The 9th Judgment (2 page)

“Do something, Marc.
Do
something.”

Marcus Dowling worked out every day. He could still bench-press two hundred pounds, and he knew how to use a gun. He told
his wife to be quiet, then opened his nightstand drawer and removed the .44 he kept fully loaded in a soft leather bag. He
shucked the sack and gripped the gun.

Casey grabbed the bedside phone and pressed the numbers 9-1-1 with a shaking hand. She misdialed, then tried again as Marc,
still half drunk, bellowed,
“Who’s there?”
Even when he was serious, he sounded scripted.
“Show yourself.”

Marcus looked in the bathroom and the hallway, then said, “There’s no one here, Casey. Just what I said.”

Casey dropped the phone back into its cradle, shoved at the bedcovers, and went to the closet for her robe—and screamed.

“What is it now?”

White-faced, naked, Casey turned to her husband and said, “Oh my God, Marc, my jewelry is
gone.
The safe is almost
empty.
”

A look came over Marc’s face that was hard for Casey to read. It was as if he’d had an idea, and the idea was catching fire.
Did he know who robbed them?

“Marc? What is it? What are you thinking?”

“Ah, I was thinking,
You can’t take it with you.
”

“What kind of bullshit is that? What do you mean?”

Dowling extended his right arm and aimed the gun at a mole between his wife’s breasts. He pulled the trigger.
Boom.

“
That’s
what I mean,” he said.

Casey Dowling opened her mouth, sucked in air, and exhaled as she looked down at her chest, at the blood pumping and bubbling
out of the wound. She clasped her hands to her chest. She looked at her husband and gasped, “Help me.”

He shot her again.

Then her knees buckled and she went down.

SNEAKY PETE

PETER GORDON FOLLOWED the young mom out of Macy’s and into the street outside the Stonestown Galleria. Mom was about thirty,
her brown hair in a messy ponytail, wearing a lot of red: not just shorts but red sneakers and a red purse. Shopping bags
hung from the handles of her baby’s stroller.

Pete was behind the woman when she crossed Winston Drive, still almost on her heels as she entered the parking garage, talking
to the infant as if he could understand her, asking him if he remembered where Mommy parked the car and what Daddy was making
for dinner, chattering away, the whole running baby-talk commentary like a fuse lit by the woman’s mouth, terminating at the
charge inside Petey’s brain.

But Petey stayed focused on his target. He listened and watched, kept his head down, hands in his pockets, and saw the woman
unlock the hatch of her RAV4 and jam her shopping bags inside. He was only yards away from her when she hoisted the baby out
of the stroller and folded the carriage into the back, too.

The woman was strapping the boy into the car seat when Pete started toward her.

“Ma’am? Can you help me out, please?”

The woman drew her brows together.
What do you want?
was written all over her face as she saw him. She got into the front seat now, keys in hand.

“Yes?” she said.

Pete Gordon knew that he looked healthy and clean and wide-eyed and trustworthy. His all-American good looks were an asset,
but he wasn’t vain. No more than a Venus flytrap was vain.

“I’ve got a flat,” Pete said, throwing up his hands. “I really hate to ask, but could I use your cell phone to call Triple-A?”

He flashed a smile and got the dimples going, and at last she smiled, too, and said, “I do that—forget to charge the darned
thing.”

She dug into her purse, then looked up with the cell phone in hand. Her smile wavered as she read Pete’s new expression, no
longer eager to please but hard and determined.

She dropped her eyes to the gun he was holding—thinking that somehow she’d gotten it wrong—looked back into his face, and
saw the chill in his dark eyes.

She jerked away from him, dropping her keys and her phone into the foot well. She climbed halfway into the backseat.

“Oh my God,” she said. “Don’t—do anything. I’ve got cash—”

Pete fired, the round whizzing through the suppressor, hitting the woman in the neck. She grabbed at the wound, blood spouting
through her fingers.

“My baby,”
she gasped.

“Don’t worry. He won’t feel anything. I promise,” Pete Gordon said.

He shot the woman again,
poof,
this time in the side of her chest, then opened the back door and looked at the bawler, nodding off, mouth sticky with cotton
candy, blue veins tracing a road map across his temple.

