"That was months ago." Jill snorted, taking a bite of a chicken-and-avocado wrap. "He sure took his time." "That's what I said." I nodded.

 

 

Cindy shook her head. "He just decided after twenty years to show up at your door?"

 

 

"I think it's a good thing, Lindsay," injected Claire. "You know me - positive."

 

 

"A good thing that after twenty years he marches back in with a guilty conscience."

 

 

"No, a good thing because he needs you, Lindsay. He's alone, right?" "He told me he got married again for two years, but he's divorced. Imagine, Claire, finding out years after the fact that your father got married again."

 

 

"That's not the point, Lindsay," Claire replied. "He's reaching out. You shouldn't be too proud to accept it."

 

 

"How do you feel?" inquired Jill.

 

 

I wiped my mouth, took a sip of iced tea and then a long breath. "The truth? I don't even know. He's like some ghost from the past who brings back a lot of bad memories. Everything he's touched has only hurt people." "He's your father, honey," Claire said. "You've carried this hurt around since I've known you. You should let him in, Lindsay. You could have something you never had before."

 

 

"He could also kick her in the shins again," said Jill.

 

 

"Gee." Cindy looked over at Jill. "The prospect of motherhood hasn't exactly made you all soft and gooey, has it?"

 

 

"One date with the reverend," Jill chuffed back, "and suddenly you're the conscience of the group? I'm impressed."

 

 

We looked at Cindy, all of us suppressing smiles.

 

 

"That's true." Claire nodded. "You don't think you're going to get off the hook, do you?"

 

 

Cindy began to blush. Never since I'd known her had I seen Cindy Thomas blush.

 

 

"You guys do make quite the couple." I sighed.

 

 

"I like him," Cindy blurted. "We talked for hours. At a bar. Then he took me home. The end."

 

 

"Sure." Jill grinned. "He's cute, he's got a steady job, and if you're ever tragically killed, you don't have to worry about who will preside over your service." "I hadn't thought of that one." Cindy finally smiled.

 

 

"Look, it was one date. I'm doing a piece on him and the neighborhood. I'm sure he won't ask me out again."

 

 

"But will you ask him out again?" said Jill.

 

 

"We're friends. No, we're friendly. It was a great couple of hours. I guarantee, all of you would have enjoyed yourselves. It's research," Cindy said, and she folded her arms.

 

 

We all smiled. But Cindy was right; none of us would have turned down a couple of hours with Aaron Winslow. I still got chills when I remembered his talk at Tasha Catchings's funeral.

 

 

As we crumpled our trash, I turned to Jill. "So, how're you feeling? You okay?" She smiled. "Pretty good, actually." Then she linked her hands around her barely swollen belly and puffed out her cheeks as if to say Fat... "I've just got this last case to finish up on. Then, who knows, I might even take some time off."

 

 

"I'll believe that when I see it." Cindy chortled. Claire and I mooned our eyes in support.

 

 

"Well, you just might be surprised," Jill said.

 

 

"So what're you gonna do?" Claire turned to me as we got up to leave.

 

 

"Keep trying to link the victims. They'll connect."

 

 

She kept her eyes on me. "I meant about your dad."

 

 

"I don't know. It's a bad time, Claire. Now Marty comes barging in. If he wants a dispensation, he can wait in line."

 

 

Claire stood up. She shot me one of her wise smirks.

 

 

"You obviously have a suggestion," I said.

 

 

"Naturally. Why not do what you normally do in situations of doubt and stress?"

 

 

"And that is... "

 

 

"Cook the man a meal."

 

 

Chapter 56.

 

 

THAT AFTERNOON, Cindy hunched in front of her computer at the Chronicle, sipping a Stewart's Orange n' Cream, as she scrolled down another futile query.

 

 

Somewhere, in the deepest bin of her memory there was something she had filed away: a nagging recollection she couldn't place. Chimera... the word used in another context, some other form that would help the case.

 

 

She'd gone through CAL, the Chronicle's on-line archives, and come back with zilch. She had browsed through the usual search engines: Yahoo, Jeeves, Google. Her antennae were buzzing on high mode. She felt, as did Lindsay, that this fantastical monster led somewhere other than hate groups. It led to one very twisted and clever individual.

 

 

C'mon. She exhaled, jabbing the enter key in frustration. I know you're in here somewhere.

 

 

The day was nearly gone, and she'd come up with nothing. Not even a lead for tomorrow morning's edition. Her editor would be pissed. We have readers, he would grumble.

 

 

Readers want continuity. She'd have to promise him something. But what? The investigation was stalled.

 

 

When she found it, she was in Google, wearily eyeing down the eighth page of responses. It hit her like a slap.

 

 

Chimera... Hellhole, an expose of prison life in Pelican Bay, by Antoine James. Posthumous publication of prison hardships, cruelties, life of crime.

 

 

Pelican Bay. Pelican Bay was where they threw the worst of the worst troublemakers in the California prison system. Violent offenders who couldn't be controlled anywhere else.

 

 

She remembered now that she had read about Pelican Bay in the Chronicle, maybe two years before. That was where she'd heard of Chimera. It was how it fit. That was what had been needling her.

 

 

She spun her chair over to the CAL terminal on a nearby shelf. She pushed her glasses up on her forehead and typed in the query Antoine James.

 

 

Five seconds later, a response came up. One article, August 10, 1998. Two years before. Written by Deb Meyer, a Sunday section feature writer. Headlined: "POSTHUMOUS JOURNAL DETAILS NIGHTMARE WORLD OF VIOLENCE BEHIND BARS."

 

 

She clicked on the display bar, and in another few seconds a facsimile of the article flashed on the screen. It was a Lifestyle article in a Sunday Metro section. Antoine James, while serving a ten-to-fifteen sentence at Pelican Bay for armed robbery had been stabbed and killed in a prison squabble. He had kept a journal detailing the unsettling story of life on the inside, alleging a routine of forced snitching, racial attacks, beatings by guards, and perpetual gang violence.

 

 

She printed the article, closed out of CAL, and spun her chair back across to her desk. She leaned back in her chair and rested her feet on a stack of books. She scanned the page.

 

 

"From the moment they process you through the doors, life in Pelican Bay is a constant war of guard intimidation and gang violence," James had written in a black composition book. "The gangs provide your status, your identity, your protection, too. Everyone pledges out, and whatever group you belong to controls who you are and what's expected of you."

 

 

Cindy's eyes raced further down. The prison was a viper's nest of gangs and retaliation. The blacks had the Bloods and the Daggers, as well as the Muslims. The Latinos had the Nortenos in their red headbands and the Serranos in their blue, and the Mexican Mafia, Los Eme. Among the whites, there were the Guineas and the Bikers, and some white-trash shitbags called the Stinky Toilet People. And the supremacist Aryans.

 

 

"Some of the groups were ultra-secret," James wrote.

 

 

"Once you were in, nobody touched you.

 

 

"One of these white groups was particularly nasty All max guys, serving violent felony time. They'd cut a brother open just to bet on what he had to eat."

 

 

Adrenaline shot through Cindy as she stopped on the next sentence.

 

 

James had a name for the group Chimera.

 

 

Chapter 57.

 

 

I WAS JUST FINISHING UP for the day - nothing further on the four victims and the white chalk still a mystery - when I got a call from Cindy.

 

 

"The Hall still under martial law?" she quipped, referring to the mayor's moratorium on the press.

 

 

"Trust me, it's no picnic on the inside either."

 

 

"Why don't you meet me? I've got something."

 

 

"Sure. Where?"

 

 

"Look out your window. I'm right outside."

 

 

I peered out and saw Cindy leaning on a car parked outside the Hall. It was almost seven. I cleared my desk, called a quick good-night to Lorraine and Chin, and ducked out the rear entrance. I ran across the street and went up to Cindy.

 

 

She was in a short skirt and embroidered jean jacket, with a faded khaki knapsack slung over her shoulder.

 

 

"Choir practice?" I winked.

 

 

"You should talk. Next time I see you in SWAT gear, I'll assume you have a date with your dad."

 

 

"Speaking of Marty, I called him. I asked him over tomorrow night. So, Deep Throat, what's so important that we're meeting out here?"

 

 

"Good news, bad news," Cindy said. She pulled off her knapsack and came up with an 8 x 11 envelope. "I think I found it, Lindsay."

 

 

She handed me the envelope, and I opened it: a Chronicle article dated two years ago about a prison diary Hellhole, by someone named Antoine James. A few passages were highlighted in yellow. I began to read.

 

 

"Aryan... worse than Arvan. All max guys. White, bad, and hating. We didn't know who they hated worse, us, the '' they had to share their meals with, or the cops and guards who had put them there.

 

 

"These bastards had a name for themselves. They called themselves Chimera."

 

 

My eyes fixed on the word.

 

 

"They're animals, Lindsay. The worst troublemakers in the penal system. They're even committed to carrying out each other's hits on the outside.

 

 

"That's the good news," she said. "The bad news is, it's Pelican Bay."

 

 

Chapter 58.

 

 

IN THE ANATOMY of the California state prison system, Pelican Bay was the place where the sun don't shine.

 

 

The following day, I took Jacobi and "req'd" a police helicopter for the hour's flight up the coast to Crescent City, near the Oregon border. I had been to Pelican Bay twice before, to meet with a snitch on a murder case and attend a parole hearing for someone I had put away. Each time, as I flew over the dense redwood forest surrounding the facility, it left a hole in the pit of my stomach.

 

 

If you were a law-enforcement agent - especially a woman - this was the kind of place you didn't want to go.

 

 

There's a sign, as they process you through the front gate, warning that if you're taken hostage you're on your own. No negotiations.

 

 

I had arranged to meet with the assistant warden, Roland Estes, in the main administrative building. He kept us waiting for a few minutes. When he showed up, Estes was tall and serious, with a hard face and tight blue eyes. He had that clenched-fist unconfidingness that comes from years of living under the highest discipline.

 

 

"I apologize for being late," he said, taking a seat behind his large oak desk. "We had a disturbance down in O block. One of our resident Nortenos stabbed a rival in the neck."

 

 

"How'd he get the knife?" Jacobi asked.

 

 

"No knives." Estes smiled thinly. "He used the filed-down edge of a gardening hoe."

 

 

I wouldn't have had Estes's job for a heartbeat, but I also didn't like the reputation this place had for beatings, intimidation, and the motto "Snitch, Parole, or Die." "So, you said this was related to Chief Mercer's murder, Lieutenant?" The warden leaned forward.

 

 

I nodded, removing a case file from my bag. "To a possible string of murders. I'm interested in what you may know about a prison gang here."

 

 

Estes shrugged. "Most of these inmates have been in gangs from the time they were ten. You'll find that every territory or gang domain that exists in Oakland or East L.A. exists here."

 

 

"This particular gang is called Chimera," I said.

