20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(65)

“You bet I am. I’ve watched as much Rachael Ray and CNN as I can stand. I need Boxer news.”

“Well, I’ve got some.”

“Bring it,” she said. “Noontime is good.”

I left Julie in her booster seat next to Joe at the breakfast table. I kissed them and Martha good-bye, and once inside my Explorer, I headed toward the Hall. My spirits had transformed overnight. My skin was pleasantly whisker burned, and I had a lunch date with Claire. She hadn’t seen my face, and she was going to give me the business. I thought about picking up something she might like. Perfume. A nightie?

My wandering mind was jolted back to the present by my phone buzzing. It was the same buzz as always, but I knew, just knew, that it was Brady.

He said, “There’s been another shooting. Actually, a threesome.”

I said, “For Christ’s sake. A triple homicide—” but he talked over me.

“Outside the jazz center. Northern Station got the call, but you’ve gotta be there.”

I changed course toward that large glass-and-steel building on the corner of Franklin and Fell. I ran my tongue over the chip in my tooth and turned up the scanner. It began crackling like a forest fire with codes that were becoming commonplace: Ambulance requested. CSI. Medical Examiner.

The jazz center is a beautiful building, but today all anyone would notice was the jam-packed area around the base of the building. There were squad cars, unmarked cars, paramedics schmoozing outside their vehicles, the CSI van, and the ME’s van just arriving, and they were in the process of closing off the immediate area.

And there was something else, or rather someone else, only I would notice.

My good bud, still mad at me, was startled when I pulled the car up to where she stood at the intersection waiting for the light to change. I lightly honked my horn. Spinning around, she recognized my vehicle, then turned her eyes to me.

She came toward the window.

“Oh, man,” she said. “Rich said you got punched. I hope your lip doesn’t scar.”

“Did he tell you I punched back?”

I showed her the cuts on my knuckles and the artistic bruise changing color as it rose up my hand to the wrist.

“Impressive,” she said, turning to leave. “Anyway, I gotta go, Linds.”

I said, “Wait. Cindy. Do you know anything about the victims?”

She didn’t answer.

“Cindy, have you heard any victim names?”

She gave me a hard look that said, You must have mistaken me for someone who gives tips to cops.

I sat in the car for a long moment, watching her walk ahead, thinking that this situation totally sucked. Maybe she was in the right. Or maybe she just refused to understand that I couldn’t give her unsubstantiated information on an investigation in progress.

Maybe Brady would cut her a break.

I grabbed my phone and I called him.

He didn’t wait for me to say hello.

“There were two more hits,” he said. “Both in Baltimore. Where are you, Boxer? Clapper is looking for you.”





CHAPTER 94





CINDY AND HER college friend, TV reporter Serena Jackson, sat up front in the KRON4 sound van.

The front seats were cramped, but the windshield gave them a wide view of the cordoned-off street and the mob of law enforcement on both sides of the tape. Inside the van, behind them, sound equipment and video monitors lined both long sides, where a half dozen video techs edited Serena’s interview and maintained contact with production at the studio.

Dead ahead was the jazz center, a modern, nearly transparent corner building. The lobby and café inside it had been open to the public. Until now. The sidewalk outside the open doors was the scene of a triple homicide, a horrific crime.

Upon arrival, law enforcement, both local and FBI, had cleared the teeming lobby. The streets on both sides of the building and all access points were closed to anyone without a badge.

Serena, having squeaked inside before the police perimeter was locked down, had gone live with her report fifteen minutes ago.

By the time Cindy had arrived, police cruisers had been parked across the lanes as barricades, yellow tape and the thin blue line were in place. Cindy felt damned lucky that she’d seen the KRON4 van and that Serena had invited her inside.

Now Serena’s cameraman ran the unedited video for Cindy. He had captured thirty seconds of the bodies lying on the sidewalk in front of the jazz center. Cindy had seen many murder scenes, but something about the bodies lying in broad daylight on a public sidewalk was frightening to her.

In the video the camera turned to Serena, who, with her voice catching in her throat, told her audience that guitarist Neil Kreisler had been shot dead with one bullet to his head. This murder had happened just outside the entrance to the jazz center. Kreisler’s two bodyguards, names still unverified, had also been brought down by single kill shots to the head.

Serena said to the camera, “There was another person in this group of musician and bodyguards, a minor who was unharmed, and in his best interests this station will not release his name. But I did speak with him before he was taken away by a police escort.

“This witness told me that he didn’t see the shooter. One minute he was walking up the stairs near Kreisler. One bodyguard was in the lead. The other was bringing up the rear. According to the young man, the guard behind him was shot first. The leading guard screamed, ‘Get down,’ and this young man did get down and that probably saved his life.”