Unlucky 13 (Women's Murder Club 13)

“How you doing, Jansing? I hoped I’d catch you in.”

Therese Stanford was at her computer keyboard, typing in the phone number of the no-name phone. Her screen showed the location of cell towers in Emeryville and environs. With luck, she’d be able to ping the bomber’s phone.

“I don’t understand what you want from me,” Jansing said. “I gave you the money.”

“The first payment doesn’t count b

ecause you brought in the cops. Now my fee has doubled.”

“The cops came to me,” Jansing protested.

“I warned you about cops,” the killer said in his eerie, uninflected voice. “You really should’ve listened to me. There are serious consequences, you know, like ka-boom.”

Jansing looked at me helplessly.

I mouthed words at him, and he spoke them into the phone.

“I understand.”

“I want a hundred grand. Small bills. No tracking devices.”

“I-I-I have to go to the bank. I need some time.”

“I’ll call you in a half hour,” said Robo-bomber.

“Wait. Where am I supposed to go after that?”

“I said, I’ll call you.”

The line went dead.

I said to Jansing, “Where is your bank?”

Jansing got up, walked six yards to the far side of the room, and, lifting a framed poster of Chuck’s iconic snorting bull off the hook in the wall, revealed a wall safe. He punched numbers into the lock and pulled down on the handle. The door swung open and Jansing took out four stacks of hundred-dollar bills, each with a wrapper reading $25,000.

As Jansing returned the poster to its original position, I called Jacobi and requested cars be stationed at intervals off the main streets in Emeryville—Hollis and 65th in particular—and prepared to follow Jansing’s car at a distance.

Stanford said, “The phone is on the move, traveling west to east over the bridge, crossing now to Oakland.”

I relayed that information to Jacobi, and as we continued to track the bomber’s phone while waiting for him to call back, Jansing’s phone rang. Again I listened in as the killer told Chuck’s sweating CEO to get into his car and turn left on 65th, then right on San Pablo, and to keep his phone line open for further instructions.

“Don’t screw it up,” said the bomber’s mechanical voice, “or I will kill again. You can’t imagine what a good time I’m having.”

And then he laughed.

I conferred with Conklin and we made a spot decision.

He and CSI Stanford would follow Jansing in his BMW. I would take the unmarked Ford to Oakland and await the address of the drop.

As I left the building by the back door, I thought of my daughter, as I did every hour of every day.

The job felt different since Julie was born. My love for Julie made me very careful, yet at the same time, I was aware that that love could play out as a momentary delay when I was at risk, and a split-second hesitation could prove fatal.

I put on my vest, hung my badge outside it, and shrugged into my Windbreaker with POLICE in big white letters across the back. I touched my hip, double-checking that my Glock was right there, and I dropped my phone into my jacket pocket.

Then I climbed into the unmarked car and headed out.

CHAPTER 41