The 9th Judgment (8 page)

Heidi undressed Sarah, carefully undid the oversize shirt one slow button at a time, unzipped the low-riding jeans, marveled
as she ran her hands over Sarah’s lean runner’s body. Sarah was so strong.

“Your body is the next best thing to having a body like this myself,” Heidi said.

“You’re perfect. I love everything about you.”

“That was my line. Get into the bed, now. Go on.”

Heidi handed Sarah a glass and eased in next to her love, her sweetheart. The two women got comfortable in the iron bedstead
under the eaves, Heidi putting a hand on Sarah’s thigh, Sarah drawing Heidi closer under her protective arm.

“So what’s on our travelogue tonight?” Heidi asked.

Sarah had a list of three places, but she had a special feeling about Palau. She told Heidi, “It’s so far from anywhere. You
can swim naked in these amazing grottoes. Nobody cares about who you are,” she said.

“No problems with a quartet of two women, two kids?”

“We’ll say we’re sisters. You’re widowed.”

“Oh, because the family resemblance is so strong?”

“Sisters-in-law, then.”

“Okay. And about the language? What is it?”

“Palauan, of course. But they speak English, too.”

“All right, then. To life in Palau,” Heidi said, touching Sarah’s glass with hers. They sipped and kissed with their eyes
open, then the glasses were put aside and they reached for each other, Heidi listening to the baby monitor, Sarah with an
eye to the window, fear driving their passion into high gear.

As Heidi stripped off Sarah’s panties, Sarah was thinking,
We can escape as soon as the last jobs are done. As soon as the jewels are sold.

“Sarah?”

“I’m here, Heidi. Thinking of the future.”

“Come to me now.”

Sarah had a sudden thought. She should tell Heidi about that woman and child she’d heard about who were killed in a parking
garage, warn her to be very careful—but a second later, the thought faded and another came into focus.

She would sell everything but that yellow stone. One day soon, she’d give it to Heidi.

IT WAS EIGHT in the morning when Jacobi dragged his chair into the center of the room and called us together. Yuki sat beside
me. Claire stood behind Jacobi, arms crossed over her chest, just as emotionally invested in the young, deceased Darren Benton
as Yuki was in Casey Dowling.

I noticed the stranger sitting in a metal chair in the corner: suntanned white male, midthirties, narrow blue eyes, sun-bleached
blond hair pulled back and knotted with a rubber band. He was maybe five ten, 160 pounds, and he looked buff from the way
his blazer stretched across his biceps.

This guy was a cop. A cop I didn’t know.

Jacobi picked up where we’d left off the day before. Chi reported on the Benton case, saying that there was no match to the
slugs found in the Bentons’ bodies. He noted that the stippling pattern was still unidentified but that Dr. Washburn had sent
photos out to the FBI.

Chi jiggled the coins in his pocket and looked uncomfortable when he said that the lipstick used to write the letters “WCF”
was a common, inexpensive drugstore brand.

Bottom line: they had nothing.

I stood and briefed the squad, saying that we were going over the Dowlings’ phone records and that there were many dozens
of numbers that came up repeatedly on both lists. I said that we had found nothing unusual in either of the Dowlings’ bank-account
records.

“Casey Dowling owned a very distinctive piece of jewelry,” I continued. “We’re working on that, and we haven’t turned up anything
at all on Hello Kitty. All bright ideas are welcome. Anyone wants to work the psycho tip line, raise your hand.”

Of course, no one did.

The meeting was wrapping up when Jacobi said, “Everyone say hello to Sergeant Jackson Brady.”

The cop sitting in the back lifted his hand in a wave and looked around as he was introduced.

“Jack Brady is a new transfer,” Jacobi said. “He’s put in a dozen years with Miami PD, most of those in Homicide. Chief Tracchio
has attached him to our unit as a pinch hitter in the short-term, pending his permanent assignment. God knows we need the
help. Please make him feel welcome.”

Jacobi dismissed us, and Jackson Brady came over to my desk and put out his hand. I shook it, told him my name, and introduced
him to Conklin.

Brady nodded and said he’d heard about the firebugs, a case involving two boys who set fire to houses, killing the residents—a
case Conklin and I had closed.

