James Patterson - The 9th Judgment

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.”