 

 

Estes registered no immediate surprise. "No starting with the small stuff, huh, Lieutenant? So what is it you want to know?"

 

 

"I want to know if these murders lead to these men in Chimera. I want to know if they're as bad as they're made out to be. And I want to know the names of any reputed members who are now on the outside."

 

 

"The answer to all of that is yes." Estes nodded flatly.

 

 

"It's a sort of a trial by fire. Prisoners who can take the worst we can dish out. The ones who have been in the SHU's, isolation, for a substantial time. It earns them rank - and certain privileges."

 

 

"Privileges?"

 

 

"Freedom. In the way we define it here. From being debriefed. From snitching."

 

 

"I'd like a list of any paroled members of this gang." The warden smiled. "Not many get paroled. Some get transferred to other facilities. I suspect there are Chimera offshoots at every max facility in the state. And it's not like we have a file of who's in and who's not. It's more like who gets to sit next to the Big Mother fucker at mess."

 

 

"But you know don't you? You know who's in."

 

 

"We know." The warden nodded. He stood up as if our interview had come to an end. "It'll take some time. Some of this I need to consult on. But I'll see what I can do."

 

 

"While I'm here, I might as well meet with him."

 

 

"Who, Lieutenant?"

 

 

"The Big Mother fucker. The head of Chimera."

 

 

Estes looked at me. "Sorry Lieutenant, no one gets to do that. No one gets into the Pool."

 

 

I looked Estes in the eyes. "You want me to come back with a state order to get it done? Listen, our chief of police is dead. Every politician in this state wants this guy caught. I've got backing all the way. You already know that. Bring the bastard up."

 

 

The warden's taut face relaxed. "Be my guest, Lieutenant. But he doesn't leave. You go to him."

 

 

Estes picked up his phone and dialed a number. After apause, he muttered sharply

 

 

"Get Weiscz ready. He has a visitor. It's a woman."

 

 

Chapter 59.

 

 

WE WENT THROUGH a long underground walkway accompanied by Estes and a club-toting head guard named O'Koren.

 

 

When we came to a stairway marked SHU-C, the warden led us up, waving at a security screen, then through a heavy compression door that opened into the ultramodern prison ward.

 

 

Along the way he filled me in. "Like most of our inmates, Weiscz came in from another facility. Folsom. He was the leader of the Aryan Brotherhood there, until he strangled a black guard. He's been isolated here for eighteen months now. Until we start sending people to the death house in this state, there's nothing more we can do to him."

 

 

Jacobi leaned over and whispered, "You sure of what you're doing here, Lindsay?"

 

 

I wasn't sure. My heart was starting to gallop, and my palms had busted out in a nervous sweat. "That's why I brought you along."

 

 

"Yeah, "Jacobi muttered.

 

 

Pelican Bay's isolation unit was unlike anything I had ever seen. Everything was painted a dull, sterile white. Burly khaki-uniformed guards, of both sexes but uniformly white, manned glassed-in command posts.

 

 

Monitors and security cameras were everywhere. Everywhere. The unit was configured like a pod with ten cells, the compression-sealed doors tightly shut.

 

 

Warden Estes stopped in front of a metal door with a large window. "Welcome to ground zero of the human race," he said.

 

 

A muscular, balding senior guard holding a face visor and some sort of Uzi-like taser gun came up. "Weiscz had to be extracted, Warden. I think he'll need a few moments to loosen up."

 

 

I looked up at Estes. "Extracted?"

 

 

Estes sniffed. "You would think after being holed up a couple of months, he'd be happy to get out. Just so you know what's coming next, Weiscz was uncooperative. We had to send a team in to pretty him up for you."

 

 

He nodded toward the window. "There's your man... "

 

 

I stepped in front of the solid pressure-sealed door.

 

 

Strapped to a metal chair, his feet bound in irons, his hands cuffed from behind, hunched a hulking, muscular shape. His hair was long and oily and straggly and he wore a thin, unkempt goatee. He was dressed in an orange short-sleeved jumpsuit, open at the chest, revealing ornate tattoos covering his pumped-up arms and chest.

 

 

The warden said, "There'll be a guard in there with you and you'll be monitored at all times. Stay away from him. Don't get closer than five feet. If he as much as juts his chin in your direction, he'll be immobilized."

 

 

"The guy's bound and chained," I said.

 

 

"This sonofabitch eats chains," Estes said. "Believe it."

 

 

"Anything I can promise him?"

 

 

"Yeah." Estes smirked. "A Happy Meal. You ready...?"

 

 

I winked at Jacobi, who widened his eyes in caution. My heart nearly stopped, like a skeet target exploded out of the sky.

 

 

"Bon voyage," Estes muttered. Then he signaled the control booth. I heard a ka-shoosh as the heavy compression door unlocked.

 

 

Chapter 60.

 

 

I STEPPED INTO THE STARK WHITE CELL. It was completely empty except for a metal table and four chairs, all bolted to the floor, and two security cameras high up on the walls. In a corner stood a silent, tight-lipped guard holding a stun gun.

 

 

Weiscz barely acknowledged me. His legs were fastened and his hands tightly cuffed behind the chair. His eyes had a steely inhuman quality to them.

 

 

"I'm Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer," I said, stopping about five feet from him.

 

 

Weiscz said nothing, only tilted his eyes toward me. Narrow, almost phosphorescent slits.

 

 

"I need to talk to you about some murders that have taken place. I can't promise you much. I'm hoping you'll hear me out. Maybe help."

 

 

"Blow me," he spat with a hoarse voice.

 

 

The guard took a step toward him, and Weiscz stiffened as if he'd taken a jolt from the taser. I put up my hand to hold him back.

 

 

"You may know something about them," I continued, a chill shooting down my spine. "I just want to know if they make sense to you. These killings... "

 

 

Weiscz looked at me curiously probably trying to size up if there was something he could get from this. "Who's dead?"

 

 

"Four people. Two cops. One was my chief of police. A widow and an eleven-year-old girl. All black." An amused smile settled over Weiscz's face. "In case you haven't noticed, lady, my alibi's airtight."

 

 

"I'm hoping you may know something about them, then."

 

 

"Why me?"

 

 

From my jacket pocket, I took out the same two chimera photos I had shown Estes and held them in front of his face.

 

 

"The killer's been leaving these behind. I believe you know what it means."

 

 

Weiscz grinned broadly. "I don't know what you came in here for, but you don't fucking know how that warms my heart."

 

 

"The killer's a Chimera, Weiscz. You cooperate, you could gain back some privileges. They can always move you out of this hole."

 

 

"Both of us know I'll never get out of this hole."

 

 

"There's always something, Weiscz. Everybody wants something."

 

 

"There is something," he finally said. "Come closer."

 

 

My body stiffened. "I can't. You know that."

 

 

"You got a mirror, don't you?"

 

 

I nodded. I had a makeup mirror in my purse.

 

 

"Shine it on me."

 

 

I looked at the guard. His head twitched a firm no.

 

 

For the first time, Weiscz looked in my eyes. "Shine it on me. I haven't seen myself in over a year. Even the shower fixtures are dulled here so you can't see a reflection. These bastards just want you to forget who the fuck you were. I want to see."

 

 

The guard stepped forward. "You know that's impossible, Weiscz."

 

 

"Fuck you, Labont." He glared viciously up at the cameras.

 

 

"Fuck you, too, Estes." Then he turned back to me. "They didn't send you in here with much to bargain with, did they?"

 

 

"They said I could take you out for a Happy Meal," I said with a slight smile.

 

 

"Just you and me, huh?"

 

 

I glanced at the guard. "And him."

 

 

Weiscz's goatee split into a smile. "These bastards, they know how to ruin everything."

 

 

I stood there nervously. I didn't laugh. I didn't want to show the slightest empathy for him.

 

 

But I sat myself at the table across from Weiscz. I fumbled in my bag, took out a compact. I expected any minute a loud voice was going to blare over the intercom, or the stone-faced guard was going to rush over and knock it away. To my amazement, no one interfered. I cracked the compact open, looked at Weiscz, then I turned it toward him.

 

 

I don't know what he looked like before, but he was a horrific sight now. He stared at himself, wide-eyed, the truth of his harsh confinement setting in. He fixed on the mirror as if it were the last thing he would see on earth. Then he looked at me and grinned. "Not much to go on, for that blow-me thing, is there?"

 

 

I don't know why but I gave him a begrudging smile.

 

 

Then he twisted his neck around to the cameras. "Fuck you, Estes," he roared. "See? I'm still there. You try to squeeze me out, but I'm still there. The reckoning is going on without me. Chimera, baby... Glory to the unstained hand who stills the rabble and swarm.

 

 

"Who would do this?" I pressed. "Tell me, Weiscz." He knew I knew he knew. Someone he had shared a cell with.

 

 

Someone he had traded histories with in a prison yard.

 

 

"Help me, Weiscz. Someone you know is killing these people. You've got nothing to gain anymore.

 

 

His eyes lit up with a sudden fury. "You think I give a shit about your dead niggers? Your dead cops? Soon the state will be gathering them up anyway. Putting them in pens. A twelve-year-old nigger whore, some monkeys dressed up as cops. I only wish it was my finger on the trigger. We both know, whatever I say to you, I'll never get as much as a second meal out of these bastards. The minute you leave, Labont's gonna stun me anyway. There's a better chance you'll suck my dick."

 

 

I shook my head, stood up, and motioned for the door.

 

 

"Maybe one of your own assholes has come to his senses," he yelled with a smirk. "Maybe that's what it was, an inside job."

 

 

A tremor of rage burned through me. Weiscz was an animal. There wasn't an ounce of humanity in him. All I wanted to do was slam the door in his face. "I did give something to you, even if it was for a moment," I said.

 

 

"And don't be so sure you didn't get something in return. You'll never catch him. He's Chimera... " Weiscz jerked his head down to his chest, pointing at a tattoo high on his shoulder. All I could make out was the tail of a snake. "We can endure as much as you can dish, copper lady. Look at me... They stuff me in this hellhole, they make me eat my own shit, but I can still win." Suddenly, he was loud and angry again, twisting at his restraints. "Victory comes in the end. God's grace is the white race. Long live Chimera."

 

 

I moved away from him, and Weiscz twisted defiantly.

 

 

"So what about that Happy Meal, bitch?"

 

 

As I got to the door, I heard a zap followed by a garbled grunt, and turned as the guard pumped a thousand watts into Weiscz's twitching chest.

 

 

Chapter 61.

 

 

WE CAME BACK TO TOWN with a few names, courtesy of Estes. Recent parolees thought to be members of Chimera.

 

 

Back at the Hall, Jacobi parceled out the list to Cappy and Chin.

 

 

"I'm gonna start calling a few PQ's," he said to me. "You want to join?

 

 

I shook my head. "I have to leave early, Warren.

 

 

"Whatsamatter, don't tell me you got a date?"

