The 9th Judgment (19 page)

The two women sat together on a bench, and Heidi asked, “What’s going on, sweetie?”

Sarah looked into Heidi’s face and said, “There’s no good way to tell you. I wanted to keep you out of it. I didn’t want to
involve you in any way.”

“Wow,” Heidi said. “You’re really scaring me.”

Sarah nodded and, looking down at her feet, said, “You know about the cat burglar they call Hello Kitty?”

“That’s the one who killed Marcus Dowling’s wife, right?”

“Yeah, well, I didn’t do it.”

Heidi laughed. “Duh-uh. Of course not. What are you talking about?”

“Heidi, I’m Hello Kitty.”

“Shut up! You are not!”

“Would I make this up? Heidi, believe me, I’m the cat burglar. Let me get this all out, and then I’ll tell you anything you
want to know.”

“Okay. But—okay.”

“I told you, my granddad was a jeweler,” Sarah said. “But I didn’t tell you he had a friend who was a fence. I heard a lot
of stories when I was Sherry’s age, just playing with stuff in my granddad’s shop.

“So when I was thinking how to get us all out of here, I realized I could actually get rich quick. I started climbing the
wall at the gym, getting strong, and I started researching potential targets, picking only people who could recover from the
loss of their stuff. At first I wasn’t sure I could do it.

“And then Trevor raped me.”

Sarah swallowed hard, forcing her mind to skip past the memory.

“My first few burglaries were—easy,” Sarah said. “I had a knack for it, and I could count on Terror to pass out in front of
the TV long enough for me to do the job, come home, and get into bed before he woke up.

“Then there was the Dowling job.”

Heidi looked stricken, as though she were trying to say something but couldn’t find the right words. Instead she just stared.
Sarah kept going. She told Heidi about Marcus Dowling’s outrageous lies and about the next job—the one where Jim Morley came
into the room when her hands were wrist-deep in his wife’s jewelry. And then she went on to the robbery of Diana King, the
last job she was ever going to do.

“It had to happen,” Sarah said. “I thought I was home free. And then a cop car came out of the dark, shining lights on me,
following me. So I ditched everything: the jewelry, most of my clothes, and—in a perfectly brilliant move—my tool bag with
my car keys inside. When you couldn’t come get me, I had to call Terror.”

“I’m sorry, Sarah.”

Sarah shook her head. “Not your fault. Anyway, Terror didn’t like my answer to why I was locked out of my car and barefoot
in Pac Heights,” Sarah went on. “I couldn’t think of a lie that wasn’t frickin’ totally laughable, and obviously I couldn’t
tell him the truth. So I said that I didn’t answer to him. That I was entitled to have a life.”

Heidi was murmuring, “Oh no, oh no.”

“He accused me of sneaking out to be with a guy. And then he ‘taught me a lesson.’”

Sarah pulled at the neck of her shirt and turned her head so that Heidi could see the fingerprints around her throat.

Heidi clapped her hand to her mouth.

“Oh my God, Sarah,” she said. She put her arm around the woman she loved and drew her close. “Sometimes I wonder if I even
know you.”

THE WARMING HUT is a bright-white snack and gift shack at the intersection of the Crissy Field and the Presidio, where the
outstretched arm of the Golden Gate Bridge spans the bay.

Sarah and Heidi lunched on soup and sandwiches while the kids sat near the window, picking at their food and blowing bubbles
into their drinks.

“There’s something else,” Sarah said. “That stone I gave you.”

“Let me guess. It’s hot.”

“Very, very hot. It’s a diamond. With a name and a freaky history.”

Heidi pulled at her necklace so she could look at it. “You said it was something else. A citrine.”

“Its name is the Sun of Ceylon, and it comes with a curse.”

“A curse? That’s insane.”

“I know, I know, but the stories go back three centuries. Hey, it belonged to Casey Dowling when her son-of-a-bitch husband
killed her. What more do I need to say?”

Sherry came over and leaned against Heidi. “What’s a curse, Mommy?”

“It’s a wish for something—bad.”

“Like if I wished something bad would happen to Daddy?”

“Sherry, Stevie is about to cry. Be a good girl and give him a hug.”

“I don’t want you to wear it anymore,” Sarah said when Sherry had gone. “It’s tempting fate, you know?”

