Inmate 1577

53

Vail handed the note to Price, then pulled out her BlackBerry. “That text-who was it from? The one that said he’s tied up.”

Burden looked at his phone. “Robert. Why am I not understanding what’s going on-”

“I’m calling Friedberg,” Vail said. I have a feeling I know exactly what’s going on, and it ain’t good. “Call your department, get every fucking cop mobilized in the city looking for his car. And see if they can get a fix on his cell signal.”

Seconds later, Vail gave up. “Went right to voicemail.”

Burden hung up, then began pacing. “All right, let’s clear our heads. Think this through. He was stopping at Verizon on the way in, to see about those text messages Scheer got.” He looked over at the reporter, who was standing a few paces from Allman, beyond the crime scene tape.

“We know what’s going on,” Vail said. “Our UNSUB’s got Friedberg.”

“Let me get this straight,” Carondolet said. “The killer’s got an SFPD Inspector?”

“You got it,” Dixon said. To Burden: “Call Verizon and see if he made it there, and if he did, what time he left.”

Burden pulled out his phone and made the call.

A text hit Vail’s BlackBerry. She still had the device in her palm when it began vibrating. She rotated her hand and read the message. “Son of a bitch.”

“What?” Dixon asked.

Vail showed her the display.

lotsa bodies werent motivation enuf

need one of ur own on the line

want to know what this is all about

pay attention u have ten mins

think history

ur answers in the place where

violence and sleep come under watchful eyes

Burden ended his call abruptly and joined the huddle. His brow hardened. “What the hell does it mean?”

“You’re the puzzle guy.”

“Sudoku,” Burden said. “Numbers. Not goddamn riddles.”

Dixon stepped to the left and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Clay! Bring your colleague over here. Now.”

“What are you doing?” Vail asked.

“We’ve got two guys fifty feet away who ply their trade using words,” Dixon said. “And they also happen to know the city inside and out. Got nothing to lose by using their brain power. Friedberg’s life’s on the line-do we really care what the press knows?”

“Worry about it later,” Burden said.

“Exactly.”

“You’re bringing two reporters into the crime scene?” Carondolet said. “Are you crazy?”

Allman and Scheer slipped under the tape and ran through the parking lot.

“What’s going on?” Allman asked as he approached.

“Let’s also see if we can get a fix on those texts,” Vail said. “One was from Friedberg’s but the other was from a different handset. I’ll send you the number. See what they can do with it. Every carrier’s different, but even if they can’t localize it better than a few miles, we’ll at least know if he’s in the city.”

“Got it,” Burden said. He started to make the call.

“So here’s the deal,” Vail said to Allman and Scheer as she played with her BlackBerry keypad to send the phone number to Burden. “Killer’s got Inspector Friedberg. He just used Friedberg’s phone-and then what I’m guessing is a disposable-to send us messages.”

Scheer and Allman both reached for their pads.

“Fuck the story,” Burden said, rotating the phone away from his mouth. “We need your help. He sent us a riddle.”

“Is this on or off the record?” Scheer asked.

Carondolet shook his head “I can’t believe you’re involving these guys.”

“Don’t make us sorry we brought you over here,” Dixon said to Scheer. “Put that shit away. And don’t ask again.”

Both journalists reluctantly shoved their pads and pens into their jackets.

“How can we help?” Allman asked.

Vail stole a look at her BlackBerry, “The text says, ‘Think history. Your answer’s in the place where violence and sleep come under watchful eyes.”

“Isn’t Friedberg the historian?” Scheer asked.

Vail’s gaze flicked over to Father Finelli, then back to Scheer. “That’s right, dipshit. And he’s not here. So what does it mean? Any thoughts?”

No one answered, as all stared off in various directions, working it through.

“What kind of place comes under watchful eyes?” Vail asked.

“A police department,” Burden said.

“Surveillance would qualify as watchful eyes,” Allman said.

Dixon snapped her fingers. “So that’d bring us back to law enforcement. A stakeout. Violence, sleep.”