 

 

"Yeah." I nodded. No doubt my face sort of lit into an incredulous smile. "I've got a date."

 

 

The downstairs buzzer rang about seven.

 

 

When I opened the door, my father was peeking out from behind a catcher's mask, his hands outstretched in a defensive pose. "Friends...?" he asked, an apologetic smile sneaking through.

 

 

"Dinner... " I smiled begrudgingly "That's the best I can do." "That's a start," he said, stepping in. He had cleaned himself up. He was wearing a brown sport jacket, pressed pants, an open-collared white shirt. He handed me a bottle of red wine wrapped in paper.

 

 

"You didn't have to," I said, unfurling the wine, then gasping in surprise as I read the label. It was a first-growth Bordeaux, Chateau Latour, the year 1965. I looked at him; 1965 was the year I was born.

 

 

"I bought it a year after you were born. It was about the only thing I took with me when I left. I always figured we'd drink it on your graduation or something, maybe your wedding."

 

 

"You kept it all these years." I shook my head.

 

 

He shrugged. "Like I said, I bought it for you. Anyway, Lindsay, there's nothing I'd rather do than drink it here tonight."

 

 

Something warm rose inside me. "You're making it hard to continue to completely hate you.

 

 

"Don't hate me, Lindsay." He tossed me the catcher's mask.

 

 

"This doesn't fit. I don't ever want to have to use it again."

 

 

I took him into the living room, poured him a beer, and sat down. I had on a wine-colored Eileen Fisher sweater, my hair pulled up in a ponytail. His eyes seemed to twinkle at me.

 

 

"You look gorgeous, Buttercup," my father said.

 

 

When I scowled, he smiled. "I can't help it, you just do."

 

 

For a while we talked, Martha lying beside him as if he were an old friend. We talked about trivial things, things we knew. Who was left from his old cronies on the force. Cat, and her new daughter he hadn't seen. Whether Jerry Rice would call it quits. We skirted the subject of Mercer and the case.

 

 

And as if I were meeting someone for the first time, I found him different from what I imagined. Not garrulous and boastful and full of stories as I remembered, but humble and reserved. Almost contrite. And he still had his sense of humor.

 

 

"I've got something to show you," I said. I went into the hall closet and came back with the satin Giants baseball jacket he'd given me over twenty-five years before. It was embroidered with a number 24 and had the name Mays on the front chest.

 

 

My father's eyes flashed in surprise. "I'd forgotten about that. I got it from the equipment manager in nineteen sixty-eight." He held it in front of him and looked at it a long time, like an old relic that had made the past suddenly vivid. "You have any idea what that thing must be worth today?" "I always called it my inheritance," I told him.

 

 

Chapter 62.

 

 

I DID SALMON on the grill in a ginger-miso sauce, fried rice with peppers, leeks, and peas. I remembered that my father liked Chinese. We cracked the '65 Latour. It was a dream wine, silky and gemlike. We satin the alcove overlooking the bay. My father said it was the best bottle of wine he'd ever tasted.

 

 

The conversation gradually drifted toward more personal things. He asked what kind of man I had been married to, and I admitted, unfortunately, someone like himself. He asked if I resented him, and I had to tell him the truth. "Yeah. A lot, Dad." Gradually, we even talked about the case. I told him how tough it was to solve, how I held it against myself that I couldn't crack it. How I was sure it was a serial, but four murders into the case, I still had nothing.

 

 

We talked for three more hours, until after eleven, the wine bottle empty, Martha asleep at his feet. Every once in a while I had to remind myself that I was talking to my own father. That I was sitting across from him for the first time in my adult life. And slowly, I began to see. He was just a man who had made mistakes, and who had been punished for them. He was no longer someone I could blindly resent, or hate. He hadn't murdered anybody. He wasn't Chimera. By the standards I dealt with, his sins were forgivable.

 

 

Gradually, I could no longer hold back the question I'd been wanting to ask for so many years. "I have to know the answer to this. Why did you leave?"

 

 

He took a swallow of wine and leaned back against the couch. His blue eyes looked so sad. "There's nothing I could say that would make sense of it to you. Not now... You're a grown woman. You're on the force. You know how things get. Your mother and I... Let's just say we were never a good match, even for the old school. I had squandered most of what we had on the games. I had a lot of debts, borrowed money on the street. That's not exactly kosher for a cop. I did a lot of things I wasn't very proud of... as a man and as a cop."

 

 

I noticed his hands were trembling. "You know how sometimes, someone commits a crime simply because the situation gets so bad that one by one, the options just close off and they're unable to do anything else? That's how it was for me. The debts, what was going on on the job... I didn't see any other choice. I just left. I know it's a little late to say this, but I've regretted it every day of my life."

 

 

"And when Mom got sick.

 

 

"I was sorry when she got sick. But by then I had a new life, and no one made it seem like I was welcome to come back. "I thought it would hurt her more than help." "I know Mom always told me you were a pathological liar."

 

 

"That's the truth, Lindsay," my father said. I liked the way he admitted it. I liked my father, actually.

 

 

I had to get up, shift gears. I started taking the dishes into the kitchen. My chest was heaving. I felt like I might be going to cry. My father was back, and I was starting to realize how much I had missed him. In a crazy way I still wanted to be his girl.

 

 

My father helped with the dishes. I rinsed them off, and he loaded them in the dishwasher. We barely said a word. My whole body was vibrating.

 

 

When the dishes were done, we just sort of turned and met each other's eyes. "So where're you staying? " I asked.

 

 

"With an ex-cop buddy of mine, Ron Fazio. He used to be a district sergeant out in Sunset. He's got me on his couch."

 

 

I washed out a pasta pot. "I have a couch," I said.

 

 

Chapter 63.

 

 

ALL THE FOLLOWING DAY we pounded on the list of names Warden Estes and his people had given us. Two we crossed off immediately. A computer check indicated they had become re-associated with the California penal system, currently residing in other institutions.

 

 

Something Weiscz had said the day before had stuck in my head.

 

 

"I gave you something," I had said, as the convict raved about the white race.

 

 

"And I gave you something back," he had replied. The words hung in my mind. They had first hit me at two in the morning, and I rolled back to sleep. They had accompanied me on my morning drive. And they were still with me now. I gave you something back."

 

 

I slipped my feet out of my pumps and stared out my window at the freeway ramp starting to back up with traffic. I tried to retrace my encounter with Weiscz.

 

 

He was an animal who never had a chance of seeing the light of day. Still, I felt there had almost been a moment with him, a bond. All he wanted in that hellhole was to see what he looked like. I gave you something back.

 

 

So what did he give me?

 

 

"You think I give a shit about your dead niggers?" he had seethed. "Long live Chimera," he had hollered as they put him under.

 

 

Then, slowly, my mind settled on it.

 

 

"Maybe one of your own assholes has come to his senses. Maybe that's what it was, an inside job." -

 

 

I didn't know if I had gone off the deep end or what. Was I reaching for something that wasn't there? Was Weiscz actually telling me something he could never be held accountable for?

 

 

An inside job... I dialed Estes at Pelican Bay. "Any of your inmates up there ever been an ex-cop?" I asked.

 

 

"A cop." The warden paused.

 

 

"Yeah." I explained why I wanted to know.

 

 

"Excuse my French," Estes shot back, "but Weiscz was fucking with you. He was trying to get inside your head. The bastard hates cops."

 

 

"You didn't answer my question, Warden."

 

 

"A cop...?" Estes grunted a derisive snort.

 

 

"We had a bad narcotics inspector out of LA., Bellacora.

 

 

Shot three of his informants. But he was transferred out. To my knowledge, he's still in Fresno." I remembered reading about the Bellacora case. It was as dirty and low as law enforcement got.

 

 

"We had a customs inspector, Benes, who on the side was running a dope ring at San Diego Airport."

 

 

"Anyone else?"

 

 

"No, not in my six years."

 

 

"What about before that, Estes?"

 

 

He grunted impatiently. "How far back do you want me to go, Lieutenant?"

 

 

"How long has Weiscz been there?"

 

 

"Twelve years."

 

 

"Then that's how far."

 

 

It was clear the warden thought I was crazy. He hung up saying he would have to get back to me.

 

 

I put down the phone. This was wild - trusting Weiscz for anything. He hated cops. I was a cop. He probably hated women, too.

 

 

Suddenly, Karen, my secretary, burst in. She looked stunned. "Jill Bernhardt's assistant just called in. Ms. Bernhardt's collapsed."

 

 

"Collapsed...?"

 

 

Karen nodded blankly. "She's bleeding. Upstairs. She needs you up there, now."

 

 

Chapter 64.

 

 

I RACED DOWN THE HALL to the elevator and then to Jill's office.

 

 

As I charged in, she was on the couch, reclined.

 

 

An EMS team, which had fortunately been at the morgue, was already there. There were towels, bloody towels, stuffed under her dark blue skirt. Her face was averted, but she looked as gray and listless and afraid as I had ever seen her.

 

 

In an instant, it was clear what had happened.

 

 

"Oh, Jill," I said, kneeling beside her. "Oh, sweetie. I'm here."

 

 

She smiled when she saw me, slightly wary and afraid.

 

 

Her normally sharp blue eyes reflected the color of dismal skies. "I lost it, Lindsay," she said. "I should've quit work. I should've listened to them. To you. I thought I wanted the baby more than anything, but maybe I didn't. I lost it."

 

 

"Oh, Jill." I grasped her hand. "It wasn't you. Don't say that. This was medical. There was a chance of this. You knew that going in. There was always this risk."

 

 

"It was me, Lindsay." Her eyes suddenly welled with tears.

 

 

"I think I didn't want it badly enough."

 

 

A female EMS tech asked me to step away, and they hooked Jill up to an IV line and a monitor. My heart went out to her. She was usually so strong and independent. But I had seen a transformation in her; she had looked forward to this baby so much. How did she deserve this?

 

 

"Where's Steve, Jill?" I leaned down to her.

 

 

She sucked in a breath. "Denver. April reached him. He's on his way back."

 

 

Suddenly, Claire burst into the room. "I came as soon as I heard," she said. She glanced worriedly at me, then asked the med tech, "What do you have?" She was told that Jill's vitals were good, but she'd lost a lot of blood. When Claire mentioned the baby the technician shook her head.

 

 

"Oh, honey," Claire clasped Jill's hand, kneeling down.

 

 

"How're you feeling?"

 

 

Tears were running down Jill's face. "Oh, Claire, I lost it. I lost my baby."

 

 

Claire stroked a curl of damp hair off Jill's forehead.

 

 

"You're going to be all right. Don't worry. We're going to take good care of you."

 

 

"We have to move her now," the EMS tech said. "Her doctor's been called. She's waiting for us at Cal Pacific."

 

 

"We're going with you," I said. "We're gonna be with you all the way."

 

 

Jill forced a smile, then stiffened. "They're going to make me deliver, aren't they?"