“Really?” Heidi laughed. “This is tempting fate? My God, that’s a riot.” She unclasped the chain and handed the necklace to
Sarah. “The Sun of Ceylon, huh? Well, it’s a little flashy for me anyway.”

Sarah said, “Thanks,” took the pendant, jammed it into her hip pocket, and forged ahead to the last of her story—her plan
to meet with Lynnette Green and turn the jewels into cash for their plunge into a new life as a family of four.

“I have something to say, Sarah.”

“Okay, but take it easy on me. I’m a wreck.”

“I can hardly believe you did this.”

“You’re appalled. Go ahead and say it.”

“I’m completely blown away. But I’m so grateful that you’d do this for us. You risked your life, Sarah. If the kids weren’t
here, I’d kiss you. I’ve never loved anyone so much.”

“I love you, too.”

“What now? You think the police are on to you?”

“It’s possible,” Sarah said, rubbing her temples. “That kid at the supermarket. He could tell the cops. A fingerprint could
turn up on something I ditched. Time is running out on all fronts, Heidi. If we’re going to jump outta here, we have to do
it soon.”

“I know. We’re a team. Everything you do involves all of us now.”

Sarah nodded and was quiet for a while as she sorted through a number of options, every single one of them scarier than the
last—but just as compelling.

“Sarah?”

“I know what to do.”

PETE GORDON HAD parked at the outer edge of the shopping center, beyond the lights and the security cameras, and was waiting
now for Heidi and the kiddos to catch up with him.

Keyed up but in control, Pete was aware of everything around him: the smell of newly painted lines in the parking lot, the
shoppers walking out to their cars, the lights at Mervyns and Toys “R” Us, and the deepening dusk of the sky.

The adrenaline charging through his veins sharpened his mind as he waited out the last minutes before he would execute the
most critical phase of his plan. Once he’d eliminated the Three Stooges, he’d walk to his house and stretch out in front of
the TV. He’d be home before the cops were even called.

He ran the three little sentences of his letter to the
Chronicle
through his mind: “Believe me now? The price has gone up to five million. Don’t screw up again.”

He couldn’t be any clearer than that.

The letter would run as the cops and the media were consoling him for his terrible loss, blaming yet three more “senseless
murders” on the Lipstick Killer.

It was a brilliant plan, and he had to give himself credit, because he’d never get it from anyone else.

And with that, Pete heard Heidi yakking away and saw her in the rearview mirror bouncing the stink bomb on her hip as she
pushed the shopping cart. He also heard another voice—damn it. It was that dog-faced Angie Weider, one of their neighbors,
and here she was, pushing her brat in a stroller.

Heidi called out, “Bye,” to Angie, then pulled up on the shopping cart, leaving it at the back of the car.

“Pete?”

Heidi opened the rear doors, strapped the kids in, and called over the seat back to him, “Petey, would you get the groceries?”

“No problem, princess. All you have to do is ask.”

Pete pulled on his gloves, leaped out of the car, and opened the trunk lock, waiting as a vehicle sped out of the lot. When
it was all clear, he stowed the groceries neatly beside the emergency road kit and the shoe box that held his loaded gun.

“Hey, Pete,” Angie Weider called out to him, “you guys should come to dinner with us. We’re going to the BlueJay Café.”

“Another time, okay?” Pete said, dropping the gun back into the box, fury flooding through him, a tidal wave of hatred directed
at that bitch who had destroyed both his opportunity and his alibi in one blow. He thought for a moment of killing her and
her tot, but he could hear Heidi screaming and see Sherry running and he’d never be able to murder them all without being
seen.

Heidi ignored him. “Kids, want to go out for dinner?”

Sherry sang her approval and the stink bomb gurgled his. Pete slammed the trunk lid shut and, barely checking his temper,
said, “You go ahead. There’s a game on in ten minutes.”

Heidi said, “Just remember to put the ice cream away, and I’ll take care of the rest when I get home.”

She grabbed the stink bomb out of his car seat, and Sherry skipped over to the Weiders’ van. With a toot of the horn, they
were gone.

Pete jerked the car into gear and backed out.

Change of plan. He wasn’t going to go home after all.

