The 9th Judgment (24 page)

“Oh. Cross your heart?”

“Just so you know, the DA goes home at five. That’s in fifteen minutes. Your window to make a deal is closing fast.”

Dowling snorted derisively, and Conklin laughed.

He went out of the room and came back with three containers of coffee, making a big show of adding milk and sugar to his cup,
all the while humming the theme song from
Night Watch.
It was a catchy little ditty that had made the charts even when Dowling and Cushing’s shoot-’em-up movie had bombed.

I saw something come over Dowling’s face as Richie hummed. The nonchalance evaporated. The chair legs came down. Seemed to
me that hearing that tune had focused Dowling as nothing else had.

DOWLING’S CELL PHONE rang. He looked at the caller ID, opened the phone, and said, “Peyser? Where are you? What are you doing?
Walking here?”

Dowling paused for his lawyer’s response, then said, “You’re useless. Useless.” He snapped the phone shut and looked at his
watch. It was five on the nose.

“Call the DA. I’m talking to you of my own free will,” Dowling said. “I have nothing to hide. Do I need something in writing
from you or the DA?”

“Nope,” I said. I pointed to the camera in the corner over my head. “You’re on the record.”

Dowling nodded. He was on camera. A place he liked to be.

“I lied to protect Casey’s reputation,” he said. “Casey found out that I had a girlfriend. She pulled the gun on me. I wrestled
it out of her hands, and the gun went off.”

“Before or after the burglar went out the window?” I asked him.

“The burglar left. That’s what gave her the idea. Casey saw an opportunity to shoot me. She grabbed the gun from the night
table and started screaming at me. I tried to take it away from her, and it went off. That’s the truth.”

“Mr. Dowling, are you sure you want to tell it that way? Your wife took two bullets, remember? One to her chest. The other
to her neck. She was naked and unarmed. There was no gunpowder stippling on her skin. That means you were standing at least
five feet away. The angle of those shots is going to bear that out.”

“That’s not how it happened—”

“It’s exactly how it happened, Mr. Dowling,” I said. “Your Ruger is a single-action revolver. You had to pull the hammer each
time before you fired.”

I made a gun of my hand. I pulled back the “hammer” I made with my thumb. I said, “Bang.” Then I repeated the action and said,
“Bang,” again. “You want to try to convince a jury that was self-defense?”

“It was. It happened just like I said,” Dowling insisted. He was sputtering now, a lisp coming into his speech, but he clung
to his story. “She tried to kill me. I got the gun away from her and it went off. Maybe I panicked and fired it twice. I don’t
remember. I was frightened,” he said, tears coming now. “I’m sorry,” he pleaded. “I loved her. Ask anyone. I should never
have cheated on her. It’s hard, don’t you see? Women come on to me all the time. Casey didn’t understand that.”

The door opened again, this time no knock, and Tony Peyser, Dowling’s confident, thousand-bucks-an-hour attorney, came through
the door.

“Don’t say anything, Marc. What’s the charge?” the lawyer asked me.

I was filled with a heady blend of fury and elation. Dowling’s statement was on tape, and the prosecution would use it to
tear him apart.

I didn’t even look at the lawyer. I said, “Stand up, Mr. Dowling. You’re under arrest for the murder of Casey Dowling. You
have the right to remain silent…”

Conklin cuffed Dowling as I finished reading him his rights. Dowling was still protesting, “It was self-defense!”

“Who knows? Maybe the jury will believe you,” I said, looking into a face that had struck love into the hearts of untold thousands
of women. “But you know what I think? You’re a bad actor. You really stink.”

I DON’T KNOW when I’ve needed a drink more. Cindy met me downstairs at half past six, and I drove us to Susie’s in my Explorer.
I was glad to have some time alone with Cindy, and I had a pretty juicy exclusive for her.

The rain was starting to come down pretty hard, the customary evening gale. As my wipers squeegeed the water off the glass,
I told Cindy how the “bomb” dropped off at the Hall turned out to be four million in jewels.

“I think Kitty returned the jewelry because she didn’t want that ‘murder during the commission of a robbery’ charge hanging
over her head.”

“What did her letter say exactly?” Cindy asked.

“Cindy, you can have the part about Kitty, but we’re charging Dowling with murder in the second. That’s off the record, okay?”

“Fine,” Cindy said. “I’ll get another source on Dowling in the morning. Meanwhile, this is incredible. Hello Kitty returned
the goods.”

I grinned at Cindy as I quoted Hello Kitty’s letter, then I parked as close as I could to Susie’s. We both got out of the
car and, squealing like little girls, ran a block through the sharp blowing rain.

Walking into Susie’s is pretty much a peak experience every time. We’ve been coming here for years, so the place is packed
with memories. The aroma of Susie’s special spicy fish stew was in the air. The band was tuning up, and there was a mob of
singles at the bar.

I saw Yuki sitting on a stool, and Cindy and I edged through the crowd until I could tap Yuki’s shoulder. She turned and gave
both me and Cindy hugs. Then she introduced us to the bartender. She shouted over the noise.

“Lindsay, Cindy, meet Miles La Liberte. Miles, these are my friends Lindsay Boxer and Cindy Thomas.”

I shook hands with Miles, and as we said our good-byes, Yuki leaned across the bar and kissed him on the lips.

She kissed him!

“I’ve been out of the loop for too long,” I said to Yuki as we passed the kitchen on the way to the back room. “What was that
I just saw?”

“Cute, isn’t he?”

Yuki laughed and took menus from Lorraine, and the three of us slid into the booth. I held open the seat next to me for Claire.

“Darned cute,” I said. “And how long has this been going on?”

“A few weeks.”

“So is this…
serious?
”

“Yeah,” she said, blushing and grinning at the same time.

“Wow,”
Cindy said. “You kept that a
secret?
”

“Good for you, Yuki. A new case
and
a new boyfriend. A pitcher of brew, please,” I said to Lorraine. “Four glasses.”

“I have an announcement, too,” Cindy said, clasping her hands, leaning across the table, practically falling into my lap.
“Rich and I are living together.”

“Whoa. That’s fan
tastic,
” I said—and I felt it. A hundred percent. “He didn’t tell me.”

“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” she said.

The beer came along with a bowl of plantain chips, and Cindy talked about closet space and how the bed was too soft for Rich,
and I thought about how long it had been—if ever—since all of us were happy at the same time. I wished that Claire was here
to enjoy this.

I turned, looked over my shoulder, and saw her barreling down the narrow passageway toward our booth.

The look on her face could be described only as an eclipse of the sun. A thunderstorm was coming in.

CLAIRE DIDN’T EVEN say hello.

She slid into the booth, poured a glass of beer, and said, “Sorry I’m late. I was on the medical examiner database, still
trying to break the logjam in this Lipstick Psycho disaster. Edmund says I should take the pictures of those dead babies down
from the board in my office, but I want to keep them up until that devil is in custody.”

“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.
”