The 9th Judgment (21 page)

Agent Benbow flagged us down with his hand, came up to the passenger-side window, and said to me, “You’ve got experience in
hostage negotiation?”

“Not enough,” I said.

“Give it your best, Sergeant,” he said. “Be his friend. Don’t antagonize him. Try to get him to come out with the boy.”

“What have I got to offer?”

“Whatever he wants. Once we have the child, he’s ours.”

Benbow held out a Kevlar vest. I put it on and took the bullhorn. I called out to Gordon, “Peter, this is Lindsay Boxer. I’m
here because you asked for me and I want this to turn out right for everyone. Open the front door slowly, put your hands on
your head, and come out, okay? No one is going to shoot.”

There was no reply, so I tried again, varying my request. Then, taking a phone number from Benbow, I called Gordon’s home.
Five rings. No answer. Then the machine picked up, and a little girl’s voice said, “This is the Gordon house. Please leave
a message.”

I was out of moves, wondering why Gordon had even asked for me, when my own cell phone rang. I pulled it off my belt and stared
at the faceplate. The caller ID was blocked, but I knew.

“Boxer.”

“Well, hello, sweetmeat,” said the Lipstick Killer.

THE SOUND OF Gordon’s voice in my ear bypassed reason and went straight to my adrenal glands. I broke into an instant sweat,
feeling it roll down my sides, between my breasts, across my brow. I was having déjà vu of some of the most terrifying hours
of my life, but somehow I forced myself to keep my voice steady.

“Gordon, no one wants to hurt you. We know you’ve got your son, and he’s very important to all of us.”

“He’s important to you. I don’t give a crap about him. Ask my wife. Odds are, he’s not even mine.”

“How can we all get what we want?”

“There’s only one way, and it’s my way. Drop your weapon,” Gordon said. “Call off the choppers. If I hear rotors, this conversation
is over. My house is wired to explode. I have trip wires inside and out. There’s one safe path, and it’s the walkway to the
front door. Come on down, Lindsay, come onnn downnnn.”

I told Gordon to hold, and I briefed Benbow, who shook his head and said, “No frickin’ way.”

I said, “I’m not coming in, Gordon. I need you to come out with Steven. I guarantee your safety. My word of honor, no one
will shoot.”

“Lindsay, you want the kiddo, you have to come to me. I’ll use you and the kid as a shield. We get into your car, and no one
follows. If I see a gun, I shoot the kid and myself. If I hear a chopper, I shoot. If anyone breaks a window or steps on the
lawn, the house blows. Do you copy?”

Benbow took the phone out of my hand and said, “Gordon, this is Special Agent Richard Benbow, FBI. I can’t let Sergeant Boxer
go in, but I’ll come to your door unarmed and escort you to safety. Give us the child, and I’ll personally drive you to Mexico.
How’s that for a deal?”

Benbow listened to Gordon’s response, then snapped the phone closed. “He told me he wants Boxer. Otherwise it’s over and I
can go fuck myself. He hung up.”

There was only one option, the killer had told us. His way, or he would blow up everything, including his own child.

I took my Glock out of its holster and put it down on the grass. I asked God for protection, then headed up Peter Gordon’s
front walk.

I KEPT MY eyes on the front door of a dreary house on an old shoe of a block that might be the last thing I’d ever see. I
rapped on the door—no answer. I rapped even harder. No answer again.

What the hell was this?

I turned to look at Conklin and shrugged. Then I reached out and pressed the doorbell.

I heard Conklin shout, “No, Lindsay, NO!” and at that moment there were two loud explosions, a nanosecond apart.

The air cracked open. The ground lurched, and I was knocked off my feet. It was as if I’d been hit by a truck. I fell hard
to the ground and was lost in a dense cloud of black smoke. I inhaled the bitter taste of cordite, coughing until my guts
spasmed. Men shouted from the street, and there was the loud static of car radios. I heard Conklin calling my name.

I peered through the smoke and saw my partner lying fifteen feet away. I screamed,
“Richie,”
scrambled up, and ran to him. He was bleeding from a gash on his forehead.

“You’re hit!”

He put a hand to his head and said, “I’m okay. Are you?”

“Fucking perfect.”

I helped Rich to his feet. He put a hand on my shoulder. “Jesus Christ, Linds, I thought he’d killed us.”