I saw Brady’s sharp blue eyes raking the small squad room as I talked. I turned to see Claire speaking with Jacobi, Cindy
huddling with Yuki, the TV in the corner of the room showing Marcus Dowling still chatting up the press.

“The more they talk, the less I believe them,” Brady said, jutting his chin toward the images of Dowling.

“We’ve been working the case for a few days,” I said. “We’re just getting our teeth into it.”

“I heard your report, Sergeant,” Brady said. “You don’t have a clue.”

ERNIE COOPER’S PAWNSHOP is wedged between a Chinese fast-food restaurant and a smoke shop on Valencia, at the heart of the
Mission. Casey Dowling’s high-ticket jewelry was out of Ernie Cooper’s league, but Cooper was retired from the SFPD and had
offered help anytime we needed him.

Today, the hulking ex-cop’s frame was filling up a faded art deco fan chair on the sidewalk outside his shop. His gray hair
was braided down his back, iPod cords dangled from his ears, an open racing form was on his lap, and there was the bulge of
a handgun under his aloha shirt.

Cooper grinned when he saw us and stood up to shake Conklin’s hand and mine.

“We’re working a burglary that turned into a murder,” I told him.

“Movie star’s wife? I read about that,” he said. “Have a seat.”

I pulled up a toy trunk, and Conklin balanced his rump on a bamboo bar stool. Cooper said, “Fill me in.”

I handed him the folder of insurance photos, and he flipped through them, stopping often to take in the sapphires in platinum
settings, the chains of diamonds, and then the real showstopper—the yellow diamond ring looking like a pasha’s cushion set
in a throne of pavé diamonds.

“Man alive,” Cooper said. He flipped the photo over and read the specs of the piece. “Appraised at a million. And I’m betting
it’s worth every penny.”

“It’s one of a kind, right?” Conklin asked him.

“Oh, sure,” Cooper said. “A twenty-karat diamond of any kind is rare. But a canary diamond? The setting alone says it’s an
original. I wonder why it’s not signed.”

“So what would you do if you stole this?” I asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t shop it here, that’s for sure. I’d hand it off to a flying fence, take my ten percent, and be done.”

“Flying fence” was a new term for me. I asked Ernie to explain.

“A flying fence is like the regular kind, except he takes possession of the goods immediately, catches a flight to LA or New
York or another jewelry-laundering hub, and is in the air within an hour or so of the robbery.”

“And then what?”

“The route fans out to anywhere. In the case of this ring, maybe it’s been sold as is, but not in this country. Probably on
the finger of a young lady in Dubai as we speak.”

Cooper drummed his fingers on the folder. I thought I could see a lightbulb going on over his head.

“You know, there was a flying fence who took a bullet in New York a couple of months ago. Yeah, Maury Green. He specialized
in high-priced gems. Normally he’d be the guy you’d go to with a hot rock like this.”

“He was killed?”

“Yep, on the spot. Green was taking possession of a haul, and the cops tagged the guy who was making the drop. Can’t remember
his name, but he was wanted for armed robbery. So anyway, the mope pulled a gun, and Maury Green got caught in the cross fire.
That put a break in the supply chain.

“You know,” Cooper said, “if your Hello Kitty was using Green to fence his goods, he may be stuck with this million-dollar
chunk of yellow ice for a while. Could be your cat’s up a tree, doesn’t know how to get down.”

YUKI HUGGED THE tanned, graceful woman who opened the door.

“God, it’s been what, six years? You look the same!” Sue Emdin said to Yuki, the whole time looking at her like
Gee, I haven’t heard from you since graduation, so what’s this about?

As they walked through the house, Yuki and Sue chatted about their days at Boalt Law, and once they were comfortably seated
outside on the wraparound porch with iced tea and cookies, Yuki brought up Casey Dowling and how she’d died.

“You want to talk about Casey
officially?
” Sue asked.

“Uh-huh. But what’s the difference, Sue? Casey is dead, and we owe it to her to help catch her killer.”

“Understand, both Marc and Casey are my friends,” Sue said. “I don’t want to say anything behind Marc’s back.”

“I do understand, and right now, this is between us,” Yuki said. “If you know something, you have to tell me, and you have
to let me use my judgment. You’d expect the same from me.”

“All right, all right. But try to keep me out of it, okay? When was the last time I asked you for a favor?”

Yuki laughed, and Sue joined her, saying, “Never, right?”

