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“I know. We’re a team. Everything you do involves all of us now.”
Sarah nodded and was quiet for a while as she sorted through a number of options, every single one of them scarier than the last—but just as compelling.
“Sarah?”
“I know what to do.”
Chapter 86
PETE GORDON HAD parked at the outer edge of the shopping center, beyond the lights and the security cameras, and was waiting now for Heidi and the kiddos to catch up with him.
Keyed up but in control, Pete was aware of everything around him: the smell of newly painted lines in the parking lot, the shoppers walking out to their cars, the lights at Mervyns and Toys “R” Us, and the deepening dusk of the sky.
The adrenaline charging through his veins sharpened his mind as he waited out the last minutes before he would execute the most critical phase of his plan. Once he’d eliminated the Three Stooges, he’d walk to his house and stretch out in front of the TV. He’d be home before the cops were even called.
He ran the three little sentences of his letter to the Chronicle through his mind: “Believe me now? The price has gone up to five million. Don’t screw up again.”
He couldn’t be any clearer than that.
The letter would run as the cops and the media were consoling him for his terrible loss, blaming yet three more “senseless murders” on the Lipstick Killer.
It was a brilliant plan, and he had to give himself credit, because he’d never get it from anyone else.
And with that, Pete heard Heidi yakking away and saw her in the rearview mirror bouncing the stink bomb on her hip as she pushed the shopping cart. He also heard another voice—damn it. It was that dog-faced Angie Weider, one of their neighbors, and here she was, pushing her brat in a stroller.
Heidi called out, “Bye,” to Angie, then pulled up on the shopping cart, leaving it at the back of the car.
“Pete?”
Heidi opened the rear doors, strapped the kids in, and called over the seat back to him, “Petey, would you get the groceries?”
“No problem, princess. All you have to do is ask.”
Pete pulled on his gloves, leaped out of the car, and opened the trunk lock, waiting as a vehicle sped out of the lot. When it was all clear, he stowed the groceries neatly beside the emergency road kit and the shoe box that held his loaded gun.
“Hey, Pete,” Angie Weider called out to him, “you guys should come to dinner with us. We’re going to the BlueJay Café.”
“Another time, okay?” Pete said, dropping the gun back into the box, fury flooding through him, a tidal wave of hatred directed at that bitch who had destroyed both his opportunity and his alibi in one blow. He thought for a moment of killing her and her tot, but he could hear Heidi screaming and see Sherry running and he’d never be able to murder them all without being seen.
Heidi ignored him. “Kids, want to go out for dinner?”
Sherry sang her approval and the stink bomb gurgled his. Pete slammed the trunk lid shut and, barely checking his temper, said, “You go ahead. There’s a game on in ten minutes.”
Heidi said, “Just remember to put the ice cream away, and I’ll take care of the rest when I get home.”
She grabbed the stink bomb out of his car seat, and Sherry skipped over to the Weiders’ van. With a toot of the horn, they were gone.
Pete jerked the car into gear and backed out.
Change of plan. He wasn’t going to go home after all.
Chapter 87
IT HAD BEEN a week since I’d stopped traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge with the front section of the Chronicle clasped to my chest, ten days since that psycho we call the Lipstick Killer had murdered Elaine Marone and her child. I could still feel the weight of the killer’s cell phone hanging around my neck, could hear his jeers and gibes as he ordered me to disarm and disrobe myself on the way to the drop that never was.
I was relieved that the Feds had taken the Lipstick Psycho off our hands. The Dowling case was heating up. We had a wiretap transcript that could lead to probable cause. And in Evidence we had a climber’s shoe, a Banana Republic sweater, and a bag of tools that probably belonged to Hello Kitty.
I liked the feeling of getting traction at last, so I was none too happy when Jackson Brady called at six that evening, saying the FBI had requested my help at a triple homicide.
