Inside, I found a ticket stub and twenty-five dollars in crisp bills. The stub was marked TRINITY PLAZA. I knew the place, an all-day lot nearby.
“Having fun?” I asked the Lipstick Killer.
“Loads,” he told me. “If you’re bored, tell me about yourself. I’m all ears.”
“I’d rather talk about you. Why did you shoot those people?” I asked.
“I’d tell you,” he said, “but you know how the saying goes: then I’d have to kill you-Lindsay.”
“Who is Lindsay?” I asked, but I was rocked. My stride faltered and I nearly stumbled down the hotel steps. How did he know my name?
“Did you think I didn’t recognize you? Gee, princess, you’re almost a celebrity around this town. I knew, of course, that they’d put a cop on this gig. But, to my delight, it’s you. Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, my girl on a leash.”
“Well, as long as you’re happy.”
“Happy? I’m ecstatic. So listen up, Lindsay. I’m just a Google click away from knowing where you live, who your friends are, who you love. So I guess you’ve got an even better reason to make this a payday for me, don’t you, sweetmeat?”
I pictured Cindy in the camera’s eye, Conklin, Joe working in his home office, Martha at his feet. I saw myself with my Glock in my hand, sights lined up between the no-color eyes of a guy in a baseball jacket. I squeezed the trigger.
Problem was, I didn’t have the Glock.
Chapter 62
“YOU’RE QUIET, PRINCESS,” said the voice in my ear.
“What do you want me to say?”
“No, you’re right. Don’t think too much. Just execute the mission.”
But I was thinking anyway. If I saw his face and lived, I would quit the force if I had to in order to get the job done. I would look at all the thousands of photos of every former soldier, sailor, coastguardsman, and marine in San Francisco.
And if he wasn’t living in San Francisco, I’d keep looking at photos until I found him, if it was the last thing I ever did.
But, of course, he wouldn’t let me see his face and walk away. Not this guy.
I walked along Market, turned, and finally saw the parking lot. The guy in the booth was leaning against the back wall with his eyes closed, deep into his iPod. I rapped on the window and handed him the ticket stub, and he barely looked at me.
“That’s twenty-five bucks,” he said.
I pushed the bills at him, and he handed me the keys.
“Which car is it?” I said to the presence hanging from my neck.
“Green Chevy Impala, four cars down and to your right. It’s stolen, Lindsay, so don’t worry about tracing it to me.”
The car looked so old, it could’ve been from the ’80s, not the kind of junker someone would be in a hurry to report stolen. I opened the door and saw the brand-new Pelican gun case-long enough to hold an assault rifle- resting on the backseat.
“What’s that for?” I asked the Lipstick Killer.
“Open it,” he said.
Pelican is known for its protective cases. They are lined with foam, have unbreakable locks, and can withstand anything fire or water or an explosive blast can throw at them.
I opened the padded case. It was empty.
“Put the money inside,” said the Lipstick Killer.
Again, I followed his directions, transferring the money from Tyler ’s special briefcase, stacking the bills, closing the locks, all the while raging-I was helping a psycho get away with holding up a city. I couldn't help thinking about the Nazis putting the screws to Paris in World War II.
“Slide Mr. Tyler’s briefcase under the Lexus to your left,” the killer said. “Just another precaution, princess. In case there’s a tracking device in there.”
“There’s no tracking device,” I said, but there was. Tyler ’s case had a GPS built into the handle.
“And take off your shoes,” the killer said. “Slide them under the car with the case.”
I did what he said, thinking how Jacobi would follow the GPS signal to this parking lot and find the case-and it would be a dead end.
“Feel like going for a ride?” my constant companion asked me.
“I’d love to,” I said with false brightness.
“I’d love to, what?” said WCF.
“I’d love to, sir,” I answered.
I got into the driver’s seat and started the car.
“Where to?” I asked, sounding to myself as though I were already dead.
Chapter 63
“WELCOME TO THE mystery tour,” the killer told me.
“Which way do you want me to go?”
“Take a left, princess.”
I looked at my watch. I’d been wearing the devil around my neck for what seemed like forever, and I still knew nothing about him, nothing about what he intended to do. Since our genius “follow the money” plan had been canceled by the killer, my brain was on overdrive, trying to come up with another. But how could I? I didn’t know where this guy was going to execute the drop.
I left the parking lot and drove past the Asian Art Museum. The killer told me to follow Larkin. I glanced at the rearview mirror, seeing nothing that looked like an unmarked car.
No one was following me.
I took Larkin into the Tenderloin, threading the Impala through the roughest section in San Francisco, the dark streets crammed with hole-in-the-wall bars and girlie shows and rent-by-the-hour hotels. Jacobi and I had been shot in an alley not far from here, and we both almost died.
I passed streets I’d worked as a uniformed cop, a first-class pizzeria that I’d introduced Joe to a while ago, and a bar where Conklin and I sometimes came to wind down after a double shift. I turned onto Geary and drove past Mel’s Drive-in, where I used to hang out with Claire when we were both rookies, the two of us laughing away our frustration at being females in a man’s world.
I felt tears gathering in my eyes, not from the hoops the killer was making me jump through but from nostalgia, the aching memories of times with my good and beloved friends, and from the feeling that I was visiting sweet scenes from my past for the last time.
The disembodied voice of a man who’d wasted three young mothers and their small children spoke once again.
“Hang the phone over the rearview mirror, lens pointing at you.”
