7th Heaven Part 6

BY FIVE THAT EVENING, Conklin and I were back at our desks in the squad room. Conklin clicked around the Internet, researching Atkinson and Vetter - and I couldn't stop turning the pages of their novel.I was hooked.The drawings were stark black and white. The figures had huge eyes, and called to mind the manga style of violent borderline p.o.r.nography imported from j.a.pan. The dialogue was edgy, all-American slang punctuated by Latin sayings. And the story was actually crazy but somehow compelling.In this book, "Pidge" was both the brains and the muscle. "Hawk" was the dreamer. They were depicted as righteous avengers, their mission to save America from what they viewed as an obscene fantasy world for the very rich. They referred to this American "piggishness" as 7th Heaven and described it as a never-ending spiral of gluttony, gratification, and waste. The Pidge-Hawk solution was to kill the rich and the greedier wannabes, to show them what real consumption was - consumption by fire.Pidge and Hawk dressed all in black: T-s.h.i.+rts, jeans, riding boots, and sleek black leather waist jackets with logos of their name-birds front and back. Sparks flew from their fingertips. And their motto was "Aut vincere aut mori."Either conquer or die.Hawk - the boy, not the character - had done both.My guess? They never expected any of their victims to live long enough to give away their pseudonyms.The motives and the methods the killers used were clearly drawn in their book, but it was all disguised as make-believe. And that was making me crazy with anger. Eight real people had died because of this arrogant nonsense, and we had virtually no evidence to prove that the real-life Hawk and Pidge were their killers.I flipped the book to the back cover, scanned the rave reviews from social critics and the high-profile bloggers. I said to Rich, "The sickest part yet? This book has been picked up by Bright Line.""Hmmm?" Rich muttered, still tapping his keyboard."Bright Line is an indie studio," I said. "One of the best. They're turning this screed into a movie.""Brett Atkinson," Rich said, "is a junior at Stanford U, majoring in English lit. Hans Vetter also goes to Stanford. He's in the computer department. These creeps both live at home, only two blocks apart in Mountain View, a couple of miles from Stanford."Rich turned his computer monitor around, saying, "Check out Brett Atkinson's yearbook photo."Brett Atkinson was Hawk, the boy Connor Campion had shot, the handsome, blond-haired boy with patrician features we'd seen in the hospital just before he died."And now," Rich said, "meet Pidge."Hans Vetter was a good-looking tough, an ill.u.s.trator, computer sciences major, now polis.h.i.+ng his extracurricular activities as a serial killer."We will get warrants," I croaked. I cleared my throat and said, "I don't care who I have to beg."Rich looked as serious as I'd ever seen him."Absolutely. No mistakes allowed.""Aut vincere aut mori," I said.Rich smiled, reached over the desk, and bopped my fist. I called Jacobi, and he called Chief Tracchio, who called a judge, who reportedly said, "You want an arrest warrant based on a comic book?"I barely slept that night, and in the morning Rich and I went to the judge's chambers with 7th Heaven, the crime scene photos of the Malones, the Meachams, and the Jablonskys, and the morgue photos of the Chus. I brought Connor Campion's statement that the boys who'd come to his house with a gun and fis.h.i.+ng line had said their names were Hawk and Pidge, and I showed the judge their yearbook photos, captioned with their real names.By ten a.m. we had signed warrants and all the manpower we'd need.

Chapter 114.

