14th Deadly Sin: (Women’s Murder Club 14) (13 page)

“What? Cops taking drugs and money offa dealers and keeping it for theirselves? I never heard of anything like
that.
”

He laughed. Then he got serious. He leaned across the table and said, “Listen up, Sergeant. Other people will take care of this problem that happened at Wicker House, OK? They’re a whole lot better at it than you.”

That stopped me. “Meaning what? Who’s going to take care of this? How?”

Wolfe shrugged. His flip, phony wise-ass personality was back. “Follow the money, Sergeant.”

“Explain what you mean by that,” I said.

He said, “I get my phone call now? My girlfriend is worried about why I’m not home. Did I say? We’re having a baby.”

“Who will get to kiss his daddy in twelve to fifteen?”

I left the room and walked next door. I looked through the glass into Interview 2 and watched Conklin get absolutely nowhere with Ralph Valdeen. Another stockroom boy. Didn’t know nothing.

Seven men had died, and if that massacre was over wicker furniture, it was a first. More likely, big money and a lot of drugs had been boosted from that drug factory.

I thought about what Wolfe had said in that one honest-sounding statement: Someone would take care of the men responsible. Someone better at it than us. “Follow the money.”

I had a shivery feeling as I thought about what kind of payback there might be for the massacre at Wicker House. A feeling the Irish might express by saying “Someone just walked over my grave.”

CINDY WAS BEING treated like a celebrity in a bookstore called Book Revue on Long Island, New York.

This part—the book signings, the people applauding her—she hadn’t thought about this at all during the years she’d spent thinking about writing a book.

She had staked out psycho killers in sketchy areas, had spent nights in rough motels or in her car, had worked nights and weekends and pestered cops, even ones she loved, for information that would become a great story, possibly an exclusive one. She had worked the crime desk for the challenge of finding an angle that the police didn’t have, for the rush of turning her hand-mined facts into dramatic prose.

It had been a nonstop thrill, and now there was this.

In a time when bookstores were going virtual, this one was what a real bookstore still looked like in her dreams. There were a blue-and-white-checked floor, thousands of linear feet of bookshelves, comfortable nooks for people to sit and read in, and an inviting performance space where writers could give readings and sign books.

The owner of Book Revue, Bob Klein, was coming over to talk to her now. Bob was a good-looking man in his fifties wearing glasses, a starched shirt, and a smart tan suit.

“Cindy, I’ve got open cartons under your table. I’ll test the microphone for you when you’re ready.”

There was a rope line leading to a table with a blowup of her picture on an easel behind it, and another easel holding a poster of her book jacket. A stack of books rested on the table with a line of pens. And people were coming into the store in response to the ad and were filling up the chairs, easily twenty women, who lit up when they recognized her from her picture.

She was talking to Bob when her phone rang.

Cindy answered the call and said, “Richie, I’m at Book Revue.”

“Hey, sweetie, hang on.”

She heard him say, “I’ll be back in a second, Mr. Valdeen. Sit tight.”

A door closed; then Richie was back.

“Sorry. Got a couple of mutts could have some information on this bloodbath in a drug lab.”

“You want to speak later?” Cindy said.

“No, I’m good. So how did it go? Your speech.”

“I’m going on in a couple of minutes.”

Richie said, “You’ll do great. I know that for a fact.”

Cindy sent love and kisses out to San Francisco. And then Bob said to her, “Your fans await.”

Cindy took the lectern to a nice little round of applause. There were twenty-two people there, her world record. She spoke into the microphone.

“Hello, everyone. So nice to see you all here. I’m Cindy Thomas, and I want to tell you about my book,
Fish’s Girl.
Whatever you think about the love between a man and a woman, you probably never thought that serial murder could bond two people.

“But I’m here to tell you about Randy Fish and Mackie Morales, two savage killers, and their marriage—with child—which was as tight as a marriage can be.”

AT JUST ABOUT midnight, One drove a white panel van packed with cartons of synthetic drugs and kilos of heroin toward a meet with a man called Spat.