IT HAD BEEN a week since I’d stopped traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge with the front section of the
Chronicle
clasped to my chest, ten days since that psycho we call the Lipstick Killer had murdered Elaine Marone and her child. I could
still feel the weight of the killer’s cell phone hanging around my neck, could hear his jeers and gibes as he ordered me to
disarm and disrobe myself on the way to the drop that never was.

I was relieved that the Feds had taken the Lipstick Psycho off our hands. The Dowling case was heating up. We had a wiretap
transcript that could lead to probable cause. And in Evidence we had a climber’s shoe, a Banana Republic sweater, and a bag
of tools that probably belonged to Hello Kitty.

I liked the feeling of getting traction at last, so I was none too happy when Jackson Brady called at six that evening, saying
the FBI had requested my help at a triple homicide.

Twenty minutes after Brady’s call, Conklin and I were climbing the chilly ramp of a parking garage. It was several levels
of a winding concrete helix that connected by an overpass to Pier 39, a gigantic mall full of restaurants and shops, the perfect
place to disappear after bloody murders.

Brady introduced us to Special Agent Dick Benbow, a square-shouldered man of about forty with a crisp haircut and mirror-shined
shoes. Benbow shook our hands, then walked us toward the scene, which was now being processed by a dozen Federal agents.

Benbow said, “Sergeant Boxer, no one knows this animal the way you do. I want to know what you see. What’s the same? What’s
different? What’s your theory of the case?”

My scalp tightened and every hair on my body stood up as we closed in on a young black woman lying under the glaring fluorescent
lights, her eyes wide open and a bullet hole in the center of her forehead.

She was wearing expensive clothing: a long, printed designer skirt, a navy-blue jacket, a white blouse with tucks and fancy
buttons. It looked like she was visiting here, not just going to the mall.

A tipped-over double-wide stroller lay six feet behind her. Two dead children were hidden by the stroller, but I could see
a lot without taking a step: twin puddles of blood, a little foot wearing a small white shoe to the left of the stroller,
the hand of another young child flung out to the right, a pacifier only inches away.

He might have reached for that small comfort before he died.

Benbow said, “The victims are Veronica Williams; her daughter, Tally; and her son, Van. They were visiting from LA. We’ve
notified the family.”

I held down a scream of outrage as I stood over the dead bodies of victims number seven, eight, and nine. It wasn’t just murder.
It was slaughter.

I stared helplessly at Benbow, then walked over to the Blazer with rental plates. The driver’s-side door was hanging open,
and lying on the ground was an expensive black leather handbag. It had disgorged a wallet, an open makeup bag, a pacifier,
an airline-ticket folder, aspirin, a cell phone, and packets of moist towelettes.

I leaned into the vehicle. The light coming through the glass outlined the lipstick lettering and turned it black. Instead
of three cryptic letters, there were six words, just as unfathomable.

WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST. GET IT?

No, I didn’t get it. I didn’t get it at all.

He was smart and slick, and he
hated
women and children, that much I got. But what set him off? How had he committed nine homicides without being noticed? How
would we catch him?

Or would the Lipstick Killer case become one of those unsolved mysteries that haunt cops into their graves?

I said to Benbow, “No question, this is the same shooter. He’s spelling out the acronym. It’s his signature. I don’t have
a theory on this case. I wish I had one frickin’ clue.”

I put my back against a concrete pylon and called Claire, saying to her voice mail, “I’m at the Pier Thirty-nine garage. Three
more victims, two are little kids.”

Claire picked up. She doesn’t swear often, but she let loose an impressive stream of curses before saying she was on her way.
As she hung up, I heard footsteps on concrete. I turned to see Jackson Brady coming up the ramp with two other men: a uniformed
police officer and a wiry white male with graying hair. Brady’s eyes had brightened, and there was a new expression on his
face that gave me hope.

He smiled.

I felt storm clouds part and a godlike finger of light break through the concrete ceiling when Brady said to me, “This is
Mr. Kennedy. Says he’s a witness.”

SIX LAW ENFORCEMENT officers surrounded the man called Daniel Kennedy. We were standing so close we were pretty much sucking
up his air, but he seemed glad for the attention. Kennedy said that he was a crime buff and had read everything about the
Lipstick Killer. He told us that he was the owner of U-Tel, a telephone shop at Pier 39, and then he got into his story.