“Hopefully little of each,” Burden said. “But what do we do with that? Too general.”

Scheer looked up. “Wait a minute. I wrote something like that once. In one of my features, years ago. Something about violence and sleep and watchful eyes.”

Vail stepped forward. “Are you saying this text is a quote from your article?”

Scheer bit his lip, his eyes moving left, right, up and down as he thought. “I can’t remember. Something like that.”

Burden combed through his hair with his fingers. “C’mon, man. We’ve only got eight minutes. Think.”

“I am thinking,” Scheer said slowly, emphasizing each word. “I just-it was a long time ago. It seems like it’s… Yeah, that’s what I wrote. Close.”

“We know the UNSUB’s from around here,” Dixon said. “And if this is the guy who’s killed repeatedly in the Bay Area, as Clay thinks, then he’s likely followed all the newspaper articles on murders and violent crime in the city. Maybe he saw Scheer’s article.”

“What was it about?” Vail asked.

“A bank robbery,” Scheer said. “The robber shot and killed a security guard.”

“What’s sleep got to do with it?”

“The guard had fallen asleep in a back room where they had the surveillance cameras. The gunshot woke him up and he hit the silent alarm, but it was too late. They got away.” Scheer rubbed a hand across his cheek, then continued. “The long delay between the robbers entering the bank and the trip of the alarm was a big problem. The FBI investigated the guard. Like, maybe it was an inside job. They leaned on him pretty hard. He finally admitted he’d fallen asleep. And that was that. No inside job, just-gross incompetence. And they never caught the robbers.” He shrugged. “So, whether it’s an exact quote or not, violence and sleep came under watchful eyes.”

There was quiet. Finally, Vail said, “That’s not exciting me.”

“Me either,” Burden said. “Clay, you got anything?”

“I’m thinking.”

Dixon checked her watch. “Think faster. We’ve only got five minutes.”

“Fuck me,” Burden said, kicking a rock into the slate wall. “How the hell can we figure this shit out under pressure?”

“A sleep lab,” Allman said. “You know, they hook you up to sensors so they can diagnose sleep disorders. Sleep under watchful eyes.”

“No violence,” Dixon said.

“The bank’s not far away,” Scheer said. “A few blocks. Maybe we should go check it out. We can think on the way.”

“I’m with Karen here,” Allman said. “I think that’s a waste of time.”

Burden worked his jaw, then said, “We’ve got four minutes left. Let’s go. If we think of something better on the way, nothing lost.”

“You coming?” Vail asked Carondolet.

“I’ll finish with this DB, you go on ahead and…solve your riddle.”

They ran to Burden’s car and piled in. “Where we going?”

Scheer leaned forward in his seat. “Corner of-” He put his head down.

“Scheer,” Burden yelled. “Now’s not the time to have a brain fart.”

“Presidio and Sacramento. Yeah, that’s it-”

Burden accelerated and spun rubber, then the Taurus rocketed forward, briefly losing grip in its rear wheels on a slick surface before once again grabbing pavement and jolting them on their way. Burden hung a sharp left onto Jackson Street as Vail slapped the flashing light atop the car. “We should be there right at the deadline. Anyone else got any better ideas?”

Vail tried to concentrate, but watching Burden swerve his way down Jackson, she found it hard to think about anything other than surviving the ride. She did not want to close her eyes-but that was the only way she could get her mind to focus.

How’s the offender gonna react if we’re wrong? How will he know? He gave us a ten-minute window to find this place. Wherever it was he wanted us to go, he knew where we were starting out. It had to be in a ten-minute radius. In a city, what is that? A mile? “Not sure this helps, but the place he sent us had to be in a ten-minute radius of Inspiration Point.”

“It doesn’t help,” Allman said. “That’s a shitload of potential places in a city like this.”

“It’s the bank,” Scheer said. “Has to be.”