STANFORD UNIVERSITY, an A-list university for the best and brightest, is located 33.5 miles south of San Francisco, just off Highway 280, near Palo Alto.Hans Vetter, AKA Pidge, spent his days in the video lab of the Gates Computer Science Building, a pale five-story, L-shaped building with a tiled roof and a rounded bulge at the entranceway. The labs and research offices were cl.u.s.tered around three major cla.s.srooms, and the building itself was isolated on an island of its own, separated from other school buildings by service roads.Conklin and I had gone over the floor plans of the Gates Building with the U.S. marshals, who were coordinating with campus security. With windows on all sides of the building, the law enforcement team would be seen by anyone sitting near a window.We parked our vehicles out of sight on the curve of a service road and moved in on foot. Conklin and I wore Kevlar under our SFPD jackets and had our guns drawn, but we were taking direction from U.S. marshals.Adrenaline surged through me as we were given the signal to go. While others stood by side entrances, twelve of us charged up the front steps and entered the high-ceilinged lobby, then went to the stairwells and landings.Pairs of marshals peeled off as we took each floor, clearing the open s.p.a.ces, locking cla.s.srooms down.My thoughts raced ahead.I was worried that we were too loud, that we'd already been seen, and that if Vetter had smuggled a weapon past the metal detectors, he could take his cla.s.smates hostage before we could bring him down. Conklin and I reached the top-floor landing and marshals took up stances on both sides of the doorway to the video lab. Conklin peered through the sidelight of the door, then turned the k.n.o.b, swung the door wide open.Backed by Conklin and the U.S. marshals armed with automatic rifles, I stepped through the doorway and bellowed, "FREEZE. Everyone stay still and no one will get hurt."A female student screamed, then the room erupted into chaos. Kids bolted from their stools and hid under workstations. Cameras and computers crashed to the floor. Gla.s.s shattered.Kaleidoscopic images spun around me, and shrieks of terror ricocheted off the walls. The situation went from bad to out of control. I kept scanning the room, trying to pick out a stocky boy with long brown hair, square jaw, the eyes of a killer - but I didn't see him.Where was Hans Vetter?Where was he?

Chapter 115.

THE LAB INSTRUCTOR stood transfixed at the front of the room, his blanched face going livid as shock turned to outrage. He was in his thirties, balding, wearing a green cardigan and what looked like bedroom slippers under the cuffs of his trousers. He shoved his hands out in front of himself as if to push us out of his cla.s.sroom. He announced his name - Dr. Neal Weinstein - and demanded, "What the h.e.l.l? What the h.e.l.l is this?"If it weren't so d.a.m.ned terrifying, it would've been almost funny to watch Weinstein, armed with only his flapping hands and his PhD, face down adrenaline-pumped federal law enforcement officers primed to blow the place apart."I have a warrant for the arrest of Hans Vetter," I said, holding both the warrant and my gun in front of me.Weinstein shouted, "Hans isn't here."A white female student with black dreads, a ring in her lower lip, peeked out from behind an overturned table. "I spoke to Hans this morning," she said. "He told me he was going away.""You saw him this morning?" I asked."I talked to him on his cell.""Did he say where he was going?"She shook her head. "He only told me because I wanted to borrow his car."I left marshals behind to interview Weinstein and his students, but as Conklin and I left the building, I felt terra firma s.h.i.+mmy beneath my feet.Hawk's death last night had sent Pidge underground.He could be anywhere in the world by now.In the parking lot across from the Gates Building, some kids were clinging together in clumps, others dazed and wandering. Still others were laughing at the unexpected excitement. News choppers circled overhead, reporting to the world on an incident that was a total disaster.I called Jacobi, covered one ear, and summed up the situation. I didn't want him to know how scared I was that we'd blown it and that Vetter was still out there. I tried to keep my voice even, but there was no fooling Jacobi.I heard him breathing in my ear as he took it all in.Then he said, "So, what you're saying, Boxer, is that Pidge has flown the coop."

Chapter 116.