A CAR SCREAMED down the ramp and squealed around the corner, speeding past Pete as he turned his face toward the concrete
center island. He was sure he hadn’t been seen, and anyway he’d done everything right. Strictly by the book.

The woman’s open bag was lying inside the car. With his hand in his jacket pocket, using it as a kind of glove, he dug around
in her junk, looking for her lipstick.

He found it, then swiveled up the bright-red tube.

He waited as a couple of gabby women in an Escalade drove up the ramp looking for a spot, then he took the lipstick tube between
his thumb and forefinger and considered what he would write on the windshield.

He thought of writing
FOR KENNY
but changed his mind. He laughed to himself as he also considered and rejected
PETEY WAS HERE
.

Then he got real.

He printed
WCF
in bold red letters, four inches high, and underscored the writing with a smeary red line. Then he closed the lipstick and
dropped it into his pocket, where it clicked against his gun.

Satisfied, he backed out of the car, shut the doors, wiped down the handles with the soft flannel lining of his baseball jacket,
and walked to the elevator bank. He stood aside as the door opened and an old man wheeled his wife out onto the main floor
of the garage. He kept his head down, avoiding eye contact with the old couple, and they ignored him.

That was good, but he wished he could tell them.

It was for Kenny. And it was by the book.

Pete Gordon got into the elevator and rode it up to the third floor, thinking he was having a really good day, the first good
one in about a year. It had been a long time coming, but he’d finally launched his master plan.

He was exhilarated, because he was absolutely sure it would work.

WCF, people. WCF.

PETE GORDON DROVE down the looping ramp of the garage. He passed the dead woman’s car on the ground floor but didn’t even
brake, confident that there was no blood outside the car, nothing to show that he’d been there.

With the garage as packed as it was, it could be hours before the mom and her bawler were found in that tidy spot near the
end of the row.

Pete took it nice and slow, easing the car out of the garage and accelerating onto Winston, heading toward 19th Avenue. He
reviewed the shooting in his mind as he waited at the light, thinking about how easy it had been—no wasted rounds, nothing
forgotten—and how crazed it was going to make the cops.

Nothing worse than a motiveless crime, huh, Kenny?

The cops were going to bust their stones on this one, all right, and by the time they figured it out, he’d be living in another
country and this crime would be one of the cold cases some old Homicide dick would never solve.

Pete took the long way home, up Sloat Boulevard, up and over Portola Drive, where he waited for the Muni train to pass with
commuters all in a row, and finally up Clipper Street toward his crappy apartment in the Mission.

It was almost dinnertime, and his own little bawlers would be puffing up their cheeks, getting ready to sound the alarm. He
had his key out when he got to the apartment. He opened the lock and gave the door a kick.

He could smell the baby’s diapers from the doorway, the little stinker standing in the kiddie cage in the middle of the floor,
hanging on to the handrail, crying out as soon as he saw his dad.

“Daddy!” Sherry called. “He needs to be changed.”

“Goody,” Peter Gordon said. “Shut up, stink bomb,” he told the boy. “I’ll get to you in a minute.” He took the remote control
from his daughter’s hand, switched from the cartoons, and checked the news.

The stock market was down. Oil prices were up. He watched the latest Hollywood update. Nothing was said about two bodies found
in the Stonestown Galleria parking lot.

“I’m hungry,” Sherry said.

“Well, which is it first? Dinner or poop?”

“Poop first,” she said.

“All right, then.”

Pete Gordon picked up the baby, as dear to him as a sack of cement, not even sure the little shit was his, although even if
he was, he still didn’t care. He put the baby on its back on the changing table and went through the ritual, holding the kiddo
by the ankles, wiping him down, dusting his butt with powder, wrapping him up in Pampers, then putting him back in the kiddie
cage.

“Franks and beans?” he asked his daughter.

“My absolute favorite,” Sherry said, putting a pigtail in her mouth.

“Put a shirt on the stink bomb,” Pete Gordon said, “so your mother doesn’t have a gas attack when she gets home.”

