The 6th Target

Chapter 62

YUKI PUT HER BRIEFCASE next to Leonard's on the table outside Department 21. They passed through the metal detectors, walked through the first set of double doors into the small anteroom, then through the second set of doors and directly into the courtroom.

There was a definite buzz from the gallery as Red Dog, at six two in navy-blue pinstripes, walked next to Yuki, at five three in heels, a hundred pounds in her pearl-gray suit, down the center aisle of the courtroom. Leonard yanked open the gate that separated the gallery from the bar, let her go ahead of him. Then he followed and immediately began setting up at the prosecution table.

Yuki's thrill of anticipation was cut sharply with first-day jitters. There was nothing more she could do to prepare, and she couldn't bear to wait. She straightened her lapels and her stack of papers, glanced at her watch. Court was due to begin in five minutes sharp, and the defense table was empty.

The room stirred again, and what she saw almost stopped her heart. She nudged Leonard, and he turned.

Alfred Brinkley was coming up the aisle. His beard had been shaved, his long hair had been buzzed short, and he was wearing a blue polyester suit and tie, looking about as dangerous as rice pudding.

But it wasn't Brinkley who'd made her stomach clench and her mouth drop open.

Barbara Blanco wasn't at Brinkley's side. Instead, there was a man in his early forties, prematurely gray, dressed in a charcoal-gray Brioni suit and yellow-print Armani tie. She knew Brinkley's new attorney.

Everyone did.

"Aw, fuck," Parisi said, smiling stiffly. "Mickey Sherman. You know him, don't you, Yuki?"

"Sure do. We were cocounsel when we defended a friend of mine only months ago."

"Yeah, I remember. Homicide lieutenant charged with wrong-ful death." Parisi took off his glasses, polished them with his handkerchief, said to Yuki, "What'd I say last night?"

" 'Be prepared for anything.' "

"Sometimes I hate it when I'm right. What can you tell me, apart from the fact that Sherman's never seen a camera he doesn't like?"

"He's a big-picture guy," Yuki said. "Leaves the details to others. Stuff might fall through the cracks."

Yuki was thinking how she'd read that Mickey Sherman had resigned his job as deputy corporation counsel for the City of San Francisco and opened a small private practice. He'd do the Brinkley case pro bono, but the media attention would be a hell of a launching pad for Sherman and Associates – if he won.

"Well, he hasn't got a big staff anymore," Parisi said. "We'll just have to find those cracks and pry them open with a crowbar. Meanwhile, I already see his first big problem."

"Yeah." Yuki nodded. "Alfred Brinkley doesn't look insane. But Len, Mickey Sherman knows that, too."

Chapter 63

YUKI STOOD AT ATTENTION as Judge Norman Moore took the bench, Old Glory on one side, flag of the State of California on the other, thermos of coffee and a laptop in front of him.

The two hundred people in the courtroom sat down as court was called into session.

Judge Moore was known to be fair, with a tendency to let lawyers run out ahead a jot too far before bringing down his gavel.

Now Moore spent a good fifteen minutes instructing the jury before turning his bespectacled blue eyes on Leonard Parisi. "Are the People ready to begin?"

"We are, Your Honor."

Leonard Parisi stood, fastened the middle button of his suit jacket, walked toward the jury box, and greeted the jurors. Red Dog was truly large, his hips broad and his shoulders sloping and wide. His red hair was fuzzy, and his skin was pocked and rough.

Leonard Parisi was no heartthrob, but when he spoke, he had the stage presence of a character actor, one of the greats like Rod Steiger or Gene Hackman.

You just couldn't keep your eyes off him.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, when you were selected for this jury, you all said that you'd seen the 'Rooney tape' of the Del Norte ferry tragedy. You said that you could keep an open mind about the defendant's guilt or innocence. And you promised that you'd judge Mr. Brinkley by what's proven to you in this courtroom.

"That's why I want to tell you what it was like November first on the Del Norte, so that you will see it fresh in your mind's eye.

"It was a real nice day for a ferry ride," Parisi began. "About sixty degrees, with intermittent sun. A lot of the tourists were wearing shorts because, hey, San Francisco is in California, right?"

Laughter rippled across the courtroom as Parisi warmed to his opening statement.

"It was a beautiful day that turned into a day in hell because the defendant, Alfred Brinkley, was on that ferry.

"Mr. Brinkley was penniless, but he'd found a round-trip ticket at the farmer's market and decided to take a ride. He had a loaded gun in his pocket, a revolver that held six rounds.

"On this particular day, Mr. Brinkley rode the ferry to Larkspur without incident, but on the return trip, as the boat was docking in San Francisco, the defendant saw Andrea Canello having a discussion with her little boy, a cute nine-year-old lad by the name of Tony.

"For a reason known only to Mr. Brinkley, he pulled out his gun and shot that thirty-year-old mother in her chest.

"She died almost instantly, right in front of her small son," Parisi said. "Then Mrs. Canello's boy turned his huge, terrified eyes to face the man who had just shot his mother – and what did Alfred Brinkley do?

"He shot Tony Canello, a little boy who was armed with a strawberry ice-cream cone. Tony was in the fourth grade, look-ing forward to Thanksgiving and to getting a mountain bike for Christmas and to growing up to become a man.

"Mr. Brinkley took all that away from Tony Canello. He died in the hospital later that day."

The pained faces of the jury showed that Parisi had already moved them. One of the jurors, a young woman with shocking magenta hair, bit her lips as tears coursed down her cheeks.

Leonard paused in his speech respectfully and let the juror cry.

Chapter 64

AT THIS POINT, Judge Moore spoke to the six men and six women of the jury. "Do you need to take a break? Okay then, please continue, Mr. Parisi."

"Thank you, Your Honor," Parisi said. He flicked his eyes over to the defense table, saw that Mickey Sherman was whispering to his client, his back turned away from the proceedings, a dismissive gesture meant to show that Parisi's opening hadn't disturbed the defense in the least.

Smart move. Parisi knew he would've done the same thing.

"I've told you that the Del Norte was coming into dock when Mr. Brinkley shot Andrea and Tony Canello. The docking operation was noisy, much louder than two shots from a gun.

"But a couple of people understood what had happened.

"Mr. Per Conrad was working on the Del Norte as an engineer that day. He was a family man, with a wife and four beautiful kids, and he was about two years away from retirement. He saw Alfred Brinkley with his gun in hand and he saw the fallen bodies of Andrea and Tony Canello bleeding out on the deck.

"Mr. Conrad moved to disarm Mr. Brinkley, who took aim and shot Mr. Conrad between the eyes.

"Mr. Lester Ng was an insurance broker in Larkspur, coming into San Francisco to make a business call. He, too, was a family man, a former U.S. Air Force pilot. And he, too, tried to wrest Mr. Brinkley's gun away from him. He was shot in the head. Mr. Brinkley's gun was the last thing Mr. Ng saw in his life.

"Both men were selfless. They were heroes. And they died because of it.

"And still Mr. Brinkley was not finished."

Parisi walked over to the jury box, put his hands on the rail, looked at each of the jurors as he spoke.

"Mr. Brinkley was standing beside a woman this community holds in high regard, Dr. Claire Washburn, San Francisco's chief medical examiner. Dr. Washburn was terrified, but she had the presence of mind to say to Mr. Brinkley, 'Okay, son… give me the gun.'

"Instead, Mr. Brinkley gave her a bullet in the chest. And when Dr. Washburn's teenage son, Willie, went to her assistance, Mr. Brinkley shot at him, too.

"Luckily, the boat bumped the pier at that moment, and Mr. Brinkley's sixth and final shot missed its mark. And because that shot went wild, two brave people, Claire and Willie Washburn, survived, and Dr. Washburn will be a witness in this trial."

Parisi paused, letting the horror of the shooting imprint on the jurors' minds before he spoke again.

"There's no question that everything I've told you actually happened.

"There's no question that without regard to sex, age, race, or reason, Alfred Brinkley shot and killed four people he didn't know, and attempted to kill two others.

"Mr. Jack Rooney, who will also be a witness in this trial, videotaped the shootings, which we will show you. And Mr. Brinkley confessed to these brutal killings, and we'll show you his taped confession, too.

"There is no DNA in this case. No blood-spatter evidence and no partial palm prints or any of the kind of forensic evidence that you see every night on TV crime shows. That's because this case is not a 'whodunit.'

"We know who did it. He's sitting right there."

Parisi pointed to the man in the blue suit. Brinkley's head had sunk down on his shoulders so that his neck seemed to have retracted. His dulled eyes stared straight ahead. The man looked so medicated, Parisi wondered how much of this Brinkley even heard or understood.

"The defense is going to try to convince you that Mr. Brinkley is psychotic and therefore not responsible for his actions," Parisi said, walking back to the lectern. "Defense medical experts may have the nerve to stand up here and tell you that the defendant needs 'treatment,' not punishment.

"No problem. We have great doctors treating all our death-row inmates.

"Acting insane does not exempt you from the rule of law. And it doesn't mean that you don't understand that killing people is wrong.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, Alfred Brinkley brought a loaded gun onto the ferry. He targeted his victims with intent and deadly aim. He murdered four of them. And then he ran from the scene of his crime.

"Because Alfred Brinkley knew that what he'd done was wrong.

"The People will prove to you that Mr. Brinkley was legally sane when he committed four acts of murder and two acts of attempted murder. And we will ask you to find him 'guilty' on all counts.

"We thank you for your attention. I'm sorry I made some of you cry, but these murders are a tragedy."

Chapter 65

YUKI WATCHED MICKEY SHERMAN STAND UP from the defense table and confidently cross the courtroom floor to the podium.

Sherman introduced himself to the jury, his hands-in-pockets demeanor and easy charm captivating them with his first sentence.

"Folks, everything the prosecutor told you is true," he began. It was a daring declaration, Yuki thought. In fact, she'd never heard opposition counsel take that position before.

"You all know what happened on the Del Norte on November first," Sherman said. "Mr. Brinkley did in fact bring a loaded gun onto the ferry. He shot those people without regard for the consequences to them – or to himself.

"He was surrounded by two hundred fifty people, some of whom witnessed the shooting. Mr. Brinkley didn't throw his gun away after he fled the Del Norte. He didn't get rid of the evidence.

"This was not what you'd call a perfect crime. Only an insane person would do these acts and behave in this way.

"So what happened is no mystery.

"But why it happened is what this trial is about.

"Mr. Brinkley did not understand his actions because when he shot those unfortunate people, he was legally insane.

"Since the issue of 'legal insanity' will be the basis for your judgment of Mr. Brinkley and his actions, this is a good time to define the term," Sherman said.

"The issue is this: Did Mr. Brinkley understand the wrong-fulness of his acts when he committed the crimes? If he didn't understand that those acts were wrong because he suffered from a mental disease or defect at the time the crimes were committed, then he was 'legally insane.' "

Mickey Sherman paused, shuffled his notes on the lectern, and began speaking again in a tone of voice that Yuki admired and feared. It was soft on the ear, personal, as if he trusted that the jurors wouldn't need theatrics, that his reasoning was not only credible but true.

"Mr. Brinkley has been diagnosed with schizoaffective disorder," Sherman told the jury. "He has an illness, like cancer, or diabetes, a disabling disease that came to him genetically and also through childhood trauma.

"He didn't ask for this disease, but he got it.

"It could have happened to you or me or anyone in this room. And what disease could be worse than to have your own brain turn against you and cause you to have thoughts and take actions that are completely against your character and nature?

"I want to say right now that our hearts go out to all the victims of this tragedy. If there was some way we could turn back the clock, if Fred Brinkley could take a magic pill or an injection that would heal him on November first and restore those people's lives, he would do it in a second.

"If he had known that he was mentally ill, Mr. Brinkley would have gotten treatment. But he didn't know why he felt the way he did.

"Mr. Brinkley's life brings true meaning to the expression 'living hell.' "

Chapter 66

MICKEY SHERMAN FELT THE NICE, STEADY FLOW of adrenaline that came from knowing his stuff and from believing in his client. Brinkley, the poor schmuck, was just waking up to the real world after fifteen years of slow decompensation as his illness had progressed.

And what a sorry world it was. Going on trial for his life under a thick blanket of antipsychotic medication.

It was a damned tragedy all the way around.

"Mr. Brinkley heard voices," Mickey Sherman said as he paced in front of the jury box. "I'm not talking about the 'little voice' we all hear in our own heads, the interior monologue that helps us figure out problems or write a speech or find our car keys.

"The voices in Mr. Brinkley's head were directive, intrusive, overwhelming, and cruel.

"These voices taunted him unrelentingly, called him derogatory names – and they goaded him to kill. When he watched television, he believed that the characters and the news anchors were talking directly to him, that they were accusing him of crimes, and also that they were telling him what to do.

"And after years of fighting these demons, Fred Brinkley finally obeyed the voices.

"Ladies and Gentlemen, at the time of the shooting, Fred Brinkley was not in touch with reality.

"He didn't know that the people he shot on the ferry were made of flesh and blood. To him they were part of the painful hallucinations in his own mind.

"Afterward, Mr. Brinkley saw the TV news report of himself shooting people on the ferry, and because the pictures were on TV, he realized what he had done. He was so overcome with remorse and guilt and self-hatred that he turned himself in to the police of his own volition.

"He waived all his rights and confessed, because in the aftermath of his crimes, the healthy part of his brain allowed him to understand the horror of his actions.

"That should give you a window into this man's character.

"The prosecution would like you to believe that the hardest decision you'll have to make in this trial is picking your foreperson.

"But you haven't heard the full story yet.

"Witnesses who know Mr. Brinkley and psychiatric professionals who have examined him will attest to Mr. Brinkley's character and his past and present state of mind.

"When you've heard our case in its entirety, I am confident that you will find Fred Brinkley 'not guilty' by reason of mental defect or disease.

"Because the truth is, Fred Brinkley is a good man who is afflicted with a terrible mind-altering disease."

Chapter 67

AT 6:30 THAT NIGHT, Yuki and Leonard Parisi were seated in the cavernous sunken dining room at Restaurant LuLu, an old warehouse turned popular eatery not far from the Hall of Justice.

Yuki felt sharp, part of the A-team. The winning A-team. She carved into her rotisserie chicken and Len tucked into his spicy prawn pizza, the two of them reviewing the day as they ate, trying on potential roadblocks, planning how to detonate those roadblocks in their next day's presentation of the People's case against Alfred Brinkley.

Leonard refilled their wineglasses with a sixty-dollar merlot, saying, "Grrrrr. Beware of Team Red Dog."

Yuki laughed, sipped, put her papers into a large leather bag as the dinner plates were taken away. Working as a civil litigator had never felt as good as this.

The large brick oven across the room perfumed the air with burning hickory wood, and as the restaurant and bar filled up, conversation and laughter caromed off the walls and high ceilings.

"Coffee?" Len asked Yuki.

"Sure," she said. "And I'm so stoked, I think I'm gonna go for the profiteroles."

"I'll second that," Leonard said, raising his hand to signal their waitress. And then, in midgesture, his face went slack. Len put his hand on his chest and half stood, leaning against the seat back, which caused the chair to topple over, throwing him onto the floor.

Yuki heard a tray fall behind her. Dishes broke, and someone screamed.

She realized that the scream had come from her.

She jumped from her seat, crouched beside the big man who was rolling from side to side and moaning.

"Leonard! Len, where does it hurt?"

He mumbled, but she couldn't make out what he was saying over the roar of concern all around them.

"Can you raise your arms, Len?"

"My chest," he groaned. "Call my wife."

"I can drive him to the hospital," a man was saying over Yuki's shoulder. "My car is right out front."

"Thanks, but that'll take too long."

"Look, the hospital is only ten minutes -"

"Please. No, thank you. EMS brings the hospital to him, okay?"

Yuki pulled her satchel toward her, emptied it onto the floor, and located her cell phone. She blocked out the well-meaning guy behind her, pictured the traffic jam, the three hours' wait outside the emergency room – which is what would happen if anything but an ambulance took Len to the hospital.

That was the mistake they'd made with her dad.

Yuki gripped Len's hand as she listened intently to the ring tone. She hissed, "Come on, come on," and when the 911 operator answered, she spoke distinctly and urgently.

"This is an emergency. Send an ambulance to Restaurant LuLu at 816 Folsom. My friend is having a heart attack."

Chapter 68

CONKLIN AND I WERE WORKING phone leads on the Ricci/Tyler case when Jacobi popped out to the squad room, said to us, "You two look like you need some air."

Fifteen minutes later, just before seven p.m., we pulled up to an apartment building near Third and Townsend. Three patrol cars, two fire rigs, and the medical examiner's van had gotten there before us.

"This is weird. I know this place," I told Conklin. "My friend Cindy lives here."

I tried to reach Cindy but got a busy signal on her cell. No answer on her home phone, either.

I looked for but didn't see Cindy among the tenants standing in tight knots on the sidewalk, giving their statements to the uniforms walking among them, looking up at the brick face of the Blakely Arms and the pale curtains blowing out of windows on the fifth floor.