THE SHERIFF'S DEPARTMENT and their SWAT team rolled up alongside our squad car as we braked on a crisp, well-shorn lawn. In front of us was a three-story colonial-style house only a couple of miles from the Stanford campus. The detailing on the house was authentic to the period, and the neighborhood was first cla.s.s. The mailbox was marked VETTER.And Hans Vetter's car was in the driveway.Walkie-talkies chattered around us, and radio channels were cleared. Perimeters were set up, and SWAT got into position. Conklin and I got out of our car. I said, "Everything about this place reminds me of the homes Hawk and Pidge burned to the ground."Using a car door as body armor, Conklin called out to Hans Vetter with a bullhorn. "Vetter. You can't get away, buddy. Come out, hands on your head. Let's end this peacefully."I saw movement through the second-story windows. It was Vetter, moving from room to room. He seemed to be shouting to someone inside, but we couldn't make out his words."Who's he talking to?" Conklin asked me over the roof of the squad car."Has to be his mother, G.o.dd.a.m.n it. She's gotta be inside."A TV went on in the house and was turned up loud. I could hear the announcer's voice. He was describing the scene we were living. The announcer said, "A tactical maneuver that began two hours ago at Stanford University has changed location and is centered in the upscale community of Mountain View, a street called Mill Lane -""Vetter? Can you hear me?" Rich's voice boomed out through the bullhorn.Sweat rolled down my sides. The last pages in 7th Heaven depicted a shootout with cops. I recalled the images: b.l.o.o.d.y bodies on the ground, Pidge and Hawk getting away. They had s.h.i.+elded themselves with a hostage.Conklin and I conferred with the SWAT captain, a sandy-haired pro and former U.S. Marine named Pete Bailey, and we worked out a plan. Conklin and I moved quickly to the Vetter house and flanked the front door, prepared to grab Vetter when he opened it. SWAT was positioned to take the kid out if anything went wrong.As I neared the house, I caught a whiff of smoke."Is that fire?" I asked Rich. "Do you smell it?""Yeah. Is that stupid f.u.c.k burning his house down?"I could still hear the sound of the TV inside the Vetter house. The news announcer was getting a feed from the chopper overhead and was keeping up with the action on the ground. It made sense that Vetter was watching the television coverage. And if Rich and I were in the camera's-eye view, Vetter knew where Conklin and I were standing.Captain Bailey called to me on our Nextels, "Sergeant, we're going in." But before he could give the order, a woman's voice cried out from behind the front door."Don't shoot. I'm coming out.""Hold your fire," I shouted to Bailey. "Hostage coming out."The k.n.o.b turned.The door opened and gray smoke swirled out into the dull, overcast day. There was the sound of a well-oiled motor, and under the s.h.i.+fting plume of pale gray smoke, I saw the leading edge of a power chair b.u.mp and maneuver, then stall on the threshold.The woman in the chair was small and frail, maybe palsied. She wore a long yellow shawl draped over her head, fanning out over her shoulders, bunched loosely across her bony knees. Her face looked pinched, and diamonds sparkled on the fingers of her hand.She turned her frightened blue eyes on me."Don't shoot," she pleaded. "Please don't shoot my son!"

Chapter 117.

I STARED INTO Mrs. Vetter's ice-blue eyes until she broke the spell. She turned her head to the side and cried out, "Hans, do what they tell you!" As she turned her head, the yellow shawl dropped away. My heart bucked as I realized that there were two people sitting in that wheelchair.Mrs. Vetter was sitting in her son's lap."Hans, do what they tell you," Vetter mimicked.The chair rolled forward onto the lawn. I saw clearly now. Vetter's huge right hand was on the chair's power controls. His left arm crossed his mother's body, and he held the muzzle of a sawed-off, double-barreled, twelve-gauge shotgun hard against the soft underside of his mother's jaw.I lowered my Glock 9 and forced a level of calm into my voice that I didn't remotely feel."Hans, I'm Sergeant Boxer, SFPD. We don't want anyone to get hurt. So just throw that gun down, okay? There's a safe way out of this situation, and I want to get there. I won't shoot if you put down that gun.""Yeah, right," Vetter said, laughing. "Now listen to me, both of you," he said, pointing his chin at me and then at Conklin. "Stand between my mom and the cops. Now, drop your guns, or people are going to die."I wasn't afraid. I was terrified.I tossed my gun to the ground, and Conklin did the same. We stepped in front of the wheelchair, s.h.i.+elding Mrs. Vetter and her wretched son from the SWAT team at the edge of the lawn. My skin p.r.i.c.kled. I felt cold and hot at the same time. We stood locked in this horrifying vignette as the smoke around us thickened.With a muted boom, flames broke through the windows at the front of the house as the living room flashed over. Shards of gla.s.s exploded into the front yard, and sparks rained down on our heads. Conklin held his hands out so that Vetter could see them.He shouted, "Vetter, we've done what you said. Now, drop your d.a.m.ned gun, man. I'll take care of you. We'll surround you all the way in, make sure you're okay. Just put down the gun."There was the roar of the backdraft and then the whine of sirens as fire trucks neared the scene. Vetter wasn't giving up. Not if I was right that the wild glint in his eye was defiance.But Pidge had given himself no exit.What the h.e.l.l would he do?

Chapter 118.

