The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(20)

“Mr. Barkley, this is Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD. I need to speak with you. Please come out your front door with your hands up. Do it now or we’re coming in.”

No one picked up the phone, but there was a response, the sound of breaking glass coming from a dormer on the second floor. A gun barrel poked through the opening and shots cracked the air. Covington’s team let loose with a fusillade of gunfire followed by a flashbang grenade.

The explosion rang out up and down the street, and finally there was a tense silence.

Time to go in.





CHAPTER 32





THERE’D BEEN NO sign of life from that small stucco home in the middle of the block since the gunshots had been fired from the second floor.

No doubt the flashbang grenade had laid out the occupants, and they were still in shock and misery. I squeezed the bullhorn’s pistol grip and blasted my voice toward the Barkleys’ house and whoever might be conscious inside.

“This is the police. Come out through the front door with your hands in the air.”

I announced again, and then Covington’s voice was in my earpiece.

“We’re going in.”

A half dozen men in tactical gear boiled out of the BearCat and swarmed the narrow front yard. Other armored cars screamed down the hill, and the tac team took positions around the house. Two men and our SWAT commander charged up to the front door.

I heard Covington through my earbud, “On five.”

Five seconds passed, then the men with the battering ram bashed in the door. Once SWAT cleared the ground floor, my partner and I went in.

The house was boxy.

A staircase in the center hall rose to the second floor. The kitchen was to the left. There were dishes in the sink and breakfast remains on the table. Refrigerator door was hanging open. A TV room to the right was tuned to the History Channel, showing a World War II documentary. In the center of the house a large Rottweiler mix lay groaning in front of a closed door.

Nothing moved. No one cried out. But our arrival had been a surprise, and someone had fled to the second floor in order to take shots at us. With gun drawn, I took the stairs up and looked into the right-hand bedroom. There was a double bed, piles of clothes on the chair and floor. On the dresser was a framed picture of a bearded man wearing a navy uniform with a SEAL trident. That had to be Barkley.

A Caucasian woman was lying on a blood-spattered carpet in front of the window seat with a .380 handgun beside her hand.

The woman was wearing a large T-shirt with an auto repair shop logo. Her long brown hair fell around her shoulders like a shawl, obscuring the tattoos on her neck. I guessed her age as somewhere between thirty and forty, but in any case, she’d had it rough. Now she was breathing hard, and blood ran from a wound in her upper arm.

I kicked the gun aside, spoke into my shoulder mike, and requested an ambulance. I stooped down and said to the injured woman, “I’m Sergeant Boxer, SFPD. I’ve called for medical help. What’s your name?”

She didn’t say. She closed her eyes. Could she hear me? Flashbangs could make a person deaf and sick for a while.

I leaned down close to her ear and said my name again, adding, “You fired on police officers. Do you understand? That’s a serious crime.”

She gave me a glancing look, gasped for breath, and said, “You are going to feel so stupid.”

She groaned, rolled onto her side, and threw up, just missing my shoes.

I got her a wet towel and a glass of water from the bathroom and helped her sit up and use the towel on her tearing eyes. I told her to sip from the glass, but she slugged the water down. With my hand on her back, just us girls, I said, “Help me find Barkley. I only need to establish his whereabouts at the time of a shooting, ask him a few questions. That’s all.”

She hacked out a short, dismissive laugh I translated as Forget about it.

Commandos filled the room where I stood over the injured woman. We cuffed her wrists in front of her belly as she yowled in pain. I didn’t enjoy this, but it had to be done. I asked her again, “What’s your name?”

“Snow White.”

Barkley’s wife’s name was Miranda White Barkley. Maybe we were getting somewhere after all.

Out on the street, sirens wailed toward Thornton from Venus Street, getting louder, cutting out suddenly in front of the house. Car doors slammed.

I said and meant it, “Miranda. We’re running out of time to help your husband. Can you hear me? I want to bring him in safely, but our chief is organizing a manhunt. Barkley can’t hide. Every cop will be combing the city looking for him.”

Footsteps pounded up the stairs, then Brady appeared in the doorway.

“Got us a Mincey warrant,” he said, slapping the folded document against his hand. “Conklin and I are going to grab up laptops, phones, whatever. Did she tell you anything?”

More footsteps sounded on the stairs. Conklin appeared in the doorway with news.

“The dog was lying in front of the door to the basement. There’s a tunnel down there. If Barkley was here, he’s gone down the rabbit hole.”





CHAPTER 33





I LEFT CONKLIN at the scene and followed the paramedics taking Miranda White Barkley on her stretcher down to Thornton Avenue.

By then, because of the SWAT team ruckus, the street was teeming with curiosity seekers and law enforcement officers of every type and stripe. Car horns blatted as frustrated drivers tried to move stalled traffic with the heels of their palms.