The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(34)

I said, “I don’t think I’m getting this.”

“The docs have been watching this little spot in her lung for years. I’ll bet she didn’t tell you that.”

“No. She only just told me.”

“So she’s saying, ‘Spot, spot, it’s just a spot,’ and even Dr. Terk thought so. She skipped her X-ray last year, and now it’s two spots, 100 percent cancer. Terk planned to take out the spot, but now that it’s two and visible, he’s gotta get it all.”

“Edmund. It didn’t metastasize?”

“Nobody said that. As far as I know, Dr. Claire had a change of heart about what kind of surgery, something she read or thought up or wanted to bounce off the surgeons. She sent me a text saying, I got this. Love you, then shut off her phone. I can’t reach her or her doctor. Nurse said she’s in radiology, then on to the operating theater. I’ll call you, Lindsay. As soon as I know what’s going on.”

I said, “I’ll call you when I get to work.” That wasn’t a question.

“Makes more sense for me to call you. I promise I will.”

“Okay,” I said. “I hear you, Edmund. I’ll wait for your call.”





CHAPTER 50





I SNATCHED THE car keys from the coatrack in the foyer and was halfway out the door when my phone rang.

I grabbed it. “Edmund?”

“It’s Brady.”

“Brady. I just spoke with Edmund Washburn.”

“How’s Claire?”

I condensed what Edmund had told me, and Brady made appropriate sounds and comments but asked no questions. I pictured him standing in Jacobi’s old office, impatiently staring out the window at the morning rush on Bryant, and I got it. Something was on his mind, and once I stopped talking, he was going to tell me.

I took a breath.

He said, “Are you on the way?”

“What’s wrong?”

“There were three fatal shootings,” he said. “Two in Houston and another in San Antonio. The MO looks the same as the others. The victims are known drug dealers. All were shot at the same time, at eight thirty a.m., local time.”

“So you’re saying the shootings are connected to the Baron murders?”

“Could be. Or it’s a hell of a coincidence.”

“What can you tell me?”

“At eight thirty a shot was heard on Warm Springs Road in the residential Westbury neighborhood in Houston. Cops responded to the 911 call. Couple of minutes later Anonymous phoned the tip line, giving the address of one of the dead men and the location of the gun.”

“He didn’t want to get involved.”

“Right,” said Brady. “Tip was accurate. Houston PD recovered the weapon a half mile away from the victim, Vincent Morris, black male, fifty-three, unarmed. Shot through the temple while driving. Naturally, lost control of his late-model Mercedes and crashed into an empty van parked at the curb at McKnight Street and Dunlap Street. Morris was killed with one shot.”

“You’re saying the victim was shot dead while driving and from a half mile away? Is that even possible?”

Brady sighed. “Several bystanders saw the Mercedes plow into the parked van, but there were no witnesses to the shooting itself.”

I asked, “Is the gun registered?”

“Number is filed off. It’s at their lab. That’s all I know.

“What about the other two victims?”

“Where’re you at, Boxer? People are piling up outside my office. Conklin has everything—photos, coordinates, contacts. See him soon’s you get here. You two should reach out to Houston. I’ll call San Antonio. See if we get some new puzzle pieces.”

He hung up.

My thoughts were bouncing like a handball inside my skull. My best friend was consulting in her own life-threatening disease, and possibly convincing the surgical team to improvise on the fly.

And now there was a new direction in the sniper case. Three dead people in Texas, and at least one of them had been shot through a car window. I had to wonder if that long-shot marksman was our lone suspect, Leonard Barkley.

If not, was the shooter a member of the same Moving Targets club? Or worse, had psycho copycats seized on a fresh new idea: real-life target practice on random subjects?

I had many questions and one answer: anything was possible.

Minutes after speaking with Brady, I was driving toward the Hall of Justice, cautioning myself to keep my scrambled mind on the road.





CHAPTER 51





BRENDA FOLLOWED ME into the war room, handed me a pile of messages, set up a coffee machine, and, pointing to a plastic-wrapped platter, told me, “I made those cookies from scratch. Peanut butter and chocolate chip.”

“Awww. Thanks, Brenda.”

“Anytime, Lindsay.”

Cappy was taping up the new crime scene photos, and Conklin was on the phone, saying, “Got it. Thanks.”

He turned to me and said, “Lindsay, open your laptop. You’ve got mail.”

The email from Conklin had the pictures and names of yesterday’s shooting victims with appended details: age, marital status, occupation, police record, known associates. All had died where they’d been shot. ID on all had been recovered, as well as drugs on two of them.