The Mercedes veered onto Taylor at a split in the road. We were two car lengths behind but not close enough in the darkening night to get any sense of who was driving, who was riding shotgun.
We followed the car onto Ellis, heading west past the Hotel Coronado, where the first electrocution murder had happened. This was the killer’s turf, wasn’t it? The bastard knew these streets as well as I did.
Cars hugged the curbs, and we blew past cross streets at eighty, our siren blaring, speeding uphill at full throttle, going airborne for a few heart-stopping seconds before dropping onto the downside curve of the incline—and even so, we lost the Mercedes at Leavenworth as cars and pedestrians clogged the intersection.
I yelled into the mike again and thanked God when a radio car called in, “We’ve got him in sight, Lieutenant. Black Mercedes heading west on Turk, going seventy-five.” Another unit joined the chase at Hyde.
“I’m guessing he’s headed toward Polk,” I said to Jacobi.
“My thoughts exactly.”
We deferred the main route to the squad cars, shot past Krim’s and Kram’s Palace of Fine Junk on the corner of Turk, and picked up Polk heading north. There were about a dozen one-way alleys branching off Polk. I drilled each one of them with my eyes as we passed Willow, Ellis, and Olive.
“That’s him, dragging his butt,” I shouted to Jacobi. The Mercedes wobbled on a blown right rear tire as it took the turn past the Mitchell Brothers’ theater, then onto Larkin.
I grabbed the dash with both hands as Jacobi followed. The Mercedes lost control, caromed off a parked minivan, flew up onto the pavement, and charged a mailbox. Torn metal screamed as the mailbox punched the undercarriage of the car, which then came to rest with its nose pointing upward at a forty-five-degree angle, the driver’s side canting down toward the gutter.
The hood popped, and steam poured out as the radiator hose gave up the ghost. The stink of burned rubber and the candy apple smell of antifreeze permeated the air.
Jacobi halted our vehicle, and we ran toward the Mercedes, guns in hand.
“Get your hands in the air,” I shouted. “Do it now!”
I saw that both occupants were pinned by the airbags. As the airbags deflated, I got my first look at their faces. They were white kids, maybe thirteen and fifteen, and they were terrified.
As Jacobi and I gripped our weapons with both hands and approached the Mercedes, the kids started bawling their hearts out.
Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July
Chapter 6
MY HEART WAS BOOMING almost audibly, and now I was furious. Unless Dr. Cabot was Doogie Howser’s age, he wasn’t in this car. These kids were idiots or speed freaks or car thieves—or maybe all three.
I kept my gun pointed at the driver’s-side window.
“Put your hands in the air. That’s it. Touch the ceiling. Both of you.”
Tears were cascading down the driver’s face, and with a shock, I realized it was a girl. She had a short pink-tipped haircut, no makeup, no face piercings: a Seventeen magazine version of punk that she hadn’t quite pulled off. When she lifted her hands, I saw glass shards dusting her black T-shirt. Her name hung from a chain around her neck.
I admit I yelled at her. We’d just been through a chase that could have killed us all.
“What the hell did you think you were doing, Sara?”
“I’m sorrrry,” she wailed. “It’s just—I only have a learner’s permit. What are you going to do to me?”
I was incredulous. “You ran from the police because you don’t have a driver’s license? Are you insane?”
“He’s going to kill us,” said the other kid, a lanky young boy hanging sideways from the over-the-shoulder seatbelt holding him into the passenger seat.
The boy had huge brown eyes and blond hair falling across them. His nose was bleeding, probably broken from the slam he’d taken from the airbag. Tears dribbled down his cheeks.
“Please don’t tell. Just say the car was stolen or something and let us go home. Please. Our dad’s going to really kill us.”
“Why is that?” Jacobi asked sarcastically. “He won’t like the new hood ornament on his sixty-thousand-dollar car? Keep your hands where we can see them and get out real slow.”
“I can’t. I’m stuh-uh-uck,” cried the boy. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, smearing blood across his face. Then he threw up on the console.
Jacobi muttered, “Aw, shit,” as our instincts to render aid took over. We holstered our weapons. It took our combined strength to wrench open the ruined driver’s-side door. I reached in and shut off the ignition, and after that we eased the kids out of the vehicle and onto their feet.
“Let’s see that learner’s permit, Sara,” I said. I was wondering if her father was Dr. Cabot and if the kids were afraid of him for good reason.
“It’s here,” Sara said. “In my wallet.”
Jacobi was calling for an ambulance when the young girl reached into her inside jacket pocket and pulled out an object so unexpected and so chilling my blood froze.
I yelled, “GUN!” a split second before she shot me.
Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July
Chapter 7
TIME SEEMED TO SLOW, every second distinct from the one before it, but the truth is, everything happened in under a minute.
I flinched, turning sideways as I felt the bullet’s hard punch to my left shoulder. Then another shot slammed into my thigh. Even as I struggled to understand, my legs buckled and I fell to the ground. I reached a hand out toward Jacobi and saw his face register shock.
I didn’t lose consciousness. I saw the boy shoot Jacobi—blam-blam-blam. Then he walked over and kicked my partner in the head. I heard the girl say, “C’mon, Sammy. Let’s get out of here.”
I felt no pain, just rage. I was thinking as clearly as I had at any time in my life. They’d forgotten about me. I felt for my 9mm Glock, still at my waist, wrapped my hand around the grip, and sat up.
“Drop your gun,” I shouted, pointing my weapon at Sara.
“Fuck you, bitch,” she yelled back. Her face was etched with fear as she leveled her .22 and squeezed off three rounds. I heard shell cases ping against the sidewalk all around me.
It’s notoriously hard to hit your target with a pistol, but I did what I was trained to do. I aimed for central mass, the center of her chest, and double-tapped: boom-boom. Sara’s face crumpled as she collapsed. I tried to get to my feet but only managed to rise to one knee.
The bloody-faced boy was still holding a pistol in his hand. He pointed it at me. “Drop it!” I screamed.
“You shot my sister!”
I aimed, double-tapped again: boom-boom. The boy dropped his gun, his whole body going limp.
He cried out as he fell.
Womans Murder Club 4 - 4th of July
Chapter 8
THERE WAS A TERRIBLE hushed silence on Larkin Street. Then sounds kicked in. A radio played rap in the middle distance. I heard the soft moans of the boy. I heard police sirens coming closer.
Jacobi wasn’t moving at all. I called out to him, but he didn’t answer. I unhooked my Nextel from my belt and, to the best of my ability, I called in.
“Two officers down. Two civilians down. Need medical assistance. Send two ambulances. Now.”
The dispatcher was asking me questions: location, badge number, location again. “Lieutenant, are you okay? Lindsay. Answer me.”
The sounds were fading in and out. I dropped the telephone and put my head down on the soft, soft pavement. I’d shot children. Children! I had seen their shocked faces as they went down. Oh, my God, what had I done?
I felt hot blood pooling under my neck and around my leg. I played the whole thing over in my mind, this time throwing the kids against the car. Cuffing them. Frisking them. Being smart. Being competent!