11th hour

Chapter 47

There were two newspapers outside my front door the next morning: the Chronicle, with its headlines about the G8 meeting and the San Francisco city budget, and the Post, with its sixty-

four-point headline in thick black ink: BODY COUNT AT THE HOUSE OF HEADS: 613 DEAD; 613 VICTIMS!

Story by Jason Blayney, of course.

I read the first couple of paragraphs despite the bile backing up in my throat and going all the way up to my eyes.

The Post has learned that the heads unearthed at the Ellsworth compound were accompanied by an index card with the number 613 written by hand. As of six this morning, the SFPD crime lab is still working the site, and if the number is indicative of the total death toll, the disinterred heads retrieved so far are just the first of a large number of victims that could make this crime the work of the worst mass killer in history.

What crap! What total flaming bull-crap!

Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, who is the lead detective on this case, has not returned our calls…

I called Brady, left him a voicemail, and he called back while I was in the shower, naturally. He left a message saying he was heading into a meeting and that he’d see me at the press conference.

“City Hall, room two hundred,” his voice told me. “Don’t be late.”

I dressed a little above my pay grade, buffed my shoes, and even put on lipstick. I kissed my dog good-bye and when I got into my car, I called Cindy and told her to meet me outside City Hall.

I drove to Van Ness, parked in an underground lot on McAllister, then walked across Civic Center Plaza. I knew I was putting myself at risk. But I owed Cindy a break.

I saw her standing under a linden tree thumbing on her BlackBerry. I called out to her and she put her phone away and came toward me, her blue eyes frisking my expression for clues.

I gave her a hug and she hugged me back.

We walked together through the park toward the formidable and impressive beaux arts building where the mayor’s office was located and where much of the city’s business was conducted.

“Here’s the deal. I’m an anonymous source,” I said. “Seven heads were disinterred from the Ellsworth garden. All were female, buried at different times over approximately a ten-year span. Those numbers that were written on index cards — ”

“One hundred and four and six thirteen. I can say that?”

“Yes.”

“What about the identity of that Jane Doe whose picture we ran yesterday?”

“Her name was Marilyn Varick, age thirty-three, unemployed, former surfing champion. Good enough?”

“Excellent. Thank you, Linds.”

We went up the steps to the imposing entrance to City Hall. I squeezed Cindy’s arm, then stepped away from her and headed into the rotunda.

The press conference was about to start.