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“The killings might be politically motivated. I don’t know the killer’s total agenda. But it’s one guy and he’s a nutcase. Where the hell is this going?”
“Where it’s going is murder number three,” the other agent, Hull, cut in. “The Davidson shooting.” He hoisted his solid frame out of his seat and stepped over to a flip chart on which each separate murder and the pertinent details were listed in neat columns.
“Murders one, two, and four,” he explained, “all had ties to this Chimera. Davidson’s murder doesn’t tie in at all. We want to know what makes you so sure we’re dealing with the same guy.”
“You didn’t see the shot,” I said.
“According to what I have”—Hull leafed through his notes—“Davidson was killed with a bullet from a totally different weapon.”
“I didn’t say ballistics, Hull, I said the shot. It was precision, marksman caliber. Just like the one that killed Tasha Catchings.”
“I guess my point,” Hull continued, “is that we have no tangible evidence linking the Davidson murder with the other three. If we stick to simply the facts, not Inspector Boxer’s hunch, there’s nothing to suggest we’re not dealing with a politically motivated series of events. Nothing.”
At that moment, there was a knock at the conference room door, and Charlie Clapper stuck his head in. Sort of like a shy groundhog peeking out of his burrow.
Clapper nodded toward the FBI guys, then winked at me. “I thought you’d be able to use this.”
He put on the table a black-and-white rendering of a larg
e sneaker tread.
“You remember that shoe print we pulled off of the tar at the shooter’s position of Art Davidson’s killing?”
“Of course,” I said.
He placed a second rendering beside the first. “This is one we were able to take from a patch of wet soil at the Mercer scene.”
The imprints were identical.
A hush filled the room. I looked at Agent Ruddy first, then Agent Hull.
“Course, they’re just a standard pair of Reebok cross trainers,” Charlie explained.
From a pocket in his white lab coat, he removed a slide. On it were tiny grains of powder. “We picked this up at the chief’s crime scene.”
I leaned over and stared at traces of the same white chalk.
“One killer,” I said. “One shooter.”
Chapter 55
I CALLED THE GIRLS TOGETHER for a quick lunch. I couldn’t wait to see them.
We met at Yerba Buena Gardens, and sat in the courtyard outside the new IMAX, watching the kids play in the fountains, munching on take-out salads and wraps. I went through everything, from the moment I left them at Susie’s, to the suspicion someone was following me, to taking down my father outside my apartment.
“My God,” uttered Claire. “The prodigal father.”
For a moment, it was as if a dome of silence had shut us off from the rest of the world. Everybody fixed on me with incredulous faces.
“When was the last time you’d seen him?” Jill asked.
“He was at my graduation from the academy. I didn’t invite him, but he knew somehow.”
“He followed you?” Jill gasped. “From our meeting? Like some kind of creepy perp? Yick,” she said, cringing.
“Typical Marty Boxer.” I exhaled. “That’s my dad.”
Claire put her hand on my arm. “So, what did he want?”
