2nd Chance (18 page)

“She loves him,” protested Cindy. “They’re a team.”

“They’re not a team, Cindy. Claire and Edmund are a team. The two of them, they’re in a race.

“It’s true,” Claire agreed. “That girl always has to be number one. The girl can’t fail.”

“So which one of us is any different?” Cindy asked. She looked around. Waited.

There was a moment of protracted silence. Our gazes met with contrite smiles.

“But it’s deeper than that,” I said. “Jill’s different. She’s tough as nails, but in her heart she feels alone. Any of us could be where she is now. We’re not invincible. Except you, Claire. You have this mechanism that just keeps it together, you and Edmund and your kids, like that fucking battery rabbit, on and on and on.”

Claire smiled. “Someone has to provide the balance around here. You saw your dad last night, didn’t you?”

I nodded. “It went pretty well. I guess. We talked, we got some things out.”

“No fisticuffs?” Cindy asked.

“No fisticuffs.” I smiled. “When I opened the door, he had on a catcher’s mask. I’m serious.”

Claire and Cindy laughed out loud.

“He brought me this bottle of wine. Fancy French first-growth. Nineteen sixty-five. He bought it the year I was born. Kept it all these years. How do you figure that? He never even knew if he’d ever see me again.”

“He knew he’d see you again,” Claire said with a smile. She sipped her sake. “You’re his beautiful daughter. He loves you.”

“So how’d you leave it, Lindsay?” Cindy asked.

“I guess you could say we agreed to a second date. Actually, I told him he could stay with me for a while.”

Cindy and Claire both blinked.

“We told you to loosen up and see him, Lindsay.” Cindy snorted. “Not ask him to share the rent.”

“What can I tell you? He was camped out on someone’s couch. It seemed like the right thing to do.”

“It is, honey.” Claire smiled. “Here’s to you.

“Uh-uh.” I shook my head. “Here’s to Jill.” “Yeah, here’s to Jill,” Cindy said, lifting her beer.

We all clinked. Then it was quiet for a moment or two.

“I don’t mean to change the subject,” Cindy said, “but you want to share where you are on the case?”

I nodded. “We’re looking into the Chimera names Warden Estes gave us. But today I came up with a new theory.”

“New theory?” Cindy wrinkled her brow.

I nodded. “Look, this guy’s a trained shooter. He’s made no mistakes. He’s been one step ahead of us on every move. He knows how we work.”

Cindy and Claire were listening. Not a word. I told them what Weiscz had said to me.
An inside job.

“What if Chimera isn’t a crazy racist killer from one of these radical groups?” I leaned forward. “What if he’s a cop?”

I
N A
DARK
BAR
, Chimera sipped his Guinness. The best for the best, he thought.

Next to him, a white-haired man with a blotchy red, dry-as-parchment face was downing Tom Collinses, glancing up at the TV. The news was on. An insipid reporter was giving the latest on the Chimera case, getting it all wrong, insulting the public, insulting him.

He kept his eyes peeled across the street through the bar’s large window. He had followed the next victim here. This one he would relish. All those cops, chasing down the wrong leads. This kill would really set them on their heels.

“It’s not over,” he muttered under his breath.
And don’t ever get the idea that I’m predictable. I’m not.

The drunk old-timer next to him gave him a nudge. “I think the bastard’s one of
them
,” he said.

“One of
them?”
Chimera asked. “Watch your elbows. And what the hell are you talking about?”

“Black as the ace of spades,” the old man said. “They’re combing through those hate groups. Ha, what a laugh. This is some sick jungle bunny minus one jar on the shelf. Probably plays in the
NFL
. Hey Ray.” he called to the bartender. “Probably plays in the
NFL
… ”

“What makes you say that?” Chimera asked, his eyes flicking across the street. He was curious about what his public was thinking. Maybe he ought to do more man-on-the-street interviews like this one.

“You think any motherfucker with a set of brains would leave clues like that?” the old man whispered conspiratorially.

“I think you’re jumping a little fast, old-timer.” Chimera finally grinned. “I think this killer’s pretty smart.”