 

 

"I don't think so," Claire replied.

 

 

"I know they are." Jill shook her head. She had more resolve than anyone I knew, but the scary truth forming in her eyes was something I'll remember the rest of my life.

 

 

The door opened, and another EMS tech wheeled in a gurney. "It's time to go," said the woman who'd been working on her.

 

 

I bent down close to Jill. "We're going to be with you," I said.

 

 

"Don't leave me," she said, and held my hand.

 

 

"You can't get rid of us that easily."

 

 

"Homicide Chicks, right?" Jill murmured with a tight smile.

 

 

They eased her onto the gurney. Claire and I helped. A bloody towel fell limply onto the floor of her spotless office.

 

 

"It's going to be a boy." Jill whispered, letting out a pained breath. "I wanted a boy." I guess I can admit it now."

 

 

I folded her hands gently on her lap.

 

 

"I just didn't want it badly enough," Jill said, and then she finally started to sob and couldn't stop.

 

 

Chapter 65.

 

 

WE RODE IN THE BACK of the EMS truck with Jill to the hospital, ran alongside the gurney as they wheeled her up to obstetrics, and waited as her doctors tried to save the child.

 

 

As they moved her into the OR,, she gripped my hand.

 

 

"They always seem to win," she murmured. "No matter how many of these bastards you put away, they always find a way to win."

 

 

Cindy had rushed down, and the three of us hung there waiting to see Jill. About two hours later, her husband, Steve, hurried in. We exchanged some awkward hugs, and part of me wanted to tell him, Don't you fucking realize this baby was for you? When the doctor came out, we let them be alone.

 

 

Jill was right. She had lost the baby. They called it a placental abruption, made worse from the stress of the job. The only good news was that the fetus had been removed surgically. Jill hadn't had to deliver it.

 

 

Afterward, Claire, Cindy and I filed out of the hospital onto California Street. No one wanted to go home. There was this Japanese place nearby that Cindy knew. We went there and sat around drinking beer and sake.

 

 

It was hard to accept that Jill, who worked tirelessly at the office, who rock-climbed at Moab and biked the rough terrain in Sedona, had twice been denied a child.

 

 

"The poor girl's just too damn hard on herself." Claire sighed, warming her hands with her sake cup. "We all told her she had to ratchet it down."

 

 

"Jill doesn't have that gear," said Cindy -.

 

 

I picked up a California roll and turned it over an dover in the sauce. "She did it to please Steve. You could see it on her face. She keeps that impossible schedule. She doesn't give anything up. And he's running around the country willing investment bankers."

 

 

"She loves him," protested Cindy. "They're a team."

 

 

"They're not a team, Cindy. Claire and Edmund are a team. The two of them, they're in a race.

 

 

"It's true," Claire agreed. "That girl always has to be number one. The girl can't fail."

 

 

"So which one of us is any different?" Cindy asked. She looked around. Waited.

 

 

There was a moment of protracted silence. Our gazes met with contrite smiles.

 

 

"But it's deeper than that," I said. "Jill's different. She's tough as nails, but in her heart she feels alone. Any of us could be where she is now. We're not invincible. Except you, Claire. You have this mechanism that just keeps it together, you and Edmund and your kids, like that fucking battery rabbit, on and on and on." Claire smiled. "Someone has to provide the balance around here. You saw your dad last night, didn't you?"

 

 

I nodded. "It went pretty well. I guess. We talked, we got some things out." "No fisticuffs?" Cindy asked.

 

 

"No fisticuffs." I smiled. "When I opened the door, he had on a catcher's mask. I'm serious."

 

 

Claire and Cindy laughed out loud.

 

 

"He brought me this bottle of wine. Fancy French first-growth. Nineteen sixty-five. He bought it the year I was born. Kept it all these years. How do you figure that? He never even knew if he'd ever see me again." "He knew he'd see you again," Claire said with a smile.

 

 

She sipped her sake. "You're his beautiful daughter. He loves you." "So how'd you leave it, Lindsay?" Cindy asked.

 

 

"I guess you could say we agreed to a second date. Actually, I told him he could stay with me for a while."

 

 

Cindy and Claire both blinked.

 

 

"We told you to loosen up and see him, Lindsay."

 

 

Cindy snorted. "Not ask him to share the rent."

 

 

"What can I tell you? He was camped out on someone's couch. It seemed like the right thing to do."

 

 

"It is, honey." Claire smiled. "Here's to you.

 

 

"Uh-uh." I shook my head. "Here's to Jill." "Yeah, here's to Jill," Cindy said, lifting her beer.

 

 

We all clinked. Then it was quiet for a moment or two.

 

 

"I don't mean to change the subject," Cindy said, "but you want to share where you are on the case?"

 

 

I nodded. "We're looking into the Chimera names Warden Estes gave us. But today I came up with a new theory."

 

 

"New theory?" Cindy wrinkled her brow.

 

 

I nodded. "Look, this guy's a trained shooter.

 

 

He's made no mistakes. He's been one step ahead of us on every move. He knows how we work."

 

 

Cindy and Claire were listening. Not a word. I told them what Weiscz had said to me. An inside job.

 

 

"What if Chimera isn't a crazy racist killer from one of these radical groups?" I leaned forward. "What if he's a cop?"

 

 

Chapter 66.

 

 

IN A DARK BAR, Chimera sipped his Guinness. The best for the best, he thought.

 

 

Next to him, a white-haired man with a blotchy red, dry-as-parchment face was downing Tom Collinses, glancing up at the TV. The news was on. An insipid reporter was giving the latest on the Chimera case, getting it all wrong, insulting the public, insulting him.

 

 

He kept his eyes peeled across the street through the bar's large window. He had followed the next victim here. This one he would relish. All those cops, chasing down the wrong leads. This kill would really set them on their heels.

 

 

"It's not over," he muttered under his breath. And don't ever get the idea that I'm predictable. I'm not.

 

 

The drunk old-timer next to him gave him a nudge. "I think the bastard's one of them," he said.

 

 

"One of them?" Chimera asked. "Watch your elbows. And what the hell are you talking about?"

 

 

"Black as the ace of spades," the old man said. "They're combing through those hate groups. Ha, what a laugh. This is some sick jungle bunny minus one jar on the shelf. Probably plays in the NFL. Hey Ray." he called to the bartender.

 

 

"Probably plays in the NFL... " "What makes you say that?" Chimera asked, his eyes flicking across the street. He was curious about what his public was thinking. Maybe he ought to do more man-on-the-street interviews like this one.

 

 

"You think any motherfucker with a set of brains would leave clues like that?" the old man whispered conspiratorially.

 

 

"I think you're jumping a little fast, old-timer."

 

 

Chimera finally grinned. "I think this killer's pretty smart."

 

 

"How smart can you be to be a fucking murderer?" "Smart enough not to get caught," Chimera said.

 

 

The man scowled at the screen. "Yeah, well, when it comes out, you watch. They're looking under the wrong rug. There's gonna be one big surprise. Maybe it's O.J. Hey, Ray, someone should check if O. J.'s in town."

 

 

He had taken just about as much as he could of the drunk. But the guy was right about one thing. The San Francisco cops were lost in space. Man, they didn't have a clue.

 

 

Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer was nowhere on this. Not even close to him.

 

 

"I'll bet you something." Chimera grinned at the old man.

 

 

He put his face close to him, his eyes wide. "If they catch him, I'll bet you he has green eyes.

 

 

Suddenly across the street, he spotted his target on the street. Well, maybe this will help Lieutenant Boxer focus. A hit real close to home. A little sidebar that he just couldn't resist. He tossed a few dollars on the bar.

 

 

"Hey, what's the rush?" The old man turned to him. "Let me buy you another brew. Hey what the hell, you got green eyes, buddy."

 

 

Chimera spun out of his seat. "Gotta go. There's my date."

 

 

Chapter 67.

 

 

ON THE LONG DRIVE HOME, Claire Washburn kept coming back to what had happened to poor Jill. The whole ride down 101 to her home in Burlingame, she couldn't put the terrible thought away.

 

 

She exited the highway at Burlingame and wound her way up into the hills. Her head pounded with weariness. It had been such a long day. These terrible murders, pulling the city apart. Then Jill losing her baby.

 

 

The digital clock on the dashboard said twenty past ten. Edmund was playing tonight. He wouldn't be back until sometime after eleven. She wished he would be home.

 

 

Tonight of all nights.

 

 

Claire swung onto Skytop and, a few yards later, into the driveway of her modern Georgian home. The house was dark; that's how it was these days now that Reggie was away at college. Willie, her high school sophomore, was no doubt in his room playing video games.

 

 

All she wanted to do was to peel off her work clothes and slip quietly into her pajamas. Put an end to this horrible day... Inside, Claire called out for Willie and, hearing no response, flashed through the mail on the kitchen table and brought it into the study. She leafed absently through a Ballard Designs catalog.

 

 

The phone rang. Claire tossed down the catalog and picked up the phone. Hello... "

 

 

There was a hollow pause, as if someone were waiting.

 

 

Maybe one of Willie's friends.

 

 

"Hello...?" Claire called again. "Once, twice... last time. Still no answer. "Good-bye."

 

 

She placed the phone back on the receiver.

 

 

A shiver of nervousness went through her. Even after all these years, when she was alone in the house, an unexpected noise, the lights on in the basement, sent a tremor through her.

 

 

The phone rang again. This time, she picked it up quickly.

 

 

"Hello... " Another annoying pause. This was starting to get her pissed. "Who is this?" she demanded.

 

 

"Take a guess," a male voice said.

 

 

Claire's breath came to a stop. She glanced at her caller ID.

 

 

"Listen, 901-4476," she said, "I don't know what your game is or how you got our number. If you've got something to say, say it fast."

 

 

"You know about Chimera?" the voice replied. "You're speaking to him. Aren't you honored?"

 

 

Claire froze. She arched upright in her chair. Her mind shot into gear: Chimera was a police department name. Had it ever been in print? Who knew she was involved in the investigation?

 

 

She pressed a separate line, about to punch in 911. "You better tell me who this really is," she said.

 

 

"I told you" The little black choir girl was number one," the voice replied. "The old bitch, the fat, unsuspecting cop, the boss... You know what they all had in common, don't you? Think about it, Claire Washburn. Do you have anything in common with the first four victims?"

 

 

Claire's body had begun to shake. Her mind drew a picture of the elaborate shots that had killed two of the victims.

 

 

Her eyes shifted outside the study window, to the darkness around her house.

 

 

The voice came back, "Lean a little to the left, huh, Doe?"

 

 

Chapter 68.

 

 

CLAIRE SPUN just as the first bullet splintered through the glass.

 

 

A second shot shattered the study window, and Claire felt burning pain sear her neck. She was down on the floor as a third and fourth shot exploded into the room.