“Wish I could be so sure,” Burden said under his breath. He screeched the Ford to a stop in front of Sutter Savings Bank. They jumped out and headed toward the corner building.

“Now what?” Dixon asked, rotating her body in a circle.

Vail stood back and took in the entire location. “No idea. Look around. Anything that seems like it might be meant for us-”

“I’m going in,” Burden said. He pushed through the front doors. Dixon followed, leaving Vail with the two journalists.

“See anything?”

“No,” Scheer said. He looked over at Allman and pointed an index finger. “Don’t give me that.”

Allman spread his arms. “Give you what?”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“The only reason you know what I’m thinking, Stephen, is because I already told you this was a waste of time.”

“You didn’t offer anything better. So just-just shut the fuck up.”

Allman shook his head, then waved a hand. “Whatever.”

Scheer walked off, down the block.

Maybe involving these guys wasn’t such a great idea. Vail headed into the bank and locked gazes with Dixon and Burden, who shook their heads. A man in a suit standing with them looked puzzled by all the attention, while several customers at the teller window looked on with concern.

“We got nothing,” Burden said.

Vail’s phone vibrated. I don’t want to look. She pulled it from her belt. Dixon and Burden huddled around her.

no nono

ur friends life depends on it but ur clueless

those intended to heal

may give life but drown truth

cant sink or swim can float

mission st

clocks ticking

figure it out or im done with you

“No.” Burden shook his head. “I’m done playing games.”

“Burden,” Vail said in a low voice. “We talked about this. Psychopaths get off on feeling superior. And they get bored easily. This is a game to him, to prove to us-and to himself-how much smarter he is. By tricking us, he’s able to gloat. It builds him up and knocks us down. At the same time, we’ve gotta make some headway in these clues to hold his interest. If we don’t prove a worthy challenge, we’ll lose him. And if we lose contact with him, we lose any shot at finding Robert.”

“C’mon,” Dixon said, then led the way outside.

Burden slammed the door with his hands and it flew open. He let it swing closed behind him, nearly striking Vail in the face. “Asshole better realize I’m losing patience, too.”

“What’s on Mission?” Vail asked.

Allman and Scheer came jogging over from opposite directions.

Burden threw open his car door. “Lots of things are on Mission.”

“Let’s take a minute, break it down.”

“We get another message?” Allman asked.

Vail held it up for the two reporters to read.

“What’s ‘intended to heal’?” Dixon asked. “A medical clinic? A doctor? Surgeon? Acupuncturist? Chiropractor?”

Burden shook his head. “Probably all of that on Mission. It’s a long freaking street. You’ve got businesses, seedy areas, banks, office buildings, a BART station-”

“Then let’s go to the next clue,” Vail said. “May give life but drown truth. Doctors give life. We’re back to doctors.”

“God gives life,” Allman said. “Strictly speaking. If you’re a religious sort.”

“A church?” Dixon asked. “Doesn’t fit with drowning the truth.”

“Now there’s a whole other philosophical question,” Allman said.

“Hell with philosophy,” Burden said. “Forget religion. None of that fits. Read the rest. What’s it say? Can’t sink or swim, but you can float?”

“A bath tub,” Scheer said. “Too small to sink or swim in. But you can float.”

Burden gave him a dirty look.

“Hey, I was wrong about the bank. I get that. But what do you want from me? I’m just trying to help.”

Vail held up a hand. “Let’s go with that.” She checked her watch. How much time they had left, she had no idea. “A mud bath. You can’t sink, you can’t swim in it, but you can float in it.”

“No mud baths around here that I know of,” Dixon said. “Back home in Calistoga, but nothing here in the city. You guys know of any?”

Allman, Burden and Scheer shook their heads.

“Wait a minute,” Dixon said. “Float. You can’t sink in a flotation tank. And you can’t swim in it, but you do float because of the salts.”

“Come again?” Vail said.

“Alternative medicine clinics. There are a couple on Mission, I think. They put you in sensory deprivation tanks. You float in heavily salted water for hours.”