Fire was consuming an SUV at the curb. Injured men, bleeding from shrapnel wounds, leaned against their vehicles or slumped
by the street. The intensity of the blast marks near the road told me that Gordon had planted a bomb on the sidewalk. Another
bomb had gone off at the back of the house—and the home was starting to burn. Were these explosives meant to kill? Or to create
chaos?

Where was Gordon now?

I heard the unmistakable grind of a garage door rolling up behind me. I turned to see Gordon at the wheel of a blue Honda
station wagon, heading out of the garage and down the driveway toward the street.

Rich pulled his nine, and I knew his wasn’t the only weapon pointed toward that Honda. The house was covered, high and wide—and
I was in the direct line of fire.

“Hold your fire,”
I shouted toward the street.

I put up my hands and walked toward Gordon’s car. As I stared through the driver’s-side window, I found that I was looking
into the face of a terrified child. Gordon was holding his son up to the glass, gun to the baby’s head, using him as a shield.

The window lowered an inch, and Gordon’s too-familiar voice came to me.

“Stink bomb,” he said, “say hello to Sergeant Boxer.”

I TORE MY eyes away from the terrified little boy, whipped around toward the street, and screamed again,
“Hold your fire. For God’s sake, he’s got the child. Hold your fire.”

A blurred shape charged from behind a vehicle and continued in a line parallel to the street and toward the driveway.
It was Brady.
I watched in horror as he threw a spike strip down in front of Gordon’s car, then took a stance at the head of the vehicle
and, holding his gun with both hands, leveled it at the windshield.

Brady yelled to Gordon,
“Get out of the car. Get out of the car now.”

Gordon leaned on his horn, then called out to me, “Tell that bozo I have a gun to stinky’s head. At the count of three, I
shoot. One.”

My voice was hoarse as I shouted, “Brady, put down your gun. He’ll shoot the boy. He’ll
shoot!
”

Gordon was a serial killer with a hostage. Procedurally, Brady was in the right and would probably be considered a hero for
bringing Gordon down, even if Steven died.

Then Benbow backed me up.

“Brady, lower your weapon.”

Brady hesitated, then did what he was told. I was moved by Benbow’s humanity, even as I prayed he was doing the right thing.

Gordon said, “Lindsay? No guns. No choppers. No one on my tail. Do you copy?
Two.
”

I called out Gordon’s demands toward the street, and the chopper flew out of range. I heard the squeal of rubber on asphalt,
and I turned back to see Gordon’s car shoot out of the driveway. He wheeled around the spike strip and rammed an SUV, knocking
it out of the way, then jumped the curb and gunned the car down the street in the direction of the freeway.

Within seconds, this suburban block had been turned into what looked like a combat zone. The wails of sirens came from all
directions: the bomb squad, ambulances, and fire rigs all rushed to the scene.

I made my way to the street, where Benbow was ordering air cover on the Honda.

Conklin put me on the phone with Jacobi, and I told him I was all right, but the truth was, I was dazed and breathless from
the explosions, and my vision kept fading in and out.

As Conklin and I helped each other to our car, I kept seeing the red, terrified face of that small boy, screaming wordlessly
through the car window.

Dizziness swamped me. I bent over and threw up in the grass.

I WOKE UP in the emergency room, lying in a railed bed inside a curtained-off stall. Joe got up from the chair next to me
and put his hands on my shoulders.

“Hello, sweetie. Are you all right? Are you okay?”

“Never better.”

Joe laughed and kissed me.

I squeezed his hand. “How long was I out?”

“Two hours. You needed the sleep.” Joe sat back down, keeping my hand in his.

“How’s Conklin? How’s Brady?”

“Conklin’s got a line of stitches across his forehead. The scar’s going to look good on him. Brady’s a hundred percent okay
but pissed off. Says he could’ve taken Gordon out.”

“Or he could’ve gotten me, himself, Conklin, and that baby all killed.”

“You did good, Linds. No one died. Jacobi’s in the waiting room. He hugged me.”

“He did, huh?”

“Bear hug.” Joe grinned and I laughed. I’m not sure that Jacobi has ever hugged
me.

“Any news on Gordon?”

“By the time the air cover got up, his Honda was one of a million blue wagons just like it. They lost him.”

“And the boy?”