 

 

A startled cry came from her throat. There was blood on the floor, blood from her own neck, seeping onto her dress, her hands. Her heart beat madly. How bad was it? Had it severed the carotid artery?

 

 

Then she looked to the doorway and her blood froze.

 

 

Willie.

 

 

"Mom!" he exclaimed. His eyes were bulging with fear.

 

 

He was only wearing a T-shirt and briefs. He was a target.

 

 

"Willie, get down," she screamed at him. "Someone's shooting at the house."

 

 

The boy dove to the floor, and Claire scrambled over to him. "It's okay. Just stay down. Let me think," she whispered.

 

 

"Don't you raise your head an inch."

 

 

The pain in her neck was excruciating, like the skin had been sheared off. She could breathe, though. If the bullet had pierced her carotid, she'd be choking. The gash was surface, had to be.

 

 

"Mom, what's going on?" Willie whispered. His body was trembling like a leaf. She'd never seen him this way.

 

 

"I don't know. Just stay down, Willie."

 

 

Suddenly four more shots blazed from outside. She held her son tight. Whoever it was was shooting blindly, trying to hit anything. Did the killer know she was still alive? A jolt of panic set in; what if he came in the house? Did the killer know about her son? He knew her name!

 

 

"Willie," she gasped, cupping his head between her hands.

 

 

"Get down in the basement. Lock the door. Call nine one one. Crawl! Now! On your stomach!"

 

 

"I'm not going to leave you," he cried.

 

 

"Go," her voice replied sharply. "Go now. Do as I say. Stay down! I love you, Willie."

 

 

Claire pushed Willie forward. "Call nine one one. Tell them who you are and what's happening. Then call Dad in the car" He should be on his way home."

 

 

Willie shot her a last, pleading look, but he understood.

 

 

He crawled, face and body pressed to the floor. Good boy Your mother didn't raise any dumb ones.

 

 

Another blast of gunfire came from outside. Sucking in a breath, Claire pleaded, "Please, God, don't let that bastard come into our house. Don't let that happen, I beg you."

 

 

Chapter 69.

 

 

CHIMERA SQUEEZED OFF four more rounds through the shattered window, smoothly swiveling the PSG-1 rifle in his hands.

 

 

He knew he'd hit her. Not with the first shot; she had spun around at the last second. But with the next one, as she was trying to hit the deck. He just didn't know if he had done the job. He wanted to send a message to Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, and just wounding her friend wasn't good enough.

 

 

Claire Washburn had to die.

 

 

He sat in the cover of the dark street, the barrel of the rifle protruding from the car window. He needed to make sure she was dead, but, damn it, he didn't want to go into the house.

 

 

She had a son, and he might be in there. One of them might have called 911.

 

 

Suddenly outside lights flashed from a house down the street. At another, someone stepped out onto the lawn.

 

 

"Goddamnit," he seethed. "Son of a bitch." Part of him wanted to charge the shattered window and spray the room with a barrage. Washburn had to die. He didn't want to leave without finishing her.

 

 

From behind him came noise. A car turned wildly onto the street, its horn blaring, bright lights flickering on and off.

 

 

The car sped toward him like some meteor barreling right into his sight.

 

 

"What the hell is this now?"

 

 

Maybe she had called the cops. Maybe as soon as they heard the shots, the neighbors had. He couldn't risk it. She wasn't the one he would put himself on the line for. He wasn't going to get caught.

 

 

The honking, flashing car spun sharply into the driveway of the house. It screeched to a halt. The neighbors began to emerge from their homes.

 

 

He slammed the wheel with his hand and pulled in his gun. He put his car in gear and floored it.

 

 

It was the first time he had messed up. Ever. Jesus, he never made mistakes.

 

 

You're lucky, Doe. But you were target practice anyway.

 

 

It was the next one that mattered.

 

 

Chapter 70.

 

 

I HAD TAKEN OFF MY MAKEUP and curled up to watch the late news when Edmund's call came.

 

 

Claire's husband was frantic, stammering. The impossibility of what he was struggling to describe slammed into me with the force of a train. "She'll be all right, Lindsay. She's at Peninsula Hospital now."

 

 

I yanked a fleece pullover over my head, tugged on some jeans, and, throwing a top hat on the roof of the car, raced down to Burlingame. I made the forty-minute drive in under twenty minutes.

 

 

I found Claire still in one of the treatment rooms, sitting upright, dressed in the same rust-colored suit I had left her in only three hours before. A doctor was applying a bandage to her neck. Edmund and Willie were by her side.

 

 

"Jesus, Claire... " was all I could manage, my eyes hot and moist. I melted into Edmund, resting my head on his shoulder, and gave him my warmest, most grateful hug. Then I threw my arms all over Claire.

 

 

"Go easy on the TLC, honey" She winced, jerking her neck. Then she managed a smile. "I always told you one day these fat cells would come in handy. It takes a helluva shot to reach anything vital in me."

 

 

I was still squeezing her. "Do you have any idea how lucky you are?"

 

 

"Yeah." She exhaled. I could see it in her eyes. "Believe me, I know."

 

 

The bullet had only grazed her. The ER doctor had cleaned the wound, bandaged it, and was releasing her without even keeping her overnight. Another inch, and we wouldn't have been talking now.

 

 

Claire reached out for Edmund's and Willie's hands and smiled. "My men did okay, didn't they? Both of them. Edmund's car scared the sniper away."

 

 

Edmund grimaced. "I should've chased that bastard myself. If I'd caught him... "

 

 

"Down, tiger." Claire smiled. "Let Lindsay be the heat.

 

 

You stay a drummer. I always told you," she said, squeezing his hand, "Rachmaninoff might be in his head, but when it comes to his heart, the man's all Doggy Dogg."

 

 

Almost at once, the reality of what had almost happened seemed to overwhelm him. Edmund's bravado melted away.

 

 

He sat down, just leaned against Claire for a while, and as he tried to speak, put a hand over his eyes. Claire held his hand without speaking.

 

 

A little more than an hour later, after going through the story with the Burlingame Police, we walked the grounds outside her house.

 

 

"It was him, wasn't it, Claire? It was Chimera." She nodded her head, yes. "He's a real cold sonofabitch, Lindsay. I heard him say, "Lean a little to the left, Doe.' Then he started firing."

 

 

Local cops and the San Mateo County sheriff's office were still scrambling all over the house and yard. I had already called Clapper to come down and lend a hand.

 

 

Claire said, "Why me, Lindsay?"

 

 

"I don't know, Claire. You're black. You work in law enforcement. I don't understand it myself. Why would he change his pattern?"

 

 

"We're talking calm and deliberate, Lindsay. It was like he was toying with me. He made it sound... personal." I thought I saw something I had never seen in her before. Fear. Who could blame her? "Maybe you should take some time off, Claire," I told her. "Stay out of sight."

 

 

"You think I'm gonna let him push me under a rock? That's not a possibility, Lindsay. No way I let him win."

 

 

I gave her a gentle hug. "You're okay?"

 

 

"I'm okay. He had his chance. Now I want mine."

 

 

Chapter 71.

 

 

I FINALLY DRAGGED MYSELF back to my apartment at sometime after two in the morning.

 

 

The events of the long, horrible day - Jill losing her child, Claire's terrifying ordeal - flipped by like some old-time nightmare film sequence. The man I was tracking had almost killed my best friend. Why Claire? What could it mean? Part of me felt responsible, dirtied by the crime.

 

 

My body ached. I wanted to sleep; I needed to wash away the day. Suddenly, the door to the guest bedroom opened, and my father shuffled out. In the madness of the day, I had almost forgotten he was here.

 

 

He was wearing a long white T-shirt and boxers with a seashell pattern. Somehow, with the deprivation of sleep, I found this funny.

 

 

"You're wearing boxers, Boxer," I said. "You're a witty old bastard." Then I told him what had happened. As a former cop, he would understand. Surprisingly, my father was a good listener. Just what I needed right about then.

 

 

He came around to my side of the couch. "You want coffee? I'll go make it, Lindsay."

 

 

"Brandy would do the trick better. But there's some Moonlight Sonata tea on the counter there if you're up to it." It was nice to have someone here, and he seemed eager to calm me.

 

 

I sank back in the couch, shut my eyes, and tried to figure out what I was going to do next. Davidson, Mercer and now Claire Washburn... Why would Chimera come after Claire?

 

 

What did it mean?

 

 

My father came back with a cup of tea and a snifter of Courvoisier two inches full. "I figure you're a big girl. So why not both."

 

 

I took a sip of tea, then drank about half the brandy in a gulp. "Oh, I needed that. Almost as much as I need a break on this case. He's leaving clues, but I still don't get it."

 

 

"Take it easy on yourself, Lindsay," my father said in the gentlest voice.

 

 

"What do you do," I asked, "when everyone in the world is watching and you have no idea what to do next? When you realize that whatever you're fighting isn't giving in, that you're fighting a monster?"

 

 

"That's about where we usually called in Homicide," my father said with a smile.

 

 

"Don't try to make me laugh," I begged. But my father had me smiling in spite of everything. Even more surprising to me, I was starting to think of him as my father.

 

 

His tone suddenly changed. "I can tell you what I did when it really got tough. I took off. You won't do that, Lindsay. I can tell. You're so much better than me."

 

 

He was looking squarely at me, no longer smiling.

 

 

What happened next, I would never have believed. My father's arms just sort of parted, and almost without resistance, I found myself burrowing into his shoulder. He wrapped his arms around me, a little tentatively at first, then, just like any father and any daughter, he squeezed me with tender care. I didn't resist. I could smell the same cologne he wore when I was a child. It felt both strange and, at the same time, like the most natural thing in the world.

 

 

Having my father hold me unexpectedly, it felt like layers of pain were suddenly stripped away.

 

 

"You're going to catch him, Lindsay," I heard him whisper, squeezing me and rocking"

 

 

"You will, Buttercup..

 

 

It was just what I needed to hear.

 

 

"Oh, Daddy," I said. Nothing more, though"

 

 

Chapter 72.

 

 

"LIEUTENANT BOXER." Brenda buzzed me early Monday. "Warden Estes from Pelican Bay Line two." I picked up the phone, not expecting much.

 

 

"You asked if we had ever had a policeman imprisoned here," Estes said.

 

 

I perked up immediately. "And?"

 

 

"Mind you, I don't give a shit about some lunatic ravings from Weiscz" But I did go back through the old files. There was a case here that might have some relevance. Twelve years ago. I was the warden at Soledad when this scum arrived here."

 

 

I took the phone off speaker, pressing the receiver to my ear.

 

 

"They had him here for five years. Two of them in iso.

 

 

Then they shipped him back to Quentin. A special case. You may even remember the name."

 

 

I picked up a pen and started racking my brain. A cop at Pelican? Quentin?

 

 

"Frank Coombs," Estes said.

