James Patterson: The 9th Judgment

“Did you find anything?” I asked.

“I can’t find a pattern that matches anything in any database but ours. No other mother-child shootings. No lipstick messages. The stippling pattern is unique. What is his motivation, his trigger, his problem? I don’t have a clue. Cindy, could you pass the chips?”

“He says he’s doing it for the money,” Cindy said.

Claire nodded, then put her hand up, signaling that she still had the floor. She snacked and sipped, then picked up her thought.

“Okay. It’s unusual, isn’t it, Linds? A psycho motivated by money? But anyway let’s consider that message Gordon wrote on the windshield of his car: ‘Now I want five million. Don’t screw it up again.’ What’s happening with that?” Claire asked me.

“The FBI has the car, and it’s their case. I’m on call, but Benbow is in charge.”

Cindy said, “What would happen if we came up with something? What if the Chronicle responds to that windshield message with an open letter to the killer, like we did before?”

“Be specific. What are you thinking?” Yuki asked.

“Say Henry Tyler writes the letter. He says, ‘We’ve got the five million and want to set up a drop.’ And he challenges the killer, kind of a ‘back at ya,’ and says, ‘Don’t screw it up again.’”

“And then what?” Yuki asked Cindy. “Another trap? How would it end any differently?”

I hoped for a trap that wouldn’t involve me. I didn’t know if I could do a repeat performance of that horrific day with the cell phone hanging around my neck, never knowing if or when Gordon would take the money and pop me.

But I had to admit what was demonstrably true.

I said, “You’re saying that if the FBI doesn’t do something soon, he’s going to kill more people to make his point.”

“More mothers and kids,” Cindy said.

“Yep, that’s what I’m thinking,” Claire agreed. “I have an interesting idea, different from the last time. I think it could work.”

IT WAS MY third consecutive night in a surveillance van with Conklin and Jacobi. The vehicle was airless and soundproofed and connected wirelessly to two female undercover operatives near Nordstrom in the San Francisco Centre-they were pushing strollers with baby-sized dolls inside. I was listening to my designated decoy, Agent Heather Thomson, who was humming “Can’t Touch Me,” and Conklin was tracking Connie Cacase, an innocent-looking, street-talking twenty-year-old rookie from Vice.

There were seven other vans filled with cops from three divisions and with FBI agents, each vehicle following and tracking decoys with strollers in malls all around the city.

While the media were sounding the alarm nonstop on the Lipstick Killer, the mayor, the SFPD, and the FBI had declined to publish a message to Peter Gordon. And he had made no contact either.

Was Gordon angry? Stressed? Biding his time? Where was he?

If he was true to his pattern, he was overdue for a kill.

Our van was parked on Sutter, within striking distance of the Sutter-Stockton Garage, a block from Nordstom and two blocks from the Macy’s at Union Square.

Jacobi’s headset was tuned to SFPD Dispatch, and he had an open mic to Special Agent Benbow, who was parked two blocks away at a mobile command center.

Claire’s plan made sense, but it was far from foolproof. We were all set to pounce but had no one to pounce on. Jacobi was checking in with Benbow when I heard shots through my headset. Heather stopped humming.

“Heather!” I called into my mic. “Speak to me!”

“Was that gunfire?” she asked.

“Can you see anything?”

“I’m on Stockton. I think the shots came from the garage.”

I shouted to Jacobi and Conklin, “Gunfire! Agent Thomson is fine. Richie, do you have Connie? Is she okay?”

“Connie’s good.”

“I don’t know what the hell happened, but something bad. Stay tuned,” I said to Jacobi.

I struggled into my vest, made for the back of the van, swung the doors open, and exited at the rear. Conklin was right with me.

Had Peter Gordon surfaced?

If so, what had he done?

PETE GORDON HAD stalked the woman through the store, watching her cover her kiddo with a blanket up to its chin before she stepped out with the stroller into the cool of the night.

His target was no beauty queen, but she had some mesmerizing tail action, a nice jiggle and sway. Pete gave her a name, Wilma Flintstone, which was perfect. Dotty little dress, hair twisted up, and Pebbles in the stroller. Wilma placed her handbag in the baby carriage and stepped off the curb, heading for the garage at Sutter and Stockton.

Pete knew that garage. It was huge, tons of indoor parking, several stories with an open top floor, visible to the high-rises all around. He was maintaining a steady ten-foot distance between Wilma and himself, keeping his eye on a cluster of security guards on the corner, when a family of four jackasses got behind Wilma and consumed his safety zone.

Pete hung back. He lowered the bill of his cap and, following his target into the garage, kept to the narrow footpath that skirted the ramp. The family blocking his sight line peeled off-and Pete picked up the pace, searching the rows of parked cars for Wilma in the dotty dress.

There were pedestrians all around, the coughs of engines starting up, the squeal of rubber as vehicles cruised down the incline. Pete was starting to worry that he’d lost her when her dress jumped out at him. She was shoving the stroller into the elevator.

The doors closed behind her and the lights above winked upward, then paused on three. Pete moved quickly to the stairs, loping up two flights, not even breathing hard as he reached the third floor.

Drivers browsed the aisles for empty parking spots, but there was no foot traffic around him. Pete brushed his hand across the gun tucked in his waistband, rounded a stanchion, and got a good straight-on look at Wilma.

And she saw him.

Wilma’s face radiated alarm. She stared, bug-eyed, for a long moment, then wrenched the stroller around and ran toward her car, wheels making a frantic whick-whick sound.

“Miss,” Pete called out. “Could you hang on a minute?”

Wilma shouted over her shoulder, “Stay away from me. Stay away. ”

Wilma had made him, but there was nowhere for her to go, handicapped as she was by her kiddo.

“Lady, you’ve got it wrong. My cell phone died. Look.”

Her back was up against her VW Passat, one hand on the stroller’s handlebars, mouth hanging open as she looked everywhere for help. The kiddo let out a scream, and Wilma reached into the stroller, and when she straightened up, Pete saw a.22 pointing at him.

He pulled his gun, but it snagged on his shirt. The muzzle was coming up when he heard the shot and felt the punch to his right shoulder. His gun jumped out of his hand and clattered to the concrete floor.

He yelled, “Stupid bitch!” and dove for the weapon. A slug pinged into the floor an inch from his nose. He rolled onto his back with his gun in his left hand.

“Don’t move, Wilma,” he said, taking aim. But his vision was blurring and lights swooped around him. He squeezed off a few rounds, but he didn’t drop her. Wilma was firing again.

She kept firing.

I WAS RUNNING up Sutter, Jacobi shouting into the cell phone at my ear, “It’s not one of ours!”

“Say again.”

“None of our people are involved. We got a nine one one call. Shots fired in the Sutter-Stockton Garage. Third floor.”

I called ahead to Conklin over the shrill wail of sirens. We were yards from the garage and then we were inside, our feet striking metal treads as we bounded up the stairs with weapons drawn.