Cindy lived on three. My relief was sudden and short-lived. Someone had damned well died prematurely in Cindy's building.

The doorman, a middle-aged man with a sloping forehead and frizzy gray hair springing out from his hatband, paced outside the main door. He had a fading flower-power look, as if he'd been beached by the '60s revolution. He told us that his name was Joseph "Pinky" Boyd and that he'd been working at the Blakely Arms for three years.

"Miss Portia Fox in 5K," he told us. "She's the one who smelled the gas. She called down to the desk a half hour ago. Yeah," he said, looking at his watch.

"And you called the fire department?"

"Right. They were here in about five minutes."

"Where's the complainant? Miss Fox."

"She's probably outside here. We cleared the whole fifth floor. I saw her… Mrs. Wolkowski. Terrible thing to see some-one dead in real life, someone you know."

"Can you think of anyone who'd want to hurt Mrs. Wolkowski?" Conklin asked the doorman.

"Nah. She was a bit of a crank. Complained about getting the wrong mail in her box, scuff marks on the tile, stuff like that. But she was a pussycat for an old girl."

"Mr. Boyd, were you here all day?"

"Since eight this morning."

"You have surveillance cameras?" I asked.

"The tenants have a picture phone for when someone buzzes the bell, and that's it."

"What's downstairs?"

"Laundry room, garbage, bathroom, and a door that leads out to the courtyard."

"A locked door?" Conklin asked. "Is it alarmed?"

"Used to be alarmed," Boyd told us. "But when they did the renovation, it was made into a common space, so the tenants got keys."

"Right. So there's no real security from downstairs," I said. "Did you see anyone or anything suspicious in the building today?"

Boyd's laugh was tinged with hysteria. "Did I see anyone suspicious? In this building? This is the first day in a month that I didn't."

Chapter 69

THE UNIFORMED OFFICER standing at the door to apartment 5J was a rookie – Officer Matt Hartnett, tall guy, looked a little like Jimmy Smits. Sweat beaded his upper lip, and his face was pallid under his dark eyes.

"The vic is Mrs. Irene Wolkowski," Hartnett said, handing the log to me. "Last seen alive this morning in the laundry room around eleven. The husband isn't home from work, and we still haven't been able to reach him. My partner and another team are interviewing the tenants on the street."

I nodded, signed my name and Conklin's into the log. We ducked under the tape that was stretched across the doorway, walked into a scene already crawling with the CSU and the current ME, who was snapping pictures of the victim.

The room stunk of gas.

Windows on two sides were wide open to vent the room, making it seem colder inside the apartment than it was on the street.

The deceased was on her back in the middle of the floor, arms and legs akimbo, a pose that made her defenseless against both the original attack and now the poking and prodding of strangers. The woman appeared to be in her early sixties.

There was blood coming from the back of her head. I saw that it had soaked into the pale gray carpet, the stain parting around a leg of the piano.

And the piano was wrecked!

What was left of the keyboard was blood-smeared and smashed. Keys were dislocated and broken, and many were scattered on the floor as though someone had hammered at the keys repeatedly.

Dr. Germaniuk had set up portable lights to illuminate every corner of the room. It was both well-lived-in and recently furnished. I saw a scrap of plastic wrap still clinging to one of the sofa legs.

Dr. G. said hello to me, pushed his glasses up on his nose with the back of his hand, and put his camera away.

"What have we got?" I asked him.

"Very interesting," Germaniuk said. "Except for the piano and every gas jet on the stove being turned on, nothing else looks disturbed."

The crime scene was organized – that is to say, neat – which nearly always meant that the crime was planned and the killer was smart.

"The victim suffered trauma to her head, front and back," said Dr. G. "Looks to me like two different implements were used. The piano was one of them.

"I'll give you more after I get Mrs. Wolkowski on my table, but I'll tell you this much right now: She's got no rigor – she's warm to the touch, and blanching lividity is just starting. This lady's been dead only a couple of hours, probably less. We just missed the killer."

Chapter 70

I HEARD CINDY'S VOICE at the doorway and broke away from the murder scene long enough to throw my arms around her in the hallway.

"I'm okay, I'm okay," she murmured. "I just got your messages."

"Did you know the victim?"

"I don't think so. Not by name anyway. Let me see her."

The crime scene was off-limits and she knew it, but it was a battle I'd fought and lost with Cindy before. She had that look in her eyes now. Stubborn. Intractable. Canny.

"Stand to the side. Don't touch."

"I know. I won't."

"If anyone objects, you have to leave. And I want your word you will not write anything about the cause of death."

"My word," she said, giving me lip.

I pointed to an empty corner of the room, and Cindy went there. She blanched at the sight of the dead woman on the floor, but as one of the swarm of people in 5J, she went unquestioned.

"That's Cindy?" Conklin asked, tipping his chin toward where she stood on the fringes.

"Yeah. She's trustworthy."

"If you say so."

I introduced Rich to Cindy as Irene Wolkowski's body was wrapped in sheets, zipped into a body bag. We talked over our theories of the crime as the cold wind blew through the apartment.

I said to Conklin, "So let's say the killer is someone she knows. Guy who lives in the building. He rings the bell. Says, 'Hi, Irene. Don't let me interrupt you. That sounds really nice.' "

"Okay. Or maybe it was her husband," Conklin said. "Came home early, killed her, and split. Or maybe a friend. Or a romantic interest. Or a stranger."

"A stranger? I don't see that," Cindy said. "I wouldn't let a stranger into my apartment, would you?"

"Okay, I get that," Conklin said. "But anyway, she's sitting at the piano. The music covers the sound of the door opening, and this nice, thick carpet absorbs the sound of footsteps."

"Right," I agreed.

"Is that her handbag?" Cindy asked.

A woman's shiny black purse rested on a slipper chair. I opened it, took out the wallet, showed Conklin the wad of twenties and a full deck of credit cards.

"So there goes the robbery theory," I said.

"I was there when one of those dogs was found," Cindy said, sketching in the story.

Rich shook his head, hair swinging in front of his eyes. "Sign of a potential psycho killer escalating to… this? Talk about overkill. So on the one hand we have the beating and the trashing of the piano. But why bother with the gas?"

"He either wanted to make sure she was discovered," I said, "or he wanted to make sure she was dead." I looked at Cindy. "Not one word of this in the Chronicle."

Chapter 71

YUKI COULDN'T STOP THINKING about Len's face, twisting with pain as his heart attack tried to kill him. She'd left him in the hospital last night, stabilized but incapacitated, and called David Hale's answering machine at home. "There's been an emergency. Meet me at the office at six a.m. and be ready to go to court."

Now Yuki sat across from David in the grungy, pine-paneled conference room, her notes and instant coffee in front of her, bringing her fellow ADA up to speed.

"Why aren't we getting a continuance?" he asked her. David was presentable today, in a tan herringbone jacket, blue pants, striped tie. Needed a haircut, but that couldn't be helped. Of all the people available to her at short notice, she'd get the best work from Hale.

"Three reasons," Yuki said, tapping the table with a plastic spoon.

"One, Leonard doesn't want to lose Jack Rooney as a witness. Rooney is frail. He was on vacation when the shooting occurred. We might not be able to get him back when we need him, which means his tape might be excluded."

"Okay."

"Two, Len doesn't want to chance losing Judge Moore."

"Yeah, I get that, too."

"Len says he'll be in court in time to do the summation."

"He said that?"

"Yep, when they were prepping him for surgery. He was lucid and adamant."

"What did his doctor say?"

"His doctor said, and I quote, 'There's a reasonable possibility that the damage to Leonard's heart is reversible.' "

"Did they have to crack open his chest?"

"Yes. I checked with Len's wife. He came through the surgery fine."

"And so he'll be doing a summation in a little more than a week?"

"Probably not. And he won't be doing the tarantella, either," Yuki said. "So that brings me to number three. Len said that I'm as prepared as he is, that he's confident in us. And we're not to let him down."

David Hale stared at her, openmouthed, before finally saying, "Yuki, I don't have any trial experience."

"I do. Several years."

"Your experience is in civil cases, not criminal."

"Shut up, David. I was a litigator. That counts. So we're gonna give Red Dog our best. We're gonna spend the next three hours going over what we both already know.

"We've got credible eyewitnesses, the Rooney tape, and a jury that is going to be rolling its eyes at the insanity defense.

"It's what Len said at the prep meeting: The more random the crime, the less motive for the killings, the more afraid the jury is going to be that Brinkley will get forty-five minutes in a nuthouse and then go free -"

Yuki stopped to take in the grin spreading across David Hale's face.

"What are you thinking, David? No, I take it back. Please don't say it," Yuki said, trying not to laugh.

"Open-and-shut case," said her new teammate. "Slam dunk."

Chapter 72

YUKI STOOD IN THE WELL OF THE COURTROOM, feeling as green as if she were trying her first case. She clutched the edges of the lectern, thought how when Len stood behind this thing, it appeared to be the size of a music stand. She was peering over the top of it like a grade-schooler.

The jury looked at her expectantly.

Could she actually convince them that Alfred Brinkley was guilty of capital murder?

Yuki called her first witness, Officer Bobby Cohen, a fifteen-year veteran of the SFPD, his just-the-facts-ma'am demeanor setting a good solid tone for the People's case.

She took him through what he had seen when he arrived at the Del Norte, what he had done, and when she finished her direct, Mickey Sherman had only one question for Officer Cohen.

"Did you witness the incident on the ferry?"

"No, I did not."

"Thank you. That's all I have."

Yuki checked off Cohen in her mind, thinking that although Cohen didn't see the shootings, he'd set the stage for the jurors, putting the picture of human destruction in their minds – an image she would now build upon.

She called Bernard Stringer, the fireman who'd seen Brinkley shoot Andrea and Tony Canello. Stringer lumbered to the stand and was sworn in before taking his seat. He was in his late twenties, with the open-faced, all-American looks of a baseball player.

Yuki said, "Mr. Stringer, what kind of work do you do?"

"I'm a firefighter out of Station 14 at Twenty-sixth and Geary."

"And why were you on the Del Norte on November first?"

"I'm a weekend dad," he said, smiling. "My kids just love the ferry."

"And did anything unusual happen on the day in question?"

"Yes. I saw the shooting on the top deck."

"Is the shooter in court today?" Yuki asked.

"Yes, he is."

"Can you point him out to us?"

"He's sitting right there. The man in the blue suit."

"Will the court reporter please note that Mr. Stringer indicated the defendant, Alfred Brinkley. Mr. Stringer, how far were you standing from Andrea Canello and her son, Anthony, when Mr. Brinkley shot them?"

"About as far as I am from you. Five or six feet."

"Can you tell us what you saw?"

Stringer's face seemed to contract as he sent his mind back to that horrific and bloody day. "Mrs. Canello was straightening the kid out, being kind of rough on him, I thought.

"Don't get me wrong. She wasn't abusive. It was just that the kid was taking it hard, and I was thinking about butting in. But I never said anything because the defendant shot her. And then he shot the little boy. And then everything on the boat went crazy."

"Did Mr. Brinkley say anything to either of those victims before firing his gun?"

"Nope. He just lined up his shots. Bang. Bang. Really cold."

Yuki let Bernard Stringer's words hang for a moment in the courtroom, then said, "To be clear, when you say it was 'really cold,' you're not talking about the temperature?"

"No, it's the way he killed those people. His face was like ice."

"Thank you, Mr. Stringer. Your witness," Yuki said to the defense counsel.

Chapter 73

YUKI WATCHED MICKEY SHERMAN put his hands in his pockets, walk toward the witness in the reflected golden glow of the oak-paneled walls of the courtroom. His smile was real enough, but the amble, the common-man language, the whole low-key act, was also a cunning cover for Mickey's talent for launching surprise attacks.

Yuki had worked with Sherman at close range before, and she'd learned to recognize his "tell." Sherman would touch his right forefinger to the divot in his upper lip just before he sprang for the witness's throat.

"Mr. Stringer, did Mrs. Canello or Anthony Canello do anything to provoke my client?" Sherman asked.

"No. As far as I could see, they were unaware of him."

"And you say my client looked calm when he shot them?"

"He had a wild look about him generally, but when he pulled the trigger, his expression was like I said – cold. Blank. And his hand was steady."

"When you look at him today, does Mr. Brinkley look the way he did on the Del Norte?"

"Not really."

"In what way does he look different?"

Stringer sighed, gazed down at his hands before answering. "He looked mangy. I mean, his hair was long. He had a messy beard. His clothes were dirty, and he smelled funky."

"So he looked mangy. His face was blank, and he stank to high heaven. And you saw him shoot two people who didn't provoke him. They didn't even know he was there."

"That's right."

Forefinger to the upper lip.

"So what you're saying is, Fred Brinkley looked and acted like a madman."

Yuki shot to her feet. "Objection, Your Honor. Leading the witness."

"Sustained."

Sherman's quiet charm returned.

"Mr. Stringer, did Mr. Brinkley look sane to you?"

"No. He looked as crazy as hell."

"Thank you, Mr. Stringer," Sherman said.

Yuki tried to summon up a question for redirect that could cancel out the words "madman" and "crazy," but what came out of her mouth was "The People call Mr. Jack Rooney."

Chapter 74

JACK ROONEY MADE HIS WAY up the aisle, leaning on his three-legged cane, putting his weight on his left leg, then swinging out his right hip, repeating the awkward yet mesmerizing gait all the way to the witness stand.

Rooney accepted assistance from the bailiff, who put a hand under the man's elbow and helped him up into the chair. Yuki thought that this witness was surely Mickey-proof.

Or was he?

"Thanks for coming all this way, Mr. Rooney," Yuki said when the elderly man was finally seated. Rooney was wearing a red cardigan over a white shirt, red bow tie. His glasses were big and square, perched on a knobby nose, white hair parted and slicked down like that of a little boy on the first day of school.

"My pleasure." Rooney beamed.

"Mr. Rooney, were you on the Del Norte ferry on November first?"

"Yes, dear. I was with my wife, Betty, and our two friends, Leslie and Joe Waters. We all live near Albany, you know. That was our first trip to San Francisco."

"And did anything unusual happen on that ferry ride?"

"Oh, I'll say. That fellow over there killed a lot of people," he said, pointing to Brinkley. "I was so scared I almost shit myself."

Yuki allowed herself a smile as laughter rippled out over the gallery. She said, "Will the court reporter please note that the witness has identified the defendant, Alfred Brinkley. Mr. Rooney, did you make a video recording of the shooting?"

"Well, it was supposed to be a movie of the ferry ride – the Golden Gate Bridge and Alcatraz and so forth – but it turned out to be a movie of the shooting. Nice little camera my grandson gave me," he said, holding his thumb and forefinger about three inches apart.

"It's only the size of a Snickers bar, but it takes pictures and movies. I just take the pictures, and my grandson puts it on the computer for me. Oh, and I sold the movie to a TV station, and that pretty much paid for the whole darned San Francisco trip."

"Your Honor?" Mickey Sherman said wearily from the counsel table.

Judge Moore leaned across the bench and said, "Mr. Rooney, please answer the questions 'yes' or 'no' unless you're asked for a fuller explanation, all right?"

"Certainly, Your Honor. I'm sorry. I've never done this before."

"That's okay."

Yuki interlaced her fingers in front of her, asked, "You gave me a copy of the video, didn't you, sir?"

"Yep, I did."

"Judge, permission to show a copy of this video and enter it into evidence."

"Go right ahead, Ms. Castellano."

David Hale slipped a disk into a computer, and as faces turned toward two large TVs in the front of the courtroom, the amateur film began.

The first of two segments showed a happy afternoon on the bay – the long pan of the landmarks, the camera eye coming to rest on a grinning Jack Rooney and his wife, just by happenstance catching an out-of-focus Alfred Brinkley sitting behind them, staring out over the water, plucking at the hairs on his arm.

The second segment was a scene of bloody horror.

Yuki watched the faces of the jurors as the gunshots and the terrified screams ricocheted around the small courtroom.

The pictures on the two screens slewed sideways, catching the shock on the little boy's face at the moment he was shot, captured his small frame blowing back against the hull before falling across his mother's body.

Yuki had seen the film many times, and still the shots were like punches to her own gut.

Red Dog was wrong. The jurors were anything but bored as they witnessed the slaughter, because this viewing of the Rooney tape was different from seeing it at home.

This time the killer sat only yards away.

Some jurors covered their mouths or averted their eyes, and over the course of the two segments, every one of them peered with dismay at Alfred Brinkley.

Brinkley didn't look back. He sat motionless in his chair, watching himself mow all those innocent people down.

"I have no questions," said Mickey Sherman, turning to whisper into Alfred Brinkley's ear, the judge saying, "Thank you, Mr. Rooney. You may step down."

Yuki waited for Rooney to make his long, hip-swinging return trip up the aisle before saying, "The People call Dr. Claire Washburn."

Chapter 75

CLAIRE FELT ALL THE EYES IN THE ROOM following her as she made her way to the witness stand. Yesterday at this time, she'd been in bed, and she hoped to God that two hours from now, she'd be there again.

