The 9th Judgment (15 page)

No one was following me.

I took Larkin into the Tenderloin, threading the Impala through the roughest section in San Francisco, the dark streets crammed
with hole-in-the-wall bars and girlie shows and rent-by-the-hour hotels. Jacobi and I had been shot in an alley not far from
here, and we both almost died.

I passed streets I’d worked as a uniformed cop, a first-class pizzeria that I’d introduced Joe to a while ago, and a bar where
Conklin and I sometimes came to wind down after a double shift. I turned onto Geary and drove past Mel’s Drive-in, where I
used to hang out with Claire when we were both rookies, the two of us laughing away our frustration at being females in a
man’s world.

I felt tears gathering in my eyes, not from the hoops the killer was making me jump through but from nostalgia, the aching
memories of times with my good and beloved friends, and from the feeling that I was visiting sweet scenes from my past for
the last time.

The disembodied voice of a man who’d wasted three young mothers and their small children spoke once again.

“Hang the phone over the rearview mirror, lens pointing at you.”

I was at a stoplight at the intersection of Van Ness and Geary. As soon as I hung the phone on the mirror and looked into
the pea-sized camera’s eye, the Lipstick Killer said, “Take off your blouse, sweetmeat.”

“What’s this, now?”

“I told you. No questions.”

I understood. He was checking me for a wire. First my purse, then my jacket, my shoes, and the briefcase. Now this.

I took off my blouse.

“Throw it out the window.”

I complied. Not one of the skeezy pedestrians looked up.

“Do the same with your skirt.”

“The light is green.”

“Pull over and park. That’s a smart girl,” the killer said. “Take off that skirt and toss it. And now your bra.”

I felt sick, but I had no options. I unhooked my bra and dropped it out the window as directed. The killer whistled, a wolf
call of appreciation, that sicko, and every part of my psyche hurt from the degradation. Not the least of which was that this
murdering, child-killing woman hater had boxed me in and outmaneuvered the entire SFPD.

No one knew where I was.

“Good girl, Lindsay. Very, very good. Now, hang the phone around your neck and let’s get going. The best is yet to come.”

I URGED THE old Impala up and down winding roads, then onto Lombard, the most curvaceous road of all, a tourist magnet that
rose upward, cresting at Hyde, giving me a billion-dollar view, the reason why San Francisco should be one of the seven wonders
of the world.

I’ve seen this panorama again and again, but this was the first time I’d failed to be dazzled by the full expansive sight
of San Francisco Bay, Alcatraz, Angel Island—and then, in a flash, I was hurtling down the steep, twisting plunge of Lombard
Street.

There were more directions in my ear, commentary about how cool it felt to let me do the driving while he got to sightsee
and think about his money. Meanwhile I was stopping at every cross street, hunching my shoulders, praying that no one would
notice a bare-breasted woman heading down one of the most scenic drives in the nation.

I checked my mirrors and swiveled my head at intersections, looking for Jacobi, Conklin, Chi, anyone.

I’ll admit it. For an irrational blazing moment, I got mad. It’s one thing to put your life on the line for a cause you believe
in. It’s another thing to be used as a robot for a killer, to be the lone sacrifice in an action you don’t believe in—in fact,
one you think is insane.

The killer spoke again. He told me to double back toward the Presidio, and I did it, continuing on Richardson, taking the
ramp leading to the Golden Gate Bridge.

Were we leaving town?

My anger dissipated as I came back to myself, realizing that the squad was frantic to know where I was. How could they find
me when I was driving an old green Impala?

The Lipstick Killer had stopped joking and was all business as I joined the high-speed river of traffic heading across the
bridge. The needle on the gas gauge was hovering over the E.

“We need to fill up the tank,” I said.

“No,” the killer told me. “We’ll be at the center of the bridge in about a minute. I’ll tell you when to pull over.”

“Pull over? There’s no stopping on the bridge.”

“There is if I tell you to,” he said.

SWEAT POURED INTO my eyes as the killer counted down from ten to one.

“Pull over now,” he said.

My turn signal had been on since I got onto the Golden Gate Bridge, but anyone who saw it would have thought I’d left it on
by accident.