Vail shuddered while thumbing her BlackBerry. “That would definitely creep me out. Why would someone want to do that?”

“Didn’t the Trib do a story on that once?” Burden asked.

“A few years back,” Allman said. “When that sort of thing was big.”

Dixon held up her iPhone. “It’s supposed to reduce the levels of stress hormones in the body, according to Wikipedia.”

“There’s the medical angle,” Vail said.

Dixon tapped and scrolled. “We’ve got one on Mission. SDL Incorporated-Sensory Deprivation Lab, 2944 Mission.”

“Let’s go.” Burden got into the car, twisted the key and turned over the engine.

SENSORY DEPRIVATION LAB’S FACILITY STOOD in a nondescript brick building that looked like it had been a remnant from decades past. They entered through worn wood doors and consulted a posted sign that directed them to Suite 201.

Vail held out a hand. “Why don’t you two wait down here.”

Allman tilted his head. “But-”

“There’s no reason for you to come up. This is still an investigation. If we’re on the right track, we’ll let you know. If not, we’ll be back down in a couple minutes because we-and Inspector Friedberg-will be in deep shit.”

Neither Allman nor Scheer appeared pleased with this arrangement-or they were not happy with the prospect of having to keep one another company while they waited.

“I’m gonna go take a walk,” Scheer said.

That answers that question.

Vail encouraged Burden and Dixon to take the stairs, and moments later, they were heading into an office with a scripted “SDL” in gold leaf, above the phrase, Empowering your health through sensory vacuum therapy.

“No one’s vacuuming my senses, thank you very much,” Vail said. “I mean, really? Who thinks that shit up?”

Although the building’s shell and lobby showed its age poorly, the clinic sported high-end granite counters, sleek stainless steel wall accents, and halogen downlighting. “Apparently,” Vail said, “sensory deprivation therapy not only vacuums your senses, but your bank account, too.”

“Can I help you?” Walking up to the front counter was a woman in her thirties, with radiant skin and a natural beauty that Vail instantly found unfair.

“Yes,” Burden said. He stopped and looked at Vail and Dixon, apparently unaware of where to begin.

“We were told to come here,” Dixon said, “by a friend.”

“We certainly appreciate referrals. And who might we thank?”

Vail held up her creds. “Special Agent Karen Vail. Look, Miss-”

“Veronica.”

“Veronica. We’re working a case. And honestly, we can’t tell you why we’re here. But we need to ask some questions and they may seem a bit odd. Go with it, okay?”

“Are these questions about patients? Because Dr. Tumaco set some very progressive rules many, many years ago about the sensitive nature of doctor-patient confidentiality. He was ahead of his time in many ways. I’m afraid we can’t disclose that type of information.”

That name’s familiar. Tumaco. Where’ve I heard it?

“We don’t need patient information,” Dixon said. “We just need you to answer some questions.” She hesitated, then said, “Did someone tell you to expect us? Or-did anyone leave a message for us?”

Veronica shook her head. “I’m sorry-I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Unfortunately, neither do we. “Tell us about your facility,” Vail said. “Actually-tell us about Dr. Tumaco.”

“Oh,” Veronica said, her face brightening. “One of the pioneers in the field of flotation sensory deprivation therapy. He first realized the benefit of meditation and sensory attenuation about thirty years ago. The pioneer, John Lilly, started the movement in the mid-1950s and did much of the groundbreaking research on the origin of consciousness.”

This isn’t helping. “Okay, yeah,” Vail said. “That’s great. But I think I may’ve heard Dr. Tumaco’s name before. Any idea why?”

Veronica nodded silently, then took a seat behind the granite desk. She leaned forward and spoke in a low voice, prompting Vail, Burden, and Dixon to move closer to hear.

“Dr. Tumaco was found in one of his flotation tanks. The police believed he’d been murdered.”