 

 

I did recognize the name. It was like a headline flashing back from my youth. Coombs. A street cop, he had killed a kid in the projects some twenty years before. Got run up on charges. Sent away. To any San Francisco cop, his name was like a warning bell for the use of excessive force.

 

 

"Coombs turned into more of a bastard in prison than he was on the outside," Estes went on. "He choked a cell mate blue down in Quentin, which is why they shipped him here. After a stay in the SHU's, they were able to cure him of some of his antisocial tendencies."

 

 

Coombs... I wrote down the name. I couldn't remember anything about the case except that he had choked and killed this black kid.

 

 

"What makes you think this Coombs might fit?" I asked.

 

 

"As I said... " Estes cleared his throat. "I don't much care about Weiscz's ravings. What made me call was that I asked some of our staff. When he was here, Coombs was a charter member of that little group of yours.

 

 

"My group?"

 

 

"That's right, Lieutenant. Chimera."

 

 

Chapter 73.

 

 

YOU KNOW THE SAYING: when one door slams in your face, another one opens. Half an hour later, I rapped on my window for Jacobi. "What do you know about Frank Coombs?" I asked when he came into my office.

 

 

Warren shrugged. "Dirtbag street cop. Got some teenager in a stranglehold during a drug bust years ago. The kid died. Major departmental scandal when I was in uniform. Didn't he get a dime up in Quentin?"

 

 

"Uh-uh, twenty." I slid Coombs's personnel file toward him. "Now tell me something I can't find in here."

 

 

Warren opened the file. "As I remember, the guy was a tough cop, decorated, a solid arrest record, but at the same time, I figure this file's got enough OCC reprimands for excessive force to rival Rodney King."

 

 

I nodded. "Keep going."

 

 

"You read the file, Lindsay. He busted up a basketball game in one of the projects. Thought he recognized one of the players as some kid he put away for drugs but was spit back out. The kid said something to him, then he took off. Coombs went after him."

 

 

"We're talking about a black kid," I injected. "They gave him fifteen to twenty, second-degree manslaughter."

 

 

Jacobi blinked. "Where're we going with this, Lindsay?"

 

 

"Weiscz, Warren. At Pelican Bay I thought he was just ranting, but something he said stuck. Weiscz said he'd given me something. He said it sounded like an inside job."

 

 

"You dredged up this old file because Weiscz said it was an inside job?" Jacobi screwed his brow.

 

 

"Coombs was Chimera. He spent two years in the SHU's. Take a look. The guy had SWAT training. He was qualified for marksman status. He was an avowed racist. And he's out. Coombs was released from San Quentin a few months ago."

 

 

Jacobi sat there stone-faced. "You're still short a motive, Lieutenant. I mean, granted, the guy was a major asshole. But he was a cop. What would he have against other cops?"

 

 

"He pleaded self-defense, that the kid was resisting. No one backed him, Warren. Not his partner, not the other officers on the scene, not the brass.

 

 

"You think I'm reaching?" I grabbed the file, skimmed through, and stopped where I had circled something in red marker. "You said Coombs killed this kid in the projects?"

 

 

Jacobi nodded.

 

 

I pushed the page at him.

 

 

"Bay View, Warren. La Salle Heights. That's where he choked that kid. Those projects were torn down and rebuilt in nineteen ninety. They were renamed... "

 

 

"Whitney Young," Jacobi said.

 

 

Near where Tasha Catchings had been killed.

 

 

Chapter 74.

 

 

MY NEXT MOVE was to dial up Madeline Akers, assistant warden at San Quentin prison. Maddie was a friend. She told me what she knew about Coombs. "Bad cop, bad guy, real bad inmate. A cold sonofabitch." Maddie said she would ask around about him. Maybe Frank Coombs had told somebody what he planned to do once he got outside.

 

 

"Madeline, this absolutely can't leak out," I insisted.

 

 

"Mercer was a friend, Lindsay. I'll do anything I can. Give me a couple of days."

 

 

"Make it one, Maddie. This is vital. He's going to kill again."

 

 

For a long time I sat at my desk trying to piece together just what I had. I couldn't place Coombs at a crime scene. I had no weapon. I didn't even know where he was. But for the first time since Tasha Catchings was killed, I had the feeling I was onto something good.

 

 

My instinct was to ask Cindy to troll through the Chronicle's morgue for old stories. These events had happened more than twenty years before. Only a few people in the department were still around from those days.

 

 

Then I remembered I had someone who'd been there staying under my own roof.

 

 

I found my father watching the evening news when I walked through the door. "Hey," he called. "You're home at a decent hour. Solve your case?"

 

 

I changed my clothes, grabbed a beer from the fridge, then I pulled up a chair across from him.

 

 

"I need to talk to you about something." I looked in his eyes. "You remember a guy named Frank Coombs?"

 

 

My father nodded. "There's a name I haven't heard in a long time. Sure, I remember him. Cop who choked the kid over in the projects. They brought him up on murder charges. Sent him away."

 

 

"You were on the force, right?"

 

 

"Yes, and I knew him. Worst excuse for a cop I ever ran into. Some people were impressed with him. He made arrests, got things done. In his own way. It was different then. We didn't have review committees looking over our shoulder. Not everything we did got into the press."

 

 

"This kid he choked, Dad, he was fourteen."

 

 

"Why do you want to know about Coombs? He's in jail."

 

 

"Not any longer. He's out." I pulled my chair closer.

 

 

"I read that Coombs claimed he killed the kid in self-defense."

 

 

"What cop wouldn't? He said the kid tried to cut him with a sharp object he took to be a knife."

 

 

"You remember who he was partnered up with back then, Dad?"

 

 

"Jesus." My father shrugged. "Stan Dragula, as I recall. Yeah, he testified at the trial. But I think he died a few years back. No one wanted to work with Coombs. You were scared to walk through the neighborhoods with him."

 

 

"Was Stan Dragula white or black?" I asked.

 

 

"Stan was white," my father answered. '"I think Italian, or maybe Jewish."

 

 

That wasn't the answer I had been expecting. No one had backed Coombs up. But why was he killing blacks?

 

 

"Dad, if it is Coombs doing these things... if he is out for some kind of revenge, why against blacks?"

 

 

"Coombs was an animal, but he was also a cop. Things were different then. That famous blue wall of silence... Every cop is taught at the academy, Keep your yap shut. It'll be there for you. Well, it didn't hold up for Frank Coombs; it came tumbling down on him. Everyone was glad to give him up. We're talking, what, twenty years ago? The affirmative action thing on the force was strong. Blacks and Latinos were just starting to get placed in key positions. There was this black lobby group, the OFJ... " "Officers for justice," I said. "They're still around."

 

 

My father nodded. Tensions were strong. The OFJ threatened to strike. Eventually, there was pressure from the city, too. Whatever it was, Coombs felt he was handed over, hung out to dry."

 

 

It started coming clear to me. Coombs felt he had been railroaded by the black lobby of the department. He had chewed on his hatred in prison. Now twenty years later, he was back on the streets of San Francisco.

 

 

"Maybe, another time, this kind of thing might've been swept under the rug," I said. "But not then. The OFJ nailed him."

 

 

Suddenly, a sickening realization wormed into my brain.

 

 

"Earl Mercer was involved, wasn't he?"

 

 

My father nodded his head. "Mercer was Coombs's lieutenant."

 

 

Part III THE BLUE WALL OF SILENCE

 

 

Chapter 75.

 

 

THE NEXT MORNING, the case against Frank Coombs, which only a day ago had seemed flimsy, was bursting at the seams. I was pumped.

 

 

First thing, Jacobi rapped at my door. "One for your side, Lieutenant. Coombs is looking better and better."

 

 

"How so? You make any progress with Coombs's PO?"

 

 

"You might say He's gone, Lindsay. According to the PO, Coombs split from this transient hotel down on Eddy. No forwarding address, hasn't checked in, hasn't contacted his ex-wife."

 

 

I was disappointed that Coombs was missing, but it was also a good sign. I told Jacobi to keep looking.

 

 

A few minutes later, Madeline Akers called from San Quentin.

 

 

"I think I've got what you want," she announced. I couldn't believe she was responding so soon.

 

 

"Over the past year, Coombs was paired with four different cell mates. Two of them have been paroled, but I spoke with the other two myself. One of them told me to stuff it, but the other, this guy Toracetti... I almost didn't even have to tell him what I was looking for. He said the minute he heard on the news about Davidson and Mercer, he knew it was Coombs. Coombs told him he was going to blow the whole thing wide open again."

 

 

I thanked Maddie profusely. Tasha, Mercer, Davidson... It was starting to fit together.

 

 

But how did Estelle Chipman fit in?

 

 

A force took hold of me. I went outside and dug through the case files. It had been weeks since I'd looked at them.

 

 

I found it buried at the bottom. The personnel file I'd called up from Records: Edward C. Chipman.

 

 

In his thirty unremarkable years on the force, only one thing stood out.

 

 

He had been his district's representative to the OFJ... the Officers for justice.

 

 

It was time to put this on the record. I buzzed Chief Tracchio. His secretary, Helen, who had been Mercer's, said he was in a closed-door meeting. I told her I was coming up.

 

 

I grabbed the Coombs file and headed up the stairs to five.

 

 

I had to share this. I barreled into the chief's office.

 

 

Then I stopped, speechless.

 

 

To my shock, seated around the conference table were Tracchio, Special Agents Ruddy and Hull of the FBI, the press flack Carr, and Chief of Detectives Ryan.

 

 

I hadn't been invited to the latest task force meeting.

 

 

Chapter 76.

 

 

"THIS IS BULLSHIT," I said. "It's total crap. What is this - some kind of a men's club?"

 

 

Tracchio, Ruddy and Hull from the FBI, Carr, Ryan. Five boys seated around the table - minus me, the woman.

 

 

The acting chief stood up. His face was red. "Lindsay we were about to call you up."

 

 

I knew what this meant. What was going on. Tracchio was going to shift control on the case. My case. He and Ryan were going to hand it over to the FBI.

 

 

"We're at a critical moment in this case," Tracchio said.

 

 

"You're damn right," I cut him off. I swept my gaze over the group. "I know who it is."

 

 

Suddenly, all eyes turned my way. The boys were silent.

 

 

It was as if the lights had been cranked up, and my skin prickled as if it had been cauterized.

 

 

I leveled my eyes back on Tracchio. "You want me to lay it out for you? Or do you want me to leave?"

 

 

Seemingly dumbfounded, he pulled out a chair for me.

 

 

I didn't sit. I stood. Then I took them through everything, and I enjoyed it. How I had been skeptical at first, but then it began to fit. Chimera, Pelican Bay... Coombs's grudge against the police force. At the sound of Coombs's name, the departmental people's eyes grew wide. I linked the victims, Coombs's qualification as a marksman, how only a marksman could have made those shots.

 

 

When I finished, there was silence again. They just stared.