“Pull over!” he repeated.

There was no actual place to stop, so I slowed, then braked in the lane closest to the handrail that acted as a safety line
between the road and the narrow walkway.

I put on the hazard lights, listening to their dull clicking and imagining a horrible rear-end crash that could kill the occupants
of the oncoming car and crush me against the steering wheel. I reduced my odds of making it from fifty-fifty to ninety-ten
against. How could it be that today was my day to die?

“Get the case from the backseat, Lindsay,” the killer told me.

I undid my seat belt, reached behind me for the long, awkward case, and hauled it into the front seat.

“Good. Now get out of the car.”

It was pure suicide to exit on the driver’s side. Cars whizzed past me at high speeds, some honking, some with drivers screaming
through their windows as they passed. I angled the gun case, reached the passenger-side handle, pulled up on it, and kicked
open the door.

I was almost naked, yeah, but I couldn’t wait to get out of that car. I banged my shins with the case and negotiated the handrail,
then my feet touched the walkway. Oncoming traffic was still swerving and honking. Someone yelled, “Jump. Jump,” and there
were more horns.

“Bridge security is tight,” I told the killer. “There will be cops here any minute.”

“Shut up,” he said. “Go to the rail.”

My head swam as I peered down into the glinting water. He was going to make me jump. Approximately thirteen hundred people
had leaped to their deaths off this bridge. Only twenty-odd jumpers had survived. It had come down to the wire, literally
and figuratively. I was going to die, and I would never even know if I’d saved anyone—or if the killer would take the money
and keep on killing.

And how was he going to get the money anyway?

I stared down at Fort Point, just under the south end of the bridge, and my gaze drifted along the Crissy Field shoreline.
Where was the killer? Where was he? And then I saw a small motorboat coming out from Fort Baker, at the foot of the north
tower, on the far side of the bay.

“Time to say good-bye, Lindsay,” said the voice in my ear. “Drop the phone over the side and then send the case over. Keep
up the good work, princess. Everything will be fine if you don’t screw it up now.”

The wind blew my hair across my face as I dropped the phone, then cast the gun case over the railing. I watched it fall 260
feet straight down into the bay.

THE GUN CASE hit the water, sent up plumes of spray, sank, then bobbed up again into view. As best as I could tell, there
was one man in the motorboat piloting the small vessel through the chop toward the gun case.

I snapped out of my trance—I was free.

I stepped behind the rear of the Impala and put up my hand. The driver of a peacock-blue Honda sedan leaned on his horn as
he flew past me, followed by a Corvette, the guy behind the wheel leering but not pulling over. What did he think? That I
was a prostitute?

I held my ground out there on that highway in my panties, my hand in the stop position, every part of me prickling from the
fear of being flattened by a driver with his head up his ass—and then a baby-blue BMW slowed, pulled ahead of the Impala,
and braked.

I leaned into the passenger side. “I’m a cop. I need your phone now.”

There was a gawking eighteen-year-old boy at the wheel. He handed me his phone, and I pointed to a newspaper on the seat beside
him. He passed it to me, and I held the front section to my chest as I called Dispatch, giving my name and shield number.

“Lindsay! Oh God. Are you all right? What do you need? Where are you?”

I knew the dispatcher, May Hess, self-described Queen of the Bat Phone. “I’m on the bridge—”

“With that naked suicide?”

I barked a laugh, then caught myself before I went into hysterics. I told May to get a chopper over the bay PDQ and why—that
I needed the coast guard to pick up a boater. May said, “Gotcha, Sergeant. Bridge Patrol will be at your location in thirty
seconds, tops.”

I heard the sirens. With the newspaper fluttering against my chest, I leaned over the railing and watched as the small Boston
Whaler motored closer to the floating gun case. A chopper whirred overhead, and the pilot bore down on the motorboat, herding
it toward the southern shore.

The Boston Whaler dodged left and right like a quarter horse at a roping competition, ducked under the bridge, and powered
beneath it, the chopper following the boat under the bridge deck, crowding the vessel until it stalled off Crissy Field.