One had dealt with Spat before. He was a middle-aged guy, a deadly old hand, and go-between for a midwestern drug distributor.

One’s sole purpose tonight was to offload a few hundred pounds of drugs and take in stacks of Andrew Jacksons and Ben Franklins. The sooner that was done, the happier he’d be.

The meeting place was a residential area in West Oakland, a dodgy part of the Bay Area known for poverty and crime.

Now One crossed the Bay Bridge to Oakland, then followed the sign to I-980 west and downtown Oakland, obeying the speed limit and signaling for every turn. Last thing in the world he wanted was a traffic stop. He’d done enough killing for one day. His hands were actually shaking from the trauma of firing the gun.

The GPS was giving him the turns, and he easily found Sycamore Street, a desolate residential block. The houses were scabby with tar paper, the asphalt was littered and potholed, and a group of tough guys gathered on one corner, harassing one another, looking for a fight.

One parked the van, then lifted the M-16 from the foot well and put it on the seat next to him. He ran his finger under his collar, scratching the itch left by the pepper spray that had gotten under his mask.

Time dragged its ass. Spat was late. One had half decided to pull out and arrange another meeting, another venue, when he saw a black minivan rolling toward him in the oncoming lane. The minivan parked across the street from him and flashed its headlights twice before the engine was cut.

One’s phone rang. He answered it, saying, “You’re late.”

“Yeah, but you’re going to thank me,” said Spat. “I’m coming to see you now.”

One clicked off, watching Spat get out of his minivan with a large canvas bag in hand.

Then Spat spoke to him through the open window.

“How’s this? I got two kids to unload the van for us. This should take no time. Check it out.”

One took the bag of money through the open window and said, “Not that I don’t trust you.”

“No problem, brother. I’ll be right over there,” Spat said. When Spat was back in his vehicle, One undid the fasteners on the satchel and riffled through the packets of money. A lot of phony money was circulating these days, and it was common in swaps like these for fake bucks to get into the stacks.

He opened some of the bands, fanned out the bills, and turned on a UV light, looking for signs that the bills were counterfeit. At the same time, he did a first count, arrived at the agreed-upon 1.2 million.

He counted a second time, then repacked the bag and called Spat’s phone. The two men exchanged a few words. The minivan started up, then did a U-turn and parked behind One’s panel van.

One pulled the lock release, and Spat opened the cargo doors and checked out the drugs in the same way One had checked out the money: carefully.

When Spat was satisfied, the two young men in his employ moved the cartons efficiently to Spat’s minivan, then got back inside it.

The transaction was completed quickly. Spat came around to the driver’s side of the panel van and said to One, “Talk on the street about some mayhem in a furniture store.”

“That right?” One said. “I haven’t heard.”

“OK, my friend.
Vaya con Dios.
”

“Stay in touch,” said One.

It was a cool night, but One was sweating. The Wicker House drugs had reportedly been paid for and were on the way to Kingfisher. He’d expected there would be talk on the street. As long as no one knew who he was.

The gangstas on the corner shouted something at him as he drove past.

He gave them the finger before he realized they had only shouted “Lights!” He switched on his headlights, got onto the freeway, and headed home.

He’d earned a good night’s sleep.

He hoped he could get one.

TWO MEN SAT in a darkened car on Texas Street, two houses in from the corner of Eighteenth, one block away from a commercial strip. Potrero Hill was a pretty area with a view of the bay from higher on the hill, but lower, in front, all you could see were the facades of the somewhat run-down Victorian houses, the intermittent trees, and the rats’ nest of telephone wires overhead.

The guys in the car were watching one house in particular, a quaint, middle-class house that was light green with dark green trim, fronted with a short brick wall and a walk of cement pavers leading up to an unpainted wood-panel front door.

At about midnight, a silver Camry backed into a spot between a couple of scruffy trees. The man who got out of the car was white and had dark hair with a balding spot at the back of his head. He was wearing a dark-blue SFPD Windbreaker. As he locked up his car, his phone rang. He leaned against his car and spoke and listened.