Then she saw Yuki, cute little thing all of twenty-eight years old, all that passion in her face, scared half to death but not wanting to show it. So Claire smiled at her as she dragged her butt through the gate and walked to the witness stand.

Claire put her hand on the Bible as the bailiff took her through the "do you swears," and then she arranged the folds of her dress that now hung loosely around her from having lost fifteen pounds in just under three weeks. The gunshot diet, she thought as she settled into the chair.

"Thank you for coming today, Dr. Washburn. You just got out of the hospital a couple of days ago?"

"Yes, that's right."

"And can you tell the jury why you were in the hospital?"

"I was shot in the chest."

"Is the person who shot you sitting in court today?"

"Yes. That's the little shit-bird. Right there."

Sherman didn't bother to get out of his seat, simply said, "Your Honor, I object. I'm not really sure about the grounds, but I'm pretty sure the witness isn't allowed to call my client a shit-bird."

"Dr. Washburn, he's probably right about that."

"I'm sorry, Your Honor. It's just the pain talking." She looked down at Brinkley. "I'm terribly sorry," she said. "I shouldn't have called you a shit-bird."

The titters in the gallery flowed across the room and into the jury box, until the judge patiently banged his gavel, saying, "Everyone, and I do mean everyone" – he peered over his glasses at Claire – "there will be no more of this. This is not Comedy Central, and I will clear the courtroom if there are any more public outbursts. Ms. Castellano, please control your witnesses. That's part of your job."

"I'm sorry, Your Honor. I understand."

Yuki cleared her throat. "Dr. Washburn, what was the nature of your injuries?"

"I had a hole in my chest caused by a.38-caliber bullet that collapsed my left lung and nearly caused my death."

"That must have been very frightening and painful."

"Yes. More than I can say."

"The jury saw the film of the shooting," Yuki said, Claire reading her sympathetic look. "Can you tell us what you said to the defendant before he shot you?"

"I said, 'Okay, son, that's enough, now. Give me the gun.' "

"And then what happened?"

"He said something about this being my fault, that I should have stopped him. Next thing I knew, I was being carted off the ferry by paramedics."

"You tried to stop him from shooting anyone else."

"Yes."

"You saw other people try to stop him."

"Yes. But he took aim and shot us all. Shot Mr. Ng's brains right onto the deck."

"Thank you, Doctor. Your witness," Yuki said.

Chapter 76

MICKEY SHERMAN HAD KNOWN CLAIRE WASHBURN for many years, liked her very much, and was glad she'd survived her ordeal on the Del Norte.

But she was a dangerous threat to his client.

"Dr. Washburn, what's your profession?"

"I'm the chief medical examiner of San Francisco."

"Unlike the coroner, you're a medical doctor, isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"When you were doing your internship, did you do rotations at a teaching hospital?"

"I did."

"And you rotated through the psychiatric ward?"

"Yes."

"Ever see any patients walking around with a blank stare in the psych ward?"

"Objection. Relevance, Your Honor," Yuki said.

"Overruled. The witness may answer the question."

"I really don't remember any of my psych patients, Mr. Sherman. All the patients I have now have blank stares."

"All right," Sherman said, smiling, hands in pockets, pacing a little bit in front of the jury box, turning back to Claire, saying, "Well, Doctor, you've had a chance to observe Mr. Brinkley, isn't that right?"

"Big stretch of the word 'observe.' "

"Yes or no, Dr. Washburn?"

"Yes. I 'observed' him on the ferry, and I see him right now."

"Let's just talk about what happened on the ferry. You just testified that my client said something like, 'This is your fault.' And 'You should have stopped me.' "

"That's right."

"Were the shootings your fault?"

"No."

"What did you think Fred Brinkley meant?"

"I have no idea."

"Did Mr. Brinkley appear to be of sound mind at that time? Did he appear to know right from wrong?"

"I really can't say. I'm not a psychiatrist."

"Well, did he deliberately try to kill you?"

"I'd say yes."

"Did he know you?"

"No, sirree."

"Did you provoke Mr. Brinkley into shooting you?"

"Just the opposite."

"So you'd have to say that the shooting was basically a random act based upon no foundation whatsoever?"

"I guess so."

"You guess so? You'd never met him before, and he was saying things to you that just didn't make sense. You saw him shoot four people before he aimed his gun at you, didn't you? Isn't there a simple word that describes someone who acts this way? Wouldn't that word be 'insane'?"

"Objection, Your Honor – argumentative, and that's a legal question for the jury."

"Sustained."

Yuki sat down, slumped back in her seat. Mickey saw her eyes dart from him to the jury to the witness and back to him. Good. She was rattled.

"Did Mr. Brinkley seem sane to you, Dr. Washburn?"

"No."

"Thank you. I have no further questions."

"Ms. Castellano, redirect?" the judge asked.

"Yes, Your Honor."

Yuki got out of her chair and approached her witness, Mickey noting Yuki's furrowed brow, her fingers knit together. He knew that Yuki was big with hand gestures and was probably training herself to keep her hands still.

"Dr. Washburn," she said, "do you know what Alfred Brinkley was thinking when he shot you?"

"No. I absolutely do not," Claire said emphatically.

"In your opinion, Doctor, when Mr. Brinkley shot you, isn't it likely that he knew the wrongfulness of his acts, that he knew what he was doing was wrong?"

"Yes."

"Thank you, Dr. Washburn. I have nothing else for this witness, Your Honor."

As the judge dismissed Claire Washburn, Mickey Sherman spoke softly to his client, using his hand as a shield, as though what he was saying was deeply private.

"That went pretty well, Fred, don't you think?"

Brinkley nodded like a bobblehead doll, poor guy steeped in medication, Mickey hearing Yuki Castellano say, "Please call Sergeant Lindsay Boxer to the stand."

Chapter 77

I'D JUST SPENT A ROCKY NIGHT on Cindy's couch, waking up at odd hours to patrol the halls of the Blakely Arms. I'd checked the emergency exits, the stairwells, the roof, and the basement, finding no prowler, only a lone elderly woman doing her laundry at two a.m. When the sun came up, I made a quick pit stop at home to change my clothes, and now, sitting outside the courtroom, a trickle of adrenaline entered my bloodstream as the bailiff called my name.

I walked inside through the double doors and the vestibule, and down the well-worn oak floorboards to the witness stand, where I was sworn in.

Yuki greeted me formally and questioned me to establish my credentials.

Then she said, "Do you recognize the man who confessed to the ferry shootings?"

I said "yes" and pointed out the cleaned-up sack of shit sitting next to Mickey Sherman.

In truth, Alfred Brinkley looked very different than he had when I'd seen him last. His face had filled out, his darting eyes were still. Shaved and sheared, he looked six years younger than when he'd confessed to the Del Norte killings.

Scarily, he looked harmless now, like everyone's cousin Freddy, just an average joe.

Yuki spun toward me, pivoting on her pointy heels, asking, "Were you surprised when the defendant rang your doorbell?"

"I was kind of stunned, actually, but when he called up to my window and asked me to come downstairs and arrest him, I was ready to go."

"And what did you do?"

"I disarmed him, cuffed him, then called for backup. Lieutenant Warren Jacobi and I brought him to the police station, where Mr. Brinkley was booked and interrogated."

"Did you read Mr. Brinkley his rights?"

"Yes, outside my doorway and again at the station."

"Did he seem to comprehend what you were saying?"

"Yes. I gave him a mental-status test to make sure he knew his name, where he was, and what he had done. He waived his rights in writing and told me again that he'd shot and killed those people on the Del Norte."

"Did he seem sane to you, Sergeant?"

"He did. He was agitated. He was unkempt. But Lieutenant Jacobi and I found him to be lucid and aware, which is what I call sane."

"Thank you, Sergeant Boxer," Yuki said. "Your witness."

The eyes of the jurors swung toward the dapper man sitting beside Alfred Brinkley. Mickey Sherman stood, fastened the middle button of his smart charcoal-gray suit jacket, gave me a dazzling smile.

"Hi, Lindsay," he said.

Chapter 78

I'D LEANED ON MICKEY some months ago when I was accused of police brutality and wrongful death, took his advice on how to testify, even what to wear on the stand and what tone of voice to use. And he hadn't let me down.

If it hadn't been for Mickey, I don't know what I'd be doing now, but it wouldn't be police work, of that I was sure.

I felt a wave of affection for the man who'd once been my champion, but I put up a mental shield against his wicked charm and focused on the pictures that had never left my mind: Alfred Brinkley's victims. The little boy who had died in the hospital. Claire, gripping my hand, thinking she was dying as she asked after her son.

And Sherman's client was guilty of all of it.

"Sergeant Boxer," Sherman said, "it's rare for a killer to turn himself in to a police officer at home, isn't it?"

"I'd say so."

"And Fred Brinkley specifically wanted to turn himself in to you, isn't that true?"

"That's what he told me."

"Did you know Mr. Brinkley?"

"No, I did not."

"So why did Mr. Brinkley ask you to arrest him?"

"He told me that he'd seen me on TV, asking for information about the ferry shooter. He said he took that to mean that he should come to my home."

"How did he find out where you live?"

"He said that he'd gone to a library and used a computer. Got my address off the Internet."

"You've testified that you disarmed Mr. Brinkley. You took away his gun, isn't that right?"

"Yes."

"Same gun he used to do the shootings?"

"Yes."

"And he'd brought a written confession with him to your doorstep, didn't he?"

"Yes."

"So to get this all perfectly straight," Mickey said, "my client heard your appeal to the public on television and interpreted that as an appeal to him personally. He Googled your name in a library and went to your front door as if you'd ordered takeout. And he was still carrying the handgun he used to kill four people."

"Objection, Your Honor. Argumentative," Yuki said.

"I'll allow it, but please get to the point, Mr. Sherman."

"Yes, Your Honor." Mickey walked over to me, gave me his full-bore, brown-eyed "you can trust me" look.

"Here's what I'm getting at, Sergeant. Wouldn't you agree that for a killer to keep the murder weapon and bring it to the home of a homicide inspector is not only unusual but off the wall?"

"It's unusual, I'll give you that."

"Sergeant, did you ask Mr. Brinkley why he shot those people?"

"Yes."

"And what did he say?"

I wanted to dig in, refuse to answer Mickey Sherman's question, but of course I didn't have that option. "He said he did it because voices told him to do it."

"Voices in his head?"

"That's how I interpreted his statement."

Mickey smiled at me as if to say, Oh, yes. The defense is having a very good day. "That's all I have. Thanks very much, Lindsay."

Chapter 79

YUKI SAT ACROSS FROM ME at a table by the door at MacBain's. She looked more than just worried. She looked as if she were beating herself up horribly.

"I should have done a redirect," Yuki said to me after we'd ordered. The place was absolutely jammed with lawyers and their clients, cops, and Hall of Justice workers of all kinds. Yuki had to raise her voice to be heard over the din. "I should have asked you what you thought when Brinkley told you about the voices."

"Who cares what I thought? It's no big deal."

"Oh, it's a big deal, all right." Yuki raked her hair back with her hands. "Sergeant Boxer, what did you think when Mr. Brinkley said he was hearing voices directing him to kill?"

I shrugged.

"Come on, Lindsay. You would have said that you thought he was already staging his insanity defense."

"Yuki, you can't nail everything down. You're doing a first-class job. I mean, really."

Yuki snorted. "Mickey is successfully flipping every negative into a positive. 'My client killed people for no reason? That means he's insane, right?' "

"That's all he's got. Look, Brinkley seemed rational, and I said so. The jury's not going to take Brinkley's word that he was hearing voices."

"Yeah." Yuki shredded her paper napkin. "I wonder what Marcia Clark's best friend said to her just before the jury found O. J. Simpson 'not guilty.' 'Don't worry, Marcia. Nobody's going to care about that glove.' "

I sat back in my seat as Syd brought our burgers and piles of fries. "Hey," I said, "I saw Mickey on the steps of the courthouse, mobbed by reporters. Funny how much we loved his magic act with the press last summer. Now I think, You media hog."

Yuki didn't laugh.

"Yuki," I said, circling her wrist with my fingers, "you're coming off smart, on top of your case, and most of all you sound right."

"Okay, okay," she said, "I'm done whining. Thanks for your testimony. Thanks for your support."

"Do something for me, girlfriend."

"Hmmm?"

"Put some calories inside your body and have a little faith in yourself."

Yuki lifted her hamburger, then put it back down on the plate without biting into it. "You know what's going on with me, Linds? I made a mistake. In a case like this one, you don't make mistakes. Not even one. And for the first time, I really see that I could lose."

Chapter 80

"MACKLIN JUST CALLED," Jacobi said the minute I returned to the squad room after lunch. Conklin and I walked Jacobi to his office, Jacobi saying, "A kid was snatched off the street in Los Angeles three hours ago. A little boy. Described as some kind of math genius."

I didn't even sit down.

I fired a flurry of questions at Jacobi: Had the child been abducted by someone in a black van? Was there any evidence at the scene? A tag number, a description – anything? Had the parents of the child been checked out? Had they heard from the kidnapper? In short, did this abduction resemble the kidnapping of Madison Tyler?

"Boxer, curb your enthusiasm, will ya?" Jacobi said, chuck-ing the remains of his cheeseburger into the trash can. "I'll give you everything I've got, every single detail."

"Well, make it snappy." I laughed. I sat down and leaned forward, putting my elbows on the desk as Jacobi filled us in.

"The parents were inside their house, and the kid was playing in the backyard," Jacobi told us. "Mother heard a squeal of brakes. She was on the phone, looked out the window onto the street, and saw a black van speeding around the corner. She didn't think too much about it. A couple of minutes later, she looked into the backyard, realized the boy was gone."

"The kid wandered out to the front yard?" Conklin asked.

"Possibly. The gate was open. Kid could've opened it – he's smart, right? – or maybe someone else did it. The LAPD put out an Amber Alert, but the father, not taking any chances, called the Feds."

Jacobi pushed a fax toward me, headed with the logo of the FBI. The second page was a photocopy of an adorable little boy – big round eyes, dimples, looked to be a perfect little sweetheart.

"The boy's name is Charles Ray, age six. The LAPD did an analysis of the tire marks outside the Ray house, and they match the type that comes standard with a late-model Honda minivan. That said, there's no proof that the vehicle was involved in the abduction. They haven't pulled any useful prints off the gate."

"Did the child have a nanny?" I asked.

"Yes. Briana Kearny. She was at the dentist when Charlie was taken. Her alibi checks out. It's a long shot, Boxer. Maybe the same party who kidnapped Madison Tyler is involved, maybe not."

"We should interview the parents," Conklin said.

"Like I could stop the two of you if I wanted to," said Jacobi. "Pair of freakin' attack dogs."

Jacobi pushed two more sheets of paper over to our side of his desk – electronic airline tickets in my name and Conklin's, San Francisco to LAX, round-trip.

"Listen," Jacobi said, "until we learn otherwise, we're treating this boy's abduction as part of the Tyler case, so report back to Lieutenant Macklin. And keep me in the loop." Jacobi looked at his watch. "It's two fifteen. You could be in LA by four or so."

Chapter 81

SQUAD CARS WERE PARKED on the one-lane street outside the Rays' wood-frame cottage. It was one of several dozen similar houses butting up against one another, lining both sides of the street.

Cops were talking on the sidewalk. They greeted us when we flashed our badges. "The mother's home," a uniform told us.

Eileen Ray came to the door. She was white, early thirties, five nine, looked to be about eight months pregnant and terribly, terribly vulnerable. Her dark hair was banded up in a ponytail, and her face was raw and red from crying.

I introduced Conklin and myself, and Mrs. Ray invited us inside, where an FBI tech was wiring up the phone. "The police have been… wonderful, and we're so grateful," Mrs. Ray said, indicating a sofa and chair for us to sit on.

The living room was crammed with stenciled cabinets, baskets, birdhouses, and dried flowers, and folded-down cardboard boxes were stacked on the floor near the kitchen table. The pervasive fragrance of lavender added to the gift-shop effect of the Ray abode.

"We work at home," Mrs. Ray said, answering my unasked question. "EBay."

"Where is your husband now?" Conklin asked.

"Scotty and an FBI agent are driving around with Briana," she told us. "My husband is hoping to God that he might see Charlie wandering out there, lost.

"Charlie must be terrified!" Eileen Ray cried out. "Oh, my God, what he must be going through! Who would take him?" she asked, her voice breaking. "And why?"

Conklin and I had no answers, but we lobbed questions at Mrs. Ray – about her movements, her relationship with her husband, and why the gate to the yard was open.

And we asked if anyone – family, friend, or stranger – had shown excessive or inappropriate attention to Charlie.

Nothing she told us lit up the board.

Eileen Ray was twisting a handkerchief in her hands when Scott Ray came home with the FBI agent and the nanny, a baby-faced young woman who was still in her teens.

Conklin and I split up, Conklin interviewing Scott in the child's bedroom while I talked to Briana in the kitchen. Unlike the Westwood Registry's European imports, Briana Kearny was a second-generation American, a local girl who lived three blocks away and looked after Charlie on a per-hour basis.