“How smart can you be to be a fucking murderer?”

“Smart enough not to get caught,” Chimera said.

The man scowled at the screen. “Yeah, well, when it comes out, you watch. They’re looking under the wrong rug. There’s gonna be one big surprise. Maybe it’s O.J. Hey, Ray, someone should check if O. J.’s in town… ”

He had taken just about as much as he could of the drunk. But the guy was right about one thing. The San Francisco cops were lost in space. Man, they didn’t have a clue. Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer was nowhere on this. Not even close to him.

“I’ll bet you something.” Chimera grinned at the old man. He put his face close to him, his eyes wide. “If they catch him, I’ll bet you he has green eyes.

Suddenly across the street, he spotted his target on the street.
Well, maybe this will help Lieutenant Boxer focus. A hit real close to home. A little sidebar that he just couldn’t resist.
He tossed a few dollars on the bar.

“Hey, what’s the rush?” The old man turned to him. “Let me buy you another brew. Hey what the hell, you got green eyes, buddy.”

Chimera spun out of his seat. “Gotta go. There’s my date.”

O
N
THE
LONG
DRIVE
HOME
, Claire Washburn kept coming back to what had happened to poor Jill. The whole ride down 101 to her home in Burlingame, she couldn’t put the terrible thought away.

She exited the highway at Burlingame and wound her way up into the hills. Her head pounded with weariness. It had been such a long day. These terrible murders, pulling the city apart. Then Jill losing her baby.

The digital clock on the dashboard said twenty past ten. Edmund was playing tonight. He wouldn’t be back until sometime after eleven. She wished he would be home. Tonight of all nights.

Claire swung onto Skytop and, a few yards later, into the driveway of her modern Georgian home. The house was dark; that’s how it was these days now that Reggie was away at college. Willie, her high school sophomore, was no doubt in his room playing video games.

All she wanted to do was to peel off her work clothes and slip quietly into her pajamas. Put an end to this horrible day…

Inside, Claire called out for Willie and, hearing no response, flashed through the mail on the kitchen table and brought it into the study. She leafed absently through a Ballard Designs catalog.

The phone rang. Claire tossed down the catalog and picked up the phone. Hello… ”

There was a hollow pause, as if someone were waiting.

Maybe one of Willie’s friends.

“
Hello…?”
Claire called again. “Once, twice… last time. Still no answer. “Good-bye.”

She placed the phone back on the receiver.

A shiver of nervousness went through her. Even after all these years, when she was alone in the house, an unexpected noise, the lights on in the basement, sent a tremor through her.

The phone rang again. This time, she picked it up quickly. “Hello… ”

Another annoying pause. This was starting to get her pissed. “Who is this?” she demanded.

“Take a guess,” a male voice said.

Claire’s breath came to a stop. She glanced at her caller ID. “Listen, 901-4476,” she said, “I don’t know what your game is or how you got our number. If you’ve got something to say, say it fast.”

“You know about Chimera?” the voice replied. “You’re speaking to him. Aren’t you honored?”

Claire froze. She arched upright in her chair. Her mind shot into gear:
Chimera was a police department name
. Had it ever been in print? Who knew she was involved in the investigation?

She pressed a separate line, about to punch in 911. “You better tell me who this really is,” she said.

“I told you” The little black choir girl was number one,” the voice replied. “The old bitch, the fat, unsuspecting cop, the boss… You know what they all had in common, don’t you? Think about it, Claire Washburn. Do you have anything in common with the first four victims?”

Claire’s body had begun to shake. Her mind drew a picture of the elaborate shots that had killed two of the victims.

Her eyes shifted outside the study window, to the darkness around her house.

The voice came back, “
Lean a little to the left, huh, Doe?”

C
LAIRE
SPUN
just as the first bullet splintered through the glass.

A second shot shattered the study window, and Claire felt burning pain sear her neck. She was down on the floor as a third and fourth shot exploded into the room.

A startled cry came from her throat. There was blood on the floor, blood from her own neck, seeping onto her dress, her hands. Her heart beat madly.
How bad was it? Had it severed the carotid artery?

