3rd Degree

Chapter 67

I LISTENED with a sick, sinking feeling as Cindy read me the latest message. “ `You were warned,' it says. `But you were arrogant and didn't listen. We're not surprised. You've never listened before. So we struck again.' Lindsay, it's signed August Spies.”

“There's been another killing,” I said, turning to Molinari. Then I finished up with Cindy.

The full message said we'd find what we were looking for at 333 Harrison Street, down by the piers in Oakland. It had been exactly three days since Cindy received the first e-mail. August Spies were true to their threats.

I hung up with Cindy and called the Emergency Task Force. I wanted our cops on the scene, and all traffic down to the Oakland port blocked off. I had no idea what type of inci-dent we had or how many lives were involved, so I called Claire and told her to go there, too.

Molinari already had his jacket on and was on the phone. It took me about a minute to get ready. “C'mon,” I said at the door, “you might as well drive with me.”

We were barreling down Third Street toward the bridge with our siren wailing. That time of night there was almost no traffic. It was clear sailing over the Bay Bridge.

Transmissions began to crackle on the radio. Oakland cops had picked up the 911. Molinari and I listened to hear what kind of scene we were dealing with: fire, explosion, multiple injuries?

I shot off the bridge onto 880, getting off at the exit for the port. A police checkpoint had already been set up. Two patrol cars with flashing lights. We pulled up. I saw Cindy's purple VW being held there. She was arguing with one of the officers.

“Climb in!” I yelled to her. Molinari flashed his badge to a young patrolman, whose eyes bulged. “She's with us.”

From the exit ramp it was only a short drive down to the port. Harrison Street was right off the piers. Cindy explained how she had received the e-mail. She'd brought a copy, and Molinari read as we drove.

As we neared the port, flashing green and red lights were all over the place. It seemed as if every cop in Oakland was on the scene. “C'mon, we're getting out here.”

The three of us jumped out and ran toward an old brick warehouse marked 333. Trestles rose into the night. Huge container loads were stacked everywhere. The port of Oak-land actually handled the majority of the freight traffic in the Bay Area.

I heard my name being called. Claire, jumping out of her Path?nder, ran up to us. “What do we have?”

“I don't know yet,” I said.

Finally I saw an Oakland precinct captain I'd worked with coming out of the building. “Gene!” I ran up to him. With what was going on, I didn't have to ask.

“The victim's dumped on the second floor. Single shot to the back of the head.”

Part of me winced, part of me relaxed. At least it was only one.

We headed up steep metal stairs, Claire and Cindy follow-ing behind. An Oakland cop tried to stop us. I pushed my badge at him and moved past. A body was on the floor, par-tially wrapped in a bloody tarp. “Goddammit,” I said. “Those bastards.” Two cops and an EMS team were leaning over the victim.

There was a note fastened by a metal twist to the tarp. A bill of lading.

“ `You were warned,' ” I read it out loud. “`The criminal state is not exempt from its own crimes. Members of the G-8, come to your senses. Renounce the colonizing policies. You have three more days. We can strike anywhere, anytime. August Spies.' ”

At the bottom of the page I saw the words in bold print,

RETURN THIS TO THE HALL OF JUSTICE.

My body stopped dead. A wave of panic tore at me. For a second I couldn't move. I looked at Claire. Her face crumpled with shock.

I pushed an EMT out of the way. I went down on my knees. The first thing I came upon was the victim's wrist - the aquamarine David Yurman bracelet I knew so well.

“Oh no,” I gasped. “No, no, no...”

I peeled back the tarp.

It was Jill.