In other words, Briana was a babysitter.

Briana cried deep, heart-wrenching sobs as I pressed her, asking about her friendships, about her boyfriend, and if anyone had questioned her about the Rays and their habits.

Conklin and I finally closed our notebooks and said our good-byes, leaving the homey little cottage right as the electric candles in the windows came on.

"That girl had nothing to do with the child being snatched," I said.

"I didn't get anything bad off the husband, either," my partner told me. "This feels like a 'pedophile lures the kid into a van' thing."

"Yeah. It's just too fricking easy to steal a child. Perv says, 'Want to see my puppy?' Kid toddles over. Perv drags the kid inside and takes off. No witness. No evidence. And now," I said, "the long wait for a phone call… that never comes."

Chapter 82

SIX-YEAR-OLD CHARLIE RAY had been abducted more than seven hours before, and the kidnappers had not called his parents. The Rays, unlike the Tylers, were in a socio-economic bracket that wouldn't normally indicate a kidnapping for ransom.

And that was a bad thing.

We sat in Captain Jimenez's office while FBI agent David Stanford briefed us. Stanford was a blue-eyed man with a graying ponytail who'd been working undercover on another case before being pulled into this one.

I took a flyer from the stack on the captain's desk, studied Charlie Ray's perfectly round eyes, baby teeth, and short-cropped dark curls.

Would his body be found weeks or months from now in a dump, or in a shallow grave, or washed up on the beach after a storm?

When the meeting broke up, I called Macklin and filled him in. And then Agent Stanford gave me and Conklin a lift to the airport. As we took the freeway exit, Stanford suggested we stop for a drink at the Marriott LAX before our flight. He wanted to hear everything we knew about Madison Tyler and her abduction.

Speaking for myself, I was ready for a drink. Possibly two.

The Latitude 33 lounge had a full bar and restaurant. Over beer and peanuts, we discussed Madison, then Stanford told us about a hideous child-abduction case he'd worked months before.

A ten-year-old girl had been snatched off the street as she walked home from school. She'd been found twenty-four hours later, raped and strangled, left on the altar of a church, her hands folded as if in prayer. The killer still hadn't been found.

"How often do these kidnappings end in a rescue?" I asked.

"The majority of the time, child abductions are done by family members. In those cases, the child is usually returned unharmed. When the kidnapper is a stranger, the recovery rate is about fifty-fifty." Stanford's voice was strained as he said, "Call it passion or maybe obsession, but I believe that the more child predators I can take down, the safer the world is for my three kids."

Chapter 83

"HOW ABOUT KEEPING ME COMPANY over dinner?" Stanford suggested.

Our waiter brought menus to the table, and as the eight o'clock flight to SFO had just departed without us, we took Stanford up on his offer.

The agent ordered a bottle of pinot grigio, and Conklin and I filled him in on what we knew about Paola Ricci's abduction and murder.

"Honestly, we're stuck," I told Stanford. "Our dead ends are turning up even more dead ends. We're in about the fifth generation of dead ends."

Our steaks arrived, and Stanford ordered another bottle of wine. And for the first time that long day, I finally relaxed, glad for the company and the chance to brainstorm while listening to the country-and-western music floating in from the live band in the lounge.

I was also becoming aware of Conklin's long legs next to mine under the table, his brown suede jacket brushing up against my arm, the now familiar cadence of his voice, and the wine slipping smoothly down my throat as the evening flowed into night.

At around 9:15, Dave Stanford picked up the tab, told us that he'd keep us posted after the Rays' phone records were dumped and that he'd alert us of anything that could help us with the Ricci/Tyler case.

We'd missed another flight back to San Francisco, and as Rich and I said good-bye to Stanford, we prepared ourselves for an hour's wait outside the United Airlines gate.

We were almost out the door when the band kicked up something from the Kenny Chesney collection, and the girl singer began exhorting the patrons into a line dance.

The bar crowd was made up of smashed young road warriors and airline personnel, and they started getting into the dance – a new spin on the Electric Slide.

Rich smiled and said, "You wanna get stupid out there?" and I grinned back, saying, "Sure. Why the heck not?"

I followed Rich's lead onto the dance floor and into a good time, hustling to the music, bumping into giddy strangers, and best of all laughing.

It had been a while since I'd doubled over with belly laughs, and it felt great.

When the song ended, the crooner unhooked the mic from the stand, licked her lips, and sang along with the guy at the electric piano as he played "Lyin' Eyes."

Couples paired up. When Rich stretched out his arms, I stepped in close. My God, my God, it felt so good to have Richie Conklin's arms around me.

The room was spinning a little, so I closed my eyes and held on to him, the space between us closing because there was just no room to move on that little dance floor. I even stretched up onto my toes to rest my head on his shoulder – and he gripped me more tightly.

When the music stopped, Rich said, "Man, I really don't want to go to the airport, do you?"

I remember saying that a case could be made that at that late hour, after the long workday and, by the way, having drunk a whole lot of wine, we had several bona fide, expense-reportable reasons to spend the night in LA.

Still, I was torn as I handed my credit card to the desk clerk at the Marriott LAX, telling myself this didn't mean a thing. I wasn't going to do anything but go to my room and sleep. That was all.

Rich and I stood at opposite sides of the elevator, a weary couple between us, as the mirrored car climbed ten silent flights. I hated to admit it, but I missed being in his arms.

When we stepped out of the elevator, I said, "Good night, Rich." Then I turned my back on him as I slipped the key card into the slot, aware that he was now doing the same in a door across the hall.

"See you in the morning, Lindsay."

"Sure thing. Sleep tight, Richie."

The tiny green light went on, and the door handle opened under my hand.

Chapter 84

I CLOSED AND BOLTED THE DOOR to my room, my mind reeling with longing and desire, relief and regret. I stripped off my clothes, and a minute later, the blood was pounding in my temples as I stood under the hot spray of the shower.

Clean and glowing pink, I buffed my body with warm terry-cloth towels and blew my hair dry. I toweled the steam off the mirror over the sink and assessed my naked self. I still looked young and good and desirable. My breasts were firm, my tummy flat, and my sandy blond hair cascaded in waves to below my shoulders.

Why hadn't Joe called me?

I wrapped myself in a white hotel robe, went to the bedroom, checked the empty voice mail on my cell phone, much like my stubborn answering machine at home.

It had been six days since I'd seen Joe.

Was it really, truly over between us?

Would I never see him again? Why hadn't he come after me?

I pulled the drapes shut, folded the gold-quilted spread, and fluffed the pillows. Dizzy from the wine and the heat of the shower, I lay down.

Eyes closed, I found that the fading images of Joe were replaced by more urgent fantasies.

I was drawn back to only a half hour earlier, when Rich had held me. I relived the moment when dancing with him had gone from good to too good, when I'd felt him hard against me, when I'd put my arms around his neck and pressed my body against his.

It was okay to have these feelings, I told myself. I was only human, and so was he, and both of us were having a completely natural response to being alone together -.

A tapping at the door startled me.

My heart jumped as the knock came again.

Chapter 85

I CINCHED THE SASH OF MY ROBE and padded barefoot to the door. I saw Rich Conklin through the peephole. He was wearing a flimsy clear-plastic shower cap on his head!

I was laughing as I undid the bolt, my hand shaking as I pulled open the door. Conklin was wearing his trousers, his blue cotton shirt unbuttoned to about his third rib. And he was gripping a Marriott toothbrush with the stem in his fist, like it was a small white flag.

"I was wondering if you have any mouthwash, Lindsay. I got a lot of moisturizer in the complimentary toiletry basket, but no mouthwash."

His serious expression, combined with the wacky request and the shower cap, cracked me up. I swung the door open wide, said, "I didn't get mouthwash either, but I think I have something in my handbag."

The door closed behind me, and as I stooped for the handbag I'd dropped on the floor, I stumbled over one of my shoes.

Rich grabbed my elbow to steady me, and there we were. Eye-to-eye. Woozy. Alone in LA in a hotel room. I reached up and pulled off the shower cap. His forelock of light-brown hair fell across his gorgeous face, and he dropped the toothbrush onto the floor. Then Rich put both arms around my waist and pulled me to him.

"I have only one problem with this working arrangement," he said. "And it's a big one."

Rich bent to kiss me, and I wanted him to. My arms went around his neck again, and his mouth found mine. Our first kiss set off a chemical explosion.

I clung to Rich as he lowered me to the bed in the dimly lit room. I remember lying beneath him, our fingers interlaced, his hands pressing my hands against the bed, saying my name softly, oh so gently.

"I've wanted to be with you like this, Lindsay, before you even knew my name."

"I've always known your name."

I ached for him, and I had a right to give myself over to this. But when my young, handsome partner opened my robe and put his lips to my breast, a bolt of pure reasoned panic pulled the emergency brake in my brain.

This had been a bad idea. Really bad.

I heard myself whisper, "Richie, no."

I clasped the edges of my robe together as Rich rolled onto his side, panting and flushed, looking into my eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No, don't be." I took his hand and held it to my cheek, covered his hand with mine. "I want this as much as you do. But we're partners, Rich. We have to take care of each other. Just… not in this way."

He groaned as I said, "We can never do this again."

Chapter 86

I DROPPED THE KNOCKER ON THE DOOR of the Westwood Registry that sunless morning after our return from LA. Conklin stood beside me as a round-faced man cracked the door open. He was in his fifties, with blond-going-gray hair and clear gray eyes that peered at me through frameless lenses perched over a sharp beak of a nose.

Did he have something to do with Madison Tyler's abduction?

Did he know where she was?

I showed him my badge, introduced my partner and myself.

"Yes, I'm Paul Renfrew," said the man at the door. "You're the detectives who were here a few days ago?"

I told him that we were, that we had some questions about Paola Ricci.

Renfrew invited us inside, and we followed the natty man down the narrow hallway, through the green door that had been padlocked when we'd last seen it.

"Please. Please sit," Renfrew said, so Conklin and I each sat on one of the small sofas at right angles in a corner of the cozy office as Renfrew pulled up a chair.

"I suppose you want to know where I was when Paola was abducted," Renfrew said to us.

"That'd be a start," Conklin said. He looked tired. I suppose we both did.

Renfrew took a narrow notebook from his breast pocket, a thin daybook of the type that preceded handheld computers. Without prompting, he gave us a short verbal report of his meetings north of San Francisco in the days before, during, and after Paola's death, along with the names of the potential clients he'd met with.

"I can make you a photocopy of this," he offered. On a one-to-ten scale, ten being a three-alarm fire, the gauge in my gut was calling out a seven. Renfrew seemed too prepared and well rehearsed.

I accepted Renfrew's photocopy of his schedule and asked him about his wife's whereabouts during the same period.

"She's taking a slow tour through Germany and France," Renfrew told me. "I don't have a precise itinerary because she makes it up as she goes along, but I do expect her home next week."

I asked, "Do you have any thoughts about anyone who would have wanted to hurt Paola or Madison?"

"None at all," Renfrew told us. "Every time I turn on the television, I see another news story about a kidnapping. It's a virtual epidemic," he said. "Paola was a lovely girl, and I'm deeply distressed that she's dead. Everyone loved her.

"I met Madison only once," Renfrew continued. "Why would anyone do anything to such a precious child? I just don't know. Her death is a terrible, terrible tragedy."

"What makes you think Madison is dead?" I snapped at Renfrew.

"She's not? I just assumed… I'm sorry, I misspoke. I certainly hope you find her alive."

We were leaving the Westwood Registry when Renfrew's administrator, Mary Jordan, left her desk and followed us to the door.

Once outside in the dank morning air that was saturated with the smell of fish coming from the nearby market, Jordan put her hand on my arm.

"Please," she said urgently, "take me somewhere we can talk. I have something to tell you."

Chapter 87

WE WERE BACK AT THE HALL fifteen minutes later. Conklin and I sat with Mary Jordan in our cramped and grungy lunchroom. She clutched her container of coffee without sipping from it.

"After you left a few days ago, before Mr. Renfrew got back from his trip, I decided to poke around. And I found this," she told us, taking a photocopy of a lined ledger sheet out of her handbag. "It's from the Register. That's what they call it."

"Where did you find this, Mary?" Conklin asked.

"I found the key to the Renfrews' private office. They keep the Register in there."

I phoned the DA's office, got ADA Kathy Valoy on the phone. I filled her in, and she said she'd be down in a minute.

Valoy was one of those people who actually meant it when she said "a minute." She came into the lunchroom, and I introduced her to Mary Jordan.

"Did Sergeant Boxer or Officer Conklin ask you to retrieve these materials?"

"No, of course not."

"If you were asked by anyone to provide these materials," Valoy said, "that makes you an agent of the police, and we have to exclude the book this came from as evidence if there's a trial in the future."

"I did this all on my own," Jordan told the ADA. "So help me, God."

Valoy smiled, said, "Lindsay, we have to have lunch sometime." She waggled her fingers and left the lunchroom.

I asked Mary if I could see the paper, and she handed over a spreadsheet with headings across the top line – PLACEMENTS, CLIENTS, FEES – all entries dated this current calendar year.

The list of placements was made up of female names, most of them foreign. The clients' names, for the most part, had a "Mr. and Mrs." prefix, and the fees ran into the low five figures.

"All these girls were placed with these families this year?" I said.

Mary nodded, said, "Remember, I told you that a girl named Helga, one of the registry's nannies, disappeared about eight months ago when the registry was in Boston?"

"I remember."

"Well, I looked her up in the Register. Here she is," she said, stabbing at the page with a forefinger. "Helga Schmidt. And the people she was working for are here, too. Penelope and William Whitten."

"Go on," Conklin said.

"The records show that the Whittens have a child named Erica. She's a math prodigy, solving grade-school problems at only four. I looked up the Whittens on the Internet, and I found this interview in the Boston Globe."

Another piece of paper came out of Mary Jordan's handbag. She put a printout of a newspaper article on the table, turned it so we could read it, then summarized it for us as we read.

"This story appeared in the Lifestyle section last May. Mr. Whitten is a wine critic, and he and his wife were interviewed at home. Right here," Jordan said, pointing out a paragraph toward the end of the article, "is where Mr. and Mrs. Whitten told the reporter that their daughter Erica had gone to live with Mrs. Whitten's sister in England. That she was being privately schooled.

"And that seems sooooo weird to me," Jordan told us. "Like, unbelievable. The Whittens hired a nanny. The nanny left suddenly, and the Whittens sent their daughter to Europe? Erica is only four! The Whittens can afford any kind of tutors and governesses right here. Why would they send their little girl away?"

Rich and I exchanged looks as Jordan continued.

"Maybe I wouldn't have thought anything of it if it hadn't been for Paola's murder and Maddy having been kidnapped," Jordan said. "I just don't believe Erica Whitten is living in England. You think I'm crazy?"

"You know what I think, Mary?" I said. "You have the instincts of a good cop."

Chapter 88

JACOBI COUGHED SPASMODICALLY BESIDE ME. The air was blue with smoke from Tracchio's vile cigar, and the speakerphone crackled on his desk.

The line was open to the Whittens' home in Boston, and FBI agent Dave Stanford came back on the line.

"The Whittens are clearly rattled," he said, "but I got the story out of them. Their youngest daughter, Erica, was kidnapped along with her nanny, Helga Schmidt, eight months ago."

Was this it? Finally, a string that connected to the Ricci/Tyler case?

But if Erica had been kidnapped eight months ago, why in hell hadn't the Whittens reported it to the police?

"No one saw the kidnapping," Stanford continued, "but the Whittens found a note under their door about an hour after the time Erica and Helga were expected home from Erica's school. A half-dozen photos came along with the note."

"It was a ransom note?" Macklin asked, his voice a muted explosion.

"Not exactly. You got a fax machine over there?"

Tracchio gave Stanford the fax number. Voices inside the Whitten house could be heard in the background – a man and a woman quarreling softly but urgently. The woman's voice said, "Go on, Bill. Tell them."

Stanford said, "Everyone, this is Bill Whitten."

Bill Whitten said hello, and Tracchio introduced himself and the rest of us in a general way. Whitten's fear and anger had tightened his throat so that his voice was a strangled croak.

"You have to understand what you're doing to us," he said. "They said if we called the police, they'd kill our little girl. Our house could be bugged! They could be watching us now. Do you understand?"

The fax machine behind Tracchio's desk burped, and a sheet of paper clattered into the tray.

"Hang on a second," Tracchio said, lifting the fax out of the machine. He put the paper on his desk for us to read.

WE HAVE ERICA. CALL LAW ENFORCEMENT, AND SHE DIES.

IF WE FEEL ANY HEAT, SHE DIES.

AND THEN WE'LL TAKE RYAN .

OR KAYLA . OR PATTY .

KEEP QUIET, AND ERICA WILL STAY HEALTHY. YOU WILL RECEIVE A NEW PICTURE OF HER EVERY YEAR. YOU MAY EVEN GET A PHONE CALL. SHE MAY EVEN COME HOME.

BE SMART. BE QUIET.

ALL YOUR CHILDREN WILL LIVE TO THANK YOU.