VETTER LAUGHED LOUDLY.For a split second, all I could see were the beautiful, open-mouthed choppers of a kid who'd had the best dentistry in the world. He said to Conklin, "Can't you just see Francis Ford Coppola directing this scene?"I heard a faint click and then a thunderous KABOOM.I'd never seen anything like it before.One minute I was looking into Mrs. Vetter's eyes, and in the next moment her head exploded, the top of her skull opening like a flower. The air darkened with a b.l.o.o.d.y mist that coated me and Conklin and Vetter with a red sheen.I screamed, "No!"And Vetter laughed again, his smile blinding white, his face a mask of blood. He used the barrel of his gun to shove his mother's body out of the chair so that she tumbled and rolled, coming to a stop at my feet. Vetter aimed through the s.p.a.ce between me and Conklin and fired again, the second horrific boom of double-aught buck sailing over the heads of cops and SWAT twenty yards away at the edge of the lawn.I tried to wrap my mind around the horror of what I'd just seen. Instead of using his mother as a ticket to safety, Vetter had blown her up. And SWAT couldn't get a bead on Vetter without hitting us.Vetter thumbed the breech release, cracked the muzzle, and reloaded. He flipped his gun shut with a snap of his wrist and it clacked as it closed. It was a sharp and unmistakable sound.Vetter was ready to shoot again.There was no doubt in my mind. I was in the last moments of my life. Hans Vetter was going to kill us. I'd never reach my gun in time to stop him.The air was heavy with smoke. The fire blazed. Flames leaped from the second floor up through the roof. The heat dried my sweat and the dead woman's blood on my face."Step aside," Vetter said to me and Conklin. "If you want to live, step aside."

Chapter 119.

FEELING CAME BACK into my fingertips, and hope rushed into the chambers of my heart. Now I understood. Vetter wanted SWAT to take him down in a superhero-style blaze of glory. He wanted to die, but I wanted him to pay.As if my thoughts had caused it, Vetter suddenly screamed and jerked in the wheelchair like he was having a grand mal seizure.I saw the wires and looked up at Conklin.While Vetter's attention had been focused on the SWAT team, Rich had unhooked his Taser from his belt and fired. The Taser's electrified p.r.o.ngs had pierced Vetter's right arm and thigh. Conklin kept the juice flowing as he shoved the wheelchair onto its side, kicked Vetter's shotgun downhill.While Vetter jerked in agony, SWAT swarmed up the slope to where we stood. I choked out to Rich, "You're smart. Anyone ever tell you that?""Never.""Are you okay?"He grunted. "Not yet."I fumbled in the gra.s.s for my Glock, then held the muzzle to Vetter's forehead. Only then did Rich let up on the Taser. Still twitching, Vetter grinned up at me, said, "Am I in heaven?"I was panting, my pulse beating a deafening tattoo against my eardrums, the smoke making my eyes stream with tears."You a.s.shole," I screamed.Fire rigs drove up to the curb, and the SWAT team surrounded us. Captain Bailey saw the look of fury in Conklin's eyes. He said slowly, deliberately, "I've got something in the van you can use to clean yourselves up."He turned his back and so did the rest of his team. With the rising blanket of smoke blocking out the news chopper's view, Rich kicked Vetter in the ribs."This is for the Malones," he said. He kicked Vetter again and again, until that psycho stopped grinning and started spitting teeth."That's for the Meachams and the Jablonskys and the Chus," Rich said. He kicked Vetter hard in the hams."This, you sc.u.m. This one's for me."

Chapter 120.

CONKLIN AND I had scrubbed at our faces with damp paper towels, but the stench of fire and death clung to us. Jacobi stood upwind and said, "You two smell like you've been wading through a sewer."I thanked him, but my mind was churning.Two blocks away, a raging fire was burning the Vetter house to the ground. There might have been evidence inside that house, something that would have tied Hans Vetter and Brett Atkinson to the arson murders.Now all of that was gone.We stood in front of the house where the dead boy, Brett Atkinson, had lived with his parents. It was a soaring contemporary with cantilevered decks and hundred-mile views. Very, very wealthy people lived here.Hawk's parents, the Atkinsons, hadn't answered repeated knocks by patrolmen, never returned our calls, and their son's body was still lying unclaimed in the morgue. A canva.s.s of the neighborhood had confirmed their absence. No one had seen or heard from the Atkinsons in days, and they hadn't told anyone they were leaving home.The engines on the Atkinsons' cars were cold. There was mail in the mailbox a couple of days old, and the fellow who'd stopped mowing the lawn when we arrived said he hadn't seen Perry or Moira Atkinson all week.While Vetter's house was a total loss, I still had hope that the Atkinsons' house might hold evidence of the horrific killings the boys had done. Thirty-five minutes had pa.s.sed since Jacobi phoned Tracchio for a search warrant.Meanwhile, Cindy had called me, saying that she and a handful of TV news vans were parked behind the barricade at the top of the street. Conklin pushed a b.l.o.o.d.y clump of his hair away from his eyes, said to Jacobi, "If this isn't 'exigent circ.u.mstances,' I don't know what is."Jacobi growled, "Cool it, Conklin. Understand? If we blow this, we're freakin' buried. I'll be retired, and you two will be working for Brink's Security. If you're lucky."Fifteen more minutes crawled by.I was about to lie and say I smelled decomp when an intern from the district attorney's office arrived in a Chevy junker. She sprinted up the front walk a half second before Conklin caved in the front window of the Atkinson house with a tire iron.

