The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club 17)

I looked for her, hoping she’d nailed down the small table near the window, then Syd tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. I followed her finger with my eyes. Claire was at a table in the back, half hidden by the bar.

I parted the crowd with my hip and shoulder and made my way toward my best friend.

“I’m starving,” she shouted when she saw me.

Food wasn’t on my top twenty list of concerns, but I said, “Let’s order. What’re we waiting for?”

Claire grinned, waved Syd down, and placed our order in the fewest possible words, “The usual.” Meaning deluxe burgers and a double order of fries.

“The fish tacos rock,” said Syd.

“Maybe some other time,” Claire said.

She put her elbows on the table and I did the same, both of us leaning in so we could talk without shouting.

Claire said, “So, what’s the verdict?”

She was asking about the IAD decision. She knew what was at stake. Had I been suspended for a month—or worse? Had Sergeant Stevens been sidelined? Who was going to track down the person killing homeless people in our city?

And now I knew the answers to all of the above. I told Claire, “Brady says that the panel recommended no action.”

“None? That’s great, right?” she asked.

“Yes and no. Stevens wasn’t disciplined and neither was I. So that makes me feel like I blew this whole thing up, and for what? ‘No action recommended’?”

“Okay,” Claire said. “I get it. But you weren’t wrong. This is how it turned out. So work the Cushing case as best you can.”

The best I could do was under a lot of pressure. Time had been lost. The killer was a ghost, of a lethal variety. Serial killers have distinct MOs. Some have a preferred victim type or method of killing or a favorite location. Some have unique signatures: markings left on the bodies or methods of disposal or even letters to the press.

This killer’s MO was to shoot a defenseless vagrant at close range in the dark, and in a location without a surveillance camera. And then, poof. Gone with the wind.

That this psycho had gotten so close to his victims told me that they weren’t afraid of him. None had screamed, run, put up a fight. Maybe he knew them. Maybe he was one of them.

One crummy lead.

We needed one crummy lead: a video, a fingerprint, a bullet linked to a gun in our database, a witness statement, even an anonymous tip. Someone had to know something.

I didn’t know how I’d catch this ghost, but I had to. Millie’s killer mustn’t win.

CHAPTER 68

“HEY, HEY,” SAID Claire, snapping my attention back to the present.

Syd put platters down in front of us, saying, “Two daily specials with all the extras. Anything else I can get you ladies?”

“Thanks, we’re good,” Claire said, grabbing the ketchup bottle.

I stared down at my burger and fries. They had all the appeal of a wriggling pile of alien life-forms.

Claire noticed my revulsion and said, “Okay, Lindsay. What’s up? You’re usually a girl with an appetite, and seems to me you’ve dropped some pounds. What are you now? A size four?”

“I have to talk to you about this,” I said. I reached for my handbag and extracted a white paper bag. I handed it to Claire.

“What is this?” she asked. She peered into the bag. “Oh, my. Really, Linds?”

“I need you to be with me.”

“Right here?”