Then she looked to the doorway and her blood froze.
Willie…

“Mom!” he exclaimed. His eyes were bulging with fear. He was only wearing a T-shirt and briefs.
He was a targe
t.

“Willie, get down,” she screamed at him. “Someone’s shooting at the house.”

The boy dove to the floor, and Claire scrambled over to him. “It’s okay. Just stay down. Let me think,” she whispered. “Don’t you raise your head an inch.”

The pain in her neck was excruciating, like the skin had been sheared off. She could breathe, though. If the bullet had pierced her carotid, she’d be choking. The gash was surface, had to be.

“Mom, what’s going on?” Willie whispered. His body was trembling like a leaf. She’d never seen him this way.

“I don’t know. Just
stay down
, Willie.”

Suddenly four more shots blazed from outside. She held her son tight. Whoever it was was shooting blindly, trying to hit anything.
Did the killer know she was still alive?
A jolt of panic set in;
What if he came in the house? Did the killer know about her son? He knew her name!

“Willie,” she gasped, cupping his head between her hands. “Get down in the basement.
Lock the door
. Call nine one one. Crawl! Now! On your stomach!”

“I’m not going to leave you,” he cried.

“Go,” her voice replied sharply. “
Go now. Do as I say. Stay down! I love you, Willie.”

Claire pushed Willie forward. “Call nine one one. Tell them who you are and what’s happening. Then call Dad in the car” He should be on his way home.”

Willie shot her a last, pleading look, but he understood. He crawled, face and body pressed to the floor.
Good boy Your mother didn’t raise any dumb ones.

Another blast of gunfire came from outside. Sucking in a breath, Claire pleaded, “Please, God, don’t let that bastard come into our house. Don’t let that happen, I beg you.”

C
HIMERA
SQUEEZED
OFF
four more rounds through the shattered window, smoothly swiveling the PSG-1 rifle in his hands.

He knew he’d hit her. Not with the first shot; she had spun around at the last second. But with the next one, as she was trying to hit the deck. He just didn’t know if he had done the job. He wanted to send a message to Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, and just wounding her friend wasn’t good enough. Claire Washburn had to die.

He sat in the cover of the dark street, the barrel of the rifle protruding from the car window. He needed to make sure she was dead, but, damn it, he didn’t want to go into the house. She had a son, and he might be in there. One of them might have called 911.

Suddenly outside lights flashed from a house down the street. At another, someone stepped out onto the lawn.

“Goddamnit,” he seethed. “Son of a bitch.” Part of him wanted to charge the shattered window and spray the room with a barrage. Washburn had to die. He didn’t want to leave without finishing her.

From behind him came noise. A car turned wildly onto the street, its horn blaring, bright lights flickering on and off. The car sped toward him like some meteor barreling right into his sight.

“What the hell is this now?”

Maybe she had called the cops. Maybe as soon as they heard the shots, the neighbors had. He couldn’t risk it. She wasn’t the one he would put himself on the line for. He wasn’t going to get caught.

The honking, flashing car spun sharply into the driveway of the house. It screeched to a halt. The neighbors began to emerge from their homes.

He slammed the wheel with his hand and pulled in his gun. He put his car in gear and floored it.

It was the first time he had messed up. Ever. Jesus, he never made mistakes.

You’re lucky, Doe. But you were target practice anyway.

It was the next one that mattered.

I
HAD
TAKEN
OFF
MY
MAKEUP
and curled up to watch the late news when Edmund’s call came.

Claire’s husband was frantic, stammering. The impossibility of what he was struggling to describe slammed into me with the force of a train. “She’ll be all right, Lindsay. She’s at Peninsula Hospital now.”

I yanked a fleece pullover over my head, tugged on some jeans, and, throwing a top hat on the roof of the car, raced down to Burlingame. I made the forty-minute drive in under twenty minutes.

I found Claire still in one of the treatment rooms, sitting upright, dressed in the same rust-colored suit I had left her in only three hours before. A doctor was applying a bandage to her neck. Edmund and Willie were by her side.