Chapter 121.

THE INSIDE OF the Atkinson house was like a museum. Miles of glossy hardwood floors, large modern canvases hung on two-story-high white walls. Lights came on when we stepped into a room.It was like a museum after hours: no one was home.And it was creepy. No pets, no newspapers or magazines, no dishes in the sink, and except for the food in the refrigerator and a precise lineup of clothing in each closet, there was little sign that anyone had ever lived in this place.That is, until we reached Hawk's room in a wing far from the master suite.Hawk's roost was large and bright, the windows looking west over the mountains. The bed was the least of the room. It was single, with a plain blue bedspread, speakers on each side, and a headset plugged into a CD player. One long side of the room was lined with a built-in Formica desk. Several computers and monitors and high-tech laser printers were set up there and the adjacent wall was lined with thick corkboard.Pidge's drawings, many of which I recognized from 7th Heaven, were pinned to the board. But there were new drawings, too, and they looked to be works in progress for a second graphic novel."I'm thinking that this was their workshop," I said to Conklin. "That they cooked it all up in here."Conklin took a seat at the desktop, and I examined the corkboard. "Book number two," I said to Conklin. "Lux et Veritas. Got any idea what that means?""Easy one," Rich said, lowering the seat of the hydraulic chair. "Light and truth.""Catchy. Sounds like more fires in the making -"Rich called out, "Hawk's got a journal. I touched the mouse and it came up on the screen.""Fantastic!"As Rich scrolled through Brett Atkinson's journal, I continued my study of the drawings on the wall. One of them nailed me as if I, too, were pinned to the corkboard. The drawing depicted a middle-aged man and woman, arms around each other's waist, but their faces were flat, expressionless. A caption was written beneath the drawing.I recognized the handwriting.It was the same as the printing we'd seen on the t.i.tle pages of the books left at the houses of the arson victims."Requiescat in leguminibus," I said, sounding out the syllables. "Rest in what?"Rich wasn't listening to me."This map on Atkinson's computer," he said. "He's starred San Francisco, Palo Alto, Monterey. Unreal. Look at this! Photos of the houses they burned down. This is evidence, Lindsay. This is frickin' evidence."It was.I peered over Conklin's shoulders as he opened Web pages, scanned research on each of the victim couples, including the names of their kids and the dates of the fires. Long minutes went by before I remembered the peculiar drawing pinned to the corkboard and was able to grab Rich's attention."Requiescat in leguminibus," I said again.Rich came over to the wall and looked at the drawing of a couple who might be the Atkinsons. He read the caption."Leguminibus," Rich said. "Means legumes, I think. Aren't they a kind of vegetable? Like beans and peas?""Peas?" I yelled. "Jesus Christ! Jesus Christ!""What?" Conklin asked me. "What is it?"I hollered out to Jacobi, who was working the rest of the house with the sheriff's department. With Conklin and Jacobi behind me, I found the stairs to the bas.e.m.e.nt. The freezer was of the trunk variety, extra large.I opened the lid and cool air puffed out."Requiescat in leguminibus," I said. "Rest in peas."I started moving the bags of frozen vegetables aside until I saw a woman's face."This freezer is deep enough for two," Jacobi muttered.I said, "Uh-huh," and stopped digging.From her approximate age, I was pretty sure I was looking at Moira Atkinson, dressed in her finest, frozen to death.

Chapter 122.