“This is the first time.”

“Between you and me, Casey told me she thought Marcus was having an affair. There. I said it.”

“Did she have any proof? Did she suspect someone in particular? Did she confront Marcus?”

“Slow down. One question at a time,” Sue said.

“Sorry. Backing up, now. Did Casey have any proof that Marcus was screwing around?”

“No, but she was suspicious. Marc’s always been a letch. He put his hand on my butt once or twice. Hell, he’s a movie star.
But Casey said, and I quote, ‘He’s gone off me.’ Meaning he didn’t have the hots for her anymore. That’s all the proof she
had—none—and at the same time, she was alarmed.”

“Did she confront him?”

“Yuki, you’re not thinking Marc shot Casey?”

“Not at all. He’s clean. But it helps to know if there was trouble in the marriage.”

“I’m a lawyer, too, remember, and I’m telling you Marcus didn’t do it. Marc totally loved Casey. He thought she was a riot.
He said he’d never had a boring moment in the four years he was married to her. Ben and I went over to Marc’s house last night,
and he was devastated. He said he was dying from grief. And even if he was fooling around, he wouldn’t have left Casey. He
certainly wouldn’t have—I can’t even say it.”

“Would Casey have divorced him?”

Sue Emdin sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe. She told me that if she found out he was cheating, she’d leave him.”

“When did she say that?”

“Tuesday night.”

“Sue, Casey was killed on
Wednesday
.”

“Look somewhere else, Yuki. Trust me on this. It was that cat burglar. Marcus didn’t do it.”

PETE GORDON WAS hunting along the Embarcadero, the eastern roadway that fronts the bay, running from 2nd and King, past the
Ferry Building, and north under the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge, an artery traveled by locals and tourists alike. People
flowed around him on foot, on bike, on skateboard, as the setting sun licked at the indigo sky.

Pete had picked his target outside the Ferry Building, a reed-thin blonde wearing a hooded black Windbreaker over her long
black skirt, her clothes billowing and snapping in the breeze. Made him think of a woman in a burka.

The thin blonde was pushing a kiddo in a stroller, a calm child in pink who seemed to be taking in the travelers getting off
the ferry and fanning out through the marketplace.

Pete followed the black-cloaked blonde through the farmer’s market, watching her pick out one loaf of bread, one head of lettuce,
and one fish fillet. He stayed on her tail as she left the market, plastic bags looped over her wrists, not talking to her
daughter, who in some way seemed to be in charge.

When his target got to the intersection of Market and Spear, she headed toward the BART entrance. She tilted the stroller
up and stepped onto the down escalator, and Pete knew it was time. He gripped his gun in his right hand, the whole of it buried
in his pocket, and followed her off the moving stairway.

“Miss? Ma’am?” he shouted. The third time he called her, she whipped her head around and shot him a look:
What is it?

He ducked his head and gave her a shy smile. “I’m supposed to meet a friend at the corner of California. I’ve, uh, gotten
lost.”

The woman stared at him and said, “I can’t help you,” and pushed the stroller out from the arch toward the entrance to the
underground.

“Hey, thanks, lady!” Pete yelled out. “I appreciate the fucking time of day.”

Hands jammed in his pockets, Pete continued north. It wasn’t over yet. He wondered if his expression had given him away. Had
he looked too eager? Too raw?

It hadn’t been this way in Iraq. And he wouldn’t mess up here.

He was steady. He was focused. He had a mission.

And he
would
accomplish it.

AS PETE WALKED into the crosswind, he was remembering PFC Kenneth Marshall’s last day.

Pete had been in the lead vehicle on the dusty road just outside Haditha, his men in a caravan behind him. They were within
forty meters of a cluster of houses when the car bomb exploded, blowing Corporal Lennar out of the last vehicle in the line,
separating Kenny Marshall from his legs.

Pete loved Kenny like a brother. He was a smart kid with dimples and a picture of Jesus inside his helmet. He played kick-the-can
with the enemy kiddos, gave them rations, believed in the mission—to bring freedom to Iraq. Kenny liked to say that when it
was his time, God would find him wherever he was.

After God called Kenny, after the IED killed this good American son and soldier, after the troops in Captain Peter Gordon’s
command came out of their crouches, they looked to Pete for orders. It was easy. He did it by the book. His book.