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“Open the envelope, sweetheart,” the killer said, and, gritting my teeth, I did it.
Inside, I found a ticket stub and twenty-five dollars in crisp bills. The stub was marked TRINITY PLAZA. I knew the place, an all-day lot nearby.
“Having fun?” I asked the Lipstick Killer.
“Loads,” he told me. “If you’re bored, tell me about yourself. I’m all ears.”
“I’d rather talk about you. Why did you shoot those people?” I asked.
“I’d tell you,” he said, “but you know how the saying goes: then I’d have to kill you—Lindsay.”
“Who is Lindsay?” I asked, but I was rocked. My stride faltered and I nearly stumbled down the hotel steps. How did he know my name?
“Did you think I didn’t recognize you? Gee, princess, you’re almost a celebrity around this town. I knew, of course, that they’d put a cop on this gig. But, to my delight, it’s you. Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, my girl on a leash.”
“Well, as long as you’re happy.”
“Happy? I’m ecstatic. So listen up, Lindsay. I’m just a Google click away from knowing where you live, who your friends are, who you love. So I guess you’ve got an even better reason to make this a payday for me, don’t you, sweetmeat?”
I pictured Cindy in the camera’s eye, Conklin, Joe working in his home office, Martha at his feet. I saw myself with my Glock in my hand, sights lined up between the no-color eyes of a guy in a baseball jacket. I squeezed the trigger.
Problem was, I didn’t have the Glock.
Chapter 62
“YOU’RE QUIET, PRINCESS,” said the voice in my ear.
“What do you want me to say?”
“No, you’re right. Don’t think too much. Just execute the mission.”
But I was thinking anyway. If I saw his face and lived, I would quit the force if I had to in order to get the job done. I would look at all the thousands of photos of every former soldier, sailor, coastguardsman, and marine in San Francisco.
And if he wasn’t living in San Francisco, I’d keep looking at photos until I found him, if it was the last thing I ever did.
But, of course, he wouldn’t let me see his face and walk away. Not this guy.
I walked along Market, turned, and finally saw the parking lot. The guy in the booth was leaning against the back wall with his eyes closed, deep into his iPod. I rapped on the window and handed him the ticket stub, and he barely looked at me.
“That’s twenty-five bucks,” he said.
I pushed the bills at him, and he handed me the keys.
“Which car is it?” I said to the presence hanging from my neck.
“Green Chevy Impala, four cars down and to your right. It’s stolen, Lindsay, so don’t worry about tracing it to me.”
The car looked so old, it could’ve been from the ’80s, not the kind of junker someone would be in a hurry to report stolen. I opened the door and saw the brand-new Pelican gun case—long enough to hold an assault rifle—resting on the backseat.
“What’s that for?” I asked the Lipstick Killer.
“Open it,” he said.
Pelican is known for its protective cases. They are lined with foam, have unbreakable locks, and can withstand anything fire or water or an explosive blast can throw at them.
I opened the padded case. It was em
pty.