I WAS WEARING my new blue uniform, and I'd washed my hair thirteen times and once more for good luck when I walked into the autopsy suite the next day. Claire was standing at the top of a six-foot ladder, her Minolta focused down on Mieke Vetter's decapitated and naked body. Claire looked huge and wobbly up there."Can't someone else do that?" I asked her."I'm done," she said. She climbed down the ladder, one ponderous step at a time.I gestured to the woman on the table. "I can save you some time," I said to Claire. "I happen to know this victim's cause and manner of death.""You know, Lindsay, I still have to do this for evidentiary purposes.""Okay, but just so you know. Yesterday, your patient sprayed me with blood, bone fragments, hair, not to mention brains. You have any idea what dripping brains feel like?""Warm gummy bears? Am I right?" Claire said, grinning at me."Uh. Yeah. Exactly.""One of my first cases was a suicide," Claire said, getting on with her work, drawing a Y incision with her scalpel from each of Ms. Vetter's clavicles to her pubis."This old soldier ends it all with a twelve-gauge shotgun under his chin. So I come into his RV, fresh out of training, ya know? And I'm leaning over his body in the La-Z-Boy, taking photos, and the cops are yukking it up.""Because?""I had no idea. You see, that's the point, girlfriend."I started laughing for the first time in a long while."So as I'm leaning over the body, about a quarter of the guy's brain has been slowly peeling off the ceiling - it falls and smacks me right behind my ear."She slapped her neck to show me, and I rewarded her story with a good guffaw."Like I said, warm gummy bears. So, how'd it go?" she asked me."How did which go? The interview with your patient's devil sp.a.w.n? Or the meeting with the mayor?""Both of 'em, baby girl. I'm going to be here all night, thanks to your bird friends filling up my vault all over again.""Well, Vetter first, short and to the point," I told Claire. "He lawyered up, p.r.o.nto. Got nothing to say. But when he does get around to saying something, I'll bet you a hundred bucks he says his buddy tortured and killed all those people and he just watched.""Won't really matter, will it? Killer or accessory, he still gets the needle. Plus, you witnessed him killing this poor woman.""Me and thirty other cops. But for the sake of the victims' families, I still want him convicted for killing them all.""And your meeting with the mayor?""Hah! First Conklin and I get the high fives and Jacobi almost cries, he's so proud of us, and I think, 'Whoa, we're gonna pull our horrible crime-solution rate out of the bas.e.m.e.nt up to maybe the ground floor' - when the whole conversation devolves into which jurisdiction has the first bite at Vetter since the killings took place in Monterey and Santa Clara Counties as well as - Claire? Honey? What is it? What's wrong?"Claire's face had twisted in pain. She dropped her scalpel, and it rang out against the stainless steel table. She grabbed her belly, looked at me with shock in her eyes."My water just broke, Lindsay. I'm not due for three weeks."I called for an ambulance, helped my friend into a chair. A minute later the doors to the ambulance bay banged open and two brawny guys strode into the autopsy suite carrying a stretcher."What's up, doc?" said the biggest one.I said, "Guess who's having a baby?"

Chapter 123.