The note was eight months old, but the cruel language made the horror jump off the page. It felt as fresh as if the crime had just happened.

All the faces around the desk registered shock, but it was Macklin who grabbed the paper, gripping it as if he could wring the kidnapper's throat by proxy.

Tracchio retrieved a second page from the fax machine.

"I can't make out the pictures," Tracchio said to Stanford.

"Erica was photographed against a blank white background in the clothes she was wearing when she was taken. The other photos are snapshots of the Whittens' older kids at school. And there's one of Kayla shot through her bedroom window. We'll have the whole package analyzed."

I was thinking, Sure, they'll try to collect prints and traces from the envelope and its contents, but what Stanford isn't saying in front of the Whittens is that every dead Jane Doe in the country will be compared to the stats and DNA of both Helga Schmidt and Erica Whitten.

There was no doubt in my mind that the letter and the photos were a ruse to buy time.

Erica Whitten and Helga Schmidt were both dead.

But what had the kidnappers gained?

What did they want?

I was reeling with violent images featuring small girls and their equally helpless nannies when my cell phone rang. It was Inspector Paul Chi saying, "An emergency call just came in to the squad, Lindsay. Someone was attacked at the Blakely Arms."

Chapter 89

CONKLIN AND I STEPPED OUT of the Blakely Arms elevator onto a carpeted hallway on the sixth floor and saw two cops halfway down the hall outside the door to apartment 6G. I recognized Officer Patrick Noonan, who was bucking to move into homicide.

"What happened here, Noonan?"

"A bloody mess, that's what, Sergeant. The victim's name is Ben Wyatt. He's been living in the building for about a year."

Conklin held up the police tape and I ducked under it, Noonan still talking. "The assailant came through the door," Noonan told me. "Either the door was open, the vic let him in, or the perp had a key."

"Who called it in?"

"Woman next door. 6F. Virginia Howsam. H-o-w-s-a-m."

Conklin and I entered the victim's sparely furnished apartment. A halo of blood pooled around the man's head, a dark puddle on the polished oak floors.

He was a black male, early thirties, fit, wearing shorts, a thin gray T-shirt, and running shoes. He was lying on his left side next to a treadmill.

I bent to get a better look. His eyes were closed and his breathing was labored – but he was still alive.

Paramedics clattered through the door, crowded around the victim, and on the count of three lifted him into a stretcher.

The paramedic standing closest to me said, "He's unconscious. We're taking him to San Francisco General. Could you step aside, Sergeant? Thanks."

The sirens were wailing up Townsend as Charlie Clapper and a couple of his crime-scene investigators entered Wyatt's living room, then crossed the floor to the treadmill.

"The cord to this thing's been cut," Clapper said, showing me where the clean separation had been made, as if with a sharp knife. "You saw the victim?" he said to me.

"Yes. He's alive, Charlie. At least he is now. Looks like he was really clobbered from behind."

As with Irene Wolkowski, whatever instrument had been used to bash Ben Wyatt's skull had been removed from the apartment. And also similar to the Wolkowski crime scene, very little else had been disturbed.

No doubt there was a connection between the attacks that were making terror an almost daily thing at the Blakely Arms.

What was that connection? What the hell was going on?

Chapter 90

BEN WYATT'S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR Virginia Howsam was a woman in her late twenties who worked nights at a club downtown. She told us that Wyatt was a day trader and a really nice guy whom no one in his right mind would want to hurt.

We thanked Ms. Howsam for her help and took to the fire stairs, thinking maybe the people under Wyatt's apartment might have heard sounds that could help us pinpoint the time of the attack.

Conklin was right behind me on the stairs when the phone at my hip rang. I reached for it, saw Dave Stanford's name on the caller ID.

"This is Boxer."

"I've got good news for you."

I signaled to Conklin to put his ear next to the phone so we could both hear.

"You've got news on Erica Whitten?"

"No, but I thought you'd like to know that Charlie Ray has had his hot chocolate with extra whipped cream and is now sleeping in his own bed." Stanford chuckled.

"Fantastic, Dave! What happened?"

Stanford told me that the husband of a depressed woman had come forward. Their child had died of crib death weeks before.

"This woman who took Charlie was strung out on grief," Stanford said. "She was driving down the street, saw Charlie peeking over the fence. She stopped and grabbed him."

"She's in custody?"

"Yeah, but she's not the person we're looking for, Lindsay. She has nothing to do with Erica Whitten or Madison Tyler. She's on antidepressants, under a doctor's care, and yesterday was the first time she left home since her baby died."

I thanked Stanford and closed the cell phone. Conklin was right there. I was looking into his eyes, feeling the heat.

"So we've got nothing," Rich said.

"We've got something," I said, starting down the stairs again. "We've got a killer at large in this goddamned building. As for Madison Tyler, we've got another dead end."

Chapter 91

MICKEY SHERMAN SAT BESIDE ALFRED BRINKLEY at the defense table, trying to get his client to understand him through the haze of whatever meds he was on. The poor sap had all the energy of a parsnip.

"Fred. Fred." Sherman shook his client's shoulder. "Fred, we start your defense today, you understand? So I'll be putting people on the stand to vouch for your character."

Brinkley nodded his head. "You're putting my doctor on the stand."

"Right. Dr. Friedman is going to talk about your mental condition, so don't get upset. He's on our side."

"I want a chance to tell my side of the story."

"We'll see. I don't know yet if we need to put you on the stand."

Mickey's assistant passed him a note saying that his witnesses were all accounted for. Then the bailiff called out, "All rise," and the judge entered the courtroom through the door behind the bench. The jurors filed in and were seated.

It was day four of Alfred Brinkley's trial, and court was in session.

"Mr. Sherman," Judge Moore said, "are you ready with your first witness?"

"The defense calls Mr. Isaac Quintana."

Quintana was wearing several layers of odd clothing, but his eyes were clear, and he smiled as he took the stand.

"Mr. Quintana," Sherman began.

"Call me Ike," the witness said. "Everyone does."

"I'll call you Ike, then," Mickey said good-naturedly. "How do you know Mr. Brinkley?"

"We were at Napa State together."

"That's not a college, is it?" Sherman said, smiling at his witness, jingling the coins in his pocket.

"Naw, it's a nuthouse," Ike said, grinning.

"It's a state mental institution, isn't that right?"

"Sure."

"Do you know why Fred was at Napa State?"

"Sure. He was depressed. Wouldn't eat. Wouldn't get out of bed. Had very bad dreams. His sister had died, you know, and when he checked into Napa, it was because he didn't want to live."

"Ike, how did you know that Fred was depressed and suicidal?"

"He told me. And I knew he was on antidepressants."

"And how long did you know Fred?"

"For about two years."

"Did you get along with him pretty well?"

"Oh, sure. He was a very sweet guy. That's why I know he didn't mean to kill those people on the ferry -"

"Objection! Your Honor, unresponsive," Yuki barked. "I move that the witness's last statement be stricken from the record."

"Sustained. So ordered."

"Ike," Sherman asked reassuringly, "was Fred Brinkley ever violent when you knew him?"

"Gosh, no. Who told you that? He was very laid-back. Drugs'll do that to a person. Take a pill and you're not really crazy anymore."

Chapter 92

YUKI STOOD UP FROM THE PROSECUTION TABLE and smoothed out the creases in her pin-striped skirt, thinking that Quintana was like a Muppet, with his wacky smile and outfit that made him appear to be wearing an entire tag sale.

It all seemed to work for him. The jurors were smiling, loving him, loving Brinkley by association.

She said, "Mr. Quintana, why were you at Napa State?"

"I have OCD. It's not dangerous or anything. It just takes up all my time, 'cause I'm always collecting things and checking all the time -"

"Thank you, Mr. Quintana. And are you also a psychiatrist?"

"No. But I know a few, that's for sure."

Yuki smiled as the jury tittered. It would be tricky to dismantle Quintana's testimony without turning the jury against her.

"What kind of work do you do, Mr. Quintana?"

"I'm a dishwasher at the Jade Café on Bryant. If you want clean, you can't do better than having someone with OCD doing the dishes."

"I see your point," Yuki said as laughter rolled up from the gallery. "Do you have any medical training?"

"No."

"And apart from today, when did you last see Mr. Brinkley?"

"About fifteen years ago. He was checked out of Napa, like, in 1988 or so."

"You've had no contact with him between now and then?"

"No."

"So you wouldn't know if he's had two lobotomies and a heart transplant since you saw him last?"

"Ha-ha, that's funny. Um, is that true?"

"My point, Mr. Quintana, is that the sixteen-year-old you called 'a very sweet guy' may have changed. Are you the same person you were fifteen years ago?"

"Well, I have a lot more stuff."

Guffaws sprang up from the gallery; even the jurors were chortling. Yuki smiled to show she didn't, God forbid, lack a sense of humor.

When quiet resumed, she said, "Ike, when you said that Mr. Brinkley was crazy, that was your opinion as a friend, wasn't it? You weren't trying to say that he met the legal definition of insanity? That he didn't know right from wrong?"

"No. I don't know anything about that."

"Thank you, Mr. Quintana. I have no further questions."

Chapter 93

SHERMAN'S NEXT WITNESS, Dr. Sandy Friedman, walked up the aisle toward the witness stand. He was a good shrink, educated at Harvard, even looked the part of a psychiatrist, with his designer glasses and Brooks Brothers bow tie, a hint of Liam Neeson in his facial features.

"Dr. Friedman," Sherman said after the witness was sworn in and had cited his credentials, "have you had a chance to interview Mr. Brinkley?"

"Yes, three times since he's been incarcerated, pending trial."

"Have you diagnosed his illness?"

"Yes. In my opinion, Mr. Brinkley has schizoaffective disorder."

"Could you tell us what that means?"

Friedman leaned back in his chair as he organized his response. Then he said, "Schizoaffective disorder is a thought, mood, and behavioral disorder that involves elements of paranoid schizophrenia. One can think of it as a kind of bipolar disorder."

" 'Bipolar' meaning 'manic-depressive'?" Sherman asked.

" 'Bipolar' in the sense that people with schizoaffective disorder have ups and downs, despair and depression – and hyperactivity or mania, but they can often manage their illness for a long time and more or less fit in on the fringes of society."

"Would they hear voices, Dr. Friedman?"

"Yes, many do. That would be one of the schizoid aspects of this disease."

"Threatening voices?"

"Yes." Friedman smiled. "That would be the paranoia."

"Did Mr. Brinkley tell you that he thought people on television were talking to him?"

"Yes. That's also a fairly common symptom of schizoaffective disorder – an example of a break from reality. And the paranoia makes him think that the voices are aimed at him."

"Could you explain what you mean when you refer to a 'break from reality'?"

"Certainly. From the onset of Mr. Brinkley's disease in his teens, there has always been a distortion in the way he thinks and acts, in how he expresses his emotions. Most important, in how he perceives reality. That's the psychotic element – his inability to tell what is real from what is imagined."

"Thank you, Dr. Friedman," Sherman said. "Now bringing us up to the recent events that brought Mr. Brinkley to trial. What can you tell us about that?"

"With schizoaffective disorder, there is generally a precipitate that causes an increase in crazy behavior. In my judgment, that precipitate for Mr. Brinkley would have been when he got fired from his job. The loss of his routine, the subsequent eviction from his apartment, all of that would have exacerbated his illness."

"I see. Dr. Friedman, did Mr. Brinkley tell you about the ferry shooting?"

"Yes. I learned in our sessions that Mr. Brinkley hadn't been on a boat since his sister died in a sailing accident when he was sixteen. On the day of the ferry incident, there was an additional precipitate. Mr. Brinkley saw a sailboat. And that triggered the event. In layman's terms, that sent him over the edge. He couldn't distinguish between illusion and reality."

"Did Mr. Brinkley tell you that he was hearing voices on the ferry?"

"Yes. He said that they were telling him to kill. You have to understand that Fred has a fierce underlying anger about his sister's death, and that manifested itself in this explosive rage.

"The people on the ferry weren't real to him. They were only a backdrop to his delusions. The voices were his reality, and the only way he could stop them was to obey."

"Dr. Friedman," Sherman said, touching his upper lip with the tip of his forefinger, "can you state with a reasonable degree of medical certainty that when Mr. Brinkley obeyed those voices and shot the passengers on the ferry, he did not appreciate the difference between right and wrong?"

"Yes. Based on my interviews with Mr. Brinkley and my twenty years of experience working with the severely mentally impaired, it is my opinion that at the time of the shooting, Alfred Brinkley suffered from a mental disease or defect that prevented him from knowing right from wrong. I am absolutely convinced of it."

Chapter 94

DAVID HALE PUSHED A NOTE over to Yuki – a cartoon drawing of a large bulldog with a spiked collar and drool dripping from its jowls. The voice balloon said, "Go get 'em."

Yuki smiled, thought about Len Parisi taking a wide-legged stance in the middle of this oaken courtroom and shredding Mickey Sherman's hired shrink to ribbons.

She drew a circle around the cartoon, underscored it. Then she stood, speaking before she reached the podium.

"Dr. Friedman, you're quite well known as an expert witness, isn't that right?"

Friedman said that he was and that he'd testified for both prosecution and defense teams over the past nine years.

"In this case, the defense hired you?"

"Yes. That's right."

"And how much were you paid?"

Friedman looked up at Judge Moore, who peered down at him. "Please answer the question, Dr. Friedman."

"I was paid about eight thousand dollars."

"Eight thousand dollars. Okay. And how long were you treating Mr. Brinkley?"

"Mr. Brinkley wasn't technically my patient."

"Oh," said Yuki. "Then let me ask you, can you diagnose someone that you've never treated?"

"I've had three sessions with Mr. Brinkley, during which time I also gave him a battery of psychological tests. And yes, I can assess Mr. Brinkley without treating him," Friedman sniffed.

"So based on three interviews and these tests, you believe that the defendant was unable to understand right from wrong at the time of the killings?"

"That's correct."

"You didn't give him an X-ray and find a tumor pressing against a lobe of his brain, did you?"

"No, of course not."

"So how do we know that Mr. Brinkley wasn't lying and skewing the test results so he wouldn't be found guilty of murder?"

"He couldn't do that," Friedman said. "You see, the test questions are like a built-in lie detector. They're repeated in many different ways, and if the answers are consistent, then the patient is telling the truth."

"Doctor, you use those tests because you can't really know what's in the patient's mind, can you?"

"Well, you also make a judgment based on behavior."

"I see. Dr. Friedman, are you aware of the legal term 'consciousness of guilt'?"

"Yes. It refers to actions a person may take that show the person is aware what he or she did was wrong."

"Well put, Doctor," Yuki said. "Now, if someone shoots five people and then runs away, as Alfred Brinkley did, doesn't that show consciousness of guilt? Doesn't it show that Mr. Brinkley knew what he'd done was wrong?"

"Look, Ms. Castellano, not everything a person does when he's in a psychotic state is illogical. People on that ferry were screaming, coming at him with intent to harm him. He ran. Most people finding themselves in that situation would have run."

Yuki stole a look at David, who gave her an encouraging nod. She wished he'd beam her something to nail Friedman with because she didn't have it.

And then she did.

"Dr. Friedman, does gut instinct play any part in your assessment?"

"Well, sure. Gut instinct, or intuition, is made up of many layers of experience. So, yes, I used gut instinct as well as formal psychological protocol in my assessment."

"And did you determine whether or not Mr. Brinkley is dangerous?"

"I interviewed Mr. Brinkley both before and after he was put on Risperdal, and it is my opinion that, properly medicated, Mr. Brinkley is not dangerous."

Yuki put both her hands on the witness box, looked Friedman in the eye, ignored everything and everyone in the courtroom, and spoke from the fear she felt every time she looked at that freak sitting next to Mickey Sherman.

"Dr. Friedman, you interviewed Mr. Brinkley behind bars. Check your gut instinct on this: Would you feel comfortable riding home in a cab with Mr. Brinkley? Would you feel safe having dinner with him in his home? Riding alone with him in an elevator?"

Mickey Sherman leaped to his feet. "Your Honor, I object. Those questions should be taken out and shot."

"Sustained," the judge grumbled.

"I'm done with this witness, Your Honor," Yuki said.

Chapter 95

AT 8:30 THAT MONDAY MORNING, Miriam Devine took the bundles of mail from the hallway console and brought them into the breakfast nook.

She and her husband had just returned home to Pacific Heights last night after their cruise, ten fabulous days in the Mediterranean, where they were mercifully cut off from phones and television and newspapers and bills.

She wanted to keep the real world at bay for at least a couple of days, keep that vacation feeling a little longer. If only she could.

Miriam made drip coffee, defrosted and toasted two cinnamon buns, and began her attack on the mail, stacking catalogs on the right side of the kitchen table, bills on the left, and miscellaneous items across from her coffee mug.

When she found the plain white envelope addressed to the Tylers, she shuffled it to the bottom of the "miscellaneous" pile and continued working, writing checks and tossing junk mail until Jim came into the kitchen.

Her husband drank his coffee standing up, said, "Christ. I don't want to go to the office. It's going to be hell even if no one knows I'm there."