Vail slammed a hand down on the granite counter. “That’s it!” She turned to Dixon and Burden. “One of the old cases Clay gave us. Martin Tumaco. Killed in ’95. Strangled with a life preserver.” She swung her head back to Veronica. “Right?”

Veronica, her head bowed, nodded without comment.

“But wasn’t he found at some other place? Something with ‘dream’ in the name?”

“The clinic’s name was changed when Dr. Tumaco was killed,” Veronica said. “People were freaked out about getting back in a flotation tank after someone had been found dead in one. It hurt the business. So Dr. Tumaco’s wife changed the name, and she changed the focus of the facility from dream and sleep research to a therapeutic-based referral business.”

Dixon gestured with her head for Vail and Burden to join her a few paces out of Veronica’s earshot. They huddled in the far end of the waiting room.

“I think we’re on the right track,” Dixon said. “But-now what? How would the UNSUB know?”

Burden jutted his jaw forward. “That’s a great goddamn question. How did he know when we ended up at the bank? Was he watching?”

“Obvious explanation is he was waiting where he wanted us to go, in a high rise, on an apartment roof, in a car-whatever-and when we didn’t show in ten, fifteen minutes, he knew we went to the wrong place.”

“So what’s with the riddle?” Vail asked. “Those intended to heal-Tumaco-may give life-he’s a doctor-but drown the truth.” She thought a moment. “Was Tumaco involved in a cover-up?”

“Of what?” Burden asked as his phone vibrated. He grabbed it, answered, and listened. “Got it- Yeah, no, that’s fine. About what I expected.” He shoved it in his pocket. “They can only tell us that those texts that came from Robert’s phone are in a two- to three-mile radius. They’re putting a trap on the phone, but it’s off.”

“I doubt the offender’ll use that phone again,” Dixon said.

“Violence and sleep come under watchful eyes,” Vail said. “Now I get it. He meant here, where a man was killed in a flotation tank under watchful eyes.”

Burden huffed. “Apparently, no one was watching.”

“Wrong,” Vail said. “The killer was watching.” She turned and walked back to Veronica. “Can you give me one of your cards-and jot down your direct line on the back in case we need to reach you?”

Veronica did as requested-and handed it to Burden as Vail’s phone vibrated.

A text.

this one comes from on high

the other mission

where darkness reigns

seek not the son but the father

make haste

Vail looked at her partners. “Let’s take this outside.”

They ran down the stairs to the street. Allman was on the phone, leaning against a tree. Scheer, also on a call, saw them first and trotted over.

“Different cell,” Vail said as she thumbed her BlackBerry. “Sending it on to your office for a trace. Probably a throwaway.”

Burden nodded at her phone. “The text. Break it down like we did before.”

“Another message?” Scheer asked as he approached.

Vail read it to them.

“Mission District,” Burden said.

Allman shook his head. “No-it can’t be.”

“Why not?”

“Read the rest of it. He wrote, the other mission.”

“Yeah. So what?” Dixon asked. “What other mission is there?”

Scheer looked up. “The Mission-as in the church. San Francisco de Asís. In the Mission District.”

“We already pissed him off once by getting it wrong,” Vail said. “On your brilliant idea. I’d like to avoid a repeat performance, thank you very much.”

“How sure are you about this?” Allman asked.

Scheer’s lips tightened. He looked at Allman for the first time. “Pretty sure, Clay. Sure enough to risk embarrassing myself in front of you. Again.”

Clay threw up both hands-an I give up gesture.

“I think it works,” Burden said. “I don’t see the ‘where darkness reigns’ part. But I’m not hearing anything better.”

“Then let’s go,” Vail said. “‘Make haste.’”

THEY ARRIVED AT THE CHURCH, LOCATED on Dolores Street near Sixteenth. A two-story white adobe structure with four columns dominating its front and a simple cross at the pinnacle of its pointed roof sat beside a tan, ornate dual-spired basilica. Two young pine trees rose from a grass strip in front of the mission.

