The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(33)

“Let me make sure I understand. You’re saying that Moving Targets appeared like a sports forum. People who were known only by screen names, shooting off their mouths, playing virtual ball. But instead of making bets on lineups and game outcomes, they’re bragging about killing people? Why did you keep this to yourself?”

“Boxer. First of all, there were no names or pictures of real bodies, just chatter and cartoon drawings with x’s over the eyes. Bang. You’re dead. And a sound effect.

“Also, I told Tracchio about it.”

Tracchio had been police chief before Jacobi. Many years had passed, and Tracchio was long retired.

Moskowitz went on.

“Tracchio gave me a direct order. He said if I didn’t have real names, bodies, facts, to get the hell off Moving Targets. I did what he said. I was with SWAT. I had plenty of shooting in real life. I quit the site and never went back.”

It was more than I’d known ten minutes before, but I still had nothing actionable. Not yet. I thanked Bud and invited him to be part of our team.

“Thanks, no, I’m going to the Bahamas tomorrow with Bev. Our nephew is getting married. So look, I left my contact information with Brenda.”

I wished him a good flight, and after he was gone, I headed down the corridor to debrief Brady. A half hour later, keys in hand, I left the building focused on facts.

Drug dealers had been killed. Mostly nickel-bag nobodies, except for the Barons, celebrities who’d bought massive inventory but hadn’t yet launched their drug business. Shooting them through the windows had been much harder than killing the others on the street. Were those executions extra points for a video sniper?

Brady had agreed with me that it appeared to be a military operation, and Stempien, too, had said that he thought Moving Targets was heavy on military.

Had the drug dealer hits been organized by the members of Moving Targets? Was Leonard Barkley one of those hitters?

The answers were just out of reach.

The lights were out. And I couldn’t see a thing.





CHAPTER 49





I WAS STARTLED awake by a shout or a shot or a dream—but I couldn’t remember a bit of it.

My heart was hammering and my eyes were wide open. A hint of sunrise was backlighting the gray sky as I reached across Martha to better see the clock.

Its luminescent hands pointed to half past five.

That’s when it hit me.

Claire was in the hospital and would be having surgery in a few hours. Going under the knife. Was she awake, too? I stared at the ceiling, finally clapping a pillow over my face, and when I woke up again, Martha was licking my ear and the sun was rising over the windowsill.

I tousled Martha’s coat and put my feet on the floor.

It was still too early to call Edmund, but I had things to do. I fed Martha, made coffee, and caught up on TV news while unloading the dishwasher. I peeked in on Julie, then showered, dressed, and checked my text messages while I took sweet Martha for a quick walk. Joe had written to let me know he was going to stay longer with Dave.

Julie-Bug was still sleeping when we returned from our rounds, and I made up a wake-up song on the spot. My voice was a little rusty but not bad for an impromptu performance.

“Bumblebees, bumblebees.

Time to wake up the banana trees.

Bzzzzz, bzzz, bzzzz.”



Julie’s eyelids flew open, and she laughed at my singing, then told me that I was wrong.

“Bees don’t wake up banana trees.”

I challenged her on that point, saying, “Well then, who wakes them, smarty?”

“Bees wake the flowers, Mommy.”

“Okay. But rhyming counts.”

She giggled, I kissed her head, and she gave in.

“We both win, Mommy. I’m hungry.”

I made oatmeal, and using a magic trick I’d swiped from the back of a cereal box when I was a kid, I pierced the banana skin with a needle near the stem. Using the needle as a little knife, I sliced the fruit crosswise every quarter of an inch from stem to stern, leaving the skin whole. The pinpricks were almost invisible, and I didn’t give anything away.

I watched Julie peel the banana, and her look of disbelief and amazement as perfect banana slices fell onto her cereal.

“Mommy. Look at this!”

“Bumblebees did that,” I said, very pleased with myself.

“Noooooo. Really?”

The doorbell rang at eight on the nose, and Mrs. Rose came into the kitchen and, clapping her hands, said, “Children wait for school buses. But school buses don’t wait for children.”

Julie ran to the doorway and I was right behind her. I gave her the pink-and-silver backpack and received kisses and hugs in return. And once the door was closed, the worry I’d been stifling crashed in on me.

I called Edmund, got a wrong number, tried again.

“Hang on, Lindsay. I’m outside the hospital looking for a quiet spot. Can you hear me?”

“I can. How’s Claire? What’s happening?”

There was a pause; maybe it lasted only a few seconds, but all of my attention was focused on that connection.

“She’s changing the scope of the surgery, Linds.”

“What? Why?”

“She was brainstorming with the surgical team. That’s all she wrote. She’s not in her room right now.”