"I'll make meat loaf for dinner, sweetie. Your favorite."

"Okay. Something to look forward to anyway."

Jim Devine left the house and closed the front door behind him. Miriam finished dealing with mail, rinsed the dishes, and phoned her daughter before calling her next-door neighbor Elizabeth Tyler.

"Liz, honey! Jim and I just got back last night. I have some mail for you that was delivered here by mistake. Why don't I drop over so we can catch each other up?"

Chapter 96

I STOOD WITH CONKLIN in the Tylers' living room. It was only fifteen minutes since their neighbor Miriam Devine had dropped off the handwritten note from the kidnappers.

It had had the effect of an emotional nuclear bomb on Elizabeth Tyler and was having a similar effect on me.

I remembered canvassing the Devines' house the day of the abduction. It was a cream-colored clapboard Victorian almost identical to the Tylers' house, right next door. I'd spoken to the Devines' housekeeper, Guadalupe Perez. She'd told us in broken English that the Devines were away.

Nine days ago, I couldn't have imagined that Guadalupe Perez would have picked up an envelope that had been slid under the door and that she would have stacked it with the rest of the Devines' mail.

No one could have known, but I felt heartsick and responsible anyway.

"How well do you know the Devines?" Conklin asked Henry Tyler, who was furiously pacing the perimeter of the room. There were pictures of Madison on every wall and surface – baby pictures, family portraits, holiday snapshots.

"It's not them, okay? The Devines didn't do it!" Tyler shouted. "Madison is gone!" he yelled, holding his head with both hands as he paced. "It's too late."

I dropped my eyes back to the sideboard and the block letters on the plain white bond that I could read from five feet away:

WE HAVE YOUR DAUGHTER.

IF YOU CALL LAW ENFORCEMENT, SHE DIES.

IF WE FEEL ANY HEAT, SHE DIES.

RIGHT NOW, MADISON IS HEALTHY AND SAFE, AND WILL STAY THAT WAY AS LONG AS YOU KEEP QUIET.

THIS PHOTO IS THE FIRST. YOU WILL RECEIVE A NEW PICTURE OF MADISON EVERY YEAR. YOU MAY RECEIVE A PHONE CALL. SHE MAY EVEN COME HOME.

BE SMART. BE QUIET.

ONE DAY MADISON WILL THANK YOU.

The photo of Madison that came with the note had been printed out on a home-style printer within an hour of the time she was abducted. The girl seemed clean and unharmed, wearing the blue coat, the red shoes.

"Could he know that we didn't get the note? Could he know that we didn't mean to defy him?"

"I just don't know, Mr. Tyler, and I can't really guess -"

Elizabeth Tyler interrupted me, the cords of her neck standing out as she strained to talk.

"Madison is the brightest, happiest little girl you can imagine. She sings. She plays music. She has the most wonderful laugh.

"Has she been raped? Is she chained to a bed in a basement? Is she hungry and cold? Is she hurt? Is she terrified? Is she calling out for us? Does she wonder why we don't come for her? Or is she past all that now and is safe in God's hands?

"This is all we think about, Officers.

"We have to know what has happened to our daughter. You have to do more than you ever thought you could do," Elizabeth Tyler told me. "You must bring Madison home."

Chapter 97

A PLASTIC BAG WITH THE KIDNAPPER'S NOTE INSIDE was positioned on my desk so that Conklin and I could both read it.

IF YOU CALL LAW ENFORCEMENT, SHE DIES.

IF WE FEEL ANY HEAT, SHE DIES.

We were still rocked by those words, unable to shake the sickening feeling that by actually working the Ricci/Tyler case, we might have brought about Madison's death.

When Dave Stanford arrived at noon, we turned the kidnapper's note over to the FBI. Jacobi ordered a pie from Presto Pizza. Conklin pulled up a chair for Stanford, and we opened our files to him.

An hour later, it still all came down to one lead: the Whittens in Boston and the Tylers in Pacific Heights had the Westwood Registry in common.

We divvied up the client names that Mary Jordan had copied from the Register and started making phone calls. By the time the square box was in the round file, we were ready to go.

Conklin and Macklin went in Stanford's car. And Jacobi and I paired up, partners again for the day.

It was good seeing Jacobi's homely mug beside me, his expanding heft in the driver's seat.

"Pardon me for noticing, but you look like you've been keelhauled," he said.

"This goddamned case is making me sick. But since you mention it, Jacobi, I'm wondering about something. Did it ever occur to you to lie to me when I look like hell?"

"I don't think so, no."

"I guess that's one of the things I love about you."

"Ah, don't get mushy on me now." He grinned, took a hard right onto Lombard, and parked the car.

Over the next five hours, we tracked down and interviewed four Westwood Registry clients and their nannies. By the time the sun was lighting up a swath of pink cotton-candy clouds across the western sky, we had joined Macklin and the others back at the Hall.

It was a short meeting because our combined twenty-five man-hours had yielded nothing but praise for the Westwood Registry and their imported five-star nannies.

At around seven p.m. we told one another we'd pick it up again in the morning. I crossed Bryant, got my car out of the lot, and headed toward Potrero Hill.

Streetlights were winking on all across the city as I parked outside my home sweet home.

My hand was on the car-door handle when something eclipsed the light coming in from the passenger-side window, throwing me into shadow.

My heart hammered as I swung my head around and a dark figure came into view. It took a few seconds for my brain to put it all together. Even then, I doubted my eyes.

It was Joe.

Chapter 98

IT WAS JOE. It was Joe.

There was no one in the world I wanted to see more.

"How many times have I told you…" I said, heart racing, getting out of my car on the street side, slamming the door.

"Don't sneak up on an armed police officer?"

"Right. You've got something against telephones? Some kind of phobia?"

Joe grinned sheepishly at me from where he stood on the sidewalk. "Not even a hello? You're tough, Blondie."

"Ya think?"

I didn't feel tough, though. I felt depleted, vulnerable, close to tears, but I was determined not to show any of that. I scowled as I drummed my fingers on the hood of my car, but I couldn't help noticing how great Joe looked.

"I'm sorry. I took a chance," he said, his smile absolutely winning. "I just hoped to see you. So anyway, how have you been?"

"Never better," I lied. "You know. Busy."

"Sure, I know. You're all over the newspapers, Wonder Woman."

"More like, wonder if I'm ever going to solve a case," I said, laughing in spite of myself. "And you?" I said, warming up to Joe through and through. I stopped drumming my fingers and leaned a little bit toward him. "How's it going with you?"

"I've been busy, too."

"Well, I guess we're both keeping out of trouble." I locked the car, but I still didn't take a step toward him. I liked having that big hunk of metal between us. My Explorer as chaperone. Giving me a chance to think through what to do with Joe.

Joe grinned, said, "Yeah, sure, but what I meant was I've been busy trying to get a new life."

What was that? What had he just said?

My heart lurched and my knees started to give. I had a flash of insight – Joe looked and sounded great because he'd fallen in love with someone else. He'd dropped by because he couldn't tell me the news on the phone.

"I haven't wanted to call you until it was final," he said, his words dragging me back to the moment, "but I can't move the damned request through the system fast enough."

"What are you talking about?"

"I put in for a transfer to San Francisco, Lindsay."

Relief overwhelmed me. Tears filled my eyes to the brim as I stared at Joe. Images flashed, nothing I could help or stop, snatches of our months of high-flying romance, but it wasn't the romantic part that I remembered most. It was those homey moments, with Joe singing in the shower, me sneaking a peek in the mirror at his receding hairline when he didn't know I was looking. And the way he crouched over his cereal bowl as if someone might take it from him because he'd grown up in a house with six brothers and sisters, and none of them had the exclusive rights to anything. I thought about how Joe was the only person in my life who would just let me talk myself out and didn't expect me to be the strong one all the time. And okay, yeah, I flashed on the way he handled my body when we made love, making me seem small and weightless, and how safe I used to feel when I fell asleep in his arms.

"I've been given assurances but nothing definite…" His voice trailed off as he stared at me. "God, Lindsay," he said, "you have no idea how much I've missed you."

The wind coming off the bay blew the tears off my cheeks, and I was filled with gratitude for the unexpected gift of his visit and the night ahead. I still had an unopened bottle of Courvoisier in the liquor cabinet. And massage oil in the nightstand… I thought about the delicious coolness of the air and how much heat Joe and I could turn up just lying together, before even reaching out our hands to touch.

"Why don't you come upstairs?" I finally said. "We don't have to talk on the street."

Something dark crossed his features as he came toward me and gently, deliberately, encircled my shoulders with his large hands.

"I want to come in," he said, "but I'll miss my flight. I just had to tell you, don't give up on me. Please."

Joe put his arms around me and pulled me to him. Instinctively, I stiffened, folded my arms over my chest, dropped my chin.

I didn't want to look up into his face. Didn't want to be charmed or swayed, because inside of three minutes, I'd ridden the entire Joe Molinari roller coaster.

Just over a week ago I'd steeled myself to break away from him because of this damned magic trick of his – now he's here, now he's not.

Nothing had changed!

I was furious. And I couldn't let Joe open me up only to let me down again. I looked at his face for the last time, and I pushed away from him.

"I'm sorry. Really. For a moment I thought you were someone else. You'd better go now," I sputtered. "Have a safe flight."

He was calling my name as I ran as fast as I could up the front steps of my building. I put my key in the lock and turned the knob in one movement. Then I slammed the door behind me and continued to run up the stairs. When I walked into my apartment, I had to go to the window, though.

I parted the curtain – just in time to see Joe's car drive away.

Chapter 99

MY PHONE STARTED RINGING before I dropped the curtain back across the glass. I knew Joe was calling from the car, and I had nothing to say to him.

I showered for a good long time, fifteen or twenty minutes under the spray. When I got out of the shower, the phone was still ringing. I ignored this call, too. Ditto the furiously blinking light on my answering machine and the tinny chime of my cell phone paging me from my jacket pocket.

I tossed my dinner in the microwave. I opened the Courvoisier and had poured out a tumblerful when my cell phone started up its damned ringing again.

I grabbed it out of my jacket pocket, growled, "Boxer," fully prepared to say, "Joe, leave me alone, okay?" I felt an inexplicable letdown when the voice in my ear was my partner's.

Rich said, "What's it take to get you to answer the phone, Lindsay?" He was annoyed with me and I didn't care.

"I was in the shower," I said. "As far as I know, that's still allowed. What's up?"

"There was another attack at the Blakely Arms."

The air went out of me.

"A homicide?"

"I'll let you know when I get there. I'm a couple of blocks away."

"Lock down the building. Every exit," I said. "No one leaves."

"I'm on it, Sergeant."

That's when I remembered the treadmill victim. How could I have forgotten about him?

"Rich, we forgot to check on Ben Wyatt."

"No, we didn't."

"You called the hospital?"

"Yeah."

"Is Wyatt awake?"

"He died two hours ago."

I told Rich I'd see him shortly and called Cindy – no answer. I snapped my phone closed, slapped it down on the kitchen counter so that I wouldn't throw it through a window. The microwave binged five times, telling me that dinner was ready.

"I'm going to lose my mind!" I shouted at the timer. "Going to fricking lose it."

Screw everything! I left the brandy untouched on the counter and my dinner in the microwave. I dressed quickly, buckled my shoulder holster, and threw on my blazer. I called Cindy and got her, told her what was happening.

Then I headed out to Townsend and Third.

By the time I strode into the lobby of the Blakely Arms, I was imagining my next conversation with Cindy. I wasn't going to take any guff from her, either.

She was going to move in with me until she had somewhere safe to live.

Chapter 100

CINDY WAS WAITING AT THE ENTRANCE to the Blakely Arms, her streaky blond curls blown every which way. Her lipstick looked chewed off.

"Jesus," she said. "Again? Is this really happening again?"

"Cindy," I said as we entered the lobby, "has there been any talk in the building? Any gossip? Any fingers pointed toward anyone?"

"Only thing I've heard is the nasty sound of people's nerves snapping."

We took the elevator together, and once again I was standing outside an apartment in the Freaky Arms that was bristling with uniformed cops.

Conklin nodded to Cindy, then introduced me to Aiden Blaustein. He was a tall white kid, about twenty-two, wearing black-on-black-on-black – torn jeans, Myst T-shirt, vest, a patched leather jacket, and choppy black hair that was short in back, falling across panicky brown eyes.

Conklin said, "Mr. Blaustein is the victim."

I heard Cindy say, "Cindy Thomas, the Chronicle. Would you spell your name for me?"

I exhaled. The kid was alive and unhurt but obviously scared half out of his mind.

"Can you tell me what happened?" I asked Blaustein.

"Fuck if I know! I went out for a six-pack around five," he said. "Ran into an old girlfriend and we got a bite. When I came home, my place had been totally trashed."

Conklin pushed open Blaustein's front door, and I walked inside the studio apartment, Cindy trailing behind me.

"Stay close -" I said.

"And don't touch anything," she finished.

The apartment looked like an electronics shop that had been trampled by a rhino on crack. I took a quick count of a desktop computer, three monitors, a stereo, and a forty-two-inch plasma-screen television that had been reduced to shards. Not stolen – destroyed! The desk was banged up, probably collateral damage.

Blaustein said, "It took me years to get all this together just the way I like it."

"What kind of work do you do?" Cindy asked.

"I design Web sites and games. This stuff cost probably twenty-five."

"Mr. Blaustein," I said, "when you went out, did you leave your door open?"

"I never leave my door open."

"Mr. Blaustein left the music on when he left the apartment," Rich said. His voice was matter-of-fact, but he didn't look at me.

"Did anyone complain to you about the music?" I asked.

"Today?"

"Ever," I said.

"I've gotten nasty phone calls from one person," Blaustein said.

"And who was that?"

"You mean, did he tell me his name? He didn't even say hello. His opening line was 'If you don't turn off that shit, I'm gonna kill you.' That was the first time. We've had these shouting matches a couple of times a week for a while now. All the time, cursing me. Cursing my children."

"You have kids?" I asked, unable to imagine it.

"No. He cursed any future children I might have."

"So what did you do?"

"Me? I know swearwords this dude never heard before. Thing is, I would've recognized the guy's voice if I'd heard it before. My ears are, like, good enough to be insured by Lloyd's of London. But I don't know him. And I know everyone who lives here. I even know her," he said, pointing to Cindy. "Third floor, right?"

"And you're saying no one else in the building complained about your sound system?"

"No, because A, I only work during the day, and B, we're allowed to play music until eleven p.m. Besides which, C, I don't play the music loud."

I sighed, unclipped my cell phone, and called the crime lab. I got the night-shift supervisor on the line and told him we needed him.

"You have someone you can stay with tonight?" Rich was asking Blaustein.

"Maybe."

"Well, you can't stay here. Your apartment's a crime scene for a while."

Blaustein looked around the wreck of his apartment, his young face sagging as he cataloged the destruction. "I wouldn't stay here tonight if you paid me."

Chapter 101

CINDY, RICH, AND I CONNECTED THE DOTS during the elevator ride down to the lobby.

"The dogs, the piano, the treadmill…" Rich was saying.

"The Web-meister's apartment…" Cindy added.

"It's all the same thing," I said. "It's the noise."

"Yep," Rich agreed. "Whoever this maniac is, noise makes him a little bit violent."

I said, "Rich, I'm sorry I snapped at you before. I had a bad day."

"Forget it, Lindsay. We close this case, we'll both feel better."

The elevator doors slid open, and we stepped out again into the lobby. At the moment, the space was packed with about two hundred freaked-out tenants, standing room only.

Cindy had her notepad out and moved toward the board president as Conklin used his body as a plow. I drafted behind him until we reached the reception desk.

Someone yelled, "Quiet!" and when the rumble died, I said, "I'm Sergeant Boxer. I don't have to tell you that there have been a series of disturbing incidents in this building -"

I waited out the heckling about the police not doing their jobs, then pushed on, saying that we were going to reinterview everyone and that no one was permitted to leave until we said it was okay.

A gray-haired man in his late sixties raised his hand, introducing himself as Andy Durbridge.

"Sergeant, I may have some useful information. I saw a man in the laundry room this afternoon whom I'd never seen before. He had what looked like a dog's bite marks on his arms."

"Can you describe this man?" I asked. I felt a new kind of tension in my gut. The good kind.

"He was about five six, muscular, brown hair going bald, in his thirties, I think. I looked around already, and I don't see him here."

"Thanks, Mr. Durbridge," I said. "Can anyone here pin a name on that description?"

A petite young woman with caramel-colored bedspring curls waded through the crowd until she reached me.

Her eyes were huge, and her skin was unnaturally pale – something was frightening her half to death.

"I'm Portia Fox," she said, her voice quavering. "Sergeant, may I speak with you privately?"

Chapter 102

I STEPPED OUTSIDE the Blakely Arms with Portia Fox.

"I think I know that man that Mr. Durbridge was referring to," Ms. Fox told me. "He sounds like the guy who lives in my apartment during the daytime."

"Your roommate?"

"Not officially," the woman said, casting her eyes around. "He rents my dining room. I work during the day. He works at night. We're like ships crossing, you know?"