BECAUSE LITTLE RUBY ROSE was premature, we all wore sterile pink paper hospital gowns, hats, and masks for the occasion. Claire looked like she'd been dragged a quarter of a mile in a tractor pull, but the baby-glow was there under her pallor. And since baby-glow was contagious, we were all euphoric and giggly.Cindy was crowing about her interview with Hans Vetter's uncle, and Yuki, having put on a couple of ounces since recovering from being drugged with LSD and almost killed by Jason Tw.i.l.l.y, chortled at Cindy's jokes. The girls told me that I looked hot and possibly happy, the way I should look, since I was living with the perfect man."How long is she going to keep us waiting?" I asked Claire again."Patience, girlfriend. They'll roll her in when they're good and ready. Have another cookie."I'd just folded a gooey double chocolate chip with walnuts into my maw when the door to Claire's room opened - and Conklin came in. He was wearing matching gown, hat, and mask in blue, but he was one of the few men I'd ever known who could look goofy and great at the same time. I could see his gorgeous brown eyes, and they were s.h.i.+ning.Rich held a big bunch of flowers behind his back, and he went around the room saying h.e.l.lo, kissing Cindy and Yuki on their cheeks, squeezing my shoulder, kissing Claire, and then he dramatically produced red roses."They're ruby roses," he said, with a shy version of his brilliant smile."My G.o.d, Richie. Three dozen long stems. You know I'm married, right?"When the laughter stopped, Claire said, "I thank you. And when my little girl gets here, she'll thank you, too."Cindy was looking at Conklin like she'd never seen a man before. "Pull up a chair," she said. "Richie, we're going to Susie's for dinner in a while. Why don't you come with?""Good idea," I said. "We've got to toast our little a.s.sociate member of the Women's Murder Club - and you can be the designated driver.""I'd like to help you guys out," Rich said. "But I've got a plane to catch in" - he looked at his watch - "in two hours.""Where're you going?" Cindy asked.I wondered, too. He hadn't mentioned a trip to me."Denver. For the weekend," Rich told Cindy.I looked away, my eyes sliding across Claire's face. She caught it. Saw that I'd taken an unantic.i.p.ated blow."Going to see Kelly Malone?" Cindy asked, the reporter in her refusing to just shut up."Uh-huh," Rich said. And unless he'd caught the baby-glow from Claire, he was excited."I'd really better go. Don't want to get caught in traffic. Claire, I just wanted to congratulate you on this great news. I'll want a picture of Ruby as a screen saver.""Sure thing," Claire said, patting Conklin's hand, thanking him again for the flowers.I said, "Have a good weekend."And Rich said, "You too. All of you guys."And then he was gone.As soon as he was out of the room, Cindy and Yuki started talking about what a rock star Rich was and wasn't Kelly Malone his high school sweetheart? And then the door opened again. A nurse rolled a tiny cart up to Claire's bed and all of us peered inside.Ruby Rose Washburn was a beauty.She yawned, then opened her dark, long-lashed eyes and looked straight at her mom, my glorious, beaming friend Claire.We four held hands, made a circle around the cart, each saying a silent prayer for this new child. Claire released our hands so she could hold her baby."Welcome to the world, little girl," said Claire, hugging and kissing her everywhere.Cindy turned to me, asked, "What did you pray for?"I snorted a laugh. "Is nothing sacred, you bulldog? Can't I even talk to G.o.d without you asking for a quote?"Cindy cracked up, put a hand over those cute overlapping front teeth of hers. "Sorry. Sorry," she said, tears coming out of her eyes.I put my hand on Cindy's shoulder and said, "I prayed that Ruby Rose would always have good friends."

Chapter 124.

YUKI GOT OUT of Lindsay's car, saying, "Now I know what they mean about feeling no pain.""We couldn't stop you from downing two margaritas, sweetie, and G.o.d knows we tried. You're way too little for that much octane. I'll walk you inside.""I'm okay, I'm okay." Yuki laughed. "I'm going straight to bed. So I'll talk to you on Monday, 'kay?"She said good night to Lindsay and walked into the lobby of the Crest Royal, said h.e.l.lo to Sam, the doorman, and wobbled up the three steps to the mail alcove. On the third try, she managed to get the tiny key into the tiny lock, pulled out the banded packet of mail, and took the elevator up to her apartment.The apartment was empty, but since the ghost of her mother lingered in the furnis.h.i.+ngs, Yuki talked to Mommy as she dropped the mail on the console in the foyer. An envelope slipped out of her fingers onto the floor. Yuki peered down at it. It was a padded envelope, not very big, dark brown with a handwritten label.She kicked off her high heels and said, "Mommy, whatever it is, it can wait. Your daughter is smashed."But the envelope was intriguing.Yuki put one hand on the console, bent and picked up the envelope, stared at the unfamiliar handwriting in ballpoint pen. But the return address on the left-hand corner grabbed her. It was just a name: Junie Moon. Yuki ripped open the envelope as she walked unsteadily to her mom's green sofa.Junie had been acquitted of Michael Campion's death. Why would Junie be writing to her?Sitting on the sofa, Yuki shook the contents of the envelope out onto the gla.s.s coffee table. There was a letter and a second envelope with her name on it.Yuki unfolded the letter impatiently.Dear Ms. Castellano,By the time you get this I will be on the road somewhere, I don't even know where. I want to see America because I have never been outside of San Francisco.I guess you're wondering why I'm writing to you, so I'll get to the point.The evidence you wanted is in the second envelope, and you'll probably want to use it to give the Campions some closure.I hope you understand why I can't say any more.Take care,Junie MoonYuki read the letter again.Her mind was swimming, trying to follow what Junie had said. "The evidence you wanted is in the second envelope."Yuki tore open the plain white envelope and emptied two items onto the tabletop. Item one was a s.h.i.+rt cuff, ripped from its sleeve, monogrammed with Michael Campion's initials. The cuff was saturated with dried blood.Item two was a small clump of dark hair, about three inches long, roots attached.Yuki's hands were shaking, but she was sobering up, starting to think about the call she would make to Red Dog. Wondering, if they put a rush on it, how much time it would take for the lab to process the DNA that would surely match to Michael Campion.And she thought about how even if they were able to find Junie Moon and bring her in, the law was clear: she couldn't be tried for Campion's death again. They could charge her with stuff - perjury, obstruction, hindering prosecution. But unless they could establish how the evidence came into Junie's possession, odds were that the DA wouldn't even try to indict her.Yuki looked at the gruesome evidence that had now dropped literally into her lap. She picked up the phone and called Lindsay. As she listened to the phone ring, she thought about Jason Tw.i.l.l.y.He was charged with attempted murder on the life of a peace officer, and if convicted he could go to prison for the rest of his life without possibility of parole. Or he could hire the best criminal defense attorney money could buy and maybe win.Maybe he'd go free.Yuki saw Tw.i.l.l.y in her mind, sitting in some cafe in LA writing his book with everything he needed for his big-bang, gazillion-dollar ending. The news would get out about the b.l.o.o.d.y cuff, the hank of hair, the DNA matching to Michael Campion.Who dunnit?Tw.i.l.l.y wouldn't have to prove it. He could make her a character in his book. And then he could simply point his finger at Junie Moon.The ring tone stopped."Yuki?" she heard Lindsay say."Linds, can you come back? I've got something you have to see."