Burden led the way up the burgundy tile steps of the smaller structure. The interior was long and narrow, with a floor-to-ceiling mural dominating a wall to the right. Pews lined both sides of the room, with a center aisle leading up to the front. A striped, multicolored wood-beamed ceiling ran the entire length of the ground floor.

“Anyone know anything about this place?” Burden asked as they all cleared the wood front doors.

“I think it’s one of the original missions,” Allman said. “If I remember, Father Junipero Serra officiated here, back in the 1700s.”

“That would be 1782, and that’s correct. One of only two remaining missions that can say that.”

The group turned.

To their right stood a bespectacled, well-coifed man in dark robes, his hands clasped in front of him. “May I help you?”

Burden held up his badge. “Lance Burden, SFPD. And you sure can.”

“Then I am at your service,” the man said with a slight bow.

“We were sent here by someone…pertaining to a case. Is there anything you can tell us about your facility that might…well…” Burden turned to Dixon and Vail.

“That might involve violence, or murder,” Vail said.

Burden brought a hand to his forehead. Apparently, he was uncomfortable with her direct approach.

“No offense intended, sir,” Scheer said. “But time is of the essence.”

Vail turned slowly. “Thanks. Now keep your trap shut.”

The man’s eyes moved back and forth between Vail and Scheer, clearly unsure what to make of this tightly wound redhead-and her direct and offensive question. He finally said, “Nothing to my knowledge, Officer.”

“Any idea why someone might refer to this as a place where darkness reigns?” Dixon asked.

The man took a step back. “If anything, Miss, this is a place of light. Enlightenment. Fulfillment, and repentance.”

“I meant no disrespect. We’re just…”

Fishing. Clueless. Desperate. Pick any of those adjectives. They all fit.

“…working a case,” Dixon continued, “and it’s forcing us to ask some uncomfortable questions.”

“Holy shit.” Vail clapped a hand across her mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to say that out loud. Holy-father.” Is that better? Jesus Christ, I don’t think so. “I-uh-I just had a thought,” she said to Burden and Dixon. Then, back to the increasingly insulted clergyman: “Did a Father Ralph Finelli ever work here?”

“Finelli…” The man’s brow furrowed and he looked off into the distance. He finally shook his head. “I’m nearly certain he has never ministered here. I have a listing of all the priests who have been a part of the mission since its founding-”

“This would be much more recent. Say the last fifty years or so.”

“Then the answer would be no.”

Vail looked at Burden and Dixon. “You guys want to ask anything?” She then turned to Allman and Scheer, who were a few paces back. “What about you?”

They both shrugged.

“Thank you for your assistance. And please accept my apologies for…well, everything.”

They walked outside. “You guys give us a minute?” Dixon said to the journalists.

The men walked off in different directions, down the sidewalk.

Once they were out of earshot, Vail said, “I really thought I was onto something with Father Finelli.”

Burden glanced around at the street. People strolled by, turning their heads to take in the historic mission and its ornate neighbor. In a low voice, he said, “So what do we do now? Wait around till he texts us again? I gotta tell you, Karen, this doesn’t sit well with me. Pisses me off to have my chain yanked by a goddamn lowlife. Psychopath or not, I think we should tell him to go fuck himself. We should be calling the shots, not him. I mean, what’s it gotten us?”

Vail folded her arms across her chest. “Are you done? Because if not, go ahead and get it out of your system.” She widened her eyes. “Well?”

“I’m done. For now.”

“Good. Because we don’t have any other options other than working the case the way you normally would. And we’ve been doing that. If you think we’ve been wasting time, go back to Bryant and do your thing. I’m fine with that. I’ll play his stupid games until it yields something useful-because I think, ultimately, he’s going to give us something we can use. He may already have.”

“At the sleep deprivation center? Or the mission?”

“Sensory deprivation. And both.” Vail nudged Dixon’s arm. “What do you think?”

“I don’t like getting jerked around either. But I trust your judgment. If you’re confident he’s going to give us something-or already has-then I’d rather continue. But there are limits. I don’t know how much longer Robert has. If he’s even still alive. I wish we could communicate with the asshole, somehow get him to talk to us about Robert.”

