Unlucky 13 (Women's Murder Club 13)

The residential block between California and Lake was humming sweetly. The street was wide and homey, dotted with trees. Ground-level garages had SUVs in the driveways, retirees walked dogs, and a woman in pink sweats was sweeping her walk while talking to her neighbor, who was unloading groceries from her car.

Cindy was saying, “So, what now? You’ll get out an all points bulletin?”

“Too bad I can’t make a positive ID, but anyway, the FBI is going to want to talk to us.”

I was doing my own APB, checking out everything that moved. Dogs barked from a doorway. A man slid out from under his car and got on his phone. He wore a sweatshirt with the sleeves ripped off. He was a man’s man, not a slim-hipped psycho killer.

Cindy was saying, “Until Mackie Morales is in jail, I’m not going to be able to think about anything else, or even sleep. Or even eat. You think I’m obsessed?”

I laughed.

Cindy said, “So, that’s a yes.”

And then we both stopped talking until we arrived safely at the sunny corner of 12th and Lake. My apartment building was directly to my right, and Cindy had parked her car just a few doors to our left. I checked out the moderate two-way traffic, the cars parked on both sides, and the trees between the cars and the storefronts.

Then Cindy and I grabbed each other over the stroller and kissed cheeks.

She said, “I’m calling Yuki. I need to see her.”

We blew kisses and waved good-bye, and then I said to Julie, “Ride’s over, baby girl. Daddy is probably home already, and I think he’s going to put you down for a nap.”

I walked toward the front door of our building with my keys in hand, and that’s when something I’d half seen, a peripheral flicker, or an instinct, gave me a chill.

I jerked my head toward the mailbox on the corner.

There was a woman there, wearing a long white skirt, a white drapy sweater jacket, and a straw hat with a band around it.

She had been crossing Lake when her image imprinted itself in my mind. Now she had her back to me and was closing the letter slot on the mailbox. It made a dull, metallic clang.

I was on high alert, but I was just scaring myself.

Mackie Morales didn’t dress like that.

That couldn’t be her.

CHAPTER 107

THE WOMAN IN the long skirt and crocheted sweater jacket turned to face me. My mind made a psychic leap, feeling a sense of danger, rather than recognition. Cold sweat broke out over my body, especially the palms of my hands, where I was gripping the handle of Julie’s stroller.

And then I was sure.

This was Mackie Morales, now dressed like some kind of angel, but with a gun in her hand. I’m so keyed to guns that the sight of one bypasses logical thought and goes straight to my lizard brain: fight or flight.

But I had neither option.

If I ran, she’d shoot me in the back.

If I pulled my gun, Julie could get hit.

I said, “Mackie, I’m putting the baby out of harm’s way. Put the gun down. Then we can talk.”

“You think we give a damn about your baby?” she said.

I shoved Julie’s stroller hard to my right so that it rolled across the sidewalk and wedged itself between two parked cars. Traffic whizzed by as I turned back to Morales.

She was pointing her gun at me with a kind of nonchalance, as if she were in a dream. I understood the situation with crystal clarity. Morales wanted to die, but she wanted to kill me first. And with me standing ten feet away, she wouldn’t miss.

I knew that I was going to die.