Then he pocketed his phone, walked up to the front door, and let himself in with his keys. Lights went on in the downstairs hallway and then the kitchen. Those two lights went out, and another went on in the second story, in a front room, probably a bedroom. Within the next half hour, the only light in the house was the blue light from the TV.

And then the TV went off, too.

One of the men in the car said to the other, “I’ve never liked these old houses. I look at them. All I see is maintenance.”

“When you have a family, you like a deck in back. A yard. Barbecue and whatnot. Christ. How long we been waiting here?”

“Take it easy,” said the first man. “After we say hello to Inspector Calhoun and his family, we can go get something to eat.”

“I’m way ready,” said the second man.

“You’re sure you don’t want to sit here and count stars?”

The second man scoffed. One of them was going to take the front door while the other went to the back.

“See you inside,” said the first man.

“Don’t get anything on you,” said the second man.

They both adjusted their guns and got out of the car.

I WAS AWOKEN out of a heavy sleep by my husband saying, “Lindsay, honey. Wake up.”

But why? I heard no shrieks or alarms or barks, no wails or any other emergency sounds. I was in bed and the light in the bedroom was dawnlike, so why was Joe waking me up?

Then my eyelids flew open.

“Where’s Julie?”

“Julie is fine. Everything is OK, honey.”

I rolled over onto my side and scanned Joe’s face for whatever was behind his waking me up when I needed to sleep. He was smiling.

“What time is it?”

“Seven,” he said.

“Is it Saturday?” I asked him.

“Yes. We’re going for a drive: you, me, and baby makes three. And Martha makes four.”

“I can’t go,” I said.

“The car is gassed up. I’m going to feed Julie. Coffee is on. Just get yourself up and leave the surprise part to me.”

I blinked at Joe, thinking how pretty much everyone in the Southern Station was working the weekend on the helter-skelter case of the Windbreaker cops. Still, he was right. I needed a little time to recharge.

I texted Brady that I was taking a mental health day.

He got right back.
Really?

It’s just for the day.

OK. I’ll buddy up with Conklin.

A half hour later, the Molinari Four were in Joe’s lovely old Mercedes, heading down the coast. Highway 1 hugs the shoreline, and I was reminded once again how gorgeous California is. I’m not saying I stopped thinking about the Windbreaker cops, but I shook the case off long enough to call my sister, Cat.

We made a pit stop in Half Moon Bay, where my sister lives with her two daughters. Pretty soon, the little girls were romping with Martha on the beach and we grownups lagged behind them, catching up on missed chapters in each other’s lives and marveling at the way the sun lit the coastline.

“You doing OK, Linds?” Cat asked me.

“Yeah. Sure. Like usual, a little preoccupied. How about you?”

“When a princely frog appears, it will all be perfect.”

We grinned at each other. I for one was thinking about when Joe and I got married here in Half Moon Bay not long ago.

My sister and I held hands and the girls hugged and kissed me, after which the Molinari family piled back into the car and continued in a southerly direction. Martha sat on my lap and hung her head out the window. The baby slept in her carrier behind us. Joe sang along with the radio.

It was kind of marvelous.

We reached our lunch destination, Shadowbrook Restaurant, which is built into the side of a hill overlooking Soquel Creek. And the best part, the part that made our little kiddo squeal, was the cable car that traveled down from the parking lot to the restaurant so that you could see the tropical gardens and waterfalls outside the glass.

Joe was quite animated over lunch. He’d been working on the case he called CBM, Claire’s Birthday Murders. He had mined and sieved the databases, looking for intersecting lines between stabbings of women in San Francisco on May twelfth, as well as murders, bank robberies, domestic violence, and more traffic accidents than I would have thought possible. But still, even with his giant brain and investigatory genius, plus access to law enforcement databases, he’d come up with no hard evidence connecting the incidents to an actual suspect.

But you know what?

Our minds were sharp. We had the space to talk and turn ideas over, to compare what we’d already confirmed about the five women who’d been stabbed to death in San Francisco on May twelfth in sequential years.