“He’s basically made it a one-way conversation. I don’t want to be strung along, either. If we don’t get some sort of resolution, we’ll have Allman and Scheer post an article to their papers’ websites. Eventually, the offender may see it. But who knows how often he’s checking?”

“Why wait?” Dixon said. “Why not do that now?”

Burden nodded.

“Fine.” Vail leaned to the side around Burden and whistled to Allman, then turned and called behind her to Scheer.

“You said he may’ve already given us something,” Burden said. “What are you thinking?”

“To start-”

Vail’s BlackBerry buzzed. She made eye contact with her two partners, then pulled it from her belt. “Well. The game’s afoot.” She looked at Burden. “You want to play? Or ignore it?”

Burden grumbled, but he and Dixon huddled around her phone and read the message:

11th & folsom

that which it contains not

constricting restricting and single-handedly cold it has got

see that which its not

Allman and Scheer joined their grouping.

Burden sighed. “Getting more cryptic.”

“Let’s do what we did before,” Vail said. “Parse it, line by line.”

“Another message?” Allman asked.

“Another message,” Dixon said as she reread it. “I say we get moving toward Eleventh and Folsom, work it through in the car.”

“How far?” Vail asked.

“Couple minutes depending on traffic,” Allman said. “Less than a mile.”

They got into the Ford and Burden took them down Sixteenth Street. “Read it to us,” he said.

Vail consulted her BlackBerry. “First line. That which it contains not. Any ideas?”

Dixon leaned forward in her seat. The restraint locked; she sat back, let it tighten, and then pulled it back out. “How about this: whatever it is that we’re talking about doesn’t hold in, or contain, the object it’s supposed to.”

Scheer said, “So a fence that’s supposed to hold a dog in a yard doesn’t do the job. The dog gets out.”

“Might be talking about us,” Vail said. “We’re supposed to contain him, prevent him from killing. But we’re not. In which case it’d be talking about him.”

Dixon was still struggling with her seatbelt, which again locked on her. “Since this whole thing is all about him, that makes sense.”

“Why do you think it’s all about him?” Allman asked.

Vail brought her gaze back to the riddle. “That’s in the DNA of psychopaths. Everything revolves around them.”

“I didn’t realize we were talking about a psychopath. You sure?”

“Yes, Clay. I’m sure.” She turned around to face him. “And no, you may not print that. We definitely don’t want the UNSUB knowing we think he’s a psychopath. In fact, none of this goes in anything either of you guys writes unless we read it first. Agreed?”

“A little late to be asking that question,” Scheer said.

Vail twisted her body and faced Scheer, who was seated behind Burden. Dixon was the physical buffer between the two journalists. “Don’t push us, Scheer. We will push back, and you’ll be goddamn sorry. After that texting bullshit you pulled, be glad we’re including you in any of this.”

“What texting bullshit?” Allman asked, leaning forward to get a look at Scheer.

Scheer ignored Allman’s question. “You needed my help, Agent Vail. Let’s not forget why I’m here. It’s for you people, not for me. What good is it to be riding around with you if I can’t write a story about any of it?”

“Next line,” Vail said, turning her eyes back to the phone, “is ‘constricting restricting and single-handedly cold it has got.’” She shook her head and read it again, placing different emphasis on the latter part of the sentence. It didn’t help.

Burden hung a left on Folsom. “He’s clearly fixated on constriction and restriction.”

“Maybe he’s claustrophobic,” Dixon said.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Vail said. “Believe me, if he wanted an image for the anxiety of claustrophobia, I can think of a bunch more visceral adjectives.”

“But it’s not about you,” Allman said. “It’s about him.”

Vail pursed her lips. “Good point. I’ll give you that one, Clay.”

“Almost there,” Burden said, craning his neck to check the street sign.