"It's your apartment, and this man is a sublet, is that what you're saying?"

She bobbed her head.

"What's his name?"

"Garry, two Rs, Tenning. That's what's printed on his checks."

"And where is Mr. Tenning now?" I asked.

"He's at his job with a construction company."

"He works in construction – at night?" I asked. "You have a cell phone number for him?"

"No. I used to see him every day for about a year in the Starbucks across the street. Sometimes we'd say hello, share a newspaper. He seemed nice, and when he asked if I knew of a place he could rent cheap… well, I needed the money."

This child had let a stranger move into her apartment. I wanted to shake her. I wanted to report her to her mother. Instead I asked, "When do you expect Mr. Tenning home?"

"Around eight thirty in the morning. Like I said, I've always left for work by the time he comes in, and now that I've got a coffeemaker at work, I don't go to Starbucks anymore."

"We're going to want to search your apartment."

"Absolutely," she said, pulling her key out of her handbag and offering it to me. "I really want you to. My God, what if I'm sharing my place with a murderer?"

Chapter 103

"JUST LIKE MINE," Cindy said as we walked into Portia Fox's apartment. The front door opened into a large living room facing the street – roomy, sunny, furnished in office-girl modern.

There was a galley-style kitchen off the living room, but where Cindy's dining room was open, Ms. Fox's had been boxed in with plasterboard walls and a hollow-core door.

"He stays in there," Ms. Fox told me.

"Any windows in his room?" I asked.

"No. He likes that. That's what sealed the deal."

It was too bad that the dining room had been walled off, because now we'd need either permission from Tenning to enter it or a search warrant. Even though Tenning wasn't on Fox's lease, he paid rent to her, and that gave him legal standing.

I put my hand on the doorknob to Tenning's room on the off chance that it would turn, but no surprise – the door was locked.

"You have a friend you can stay with tonight?" I asked Ms. Fox.

I put a patrolman outside the apartment door while Portia gathered up some things.

I gave Cindy my keys and told her to go to my place. She didn't even fight me.

Then Rich and I spent another two hours questioning the tenants of the Blakely Arms. We returned to the Hall at ten p.m.

As grim as the squad room was during the day, it was worse at night, the overhead lighting giving off a deadening white illumination. The place smelled of whatever food had been dumped into the trash cans during the day.

I threw a container of cold coffee into the garbage and turned on my computer as Rich followed suit. I called up a database, and although I was prepared for a long search for Garry Tenning's life story, everything we needed flashed onto my computer screen in minutes.

There was an outstanding warrant for Tenning's arrest. It was a small-potatoes charge of failure to appear in court for a traffic violation, but any arrest warrant was good enough to bring him in.

And there was more.

"Garry Tenning is employed by Conco Construction," Rich said. "Tenning could be patrolling any of a hundred job sites. We won't be able to locate him until Conco's office opens in the morning."

"He have a license to carry?" I asked.

Rich's fingers padded across his keyboard.

"Yep. Current and up-to-date."

Garry Tenning owned a gun.

Chapter 104

THE NEXT MORNING a heavy gray torrent came down on San Francisco like one of the forty days of the flood.

Conklin parked our squad car in a vacant construction zone on Townsend in front of Tower 2 of the Beacon, a residential high-rise with retail shops on the ground floor, including the Starbucks where Tenning and Fox had met.

On a clear day, we would have had a good view of both the front doors of the six-story redbrick Blakely Arms and the narrow footpath that ran from Townsend along the east side of the building, leading back to the courtyard and rear entrance.

But today's rain nearly obliterated our view through the windshield.

Inspectors Chi and McNeil were in the car behind us, also peering through the downpour. We were scanning the locale for a white man, five six with thinning brown hair, possibly wearing a uniform and probably packing a Colt revolver.

Unless he changed his pattern, Tenning would stop at the Starbucks, then cross Townsend, arriving "home" sometime between 8:30 and 9:00.

We were guessing that Tenning would take the footpath to the rear entrance of the building, use a key to the back door, and take the fire stairs, avoiding tenants.

I watched through the blurred windows as pedestrians in trench coats, their faces shielded by black umbrellas, stopped at the Walgreens, dropped off laundry at Fanta dry cleaners, scurried for the Caltrain.

Rich and I were both dangerously sleep deprived, so when a man matching Tenning's description crossed Townsend, no coffee in hand, I couldn't be sure if he was our guy – or if I just wanted him to be our guy. Really, really badly.

"In the gray Windbreaker, black umbrella," I said.

A light changed to green, and the stream of traffic obscured our view long enough for the suspect to disappear in the crush of pedestrians on the far side of the street. I thought maybe he'd slipped down the Blakely Arms' back alley.

"Yeah. Yeah. I think so," Conklin said.

I called Chi, told him we were about to make our move. We let a couple of minutes pass – then Conklin and I put up our collars and made for the front entrance of the Blakely Arms.

We rode an elevator to the fifth floor. Then I used Portia Fox's key to unlock her front door without opening it.

I drew my gun.

When Chi and McNeil arrived, Conklin breached the door to Fox's apartment. The four of us stepped inside and checked each of the outer rooms before approaching Tenning's private space.

I put my ear to the flimsy door, heard a drawer closing, shoes falling one after the other onto the uncarpeted floor.

I nodded to Conklin, and he knocked on Tenning's door.

"SFPD, Mr. Tenning. We have a warrant for your arrest."

"Get the hell out of here," an angry voice called back. "You don't have a warrant. I know my rights."

"Mr. Tenning, you parked your car in a fire zone, remember? August fifteenth of last year. You failed to appear in court."

"You want to arrest me for that?"

"Open up, Mr. Tenning."

The doorknob turned, and the door whined open. Tenning's look of annoyance changed to anger as he saw our guns pointed at his chest.

He slammed the door in our faces.

"Kick it in," I said.

Conklin kicked twice beside the knob assembly, and the door splintered, swung wide open.

We took cover on both sides of the door frame, but not before I saw Tenning standing ten feet away, bracing his back against the wall.

He was holding his Colt.38 in both hands, pointing it at us.

"You're not taking me in," he said. "I'm too tired, and I'm just not up for it."

Chapter 105

MY HEART RATE ROCKETED. Sweat ran down the inside of my shirt. I pivoted on my right foot so that I was standing square in the doorway.

I held my stance, legs apart, my Glock trained on Tenning. Even though I was wearing a vest, he could cap me with a head shot. And the paper-thin plasterboard walls wouldn't protect my team.

"Drop your weapon, asshole!" I shouted. "I'm one second away from drilling a hole through your heart."

"Four armed cops on a traffic warrant? That's a laugh! You think I'm stupid?"

"You are stupid, Tenning, if you want to die over a fifty-dollar ticket."

Tenning's eyes flicked from my weapon to the three other muzzles that were aimed at him. He muttered, "What a pain in the ass."

Then his gun thudded to the floor.

Instantly we swarmed into the small room. A chair tipped over, and a desktop crashed to the ground.

I kicked Tenning's gun toward the door as Conklin spun him around. He threw him against the wall and cuffed him.

"You're under arrest for failure to appear," Conklin said, panting, "and for interfering with a police officer."

I read Tenning his rights. My voice was hoarse from the stress and the realization of what I'd just done.

"Good work, everyone," I said, feeling almost faint.

"You okay, Lindsay?" McNeil asked, putting a beefy hand on my shoulder.

"Yeah. Thanks, Cappy," I said, thinking how this arrest could have turned into a bloodbath – and still all we had on Tenning was a traffic violation.

I looked around his rented room, a ten-by-twelve box with a single bed, small pine dresser, two file cabinets that had once formed the base of his desk. The wide plank that had served as the desktop was on the floor, along with a computer and sheaves of scattered paper.

Something else had been dislodged during the fracas. A pipe had rolled out from under the bed.

It was about an inch and a half in diameter, eighteen inches long, with a ball joint screwed onto one end.

A two-part construction that looked like a club.

I stooped down to examine it closely.

There was a fine brown stain in the threads where the ball joint screwed onto the pipe. I drew Conklin's attention, and he stooped down beside me. Our eyes met for a second.

"Looks like this was used as a bludgeon," Conklin said.

Chapter 106

WE WERE IN INTERVIEW ROOM NUMBER TWO, the smaller of the interrogation rooms at the squad. Tenning sat at the table, facing the mirrored window. I sat across from him.

He was wearing a white T-shirt and jeans. He had his elbows on the table. His face was turned down so that the overhead light made a starburst pattern on his balding scalp.

He wasn't talking because he'd asked for a lawyer.

It would take about fifteen minutes for his request to filter down to the public defender's office. Then another fifteen minutes before some attorney would come up and find his or her client in our interrogation room.

Meanwhile, nothing Tenning said could be used against him.

"We got our warrant to search your premises," I told him. "That pipe contraption you used to kill Irene Wolkowski and Ben Wyatt? It's at the lab now. We'll have results before your PD shows up."

Tenning smirked. "So leave me the hell alone until he gets here, okay? Leave me alone with my thoughts."

"But I'm interested in your thoughts," I said to Tenning. "All those statistics on the papers I saw in your apartment. What's that about?"

"I'm writing a book, and I'd like to get back to it, actually."

Conklin came into the room carrying a battery-operated radio. Richie slammed the door hard, then turned on the radio. Loud static came through the speakers. He fiddled with the dials, turned the volume up.

He said to Tenning, "It's tough getting reception in here. I'd really like to know when the rain's going to let up."

I saw the alarm in Tenning's eyes as the static climbed to an electronic squeal. He watched Conklin thumb the radio dial, starting to sweat now.

"Hey," Tenning finally said, "could you turn that thing off?"

"In a minute, in a minute," Conklin said. He dialed up the volume, set the radio down on the table. "Can I get you some coffee, Garry? It's not Starbucks, but it's got all the caffeine you could ask for."

"Look," Tenning said, staring at the radio, his eyes jitterbugging inside his head, "you're not supposed to question me without my lawyer. You should put me in a holding cell."

"We're not questioning you, buddy," Conklin said. He picked up a metal chair, set it down with a loud bang right next to Tenning, and sat beside him.

"We're trying to help you. You want a lawyer – that's fine," Conklin said directly into Tenning's ear. "But you're giving up your opportunity to confess and cut yourself a deal. And that's okay with us, isn't it, Sergeant?"

"Fine with me," I said over the radio static. I fiddled with the dial, found some '80s heavy metal, turned it up so that the discordant electronic twang almost vibrated the table.

"We're going to exhume the dogs you killed, Garry," I said over the music. "Match the teeth up with those wounds in your arm. And we're going to match the DNA from the blood on your club to your victims.

"And then Inspector Conklin and I are going to sign up for front-row seats for your execution in twenty years or so, unless of course you want to have me call the DA. See if we can get the death penalty off the table."

I looked at my watch. "I figure you've got about ten minutes to decide."

A band called Gross Receipts launched into its jarring rendition of "Brain Buster." Tenning shrank into a ball, wrapped his arms over his ears.

"Stop. Stop. Call off the lawyer. I'll tell you what happened. Just please, shut that thing off."

Chapter 107

IT WAS STILL POURING when I parked behind Claire's SUV.

I cut across the street in the lashing rain, ran fifty yards to the front door of Susie's. I opened it to the ringing beat of steel drums and the smell of curried chicken.

I hung my coat on the rack inside the door, saw that Susie was coaxing her regulars into a limbo competition as the band tuned up.

Susie called to me, "Lind-say, get out of your wet shoes. You can do this, girl."

"No way, Suz." I laughed. "Don't forget, I've seen this before." I showed myself into the back room. I buttonholed Lorraine and ordered a Corona.

Yuki waved to me from the back booth. Then Cindy looked up and grinned. I slid onto the banquette next to my best friend, Claire. It had been a while since we'd been out together as a group. Way too long.

When my beer came, Cindy proposed a toast to me for the takedown of Garry Tenning.

I laughed off the toast, saying, "I was extremely motivated, Cindy. I didn't want a roommate, and you were going to have to move in with me permanently if we didn't catch that bastard." Yuki and Claire hadn't heard the details, so I filled them in.

"He's 'writing' this book called The Accounting," I told them. "It's subtitled A Statistical Compendium of the Twentieth Century."

"Come on! He's writing about everything that happened in the last hundred years?" Yuki asked.

"Yeah, if you can call page after page of statistics 'writing'! Like, how much milk and grain were produced in each state in each year, how many kids went through grade school, the number of accidents involving kitchen appliances -"

"Jeez, you can Google that stuff," Yuki said.

"But Garry Tenning thinks The Accounting is his calling," I said as Lorraine dropped off beer and menus. "His paycheck came from being a night watchman at a construction site. Gave him 'time to think big thoughts,' he told us."

"How'd he even hear all those people and their noises in his closed-off little room?" asked Claire.

"Sound travels through the plumbing and the vents," Cindy said. "Comes out in weird places. Like, I can hear people singing through my bathroom air duct. Who are they? Where do they live? I don't know."

"I'm wondering if he doesn't have hyperacusis," said Claire.

"Come again?" I said.

"It's when the auditory processing center of the brain has a problem with noise perception," Claire told us over the racket in the back room and the clanking of dishware from the kitchen. "Sounds that others can barely hear are intolerable to the person who has hyperacusis."

"To what effect?" I asked.

"It would make the person feel isolated. You stir all that up with explosive-anger disorder and sociopathology, well, you get Garry Tenning."

"The Phantom of the Blakely Arms," Cindy said. "Just tell me there's no chance he's going to get out on bail."

"None," I said. "He confessed. We have the murder weapon. He's in and he's done."

"Well, if he really has this auditory disorder, Garry Tenning is going to go absolutely bug-nuts in prison," Yuki said as Lorraine brought our dinners.

"Hear! Hear!" said Cindy, pointing at her ears.

We dug in, swapped stories and worries, Claire telling us that her workload had doubled and that "We're having a farewell pour for Dr. G. tonight. He got a job offer he couldn't refuse. Somewhere in Ohio."

We toasted Dr. Germaniuk, and then Claire asked Yuki how she was feeling these days.

"I'm feeling a little bipolar," Yuki said, laughing. "Some days I think Fred-a-lito-lindo is going to convince the jury he's a legitimate psycho. The next morning I wake up absolutely sure I'm going to beat Mickey Sherman's pants off."

We got into a good-natured competition to name Claire's unborn baby, Cindy calling out, "Margarita, if she's a girl," and winning the next round for free.

Way too soon, dinner had been reduced to bones, coffee had been served, and hungry would-be diners were backed up in the doorway.

We tossed money at the check on the table and dared one another to rush into the rain. I was last out the door.

I drove toward Potrero Hill, absorbed by the rhythm of the wiper blades and the halos around oncoming headlights, finding that the vacuum of silence in the wake of the tumultuous day and the camaraderie with my friends was bringing me back down.

Joe wouldn't be sitting on my front steps when I got home.

Even Martha was still on vacation.

Thunder rumbled as I ran up the steps to my apartment. It was still raining when I went to bed alone.

Chapter 108

RICH AND I FRETTED AT OUR DESKS the next morning, waiting for Mary Jordan to come through the gate. She arrived ten minutes late, looking rattled.

I invited the Westwood Registry's office manager to join us in the windowless cell we call the lunchroom. Rich pulled out a chair, and I made coffee – black, two sugars, the way she'd taken it when we'd seen her last.

"I've been praying for Madison," Jordan said, twisting her hands in her lap. There were prune-colored smudges under her eyes. "I feel in my heart that I've done what God would want me to do."

Her words stirred up a little eddy of apprehension in the pit of my stomach. "What did you do, Mary?"

"When Mr. Renfrew went out this morning, I opened the door to his office again. I did some more digging in there."

She hefted a large leatherlike handbag onto the table and removed a slate-blue, clothbound, old-fashioned accountant's ledger. It was labeled QUEENSBURY REGISTER.

"This is in Mr. Renfrew's handwriting," Jordan said, pointing out the neat block letters and numerals. "It's a record of a business the Renfrews had in Montreal two years ago."

She opened the ledger to where a stiff rectangle of paper was wedged between two pages. Jordan took it out and flipped it over.

It was a photograph of a blond-haired boy of about four, with incredible blue-green eyes.

"Got a few minutes?" I asked Jordan.

She nodded her head.

I'd ridden up in the elevator with ADA Kathy Valoy, so I knew she was at her desk. I called her and explained about the Queensbury Register and the photo of the boy.

I said, "The Renfrews are hopscotching around the continent, opening and closing these registries. Kathy, I'm guessing we're looking at a picture of another victim."

Kathy must have taken the stairs two at a time, because she appeared in the lunchroom doorway almost before I'd hung up the phone.

She asked Mary Jordan again if she'd dug up this information on her own, and again Jordan swore that she was not acting as our agent.

"I'll put in a call to Judge Murphy," Valoy said, staring at the photo, running both hands through her short black hair. "Let's see what I can do."

Minutes after we'd escorted Jordan out to the elevator, Kathy Valoy was back on the line. "I'm faxing you the search warrant right now."

