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“Darned cute,” I said. “And how long has this been going on?”
“A few weeks.”
“So is this… serious?”
“Yeah,” she said, blushing and grinning at the same time.
“Wow,” Cindy said. “You kept that a secret?”
“Good for you, Yuki. A new case and a new boyfriend. A pitcher of brew, please,” I said to Lorraine. “Four glasses.”
“I have an announcement, too,” Cindy said, clasping her hands, leaning across the table, practically falling into my lap. “Rich and I are living together.”
“Whoa. That’s fantastic,” I said—and I felt it. A hundred percent. “He didn’t tell me.”
“I wanted to be the one to tell you,” she said.
The beer came along with a bowl of plantain chips, and Cindy talked about closet space and how the bed was too soft for Rich, and I thought about how long it had been—if ever—since all of us were happy at the same time. I wished that Claire was here to enjoy this.
I turned, looked over my shoulder, and saw her barreling down the narrow passageway toward our booth.
The look on her face could be described only as an eclipse of the sun. A thunderstorm was coming in.
Chapter 110
CLAIRE DIDN’T EVEN say hello.
She slid into the booth, poured a glass of beer, and said, “Sorry I’m late. I was on the medical examiner database, still trying to break the logjam in this Lipstick Psycho disaster. Edmund says I should take the pictures of those dead babies down from the board in my office, but I want to keep them up until that devil is in custody.”
“Did you find anything?” I asked.
“I can’t find a pattern that matches anything in any database but ours. No other mother-child shootings. No lipstick messages. The stippling pattern is unique. What is his motivation, his trigger, his problem? I don’t have a clue. Cindy, could you pass the chips?”
“He says he’s doing it for the money,” Cindy said.
Claire nodded, then put her hand up, signaling that she still had the floor. She snacked and sipped, then picked up her thought.
“Okay. It’s unusual, isn’t it, Linds? A psycho motivated by money? But anyway let’s consider that message Gordon wrote on the windshield of his car: ‘Now I want five million. Don’t screw it up again.’ What’s happening with that?” Claire asked me.
“The FBI has the car, and it’s their case. I’m on call, but Benbow is in charge.”
Cindy said, “What would happen if we came up with something? What if the Chronicle responds to that windshield message with an open letter to the killer, like we did before?”
“Be specific. What are you thinking?” Yuki asked.
“Say Henry Tyler writes the letter. He says, ‘We’ve got the five million and want to set up a drop.’ And he challenges the killer, kind of a ‘back at ya,’ and says, ‘Don’t screw it up again.’”
“And then what?” Yuki asked Cindy. “Another trap? How would it end any differently?”
I hoped for a trap that wouldn’t involve me. I didn’t know if I could do a repeat performance of that horrific day with the cell phone hanging around my neck, never knowing if or when Gordon would take the money and pop me.
But I had to admit what was demonstrably true.
I said, “You’re saying that if the FBI doesn’t do something soon, he’s going to kill more people to make his point.”
“More mothers and kids,” Cindy said.
“Yep, that’s what I’m thinking,” Claire agreed. “I have an interesting idea, different from the last time. I think it could work.”
