James Patterson - The 9th Judgment

“When I get those thoughts, I think of opening a scuba shop in Martinique.”

“Well, be nice to the Morleys. They can probably help you out with that.”

Conklin stifled his laugh as the massive front door opened. Dorian Morley was tall, about forty, an attractive woman in a flowered tunic and black pants, her brown hair twisted up and pinned with a clip. She was also red-eyed and looked shaken. She invited us into the kitchen-a vast, well-lit space with sea-green glass counters and stainless-steel everything else. Her husband was sitting at the table with a mug of coffee in his large hand. He stood as she introduced us.

“I feel like an ass,” Jim Morley said when we’d taken seats at the table. “The bedroom door was locked. That was weird. I said, ‘Hello Killy? Is that youuuu?’” He made a gagging noise and shook his head. “Why is it you never think it could happen to you?”

Morley went on to say that he’d gone through the guest room and gotten into the bathroom that way.

“You saw the burglar?” I asked, hoping against disbelief.

“Nah, the lights were out in the bedroom,” Morley said. “She pleaded with me, asked me to give her some privacy, and that’s what convinced me it was a friend of ours, Laura Chenoweth. She and her husband, Jesse, are going through a rough patch, and I thought they were making up, you know, in private.

“Anyway, the newspapers keep referring to Hello Kitty as a man, right?”

I was reeling from this new information.

If Hello Kitty was a woman, it was our first real lead. A blind lead to be sure, but something!

“I just tossed the jewelry from the party on top of the dresser,” Dorian Morley said. “I didn’t even know we’d been robbed until I went to put my jewels in the safe.”

She lowered her head into her hands and began to cry softly. Her husband said to us, “A lot of the jewelry belonged to Dorian’s mom. Some of it was her grandmother’s. What are the chances of getting it back?”

I was still stuck on the idea that our cat burglar was a woman. I heard Conklin say that so far none of the stolen goods had surfaced from the previous Hello Kitty burglaries, and then Dorian Morley lifted her head and said, “It’s not just about the jewelry, Jim. It’s about the fact that a murderer was inside our house. Inside our bedroom.

“What if you had challenged her instead of walking away? My God, Jim, she could have shot you!”

BEING SUMMONED TO Tracchio’s office is always an adventure. You never know if you’re going to get a high five or a front-row seat on a meltdown.

Tracchio hung up the phone as Jacobi, Chi, and I took seats around the curve of his mahogany desk and watched him pat his comb-over. I don’t dislike Tracchio, but I never forget that he’s a bureaucrat doing a job only a real cop should do.

“The mayor has me on his speed dial,” he was saying as his assistant brought him a fresh cup of tea. “I’m in his ‘favorites’ list, you understand, one of the top five. This morning, I made it to number one-when he saw this.”

Tracchio flashed the morning’s Chronicle with its photo of Claire leaning out her car window under the headline “Get a Gun.”

I flushed, both scared and embarrassed for my best friend.

“One of our own said this,” Tracchio said, his voice rising. “Told our citizens to carry guns, and the mayor says that all of us, and that includes you, you, and especially you,” he said, stabbing a pudgy finger at Jacobi, “don’t know your ass from a lemon tart.”

Jacobi half rose to his feet in defense, but Tracchio put out a hand to silence and seat him.

“Don’t say anything, Jacobi. I’m not in the mood. And I’ve got something else to show you.”

Tracchio opened a folder on his desk, took out a sheet of newsprint, turned it around, and pushed it toward us. “This is going to run in tomorrow morning’s Chronicle. The publisher sent an advance copy out to the mayor, who passed it around.”

I read the headline: “An Open Letter to the Residents of San Francisco.” Tracchio leaned back and said, “Go on, Boxer. Read that out loud.”

“‘An open letter to the residents of San Francisco,’” I read obediently. “‘I have a proposition to make. It’s very simple. I want two million dollars in cash and a contact person I can trust. Once I have the money, I will leave San Francisco for good and the killings of the women and children will stop. I expect a published reply and then we’ll work out the details. Have a nice day.’ It’s not signed, but I guess we know who wrote this.”

My head throbbed at the idea of it.

“Sir, you’re not really thinking we’re going to pay off the Lipstick Killer?” I asked Tracchio.

“Not out of our budget, of course, but a private citizen has already stepped forward with the cash, yes.”

“Chief, we can’t let anyone pay off a murderer. It opens the way for every freak with a gun and a sick idea-”

“She’s right,” Jacobi said. “You know that, Tony. Giving in to him is the worst thing we can do.”

Tracchio leaned forward, smacked the flat of his hand down on the newsprint, and said, “You all listen to me. Several innocent people have been shot dead in the last couple of weeks. Forty men and women are working this case around the clock, and we’ve got nothing. Nothing. Except the chief medical examiner saying that people should start packing.

“What choice do I have? None. This letter is going to run,” the chief said, glaring at each of us in turn, “and I can’t stop it. So figure out how to catch this psycho. Set a trap. How you do it is up to you. I know it’s hard. That’s why it’s called ‘work.’ Now, I need my office. I’ve got to call the mayor.”

I JOGGED BACK down the stairs with Chi and Jacobi, the three of us wrapped in our own mortified silence. Yes, Tracchio’s drubbing was humiliating, but far worse was the fact that the city was being held hostage by a psychopath. And Tracchio was in such a bind, he was giving in to a terrorist.

Apparently the giving-in was already in motion. Someone in the mayor’s inner circle had stepped forward with two million dollars to pay off the Lipstick Killer before his letter even ran. It was insane, completely magical thinking to believe that if we handed the killer his millions, he would leave town. And even if he did, where would he go? What would he do when he got there? And how many more crazies would be inspired to commit murder for pay?

When Jacobi, Chi, and I walked into the squad room, all eyes turned to us, the silent question hanging in the air like a thundercloud.

What did the chief say?

Jacobi stopped at the head of the room. He was livid, biting off each word as he said to the six men staring up at him, “The Lipstick Killer wants two million bucks to stop the killings. The chief wants us to set a trap.”

The gasping and commentary were as loud as that thundercloud breaking into a downpour. “That’s enough,” Jacobi said. “Boxer’s in charge. Sergeant, keep me posted. Every hour. On the hour.”

I sat down at my desk across from Conklin, and Chi dragged up a chair. I filled Conklin in on the beat-down we’d taken from Tracchio as I dialed Henry Tyler. I was passed from automatic menu to Tyler ’s personal assistant, then to Muzak as I was put on hold.

Henry Tyler is a powerful man, the associate publisher of the San Francisco Chronicle. His daughter, Madison, had been kidnapped a while ago, a sweet, precocious little girl, some kind of musical prodigy.

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.