Chapter 109

PAUL RENFREW ANSWERED OUR KNOCK and swung open the door to the Westwood Registry. He was looking smart in a gray herringbone suit, crisp shirt, bow tie, and well-cut wheat-colored hair. His flyaway eyebrows lifted over his frameless lenses, and his smile broadened.

He seemed completely delighted to see us.

"Is it good news? Have you found Madison?" he asked.

Then the four uniformed officers climbing out of the property van caught his eye.

"We have a search warrant, Mr. Renfrew," I said.

Conklin signaled to the uniforms, and they clomped up the stairs with empty cartons in hand. They followed us down the long hallway to the Renfrews' office.

The workplace was orderly – a mug of tea was on the desk, a plate of half-eaten muffins resting beside a sheaf of open files.

"Why don't you tell us all about the Queensbury Register?" I asked Renfrew.

"Sit down, sit down," he said, indicating one of the two small sofas at right angles in the corner of the room. I took a seat, and Renfrew wheeled over his desk chair, all the while shooting concerned looks as Conklin directed the cops. They dropped file folders into boxes.

"Queensbury isn't a secret," Renfrew said. "I surely would have told you, but we closed that business because it failed."

He showed me his palms as if to say there was nothing up his sleeves.

"I'm just a terrible businessman in a lot of ways," Renfrew said.

"We need to talk to your wife," I said.

"Of course, of course, and she wants to talk to you. She's flying out from Zurich this evening."

Renfrew's open manner was so winning, I let him think he'd won. I smiled, then asked, "Do you know this child?"

Renfrew took the photo of the blond-haired, blue-green-eyed boy and scrutinized it.

"I don't recognize him. Should I?"

Conklin came over with a cop in tow and several blue-covered ledgers under his arm.

"Mr. Renfrew, you're prohibited from doing business for seventy-two hours, and that includes using your business phone. This is Officer Pat Noonan. His job is to make sure your business is closed until the warrant expires."

"He's staying here?"

"Until his relief comes in about eight hours. You know anything about football? Pat is a big fan of the Fighting Irish. Can talk your ear off if you let him."

Noonan smiled, but Renfrew's face went blank.

"And, Mr. Renfrew, don't try to leave town. That would look really bad."

Chapter 110

THE TENSION IN TRACCHIO'S OFFICE was almost unbearable. The insatiable media beast had been roaring at us nonstop for more than a week – on air, in the legit papers, and in supermarket tabloids. And we had no rebuttal.

A nineteen-year-old girl had been murdered. The child of a prominent family was missing and presumed dead.

It was a horrible feeling, and everyone in Tracchio's office took it personally.

"Boxer, lay it out for the chief," Jacobi instructed.

I gave Jacobi a look that said, I know what to do, Lieutenant.

I described what I had as I slapped each of our exhibits down on the desk. First, the copies of the kidnappers' notes. Next, the photos of three children – Erica Whitten, Madison Tyler, and the unknown boy with the blue-green eyes.

I said, "We don't know the identity of this little boy. Renfrew says he doesn't know him, but the child's picture was inside this ledger of his."

Rich placed the Queensbury Register on the desk next to two of the Westwood Registers.

I said, "We know the Renfrews ran three consecutive nanny businesses – one in Boston, the one they're running here, and an earlier service, the Queensbury Registry in Montreal.

"The Montreal police have a cold case," I continued. "A little boy named André Devereaux was taken from a playground near his home two years ago. He had a nanny."

"She came from the Queensbury Registry?"

"Yes, sir," said Conklin. "I went over these ledgers. Between the rent, the cost of recruiting and importing girls from overseas, and the office and legal expenses – even with hefty place-ment fees – the Renfrews are hemorrhaging money."

"And yet they keep working at it," I said. "And you have to wonder why. Where's the payoff?"

Lieutenant Macklin slid a photo printout over to Tracchio.

"This is André Devereaux," he said of the abducted Canadian child. "He looks to be the same boy as the one whose picture was found inside the Queensbury Register.

"André's nanny was Britt Osterman, a Swedish citizen. She was employed by the Queensbury Registry. A week after the abduction of André Devereaux, Britt Osterman was found dead in a ditch off a secondary road. Bullet to the head.

"The Queensbury Registry was owned by two Americans, called themselves John and Tina Langer," Macklin continued. "The Langers disappeared after the Devereaux/Osterman abductions. The Canadian police e-mailed this photo of the Langers."

Macklin put another laser-print photo on Tracchio's desk, a man and a woman, white, late forties.

It was an informal snapshot taken at a holiday party. Beautiful room. Carved paneling. Men in dinner suits. Women in cocktail dresses.

Macklin's finger was pressed against the photo, nailing a brunette woman in her late forties, wearing a low-cut bronze-colored dress. She was leaning against a smiling man, who had his arm around her.

I could only guess at the woman's identity, but I knew the man. His hair was black, combed straight back. He had a goatee, and he didn't wear glasses.

But I'd looked into that face only a short time ago, and I knew him.

John Langer was Paul Renfrew.

Chapter 111

AT JUST AFTER NOON THAT DAY, Conklin and I were at Uncle's Café in Chinatown. We'd both ordered the Wednesday special: pot roast, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Conklin had made inroads into his potatoes, but I had no appetite for food.

We had a straight-on view through the plate glass across the gloomy street to a row of brick houses and the Westwood Registry.

A pregnant Chinese woman in pigtails refilled our cups of tea. When I looked through the window a nanosecond later, Paul Renfrew, as he was calling himself, was stepping out of his doorway and heading down the front steps.

"Lookit," I said, tapping Conklin's plate with my fork. My cell phone rang. It was Pat Noonan.

"Mr. Renfrew said he's going out for lunch. Coming back in an hour."

I doubted it.

Renfrew was going to run.

And he had no idea how many eyes were watching him.

Conklin paid the check, and I made calls to Stanford and Jacobi, zipped my jacket over my vest, and watched Renfrew's peppy march past herbal shops and souvenir stores as he headed toward the corner of Waverly and Clay.

Conklin and I got into our Crown Vic just as Renfrew unlocked the door of his midnight-blue BMW sedan. He looked over his shoulder, then entered his car and headed south.

Dave Stanford and his partner, Heather Thomson, pulled in behind Renfrew when he reached Sacramento Street while Jacobi and Macklin took a northern route toward Broadway. Our walkie-talkies bleeped and chattered as our team members called in their locations and that of the BMW, following, dropping back, weaving into place, and picking up the trail.

My heart was thudding at a good steady rate as we followed Paul Renfrew's run to wherever the hell he was taking us.

We crossed the Bay Bridge and drove north on Highway 24, finally entering Contra Costa County.

Conklin and I were in the lead car as Renfrew turned off Altarinda Road onto one of the smaller roadways in Orinda – a quiet, upscale town almost hidden within the folds of the surrounding hills.

I heard Jacobi on the car radio, telling the local police we were conducting a surveillance in an ongoing homicide investigation. Macklin requested backup from the state police and then called the Oakland PD and asked for chopper surveillance. The next voice I heard was Stanford's. He called for the big guns, an FBI response team.

"The SFPD just lost control of the takedown," I said to Conklin as Renfrew's BMW slowed, then turned into the driveway of a white multigabled house with blue shutters.

Conklin drove past the house, casual-like.

We made a U-turn at the junction at the end of the road, came back up the street, and nosed our car into a tree-shaded spot across from where Renfrew had parked his blue BMW next to a black Honda minivan.

It couldn't be a coincidence.

That had to be the van used to abduct Madison Tyler and Paola Ricci.

Chapter 112

I RAN THE VAN'S PLATES on the car computer. I was thinking ahead to a search warrant, impounding the van, fanning a flame of hope that a speck of Paola Ricci's blood could be found inside a seam in the van's upholstery – real evidence to link the Renfrews to the abduction of Paola Ricci and Madison Tyler.

During the next hour, two perimeters were set up: The inner perimeter encircled the gabled house. The outer perimeter sealed off a two-block area around it.

There'd been no activity from the house, making me wonder what was going on inside. Was Renfrew packing? Destroying records?

It was almost four in the afternoon when five black SUVs rolled up the road. They parked on the sidewalk, perpendicular to the front of the gabled house.

Dave Stanford walked up to my car window. He handed me a bullhorn. His ponytail had been clipped to FBI standards, and the humor in his blue eyes was gone. Dave wasn't working undercover anymore.

He said, "We're calling the shots, Lindsay. But since Renfrew knows you, try getting him to come out of the house."

Conklin turned the key in the ignition and we rolled out, crossing the street, coming to a stop in front of the Renfrew driveway. We were blocking in both the van and the BMW.

I took the bullhorn and stood behind my open car door. I called out, "Paul Renfrew, this is Sergeant Boxer. We have a warrant for your arrest on suspicion of homicide. Please come out slowly with your hands in the air."

My voice boomed out over the quiet suburban block. Birds took flight, drowning out the flutter of the chopper blades.

Conklin said, "Movement on the second floor."

Every muscle in my body tensed. My eyes flicked across the face of the house. I saw nothing, but my skin prickled. I could feel a gun pointed at me.

I lifted the bullhorn again – pressed the button.

"Mr. Renfrew, this is your last and best chance. There's enough artillery aimed at your house to reduce it to rubble. Don't make us use it."

The front door cracked open. Renfrew appeared in the shadows. He called out, "I'm coming out. Don't shoot! Please, don't shoot!"

I cut a look to my left to see how the FBI response team was reacting. A dozen or more M16 rifles were still aimed at the front door. I knew that on a roof somewhere, maybe a hundred feet away, a sniper had a Remington Model 700 with a high-powered scope trained on Renfrew's forehead.

"Step outside where we can see you," I called to the man in the doorway. "Good decision, Mr. Renfrew," I said. "Now, turn around and back up toward the sound of my voice."

Renfrew was standing under the pediment that defined the entryway to the house. Thirty feet of clipped green lawn stretched between us.

"I can't do that," Renfrew said in a weak, almost pleading voice. "If I go out there, she'll shoot me."

Chapter 113

RENFREW LOOKED FRIGHTENED, and he had reason to be. If he made a wrong move, his life expectancy was something under two seconds.

But he wasn't afraid of us.

"Who wants to shoot you?" I called out.

"My wife, Laura. She's upstairs with a semiautomatic. I can't get her to come out. I think she's going to try to stop me from surrendering."

This was a bad turn. If we wanted to learn what happened to Madison Tyler, we had to keep Paul Renfrew alive.

"Do exactly what I tell you!" I shouted. "Take off your jacket and toss it away from you… Okay. Good. Now turn out your pants pockets."

The mic on my radio was open so that everyone on our channel could hear me.

"Unbuckle your belt, Mr. Renfrew. And drop your trousers."

Renfrew shot me a look, but he obeyed. The pants went down, his shirt covering him to the tops of his thighs.

"Now turn around slowly. Three hundred sixty degrees. Hold up your shirt so I can see your waist," I said as he struggled to comply. "Okay, you can pull up your pants."

He hurried to do so.

"Now I want you to hoist up your pants legs all the way to your knees."

"Nice legs for a guy," Conklin said to me over the roof of the car. "Now let's get him outta here."

I nodded, thinking that if the wife charged downstairs, she could blow Renfrew away through the open door.

I told Renfrew to release his pants legs, come out, and hug the wall of the house.

"If you do what I say, she can't get a bead on you," I said. "Keep both hands on the walls. Make your way around the south corner of the house. Then lie down. Interlace your hands behind your neck."

When Renfrew was on the ground, a black Suburban rolled up onto the lawn. Two FBI agents jumped out and cuffed him, patted him down.

They were folding him into the backseat of their vehicle when I heard glass breaking from the second floor of the gabled house. Oh, shit.

A woman's face appeared at the window.

She had a gun in her hand, and it was pressed against the temple of a little girl whose expression was frozen into a slack-mouthed stare.

The little girl was Madison Tyler.

The woman who held her captive was Tina Langer, aka Laura Renfrew, and she looked like a killer. Her face was furrowed with anger, but I didn't see a trace of fear.

She called out through the window, "The end of the game is the most interesting part, isn't it, Sergeant Boxer? I want safe passage. Oh, I mean safe passage for me and Madison. That helicopter is a good place to start. Someone better give the pilot a ring. Get him to land on the lawn. Do it now. Right now.

"Oh, by the way… if anyone makes a move toward me, I'll shoot this little -"

I saw the black hole appear in her forehead before I heard the echoing crack of the Remington's report from the rooftop across the street.

Madison screamed as the woman calling herself Laura Renfrew stood framed in the window.

She released the little girl as she fell.

Chapter 114

WAS MADISON TYLER ALL RIGHT? That's all I was thinking as Conklin and I burst into the front bedroom, second floor. We didn't see the girl anywhere, though.

"Madison?" I called out, my voice high.

A single unmade bed was against the wall adjacent to the door. An open suitcase was on the bed, with girls' clothing tossed inside.

"Where are you, honey?" Rich Conklin called out as we approached the closet. "We're the police."

We reached the closet at the same time. "Madison, it's okay, sweetie," I said, turning the knob. "Nobody's going to hurt you."

I opened the door, saw a pile of clothing on the floor of the closet, moving in time with someone's breathing.

I stooped down, still afraid of what I might see. "Maddy," I said, "my name is Lindsay and I'm a policewoman. I'm here to take you home."

I nudged aside the pile of clothing on the closet floor until I finally saw the little girl. She was whimpering softly, hugging herself, rocking with her eyes closed.

Oh, God, thank you. It was Madison.

"It's okay, sweetheart," I said, my voice quavering. "Everything is going to be okay."

Madison opened her eyes, and I reached out my arms to her. She flung herself against me, and I held her tightly, putting my cheek to her hair.

I unclipped my cell phone and dialed a number I'd committed to memory. My hands were shaking so hard I had to try the number again.

My call was answered on the second ring.

"Mrs. Tyler, this is Lindsay Boxer. I'm with Inspector Conklin, and we have Madison." I put the phone up to Madison's face, and I whispered, "Say something to your mom."

Chapter 115

EARLY THAT EVENING, Conklin and I were at FBI headquarters on Golden Gate Avenue, thirteenth floor. We sat in a room with fifteen other agents and cops, watching on video monitors as Dave Stanford and his partner, Heather Thomson, interviewed Renfrew.

I sat beside Conklin, watching Stanford and Thomson dissecting the acts of terror committed by Paul Renfrew, aka John Langer, aka David Cornwall, aka Josef Waller, the name he was given at birth.

"He's lapping up the attention," I said to Conklin.

"It's a good thing I'm not in the box with him," Conklin said. "I couldn't handle this."

"This" was Waller's smugness and affability. Instead of smart-mouthing or showing defiance, Waller talked to Stanford and Thomson as if they were colleagues, as if he expected to have an ongoing relationship with them after he'd finished the clever telling of his story.

Macklin, Conklin, and I sat riveted to our chairs as Waller caressed their names: André Devereaux, Erica Whitten, Madison Tyler, and a little girl named Dorothea Alvarez from Mexico City.

A child we hadn't known about.

A child who might still be alive.

While he sipped his coffee, Waller told Stanford and Thomson where the three missing children were living as sex toys in rich men's homes around the globe.

Waller said, "It was my wife's idea to import pretty European girls, place them as nannies with good families. Then find buyers for the children. I worked with the nannies. That was my job. My girls were proudest of the kids who were the most beautiful, intelligent, and gifted. And I encouraged the girls to tell me all about them."

"So the nannies fingered the children, but they never knew what you planned to do with them," Thomson said.

Renfrew smiled.

"How did you find your buyers?" Stanford asked.

"Word of mouth," Renfrew said. "Our clients were all men of wealth and quality, and I always felt the children were in good hands."

I wanted to throw up, but I gripped the arms of my chair, kept my eyes on the screen in front of me.

"You kept Madison for almost two weeks," Thomson said. "Seems kind of risky."

"We were waiting for a money transfer," Waller said regretfully. "A million five had been pledged for Madison, but the deal stalled. We had another offer, not as good, and then the original buyer came back into play. Those few extra days cost us everything."

"About the abduction of Madison and Paola," Stanford said, "so many people were in the park that day. It was broad daylight. A very impressive snatch, I have to say. I'd really like to know how you pulled that off."

"Ah, yes, but I have to tell you, it almost went all to hell," Waller said, exhaling loudly at the memory, seeming to think through how he wanted to tell the story.

"We drove the van to the Alta Plaza playground," said the psychopath in the gray herringbone suit.

"I asked Paola and Madison to come with us. See, the children trusted the nannies, and the nannies trusted us."

"Brilliant," said Stanford.

Renfrew nodded, and having received so much encouragement, he wanted to go on. "We told Paola and Madison that there had been an emergency at the Tyler house, that Elizabeth Tyler had taken a fall.

"I knocked out Madison with chloroform in the backseat, the precise plan we'd used with three other abductions. But Paola tried to grab the steering wheel. We could have all been killed. I had to take her down fast. What would you have done?" Renfrew asked Dave Stanford.

"I would have smothered you at birth," Stanford said. "I wish to God I could have done that."