“Shopping bags and keys in her hand. And she was killed a half block from Union Square Garage, where her car was parked.”
“Did anyone see anything?”
“Nope, and Ms. Thompson got the full five-star investigation. Chi was the lead investigator.”
“And how did the case play out?”
“Not only were there no witnesses, there were also no forensics, no footage, no nothing. Not even the knife. Make a note, Sergeant Blondie. Taking the knife is a common thread.”
“Duly noted,” I said.
“OK, next victim was very different than Ms. Thompson.”
“Do tell,” I said.
I took the empty dessert plates away and put them in the dishwasher while Martha and Joe headed to the living room. We all settled into the oversize leather sofa. Martha put her head on my lap, letting out a contented sigh.
“Victim number two, Krista Toomey, was homeless,” Joe said. “Twenty-five years old, in bad shape even for a meth addict. She was sleeping in an alley in the Tenderloin. Olive Street. No witnesses, but plenty of people knew her.”
“And were they able to contribute anything?”
“Nothing useful. I found the autopsy report. Like your victim who was stabbed in the back outside her father’s diner, this girl was also stabbed from behind. The first or second blows were fatal, but the killer kept going. Stabbed her all over her back, arms, buttocks—thirty-five separate wounds.
“Based on the shape and depth of the wounds, the weapon was probably a paring knife, but it wasn’t found. Again, no witnesses, no evidence—and because there were no leads, and no friends or relatives stepping forward putting pressure on the police, and there were a whole lot of open cases at that time, this one went cold.”
I understood. I might even have been aware of this crime. All murder cases should be worked and solved. But there’s not enough manpower, not enough time, and some cases just don’t get solved.
I said, “Whoever killed these women is smart, aware of cameras and bystanders and what constitutes forensic evidence. The victims were all women, and it looks like the five you’ve identified were all killed by a common type of knife that is never left behind.”
“Agreed, Linds. Add all that to the date they were all killed, May twelfth. And that’s why I suspect one person killed the five of them.”
“So you conclude what about the killer?”
“If my theory is right, this dude didn’t know his victims,” said Joe. “He chose these women because the circumstances were favorable to him. And whatever his motive for murder, he was driven to kill violently. This is a guess, but I’d say he was mad as hell. He kills people he doesn’t know in a ferocious rage.”
“Yeah, I can see that. And since he kills in daylight, and no one sees him, he’s got a cloak of invisibility.”
“I decided to leave something for you to figure out.”
“Awww. Thanks.”
My husband patted my thigh. “I believe my work here is done. Let’s go to bed.”
CHAPTER 30
AT QUARTER TO eight the next morning, my partner and I met in the break room and made coffee. Conklin’s face was lined from sleeping facedown, and I’m sure I looked like I’d gotten no sleep at all. Which was true.
When Julie wasn’t calling for something, Martha was edging me off my side of the bed.
And then there were my vivid, disturbing dreams about Maya Perez, in which she begged me not to let her die. I knew enough pop-culture dream analysis to know that I was Maya in that dream and I didn’t want to die or let anything hurt my baby.
Conklin and I sugared our coffees and went to our computers. I took A to M and he took N to Z as we started going through Human Resources files looking for “sore thumbs.” That was what we were calling disgruntled cops who’d been demoted or dropped or had stalled in dead-end careers—the type of malcontent who might risk life in a federal pen without chance of parole in return for a quick payday.
We found plenty of sore thumbs, none of them named Juan, but every last one of them had guns and a navy-blue Windbreaker with white letters across the chest and back spelling out SFPD.
At eight thirty Brady called us into his office.
One look at him and I knew it was Groundhog Day. Just as he’d been every day this week, Brady was grouchy.
I almost said “What now?” but I kept my mouth shut.
Brady said, “I’m sorry I’ve been a pain in the ass.”
What? Say that again?
“Jacobi thinks the whole station is going down the tubes This is between us three, OK?”
“OK,” Conklin said. “What’s happened?”
Brady said, “In the past year, a half dozen drug dealers have been shot in crack houses and stash pads all across the city. The cash and the drugs disappear, never to be seen again. Word on the street is that the robbers are cops.”
No wonder Brady was pissed. There was a bad cop epidemic. And we were just about the last to know.
I said, “Are you thinking these cops who’re ripping off drug dealers could be the same rogue cops we’re looking at for the check-cashing stores?”
“Could be, or maybe not. We’ve got no surveillance of the shooters, of course, and no one’s naming names. I’m just saying, keep this in mind.”
When I got back to my desk, there was a note on my chair, handwritten on my own FROM THE DESK OF LINDSAY BOXER notepad.
The note was in block letters.
It read, WATCH YOUR BACK, BITCH. REMEMBER WHO YOUR FRIENDS ARE. THEY WEAR BLUE.
I looked around the squad room.
The night-shift guys were getting ready to check out while the day shift was just settling in. I saw about a dozen and a half cops I’d worked with for years. I loved some of them, liked many of them. But one of these guys was warning me not to cross the thin blue line.
Not even if catching bad cops meant catching murderers.
But then, blind loyalty was a bone-deep part of being a cop. I did wonder, though, if this note was from one of the Windbreaker cops. Could one or more of them work in this very squad? Or was the note from any one of the cops in this room who had simply seen the open investigation file I had left in plain sight on the computer?
I showed the note to Conklin, who gave me a questioning look. I shrugged and put the note in my handbag.
I would watch my back. But I was shaken. Next chance I got, I was going to have to report this to Brady.
CHAPTER 31
AT EIGHT THIRTY that morning Richard Blau had his keys in his hand and was about to open the folding metal gates in front of his check-cashing store on the corner of Market Street and Sixteenth. Blau was a careful man. He and Donna had successfully run their business for over thirty years and were closing in on retirement.
He had heard that a couple of stores like theirs had been robbed in the last week, making him glad he had an alarm tied into a central station and also had a shotgun behind the counter.
His wife had gone to park the car in the underground lot around the corner. Blau always opened the store. First he unlocked the padlock; he had started sliding the metal gates back from the plate glass window when he saw three men get out of a gray sedan two cars up from the entrance to the store.
The three men wore police Windbreakers and billed caps, which gave him pause, but then he caught a look at the identical latex masks they were all wearing.
They were latex pig masks. There was no unseeing that.
He had a panicky thought that if he could somehow get into the store and close the door behind him, this nightmare could be derailed. He could call the police—but he canceled the idea almost as soon as he had it. Last thing he wanted was for Donna to approach the store and get shot.
The men in the pig masks were coming toward him quickly. Their timing was good. There were no pedestrians, and the few drivers were focused on getting through the next traffic light. Blau saw that each of the men had a gun. He had to outthink them. He had to use his brain.