Joe shrugged. I felt sick all over again. All that highly trained manpower, and Gordon had made fools of us all. “He’s going
to use Steven as a hostage until he doesn’t need him anymore.”

“I think he’s ditched the kid by now, honey. Once he got out of there, a screaming toddler could only get in his way.”

“He killed him, you mean?”

Joe shrugged. “Let’s say he just dropped him off somewhere.” Joe turned his eyes down.

A nurse came in and said the doctor would be back in a minute. “Can I get you anything, sweetheart? Juice?”

“No, thanks. I’m okay.”

When she’d gone, Joe said, “The whole deal was a diversion. The guy knows how to make a bomb.”

“Did I set off the charge?”

“The doorbell. When you pressed the button, signals went to two blasting caps, one in a cooler at the curb. The other blew
up the back of the house—what used to be a house.”

“He asked for me, Joe. He demanded that I come to the door. He planned for me to detonate that bomb. Why me? Payback because
he didn’t get the money?”

“I think so. He’s putting your face on his power struggle with the city—”

The doctor came in, and Joe stepped outside. Dr. Dweck asked me to follow his finger with my eyes. He hammered my knees and
made me flex my wings. He told me that I had a gorgeous palm-sized contusion on my shoulder and that the cuts on my hands
would heal just fine.

He listened to my breathing and my heart, both of which sped up as I thought about how Peter Gordon could be anywhere by now,
with or without that little boy—and no one knew where in the hell he was.

I LEANED BACK in the passenger seat as Joe drove us home. Jacobi had told me to take a few days off and to call in on Monday
to see if he was letting me work next week.

Joe said, “You’re taking the sleeping cure, you hear me, Blondie? Once you’re home, you’re under house arrest.”

“Okay.”

“Stop arguing with me.”

I laughed and turned my head so I could look at his strong profile in silhouette against the cobalt-blue dusk. I let centrifugal
force hold me against the car door when Joe made the turn onto Arguello and I watched the steeples of St. John’s go by. I
must’ve closed my eyes, because I woke hearing Joe telling me that we were home.

He helped me onto the sidewalk outside our building and steadied me as I got my balance.

Joe was asking, “What do you feel like having for dinner?” when I saw what had to be an illusion. Across the street was a
blue Honda wagon with a crumpled right fender.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the car.

I didn’t wait for Joe to answer. I knew that car. Even from twenty feet away, I could see writing on the windshield. Fear
shot through me as if Pete Gordon had lit a fuse under the soles of my shoes.

How did he know where I lived?

Why had he driven his car to my door?

I ran out into the Lake Street traffic, dodging cars blowing past me. I reached the Honda, cupped my hands to the glass, and
peered inside. I saw the little boy lying on his side across the backseat. Even in the low light, the round dark spot on Steven
Gordon’s temple was a vivid red.

The psycho had shot his little boy.

He’d shot him—even though we’d done everything he asked us to do! I screamed,
“No!”
and wrenched the door open. The dome light flashed on, and I seized the child by the shoulder. The little boy’s eyes opened,
and he jerked away from me, screaming.

He was alive. I gibbered, “Stevie, are you okay, are you okay? Everything’s going to be all right.”

“I want my mom-my.”

I used my thumb to wipe away the lipstick from the side of Steven’s head, a mark so obscene, I couldn’t bear to look at it.
I took the child out of the car and swung him onto my hip, holding him tight. “Okay, little guy. Your mommy will be here soon.”

Joe was leaning into the front seat. He fastened his eyes on the letters written on the windshield.

“What is it? What does it say?” I asked him.

“Aw shit, Linds. This guy is crazy.”

“Tell me.”

“It says, ‘Now I want five million. Don’t screw it up again.’ ”

He was going to kill more people if he didn’t get the money. He’d done it before. I swayed on my feet, and Joe put his arms
around me and the boy in my arms.

“He’s desperate,” Joe said. “He’s a terrorist. Don’t let him get to you, Linds. It’s all bull.”

I wanted Joe to be right, but the last time the city hadn’t come through with the ransom money, Gordon had killed three more
people.

“Don’t screw it up again”
wasn’t a taunt. It was a threat, a loaded gun pointed at the people of San Francisco. And because I seemed to have become
Gordon’s connection to the rest of the world, that threat was also pointed at me.