“What about ‘single-handedly cold it has got’?” Maybe he’s talking about the look Scheer’s been giving me the past minute or so…

Burden passed beneath the freeway, which ran perpendicular to Folsom, then gestured at the street sign. “That’s Twelfth ahead. Almost there.”

“No idea what ‘single-handedly cold’ is,” Dixon said. “But he says it’s gotten that way, implying it wasn’t that way initially.”

Vail turned and looked at Dixon. “Really?”

Dixon shrugged. “I gave it a shot.”

Vail blew air through her lips. “I’ve got nothing better. Maybe the location will give us some idea of what he’s trying to tell us.”

Burden pulled the Taurus into a red zone in front of the Jackson Brewery building and they got out. “He gave us an intersection, which means what we’re looking for could be on the four adjacent blocks. Fan out, make a survey of what you see. Meet back here in five.”

They did as Burden instructed, taking in their surroundings, walking up each of their assigned streets. A minute passed. Two…three…and shortly thereafter, they began gathering, finding one another in front of an oversize mural of a beer bottle, above which a large bar sign read, “Caliente.”

Vail looked at it. Hot. Is that a comment on us-we’re on the right track? Or just a coincidence and it means nothing?

“Anything interesting?” Burden asked.

Dixon said, “Couple of restaurants. A few bars. Bus stop. People. Car repair shops. Buildings. Mercedes dealership. Graffiti. A homeless guy with a dog. I gave him a dollar.”

“Don’t forget Urban Cellular,” Vail said, “across the street. Unlimited family and friends for fifty bucks a month. And to think I had to come all the way to San Francisco for a deal like that.”

Burden gave her an icy look as he said, “Why’d the UNSUB send us here?”

Vail’s gaze moved about the immediate vicinity, as if she would suddenly see something she had not seen previously. Nothing stood out. “He brought us to this intersection for a reason. He wants us to see something.” And if we don’t figure it out soon… “Have I ever told you I hate puzzles?”

“I love puzzles,” Burden said. “But not when we’re getting jerked around by a killer.”

“Tough,” Vail said. “Put your puzzle hat on, ’cause we got nothing.”

“My puzzle hat,” Burden repeated. “That’s very helpful.” He turned his head, scanning the area, as they had all done more than once. Finally, he rested his hands on his hips and shook his head. “Let’s try something different. Call out the first thing that comes to mind. Don’t think-just say it.”

Construction workers. Traffic cop. Taxis. Bars. Storefronts. Asphalt. Mercedes dealership. Cell phone store. Car repair shop.

Vail stopped them. “This isn’t helping. You word guys got anything?”

Allman and Scheer asked to see the message again.

Finally, Burden asked, “Anybody’s phone shoot video?” They all answered affirmatively. “Okay, then. Take a couple minutes, go back to your street and shoot some footage of things that you see. Go slow so we can make out signs and other details that might be important. In case we need to take another look later.”

They walked in opposite directions and started panning when Vail’s phone nearly vibrated out of her hands. She fumbled to stop the recording and bring up the message.

ive given u some latitude

but youve come up short

if u got it see u there 1 hr

if not

maybe ill give 1 last clue or

maybe not

Vail felt like slamming her phone into the pavement. Instead, she walked back toward the car, where Dixon was waiting. Vail did not speak; she merely held up the BlackBerry.

Dixon read it, absorbed it, then turned away and leaned her back against the vehicle. “We’ll find him, Karen. We’ll figure this out.”

Burden and Allman joined them, read the message and offered nothing of value.

Burden swore under his breath, then looked off down Folsom. “Where the hell’s Scheer?”

Vail lifted her phone to call him-but before it connected, he appeared around the corner.

“We’re leaving,” Burden said. “I’ll drop you both at work on the way back to the station.”

“Did you get it?” Scheer asked.

“Did you?” Burden asked.

Scheer shook his head. They piled into the Ford and Burden drove off, headed back toward Bryant Street…tired, irritable, and no closer to finding Friedberg than they had been before.