James Patterson - The 9th Judgment

“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.