The 6th Target

BE SMART. BE QUIET.

ALL YOUR CHILDREN WILL LIVE TO THANK YOU.

The note was eight months old, but the cruel language made the horror jump off the page. It felt as fresh as if the crime had just happened.

All the faces around the desk registered shock, but it was Macklin who grabbed the paper, gripping it as if he could wring the kidnapper's throat by proxy.

Tracchio retrieved a second page from the fax machine.

'I can't make out the pictures,' Tracchio said to Stanford.

'Erica was photographed against a blank white background in the clothes she was wearing when she was taken. The other photos are snapshots of the Whittens' older kids at school. And there's one of Kayla shot through her bedroom window. We'll have the whole package analyzed.'

I was thinking, Sure, they'll try to collect prints and traces from the envelope and its contents, but what Stanford isn't saying in front of the Whittens is that every dead Jane Doe in the country will be compared to the stats and DNA of both Helga Schmidt and Erica Whitten.

There was no doubt in my mind that the letter and the photos were a ruse to buy time.

Erica Whitten and Helga Schmidt were both dead.

But what had the kidnappers gained?

What did they want?

I was reeling with violent images featuring small girls and their equally helpless nannies when my cell phone rang. It was Inspector Paul Chi saying, 'An emergency call just came in to the squad, Lindsay. Someone was attacked at the Blakely Arms.'

Chapter 89

CONKLIN AND I STEPPED OUT of the Blakely Arms elevator onto a carpeted hallway on the sixth floor and saw two cops halfway down the hall outside the door to apartment 6G. I recognized Officer Patrick Noonan, who was bucking to move into homicide.

'What happened here, Noonan?'

'A bloody mess, that's what, Sergeant. The victim's name is Ben Wyatt. He's been living in the building for about a year.'

Conklin held up the police tape and I ducked under it, Noonan still talking. 'The assailant came through the door,' Noonan told me. 'Either the door was open, the vic let him in, or the perp had a key.'

'Who called it in?'

'Woman next door. 6F. Virginia Howsam. H-o-w-s-a-m.'

Conklin and I entered the victim's sparely furnished apartment. A halo of blood pooled around the man's head, a dark puddle on the polished oak floors.

He was a black male, early thirties, fit, wearing shorts, a thin gray T-shirt, and running shoes. He was lying on his left side next to a treadmill.

I bent to get a better look. His eyes were closed and his breathing was labored – but he was still alive.

Paramedics clattered through the door, crowded around the victim, and on the count of three lifted him into a stretcher.

The paramedic standing closest to me said, 'He's unconscious. We're taking him to San Francisco General. Could you step aside, Sergeant? Thanks.'

The sirens were wailing up Townsend as Charlie Clapper and a couple of his crime-scene investigators entered Wyatt's living room, then crossed the floor to the treadmill.

'The cord to this thing's been cut,' Clapper said, showing me where the clean separation had been made, as if with a sharp knife. 'You saw the victim?' he said to me.

'Yes. He's alive, Charlie. At least he is now. Looks like he was really clobbered from behind.'

As with Irene Wolkowski, whatever instrument had been used to bash Ben Wyatt's skull had been removed from the apartment. And also similar to the Wolkowski crime scene, very little else had been disturbed.

No doubt there was a connection between the attacks that were making terror an almost daily thing at the Blakely Arms.

What was that connection? What the hell was going on?

Chapter 90

BEN WYATT'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR Virginia Howsam was a woman in her late twenties who worked nights at a club downtown. She told us that Wyatt was a day trader and a really nice guy whom no one in his right mind would want to hurt.

We thanked Ms. Howsam for her help and took to the fire stairs, thinking maybe the people under Wyatt's apartment might have heard sounds that could help us pinpoint the time of the attack.

Conklin was right behind me on the stairs when the phone at my hip rang. I reached for it, saw Dave Stanford's name on the caller ID.

'This is Boxer.'

'I've got good news for you.'

I signaled to Conklin to put his ear next to the phone so we could both hear.

'You've got news on Erica Whitten?'

'No, but I thought you'd like to know that Charlie Ray has had his hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and is now sleeping in his own bed.' Stanford chuckled.

'Fantastic, Dave! What happened?'

Stanford told me that the husband of a depressed woman had come forward. Their child had died of crib death weeks before.

'This woman who took Charlie was strung out on grief,' Stanford said. 'She was driving down the street, saw Charlie peeking over the fence. She stopped and grabbed him.'

'She's in custody?'

'Yeah, but she's not the person we're looking for, Lindsay. She has nothing to do with Erica Whitten or Madison Tyler. She's on antidepressants, under a doctor's care, and yesterday was the first time she left home since her baby died.'

I thanked Stanford and closed the cell phone. Conklin was right there. I was looking into his eyes, feeling the heat.

'So we've got nothing,' Rich said.

'We've got something,' I said, starting down the stairs again. 'We've got a killer at large in this goddamned building. As for Madison Tyler, we've got another dead end.'

Chapter 91

MICKEY SHERMAN SAT BESIDE ALFRED BRINKLEY at the defense table, trying to get his client to understand him through the haze of whatever meds he was on. The poor sap had all the energy of a parsnip.

'Fred. Fred.' Sherman shook his client's shoulder. 'Fred, we start your defense today, you understand? So I'll be putting people on the stand to vouch for your character.'

Brinkley nodded his head. 'You're putting my doctor on the stand.'