12th of Never (Women's Murder Club 12)

What was there to think about? I had to stay near Julie. I had to be right here if a life-or-death decision had to be made.

“Julie is getting the best of care, Lindsay. I’ll be here all day and we’ll both be here all night. I’ll call you, I promise, the second I know anything. You don’t function well when you can’t take action. You’re driving yourself crazy and I hope you’ll understand that I love you and I say this in the kindest possible way. You’re driving me a little crazy, too.”

“Really.”

“Randy Fish is a very big deal, and whatever you can do to clear the case, that’s what you should do.”

We argued in whispers for several minutes, but when Joe talked about giving peace of mind to those lost girls’ families, he pushed my buttons, as Ron Parker had done.

“You’re going to nail him this time,” Joe said. “I just know it.”

“You know me, Joe. I’m sure as hell going to try.”

Chapter 93

I MET CONKLIN up on Bryant, in front of the Hall. He had

the keys to a squad car and also an extra coffee and a chocolate brownie, which I gladly accepted.

“Where to?” he asked, folding his lanky frame behind the steering wheel.

It was about noon when we got on the freeway. A cold front was forming, and the marine layer filled the roadbed from shoulder to shoulder. I knew every twist, turn, and lane change by heart, and so the slow drivers and the fog didn’t worry me.

I just wanted to get there, let Randy Fish do his thing, and get back to my family.

Two hours later, under a dull afternoon sun, we parked in the Atwater penitentiary’s north lot. Conklin and I met Ron Parker at the front gate, then a group of us trudged down cement steps, through echoing corridors, through a gauntlet of profanity-spewing prisoners, and at last confronted Randolph Fish, who was seated behind a triple layer of Plexiglas.

Fish looked bad—bruised, small, and broken. If you didn’t know better, you’d think that he was as dangerous as a sparrow.

“Tell me about Debra Lane,” I said.

Fish didn’t look at Parker or Conklin or the menacing, muscle-bound guards.

“Debby Lane,” he said to me, “was a cute girl, but she had no fight in her, Lindsay. She wouldn’t talk to me. She didn’t bargain. She just screamed until I couldn’t take it.”

I stared at him. I’m pretty sure my face was frozen in horror as Fish complained about his teenage victim.

“She just screamed and screamed,” Fish said again. “I hardly touched her. I wanted to, but I just ended up cutting off her air. She was a bad choice, I have to admit.”

Conklin was also looking at Fish, but without expression. However, out of the killer’s sight, my partner was clenching his fists, punching his thighs. I knew he was flashing on the remains of Fish’s victims, wanting to do something illegal to get Fish’s head on straight. Knock out a few teeth. Shatter a few bones.

Well, that’s what I was thinking, anyway.

Fish told me, “I locked up Debby’s body in a self-storage facility out by Pier 96. I was going to dispose of her later, but you changed my plans for me, Lindsay. You remember. You caught me outside the movie theater. Where you and I met for the first time.”

“Why should we believe you?” I said. “You’re a good liar, Randy. First class. In fact, when have you ever told the truth?”

“It’s in my best interest to help you, Lindsay. Because I want something—and telling you the truth is how I’m going to get it.”

“What do you want?”

“I want to prove to myself that I can change.”

I looked into his deep brown eyes, something a lot of women had done while begging for their lives. Despite Ron Parker’s magical belief in me, I had no leverage. Fish would take us to Debra Lane’s body. Or he wouldn’t.

“Let’s go,” I said.

Chapter 94