Chapter 125.

JUNIE MOON LOOKED out the window and marveled again at the feeling of flight and at the amazing bright turquoise water below. And there, just coming into view, was a little town by the sea. She couldn't even p.r.o.nounce its name.The pilot's voice came over the speaker. Junie put up her tray table and tightened her seat belt, still staring out the window, seeing the beaches now, and the little boats and the people.Oh, my G.o.d, this was just too fantastic.She started to think again about that long-ago night when Michael Campion wasn't a client anymore. They'd talked about their love and how hopeless it all was.Michael had playfully tugged at the little braid hanging down the back of her neck."I have an idea," he said. "A way for us to be together.""I'd do anything," she'd said. "Anything.""Me too," Michael had said.It was a pledge.They'd made plans over the next few weeks, plans that would take place six months in the future. And one night when everything was in place, Michael left her house and just disappeared. Three months later, someone called the police saying he'd seen Michael at her house. And then the police had come and she'd gotten confused and made up a story - and talked herself into a huge mess.It had been h.e.l.l: jail and the trial and especially not being able to get mail or phone calls. But she'd known he would wait for her. And if she'd been convicted, he would have come forward. But Junie had hung in, used the brains and the lawyer G.o.d had given her, and played her role to the hilt.And thank you, G.o.d, she'd been acquitted.Three days ago she'd taken the blood and hair he'd sent her and put it into that letter to Yuki Castellano. Now the hard part was over and Junie was traveling light. She had worn boy's clothes on the bus from San Francisco to Vancouver, the flight to Mexico City, and now she was on another plane, on her way to a little village on a beach in Costa Rica.This remote and enchanted place would be their new home, and Junie Moon hoped with her whole being that someday Michael's heart would be fixed and that paradise would last for-fricking-ever.She'd changed into a cute little sundress in the bathroom, fluffed up her newly straightened dark brown hair, put on the chic cat's-eye gla.s.ses. The wheels of the plane bounced on the landing strip and all the pa.s.sengers began to clap. Junie clapped, too, as the plane rolled to a stop.Moments later the cabin door opened and Junie stepped carefully down the steps that had been wheeled up to the aircraft. Junie scanned the many faces peering out at the plane from the small outdoor terminal.And there he was.He'd shaven his head, had grown a goatee, and he was brown all over from the sun. He was wearing a bright striped s.h.i.+rt and cutoffs, grinning and waving, calling, "Baby, baby, over here!"No one would ever recognize him, no one but her.This was her real life.And it was starting now.