Second Chance

Chapter 49

LEAVING MERCER's HOME, I drove around in a sweat, terror-filled at what I knew to be the truth.

All my instincts had been right. This was no random, racist murder spree. This was a cold, calculating killer. He was taunting us, the same way he had with the white van.

With that cocky tape. Billy Reffon.

Finally I said, Fuck it. I called the girls. I couldn't hold back any longer. They were three of the sharpest law-enforcement minds in the city And this bastard had told me there were going to be more killings. We set up a meeting at Susie's.

“I need your help,” I said, panning their faces in our usual booth at the restaurant.

“That's why we're here,” Claire said. “You call, we come running.”

“Finally.” Cindy chuckled. “She admits she's nothing without us.”

“This Kiss” by Faith Hill was drowning out a basketball game on the TV but in the corner booth, the four of us were huddled in our own purposeful world. God, it was good to have everybody back together again.

“Everything's screwed up with Mercer gone. The FBI's come in. I don't even know who's in control. All I know is that the longer we wait, the more people are going to be killed.”

“This time there have to be some rules,” Jill said, tugging on a Buckler nonalcoholic beer. “This isn't a game. That last case, I think I broke every rule I took an oath to uphold. Withholding evidence, using the D. A.'s office for personal use. If anything had gotten out, I'd be doing my cases from the tenth floor.”

We laughed. The tenth floor of the Hall was where the holding cells were located.

“Okay.” I agreed. It was the same for me. “Anything we find we take to the task force.”

“Let's not go overboard,” said Cindy with a mischievous laugh. “We're here to help you, not to make the careers of some uptight, bureaucratic men.”

“The Margarita Posse lives,” joked Jill. “Jesus, I'm glad we're back.” “Don't you ever doubt it,” said Claire.

I looked around at the girls. The Women's Murder Club.

Part of me bristled with apprehension. Four people were dead, including the highest-ranking police officer in the city. The killer had proved he could strike anywhere he wanted to.

“Each murder has become more high profile, and daring,” I said, filling them in on the latest, including the book stuffed in Mercer's jacket. “He no longer needs the subterfuge of the racial MO. It's racial, all right. I just don't know why.”

Claire took us through the chief's autopsy, which she had finished up that afternoon. He was hit three times at close range with a.38 gun. “My impression is that the three shots were spaced at measured intervals. I could tell by the pattern that the wounds bled out. The last one was to the head. Mercer was already on the ground. It makes me think they may have confronted each other. That he was trying to kill him slowly Or that they were even talking. I guess where I'm headed is that it's likely Mercer knew his killer.”

“You checked into the possibility that all these officers were somehow connected?” Jill cut in. “of course you have. You're Lindsay Boxer.”

“Of course I have. There's no record any of them had even met. Their careers don't seem to have crossed. Tasha Catchings's uncle is younger than the others by twenty years. We can't find anything that puts them together.”

“Somebody hates cops. Well, actually, a lot of people do,” Cindy said.

“I just can't find the link. This started out in the guise of a hate crime. The killer wanted us to view the murders in a certain way. He wanted us to find his clues. And he wanted us to find the chimera. His fucked-up symbol.”

“But if this is a personal vendetta,” Jill said, “it doesn't make sense that it would lead back to some organized group.”

“Unless he was setting someone up,” I said.

“Or unless,” Cindy said, chewing her lip, “the chimera doesn't lead back to a hate group at all. Maybe this book is his way of telling us it's something else.”

I stared at her. We all did. “We're waiting, Einstein.”

She blinked remotely, then shook her head. “I was just thinking out loud.”

Jill said she would dig into any grievance cases against a black officer who had wronged or injured a white. Any act of vengeance that might explain the killer's mind-set. Cindy would do the same at the Chronicle.

It had been a long day, and I was exhausted. I had a task force meeting at seven-thirty the next morning. I looked each of my friends in the eye. “Thank you, thank you.” “We're gonna solve this sucker with you,” Jill said. “We're going to get Chimera.” “We've got to,” Claire said. “We need you to keep picking up the bar bill.”

For a few more minutes, we chatted about what we all had going on the next day, when we could get together again.

We were starting to cook now. Jill and Claire had their cars parked in the lot. I asked Cindy, who lived in the Castro section, near me, if she needed a ride.

“Actually,” she said with a smile, “I have a date.”

“Good for you. Who is your next victim?” Claire exclaimed. "When do we get to check him out?

“If you supposedly mature, talented women want to ogle like a bunch of schoolkids, I guess now He's picking me up.”

“I'm always up for a good ogle,” Claire said.

I snorted out a laugh. “You could be meeting Mel Gibson and Russell Crowe, and it wouldn't rock my boat tonight.”

As we pushed through the front door, Cindy tugged my arm. “Hold on to your oars, honey.”

We all saw him at once. We all ogled, and my boat was rocked.

Waiting outside, looking altogether sexy and handsome, dressed entirely in black, was Aaron Winslow.