The Lipstick Killer bailed out of the boat and ran in slow motion through hip-deep water. And then a coast guard vessel closed
in on him.

A bullhorn blared, telling the killer to hit the ground and keep his hands in full sight. Squad cars tore down the beach and
surrounded him.

Game over, psycho.

I WATCHED HARBOR Patrol pull the Pelican case out of the water, and then there was the deafening sound of sirens all around
me.

I turned and saw a fleet of cars—unmarked and black-and-whites—screeching to a halt behind the Impala, and driving those cars
were just about every cop I’d ever met, now piling out and heading toward me.

My attention was drawn to a Land Rover stopping in the opposite lane, somehow making it through the perimeter before the bridge
was closed off. A bearded man jumped out of the driver’s seat holding a camera with a long SLR lens. He started snapping pictures
of me wearing a look of horror on my face, the
Chronicle
plastered to my chest, pink panties and all.

To my left, a yell: “HEY!”

A man burst from the back of a police cruiser, a big hunka guy, built like a football player. He crossed the roadway to the
man with the camera and shouted, “Give me that!”

The big hunka guy was Joe.

The camera guy refused to give it up, so Joe grabbed him by the throat, extracted the camera from his hand, and threw it over
the rail. He left the dude on the hood of the Land Rover and shouted out over his shoulder, “Sue me.”

Then the man I love ran toward me with a look of anguish on his face. He held out his arms, and I fell against him and began
to cry. “We got him,” I said.

“Did that bastard hurt you?”

“No. We got him, Joe.”

“You sure did, honey. It’s all over now.”

Joe put his big jacket around me and folded me into his arms again. Conklin and Jacobi got out of a gray unmarked car and
came over to where I stood with Joe, asking in unison, “Are you okay, Lindsay?”

“Never better,” I chirped, my cheeks wet with tears.

“Go home,” Jacobi said. “Clean up. Have a meal, then come back to the Hall. We’ll take our time booking that freak. Should
take us about three hours to print him and do the paperwork. He’s all yours, Boxer. No one will talk to him before you do.

“Good job.”

MY HAIR WAS still wet from my shower when I arrived back at the Hall, geared up and ready to confront the guy who’d humiliated
me, terrified me, and killed six innocent people.

I walked to Jacobi’s office and said, “What have we got?”

“His ID says he’s Roger Bosco, former Park Service employee, currently a maintenance man at the San Francisco Yacht Club.
No military background, no sheet of any kind. He hasn’t asked for counsel.”

“Let’s do it,” I said.

The observation room behind the glass was packed with cops, brass, and folks from the DA’s office. The cameras were rolling.
We were good to go.

The suspect looked up from his seat at the table when Jacobi and I walked into the interrogation room, and I was surprised
at his appearance and demeanor.

Roger Bosco seemed older and smaller than the man we’d seen on the parking-garage tapes, and he looked confused. He turned
his watery blue eyes on me and said, “I was afraid of the helicopter. That’s why I tried to get away.”

“Let’s start at the beginning, Roger. Okay if I call you Roger?”

“Sure.”

“Why did you do it?”

“For the money.”

“Your plan all along was to collect the ransom?”

“What do you mean, ‘ransom’?”

I pulled out a chair and sat down next to Bosco, trying to look behind the “little guy” act for a cocky, murdering psycho.
Jacobi walked slowly behind us, turned, and walked back the other way.

“I understand that two million is a lot of money,” I said, keeping my temper in check, showing that I could be trusted, that
the hours-long mystery tour from hell was forgiven.

“Two million? I was offered five hundred. I only got the first two fifty.”

I looked up at Jacobi but could read nothing in his flat gray eyes. I ignored a new and sinking feeling. Bosco had been in
a boat heading straight toward the money. It was indisputable.

“Roger. You’ve got to help me help you. Explain to me how you planned the killings. I have to say, you are brilliant. It took
an entire police force to bring you in, and I respect that. If you can take me through every step, show us that you’re cooperating
fully, I can work with the DA on your behalf.”

Bosco’s jaw dropped. He looked at me in believable disbelief, turned to look at Jacobi, then turned back to look at me.