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Cindy said, “Thank God,” and she sat back down from the weight of relief and emotion. We were all emoting, thanking both God and Dr. Starr, and tears were springing from all eyes.
When my phone rang, I said to Joe, “It’s probably Brady.”
But when I looked at the caller ID, I was shocked to see who was calling me.
It was Vasquez.
Where was he?
Did he know that his partner, Ted Swanson, was in the ICU? That Kyle Robertson was dead? That Brand’s and Whitney’s bodies were at the morgue? I fumbled the phone, then stabbed the Talk button.
“Boxer,” I said.
The voice that came over Vasquez’s phone did not belong to Vasquez. It was male, unaccented, unfamiliar.
“There’s been a terrible accident, Sergeant Boxer, and Vasquez himself couldn’t place the call.”
“Who is this?”
“Just listen. Vasquez can’t contact anyone, you understand what I’m saying? He’s lying in the Wicker House parking lot. But Vasquez is not important. Here’s what is. I want what was taken from me. Three million in cash. Two hundred pounds of synthetic marijuana and a hundred kilos of high-grade heroin.”
I said, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do. It’s your case. You’re in charge. I hope you know who you’re dealing with.”
“Who is this?” I asked again.
“I’m called Kingfisher. Ask around. You’ll be hearing from me again soon, Lindsay Boxer. You can count on it.”
The phone went dead in my hand.
Joe said, “Linds? Who was that?”
I stuttered, “S-some dirtbag who has been harassing me.”
If only Kingfisher were your ordinary dirtbag. But he was anything but ordinary. He topped the list of the most ruthless drug lords in the country: wanted for drug trafficking, torture, murder, and organized crime up and down the length of California and many points east.
And now the King was here.
His investment at Wicker House had been stolen by cops—and he wasn’t writing it off as “the cost of doing business.” He’d been unable to recover his property from Calhoun or Vasquez. Robertson, Brand, and Whitney were also dead.
The only living person who might know the whereabouts of the Wicker House haul was a dirty cop known as One, real name Edward “Ted” Swanson, who’d been hospitalized with multiple gunshot wounds and wasn’t expected to live.
So Kingfisher was targeting me.
Turn the page for a sneak preview of
TRUTH OR DIE
Coming June 2015
“WHERE EXACTLY DID it happen?” I asked.
“West End Avenue at Seventy-Third. The taxi was stopped at a red light,” said Lamont. “The assailant smashed the driver’s side window, pistol-whipped the driver until he was knocked out cold, and grabbed his money bag. He then robbed Ms. Parker at gunpoint.”
“Claire,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