 

 

I wanted to pump my arm in victory.

 

 

Agent Ruddy cleared his throat. "So far, I haven't heard a thing that links Coombs directly to any of the crime scenes.

 

 

"Give me another day or two and you will," I said.

 

 

"Coombs is the killer."

 

 

Hull, Ruddy's broad-shouldered partner, shrugged optimistically toward the chief. "You want us to follow this up?"

 

 

I couldn't believe it. This was my case. My breakthrough. Homicide's. Our people had been murdered.

 

 

Tracchio seemed to mull it over. He pursed his thick lips as if he were sucking a last drop through a straw. Then he shook his head at the FBI man.

 

 

"That won't be necessary, Special Agent. This has always been a city case. We'll see it through with city personnel."

 

 

Chapter 77.

 

 

ONLY ONE THING was standing in the way now. We had to find Frank Coombs.

 

 

Coombs's prison file mentioned a wife, Ingrid, who had divorced him while he was in prison and remarried. It was a long shot. The PO said he hadn't been in touch. But long shots were coming in right now.

 

 

"C'mon, Warren." I nudged Jacobi. "You're coming with me. It'll be like old times."

 

 

"Aww ain't that sweet."

 

 

Ingrid Thiasson lived on a pleasant middle-class street off of Laguna.

 

 

We parked across the street, went up, and rang the bell.

 

 

No one answered. We didn't know if Coombs's wife worked, and there was no car in the driveway.

 

 

Just as we were about to head back, an old-model Volvo station wagon pulled into the driveway.

 

 

Ingrid Thiasson looked about fifty with stringy brown hair; she wore a plain, shapeless blue dress under a heavy gray sweater. She climbed out of the car and opened the rear hatch to unload groceries.

 

 

An old cop's wife, she ID'd us the minute we walked up.

 

 

"What do you people want with me?" she asked.

 

 

"A few minutes. We're trying to locate your ex-husband."

 

 

"You got nerve coming around here." She scowled, hoisting two bags in her arms.

 

 

"We're just checking all the possibilities," Jacobi said.

 

 

She snapped back, "Like I told his parole officer, I haven't heard a word from him since he got out."

 

 

"He hasn't been to see you?"

 

 

"Once, when he got out. He came by to pick up some personal stuff he thought I had held for him. I told him I threw it all out." "What kind of stuff?" I asked.

 

 

"Useless letters, newspaper articles on the trial. Probably the old guns he kept around. Frank was always into guns. Stuff only a man with nothing to show for his life would find value in."

 

 

Jacobi nodded. "So what'd he do then?"

 

 

"What'd he do?" Ingrid Thiasson snorted. "He left without a word about what life had been like for us for the past twenty years. Without a word about me or his son. You believe that?"

 

 

"And you have no idea where we could contact him?"

 

 

"None. That man was poison. I found someone who's treated me with respect. Who's been a father to my boy. I don't want to see Frank Coombs again." I asked, "You have any idea if he might be in touch with your son?"

 

 

"No way. I always kept them apart. My son doesn't have any links to his father. And don't go buzzing around him. He's in college at Stanford."

 

 

I stepped forward. "Anyone who might know where he is, Ms. Thiasson, it would be a help to us. This is a murder case."

 

 

I saw the slightest sign of hesitation. "I've lived a good life for twenty years. We're a family now. I don't want anyone knowing this came from me."

 

 

I nodded. I felt the blood rushing to my head.

 

 

"Frank kept up with Tom Keating. Even when he was locked away. Anyone knows where he is, it'd be him."

 

 

Tom Keating. I knew the name.

 

 

He was a retired cop.

 

 

Chapter 78.

 

 

LESS THAN AN HOUR LATER, Jacobi and I pulled up in front of condo 3A at the Blakesly Residential Community down the coast in Half Moon Bay.

 

 

Keating's name had stuck in my mind from when I was a kid. He'd been a regular at the Alibi after the nine-to-four shift, where many afternoons I'd been hoisted up on a bar stool by my father. In my mind, Keating had a ruddy complexion and a shock of prematurely white hair. God, I thought, that was almost thirty years ago.

 

 

We knocked on the door of Keating's modest slatted-wood condo. A trim, pleasant-looking woman with gray hair answered.

 

 

"Mrs. Keating? I'm Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer of the San Francisco Homicide detail. This is Inspector Jacobi. Is your husband at home?" "Homicide...?" she said, surprised.

 

 

"Just an old case," I said with a smile.

 

 

A voice called from inside, "Helen, I can't find the damned clicker anywhere." "just a minute, Tom. He's in the back," she said as she motioned us into the house.

 

 

We walked through the sparsely decorated house and into a sun room overlooking a small patio. There were several framed police photos on the wall. Keating was as I remembered him, just thirty years older. Gaunt, white hair thinning, but with that same ruddy complexion.

 

 

He sat watching an afternoon news show with the stock market tape streaming by. I realized he was sitting in a wheelchair.

 

 

Helen Keating introduced us, then, finding the clicker, put the TV volume down. Keating seemed pleased to have visitors from the force.

 

 

"I don't get to many functions since my legs went. Arthritis, they tell me. Brought on by a bullet to lumbar four. Can't play golf anymore." He chuckled. "But I can still watch the old pension grow."

 

 

I saw him studying my face. "You're Marty Boxer's little girl, aren't you?" I smiled. "The Alibi... A couple of five-oh-ones, right, Tom?" A 5-0-1 was the call for backup, and how they used to call a favorite drink, an Irish whiskey with a beer chaser.

 

 

"I heard you were quite the big shot these days." Keating nodded with a toothy smile. "So, what brings you two honchos down to talk to an old street cop?"

 

 

"Frank Coombs," I said.

 

 

Keating's features suddenly turned hard. "What about Frank?" "We're trying to find him, Tom. I was told you might know where he is."

 

 

"Why don't you call his parole officer? That wouldn't be me."

 

 

"He's split, Tom. Four weeks now. Quit his job."

 

 

"So they got Homicide following up on parole offenders now?"

 

 

I held Keating's eyes. "What do you say Tom?"

 

 

"What makes you think I'd have any idea?" He glanced toward his legs. "Old times are old times."

 

 

"I heard you guys kept in touch. It's important."

 

 

"Well, you're wasting your time here, Lieutenant," he said, suddenly turning formal.

 

 

I knew he was lying. "When was the last time you spoke with Coombs?"

 

 

"Maybe just after he got out. Could be once or twice since then. He needed some help to get on his feet. I may have lent him a hand."

 

 

"And where was he staying," Jacobi cut in, "while you were lending him this hand?"

 

 

Keating shook his head. "Some hotel down on Eddy or O'Farrell. Wasn't the St. Francis," he said.

 

 

"And you haven't spoken with him since?" My eyes flicked toward Helen Keating.

 

 

"What do you want with the man, anyway?" Keating snapped. "He's paid his time. Why don't you just leave him alone?" "It would be easier this way, Tom," I said. "If you'd just talk to us."

 

 

Keating pursed his dry lips, trying to size up where his loyalties fell.

 

 

"You put in thirty years, didn't you?" Jacobi said.

 

 

"Twenty-four." He patted his leg. "Got it cut short at the end."

 

 

"Twenty-four good years. It'd be a shame to dishonor it in any way by not cooperating now."

 

 

He shot back, "You want to know who was a goddamn expert in lack of cooperation? Frank Coombs. Man was only doing his job and all those bastards, supposedly his friends, looked the other way. Maybe that's the way you do things now with your community action meetings and your sensitivity training. But then we had to get the bad guys off the streets. With the means that we had."

 

 

"Tom." His wife raised her voice. "Frank Coombs killed a boy. These people, they're your friends. They want to speak with him. I don't know how far you have to take this duty-and-loyalty thing. Your duty's here."

 

 

Keating glared at her harshly. "Yeah, sure, my duty's here."

 

 

He picked up the TV clicker and turned back to me. "Stay here all day if you like; I don't have the slightest idea where Frank Coombs is."

 

 

He turned up the volume on his TV.

 

 

Chapter 79.

 

 

"FUCK HIM," Jacobi said as we left the house. "Old-school asshole."

 

 

"We're halfway down the peninsula already." I said to him. "You want to drive down to Stanford? See Frankie's kid?"

 

 

"What the hell." He shrugged. "I can use the education."

 

 

We hooked back onto 280 and made it to Palo Alto in half an hour.

 

 

As we pulled onto the campus drive - the tall palms lining the road, the stately ocher buildings with their red roofs, the Hoover Tower majestically rising over the Main Quad - I felt the spell of being part of campus life. Every one of these kids was special and talented. I even felt some pride that Coombs's son, despite his rough beginnings, had made it here.

 

 

We checked in at the administrative office on the Main Quad. A dean's assistant told us Rusty Coombs was probably at football practice down at the field house. Said Rusty was a good student, and a great tight end. We drove there, where a student manager in a red Stanford cap took us upstairs and asked us to wait outside the weight room.

 

 

Moments later, a solidly built, orange-haired kid in a sweaty Cardinals T-shirt wandered out. Rusty Coombs had an affable face spotted with a few freckles. He had none of the dark, brooding belligerence I had seen in photos of his father.

 

 

"I guess I know why you guys are here," he said, coming up to us. "My mom called, told me."

 

 

The heavy sound of weight irons and lifting machines clanged in the background. I smiled affably. "We're looking for your father, Rusty. We were wondering if you have any idea where he might be?" "He's not my father," the boy said, and shook his head. "My father's name is Theodore Bell. He's the one who brought me up with Mom. Teddy taught me how to catch a football. He's the one who told me I could make it to Stanford."

 

 

"When was the last time you heard from Frank Coombs?"

 

 

"What's he done, anyway? My mother said you guys are from Homicide. We know what's in the news. Everyone knows what's going on up there. Whatever he did before, he paid his time, didn't he? You can't believe just because he made some mistakes twenty years ago he's responsible for these terrible crimes?"

 

 

"We wouldn't have driven all the way down unless it was important," Jacobi said.

 

 

The football player shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet. He seemed to be a likable kid, cooperative. He rubbed his hands together. "He came here once. When he first got out. I had written him a couple of times in jail. I met with him in town. I didn't want anybody to see him."

 

 

"What did he say to you?" I asked.

 

 

"I think all he wanted was to clear his own conscience. And know what my mother thought of him. Never once did he say ' great job, Rusty Look at you. You did good.' Or, "Hey I follow your games...' He was more interested in knowing if my mom had thrown out some of his old things."

 

 

"What sort of things?" I asked. What would be so important that he would drive all the way here and confront his son?

 

 

"Police things," Rusty Coombs said and shook his head. "Maybe his guns.

 

 

I smiled sympathetically. I knew what it was like to look at your father with something less than admiration. "He give you any idea where he might go?"