Gordon microwaved some formula for the stink bomb and opened the canned franks and beans. He turned on the undercabinet TV
and the stove, what wifey should be doing instead of him, the bitch, and dumped the contents of the can into a pot.

The beans were burning when the breaking news came on.

Huh. Look at that,
Pete thought.

Some dork from ABC was holding a microphone, standing in front of Borders. College kids mugged behind him as he said, “We
have learned that there has been a shooting at the Stonestown garage. Sources report a gruesome double homicide that you will
not believe. We’ll keep you posted as details are released. Back to you, Yolanda.”

YUKI CASTELLANO STEPPED out of her office and called down the line of cubicles to Nicky Gaines, “You ready, Wonder Boy? Or
do you want to meet me downstairs?”

“I’m coming,” Gaines said. “Who said I wasn’t coming?”

“How do I look?” she asked him, already moving toward the elevator that would take them from the DA’s office to the courtroom.

“You look fierce, Batwoman. Miss Hot Multicultural USA.”

“Shut up.” She laughed at her protégé. “Just be ready to prompt me if I blank, God forbid.”

“You’re not going to blank. You’re going to send Jo-Jo to the big house.”

“Ya think?”

“I
know.
Don’t you?”

“Uh-huh. I just have to make sure the jury knows it, too.”

Nicky stabbed the elevator button, and Yuki went back to her thoughts. In about twenty minutes, she was going to make her
closing argument in the state’s case against Adam “Jo-Jo” Johnson.

Since she’d been with the DA’s office, she’d taken on more than a few crappy cases that the DA was determined to try: she’d
work eighteen-hour days, earning “atta girls” from her boss, Leonard “Red Dog” Parisi, and score points with the jury, all
of which would give her high expectations.

And then she’d lose.

Yuki was becoming famous for losing—and that stank because she was a fighter and a winner. And she just frickin’ hated to
lose. But she never
thought
she’d lose—and this time was no different.

Her case was solid. She’d laid it out like a hand of solitaire. The jury had an easy job. The defendant wasn’t just guilty,
he was guilty as
sin.

Nicky held open the studded leather door to the courtroom, and Yuki walked smartly down the center aisle of the oak-paneled
chamber. She noticed that the gallery was filling up with spectators, mostly press and law students. And as she approached
the prosecution table, she saw that Jo-Jo Johnson and his attorney, Jeff Asher, were in their seats.

The stage was set.

She nodded to her opponent and noted the defendant’s appearance. Jo-Jo’s hair was combed and he was wearing a nice suit, but
he looked dazed as only a mope who’d fried his brain on drugs could look. She hoped that very soon he would look worse, once
she nailed him on manslaughter in the first degree.

“Jo-Jo looks like he’s been smoking ganja,” Nicky murmured to Yuki as he pulled out her chair.

“Or else he believes his lawyer’s bull,” Yuki said loud enough for her opponent to hear. “Jo-Jo may think he’s going to walk,
but he’ll be busing it to Pelican Bay.”

Asher looked at her and smirked, showing Yuki with his body language that he thought he was going to whip her.

It was an act.

Yuki hadn’t gone up against Asher before, but after less than a year in the public defender’s office, Asher had gotten a reputation
as a “bomb”—a killer attorney who blew up the prosecution’s case and got his client off. Asher was formidable because he had
it all: charisma, boyish good looks, and a Harvard Law degree. And he had his father, a top-notch litigator who was coaching
his son from the sidelines.

But none of that mattered today.

The evidence, the witnesses, and the confession were all on her side. Jo-Jo Johnson was hers.

JUDGE STEVEN RABINOWITZ took a last look at the pictures of his new condo in Aspen, then turned off his iPhone, cracked his
knuckles, and said, “Are the People ready, Ms. Castellano?”

“We are, Your Honor,” said Yuki.

She stood, her glossy black hair with the new silver streak in front falling forward as she straightened the hem of her suit
jacket. Then she stepped quickly to the lectern in the center of the well.

She turned her eyes toward the jury box and gave the jurors a smile. A couple of them smiled back, but for the most part they
were expressionless. She couldn’t read them at all.