20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(32)

CHAPTER 47





I DROVE BACK to the Hall on autopilot, using a soft touch on the gas, watching the lights and signs, but my mind was on Claire.

When I’d left her private room, she’d been covered in a light cotton blanket, wearing headphones, listening to the San Francisco Symphony, featuring Edmund Washburn on percussion. From the serene look on her face, it appeared that she was in a high-quality, low-stress zone. I suspected there might be some sedative in her IV bag.

I said to her long-devoted husband, “Edmund, you’ll call me when Claire is out of surgery?”

“You’re number one, Lindsay. First call goes to you.”

I leaned down, kissed Claire’s cheek, said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Tell the girls,” she whispered, but didn’t open her eyes.

Edmund got to his feet and hugged me tightly. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said, all of it cheerleading with stark fear lying just beneath our words. I kissed Edmund’s cheek, too, and after he released me, he squeezed my hand, hard.

I told him that I’d speak with him soon and fled before emotion took me over.

The stop light at Seventh Street was red. When it turned, I parked at the next empty spot on Bryant and fast-walked to the Hall, where I badged security and took the elevator to four. Instead of turning left to the Homicide squad room, I turned right and headed back to the corner-office war room.

I hit the light switch, got my computer bag out of the desk drawer, and was stuffing the charger into the outside pocket when there was a knock.

“Boxer. Got a sec?”

It was Brady.

I said, “Sure. What’s happening?”

“Do you remember Bud Moskowitz?”

“He was with SWAT. He retired. Wait, Brady. You don’t think Moskowitz had anything to do with the shootings?”

“No.” He laughed. “Bud saw that news clip this morning with the crime scene photos. He has an idea.”

“Great. Give me his phone number.”

“He’s in my office. I’ll send him back.”





CHAPTER 48





I WAS STRAIGHTENING up the desk, organizing my notes, when Moskowitz said, “Hey. Boxer.”

“Hey, Bud. Come in, come in.”

I stretched out my hand. We shook and I offered him a chair. Bud was more than twenty years older than me. I hadn’t known him well, but I had a good feeling about him.

“So, you have a tip for us, Bud? Because we could use one.” Moskowitz looked fit, as well as focused and competent.

“You mind if I take a look at those photos?”

“Go ahead.”

He walked over to the wall and looked at the crime scene photos taken of the victims from different angles. He spent time with each one, slowly, methodically examining them, taking a couple off the wall to hold under the light, asking me about the victims and the caliber of the rounds.

I told him what little I knew, that the shells were of different types, that the casings hadn’t been found, that Forensics hadn’t gotten any hits in the database because of the bullets’ impact with bone or plaster or brick.

I asked Moskowitz, “What do you see?”

“All the shots were taken from a good distance. Very professional work.”

“We all agree.”

“Boxer, I don’t know if this is worth anything, but when I read in the paper about all these shootings taking place at the same time, it reminded me of this website I used to belong to.”

“Moving Targets, by chance?”

“Well,” he said, slapping the desk, “you stole my tip. I’ll be going now.”

I laughed and told him to stay. “No, really. Our computer tech also came up with Moving Targets, but we’re still in the weeds. Tell me what you know.”

“My wife is waiting for me downstairs, so let me give you the short version. I used to belong to the site. I played the game as a game. For target practice. But at some point I started to think that some of the guys on the board were highly trained experts, very competitive, and that they were crazy. They talked in the chats about killing like it’s the greatest high in the world.

“But I didn’t know. Were they talking shit? Or were they for real? The site held virtual events. Competitions. And there were team events; points were awarded for the best shots and for teams shooting multiple targets. The more difficult, the higher the points and the bragging rights. It looked like it was pretend, cartoon murder. But after a while I wasn’t entirely sure.

“So then the newspaper stories and something I saw on the internet. A picture of two bullet holes through a second-story window, two shots that took out two people—it set off alarm bells.”

“This is really getting to me, Bud. I’m thinking along the same lines. I’d like to get into this site. Can you give me a password or something? I can pretend to be you.”

“I opted out ten years ago and my codes have expired. Understand, Boxer, I never matched up guys boasting about kill shots with actual deaths. There were groups within the group. I didn’t belong to any subgroup. I wasn’t working under cover, and I wasn’t a serious player.”

My mind had been dull with pain just minutes before. Now it crackled like a downed electric wire.