 

 

Rusty Coombs shook his head. He looked like he might tear up. "I'm not Frank Coombs, Inspectors. I may have his name, I may even have to live with what he did, but I'm not him. Please leave our family alone. Please."

 

 

Chapter 80.

 

 

WELL, THAT SUCKED. Stirring up bad memories for Rusty Coombs made me feel terrible. Even Jacobi agreed.

 

 

We made it back to the office about four. We'd driven all the way down to Palo Alto just to run into another dead end.

 

 

What fun.

 

 

There was a phone message waiting for me. I called Cindy back immediately. "There's a rumor floating around that you've narrowed on a suspect," she said. "Truth or dare?"

 

 

"We have a name, Cindy, but I can't tell you anything. We just want to bring him in for questioning."

 

 

"So there's no warrant?"

 

 

"Cindy... not just yet."

 

 

"I'm not talking about a story, Lindsay. He went after our friend. Remember? If I can help... "

 

 

"I got a hundred cops working on it, Cindy. Some of us have even handled an investigation or two before. Please, trust me."

 

 

"But if you haven't brought him in, then you haven't found him, right?"

 

 

"Or maybe we haven't made the case yet. And Cindy, that's not for print."

 

 

"This is me talking, Linds. Claire, too. And Jill. We're in this case, Lindsay. All of us."

 

 

She was right. Unlike any other homicide case I had worked, this one seemed to be growing more and more personal. why was that? I didn't have Coombs and I could use the help. As long as he stayed free, anything could happen.

 

 

"I do need your help. Go through your old files, Cindy.

 

 

You just didn't go back far enough." She paused, then sucked in a breath. "You were right, weren't you? The guy's a cop."

 

 

"You can't go with that, sweetie. And if you did, you'd be wrong. But it's damned close."

 

 

I felt her analyzing, and also biting her tongue. "We're still going to meet, aren't we?"

 

 

I smiled. "Yeah, we're going to meet. We're a team. More than ever."

 

 

I was about to pack it in for the night when a call buzzed through to my line. I was sitting around thinking that Tom Keating had been lying. That he'd spoken to Coombs. But until we put out a warrant, Keating could hold back all he wanted.

 

 

To my utter surprise, it was his wife on the line. I almost dropped the phone.

 

 

"My husband's a stubborn man, Lieutenant," she began, clearly nervous. "But he wore the uniform with pride. I've never asked him to account for anything. And I won't start -now. But I can't sit back. Frank Coombs killed that boy And if he's done something else, I refuse to wake up every morning for the rest of my life knowing I abetted a murderer."

 

 

"It would be better for everybody, Mrs. Keating, if your husband told us what he knows." "I don't know what he knows," she said, "and I believe him when he says he hasn't spoken to Coombs in some time. But he wasn't telling the whole truth, Lieutenant."

 

 

"Then why don't you start."

 

 

She hesitated. "Coombs did come by here. Once. Maybe two months ago."

 

 

"Do you know where he is?" My blood started to rush.

 

 

"No," she answered. "But I did take a message from him. For Tom. I still have the number."

 

 

I fumbled for a pen.

 

 

She read me the number. 434-9117. "I'm pretty sure it was some kind of boarding house or hotel."

 

 

"Thank you, Helen." I was about to hang up when she said, "There's one more thing... When my husband said he lent Coombs a hand, he wasn't telling the whole story. Tom did give him some money.

 

 

He also let him rummage through some old things in our storage locker." "What sort of things?" I asked.

 

 

"His old department things. Maybe an old uniform, and a badge."

 

 

That's what Coombs had been looking for in his ex-wife's house. His old police uniforms. My mind clicked. Maybe that's how he got so close to Chipman and Mercer.

 

 

"That's all?" I asked.

 

 

"No," Helen Keating said. "Tom kept guns down there.

 

 

Coombs took those, too."

 

 

Chapter 81.

 

 

WITHIN MINUTES I traced the number Helen Keating had given me to a boarding house on Larkin and Mcallister.

 

 

The Hotel William Simon. My pulse was jumping.

 

 

I called Jacobi, catching him as he was about to sit down to dinner. "Meet me at Larkin and Mcallister. The Hotel William Simon."

 

 

"You want me to meet you at a hotel? Cool. I'm on my way."

 

 

"I think we found Coombs."

 

 

We couldn't arrest Frank Coombs. We didn't have a single piece of evidence that could tie him directly to a crime. I might be able to get a search warrant and bust into his room, though. Right now the most important thing was to make certain he was still there.

 

 

Twenty minutes later, I had driven down to the seedy area between the Civic Center and Union Square. The William Simon was a shabby one-elevator dive under a large billboard with a slinky model wearing Calvin Klein underwear. As Jill would say, yick.

 

 

I didn't want to go up to the desk, flashing my badge and his photo, until we were ready to make a move. Finally, I said what the hell, and placed a call to the number Helen Keating had given me. After three rings, a male voice answered, "William Simon."

 

 

"Frank Coombs...?" I inquired.

 

 

"Coombs... " I listened as the desk clerk leafed through a list of names. "Nope." Shit. I asked him to double-check. He came back negative.

 

 

Just then, the passenger door of my Explorer opened. My nerves were twanging like a bass guitar.

 

 

Jacobi climbed in. He was wearing a striped golf shirt and some sort of short, hideous Members Only jacket. His belly bulged. He grinned like a John. "Hey, lady, what does an Andrew Jackson get me?"

 

 

"Dinner, maybe, if you're treating."

 

 

"We got an ID?" he asked.

 

 

I shook my head. I told him what I had found out.

 

 

"Maybe he's moved on," Jacobi offered. "How ' I go in and flash the badge? With Coombs's photo?"

 

 

I shook my head. "How ' we sit here and wait."

 

 

We waited for over two hours. Stakeouts are incredibly dull. They would drive the average person nuts. We kept our eyes peeled on the William Simon, going over everything from Helen Keating, to what Jacobi's wife was serving for dinner, to the 49ers, to who was sleeping with who at the Hall. Jacobi even sprung for a couple of sandwiches from a Subway.

 

 

At ten o'clock, Jacobi grumbled, "This could go on forever! Why don't you let me go inside, Lindsay?"

 

 

He was probably right. We didn't even know if Helen Keating's number was current. She had taken it weeks ago.

 

 

I was about to give in when a man turned the corner on Larkin headed toward the hotel. I gripped Jacobi's arm. "Look over there."

 

 

It was Coombs. I recognized the bastard instantly. He was wearing a camouflage jacket, hands stuffed in his pockets, a floppy hat pulled over his eyes.

 

 

"Son of a fucking bitch," Jacobi muttered.

 

 

Watching the bastard slink up to the hotel, it took everything I had not to jump out of the car and slam him up against a wall. I wished I could slap him in cuffs. But we had Chimera now. We knew where he was.

 

 

"I want someone stuck to him, twenty-four hours," I told Jacobi. "If he makes the tail, I want him picked up. We'll figure out the charges later."

 

 

Jacobi nodded.

 

 

"I hope you brought a toothbrush." I winked. "You've got first watch."

 

 

Chapter 82.

 

 

AS THEY WALKED hand in hand toward her Castro apartment, Cindy admitted to herself that she was scared shitless.

 

 

This was the fifth time she and Aaron Winslow had been out together. They had seen Cyrus Chestnut and Freddie Hubbard at the Blue Door; been to Traviata at the opera; taken the ferry across the bay to a tiny Jamaican cafe that Aaron knew. Tonight, they had seen this dreamy film, Chocolat. o matter where this went tonight, she enjoyed being with him. He was deeper than most men she'd dated, and he was definitely more sensitive. Not only did he read unexpected books like Dave Eggers's A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius and Amy Tan's The Bonesetter's Daughter, he lived the life that he preached. He worked twelve-to-sixteen-hour days and was loved in his neighborhood, but he still managed to keep his ego in check. She'd heard it over an dover again interviewing people for her story: Aaron Winslow was one of the good guys.

 

 

All the while, though, Cindy had felt this moment looming in the distance. Hurtling closer and closer. Ticking. This was the natural step, she told herself. As Lindsay would say, their foxhole was about to explode.

 

 

"You seem a little quiet tonight," Aaron said. "You okay, Cindy?"

 

 

"I'm great," she fibbed. She thought he was just about the sweetest man she had ever gone out with, but, Jesus, Cindy, he's a pastor. Why didn't you think of this then? Is this a good idea? Think it through. Don't hurt him. Don't get hurt yourself.

 

 

They stopped walking in front of the entrance to Cindy's building and stood in the lighted arch. He sung a line from an old R&B tune, "I've Passed This Way Before." He even had a good singing voice.

 

 

There was no use postponing it any longer. "Look, Aaron, someone has to say this. You want to come up? I'd like it if you did, hate it if you didn't." He exhaled and smiled. "I don't exactly know where to take this, Cindy. I'm a little out of my range. I, uh, I've never dated a blonde before. I wasn't expecting any of this." "I can relate to that." She smiled. "But it's only two floors up. We can talk about it there."

 

 

His lip was quivering slightly, and when he touched her arm it sent a shiver down her spine. God, she did like him.

 

 

And she trusted him.

 

 

"I feel like I'm about to cross this line," he said. "And it's not a line I can cross casually. So I have to know. Are we there together? In the same place?"

 

 

Cindy elevated on her toes and pressed her lips lightly against his mouth. Aaron seemed surprised and at first he stiffened, but slowly he placed his arms around her and gave himself over to the kiss.

 

 

It was just as she had hoped, that first real kiss. Tender and breathtaking. Through his jacket, she could feel the rhythm of his heart pounding. She liked it that he was afraid, too. It made her feel even closer to him.

 

 

When they parted, she looked in his eyes and said, "We're there. We're in the same place."

 

 

She took out her key and led him up the two floors to her place. Her heart was pounding.

 

 

"It's great," he said. "I'm not just saying that." A two-story wall of bookshelves and an informal open kitchen.

 

 

"It's you... Cindy, it seems silly that I haven't been up here before."

 

 

"It wasn't for lack of trying." Cindy grinned. God, she was so nervous.

 

 

He took hold of her again, this time giving her a longer kiss. He certainly knew how to kiss. Every cell in her body felt alive. The small hairs on her arms, the warmth in her thighs; she pressed herself against him. She wanted, needed, to be close to him now. His body was slender, but he was definitely strong.

 

 

Cindy started to smile. "So what were you waiting for?"

 

 

"I don't know. Maybe some kind of sign." She herself into the grooves of his body, felt him come alive. "There's a sign," she said, close to his face.

 

 

"I guess my secret's out now. Yes, I do like you, Cindy."

 

 

Suddenly, the phone rang, almost blasting in their ears.

 

 

"Oh, God," she groaned. "Go away; leave us alone."

 

 

"I hope that's not another sign." He laughed.

 

 

Each ring seemed more annoying than the last. Mercifully the answering machine finally kicked on.