” the killer said.

I located the speaker button and turned it on.

“Rich, do not follow Judy. That goes for you, too, Tyler. And it goes without saying, if I see cops, anything that makes me
think that Judy is being followed, I’ll hang up. Game over. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Point the camera at yourself, Judy.”

There was a pause. Longer than I expected. Then the killer’s voice was back.

“Nice rack, Judy. And let’s hope you’re a smart blonde. Now connect the headset to the phone and put in the earbuds. Can you
hear me?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, sweet stuff, take the elevator down to the street. When you get to the corner of Mission and Fifth, I’ll give you instructions.”

“I can hardly wait,” I muttered.

“You’re coming in loud and clear,” the killer said with an edge in his voice. “I’m warning you again, Judy. This is a lucky
break for the city. Don’t screw it up.”

THE PHONE HANGING from my neck felt like an explosive charge. The Lipstick Killer could see everything I saw, hear what I
was hearing and saying, and if that vile, crude psychopath became unhappy, he’d cut down more innocent lives.

We’d been warned.

I walked out of the Chronicle Building into a dull gray afternoon. I took in the shoppers and the yellow-light runners, and
wondered if the Lipstick Killer recognized the unmarked cars on Fifth and Mission. I saw Jacobi and Brady, Lemke and Samuels
and Chi.

By now, Conklin had put out the word that I was the go-between and working undercover. Still, to prevent a shout-out, I caught
Jacobi’s eye and, being careful to keep my hand away from the lens, pointed two fingers to my eyes and then to the phone,
signaling to Jacobi that I was being watched.

That’s when I glimpsed Cindy. Her eyes were huge, and she was hanging back against the wall of the Chronicle Building, looking
at me as though I were heading for the guillotine. I was suffused with love for her. I wanted to hug her, but I winked instead,
holding up crossed fingers.

She squeezed out a smile.

I turned back to the street and hefted Tyler’s ZERO Halliburton case in my right hand. I was afraid, of course. Once I handed
“sir” the briefcase, he wouldn’t want a witness. Odds were good that he’d shoot me. If I didn’t shoot him first.

I said into the microphone, “I’m on the corner of Fifth and Mission. What now?”

“Drop your handbag into the trash can. And show me.”

“My handbag?”

“Do it, princess.”

Because I was in my role as Tyler’s secretary, I’d secreted my gun and my cell phone inside my shoulder bag. I dropped it
into the trash can, then tilted the camera so the killer could see that I’d done it. That son of a bitch.

“Good girl,” the Lipstick Killer said. “Now let’s head out to the BART on Powell.”

The Powell Street BART was a block and a half away. As I crossed Market, I saw Conklin coming up behind me outside of camera
range and felt a rush of relief. I had no gun, but my partner was with me.

I made my way down the stairs and reached the platform for trains going out to the airport. BART trains are sleek bullets
that sound a warning whistle when they come into the station—which was happening now.

Brakes screeched. Doors opened. I got into the train marked
SFO
and saw Conklin get into the same car at the far end. The train started up, and the killer’s voice piped into my ears, breaking
up slightly. “Pan the car,” he said.

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.”

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.

“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.

I pushed the bills at him, and he handed me the keys.

“Which car is it?” I said to the presence hanging from my neck.

“Green Chevy Impala, four cars down and to your right. It’s stolen, Lindsay, so don’t worry about tracing it to me.”

The car looked so old, it could’ve been from the ’80s, not the kind of junker someone would be in a hurry to report stolen.
I opened the door and saw the brand-new Pelican gun case—long enough to hold an assault rifle—resting on the backseat.

“What’s that for?” I asked the Lipstick Killer.

“Open it,” he said.

Pelican is known for its protective cases. They are lined with foam, have unbreakable locks, and can withstand anything fire
or water or an explosive blast can throw at them.

I opened the padded case. It was empty.

“Put the money inside,” said the Lipstick Killer.

Again, I followed his directions, transferring the money from Tyler’s special briefcase, stacking the bills, closing the locks,
all the while raging—I was helping a psycho get away with holding up a city. I couldn't help thinking about the Nazis putting
the screws to Paris in World War II.

“Slide Mr. Tyler’s briefcase under the Lexus to your left,” the killer said. “Just another precaution, princess. In case there’s
a tracking device in there.”

“There’s no tracking device,” I said, but there was. Tyler’s case had a GPS built into the handle.

“And take off your shoes,” the killer said. “Slide them under the car with the case.”

I did what he said, thinking how Jacobi would follow the GPS signal to this parking lot and find the case—and it would be
a dead end.

“Feel like going for a ride?” my constant companion asked me.

“I’d love to,” I said with false brightness.

“I’d love to, what?” said WCF.

“I’d love to, sir,” I answered.

I got into the driver’s seat and started the car.

“Where to?” I asked, sounding to myself as though I were already dead.

“WELCOME TO THE mystery tour,” the killer told me.

“Which way do you want me to go?”

“Take a left, princess.”

I looked at my watch. I’d been wearing the devil around my neck for what seemed like forever, and I still knew nothing about
him, nothing about what he intended to do. Since our genius “follow the money” plan had been canceled by the killer, my brain
was on overdrive, trying to come up with another. But how could I? I didn’t know where this guy was going to execute the drop.

I left the parking lot and drove past the Asian Art Museum. The killer told me to follow Larkin. I glanced at the rearview
mirror, seeing nothing that looked like an unmarked car.