The 9th Judgment (Women's Murder Club 9)

“I’m a lawyer, too, remember, and I’m telling you Marcus didn’t do it. Marc totally loved Casey. He thought she was a riot. He said he’d never had a boring moment in the four years he was married to her. Ben and I went over to Marc’s house last night, and he was devastated. He said he was dying from grief. And even if he was fooling around, he wouldn’t have left Casey. He certainly wouldn’t have—I can’t even say it.”

“Would Casey have divorced him?”

Sue Emdin sighed. “I don’t know. Maybe. She told me that if she found out he was cheating, she’d leave him.”

“When did she say that?”

“Tuesday night.”

“Sue, Casey was killed on Wednesday.”

“Look somewhere else, Yuki. Trust me on this. It was that cat burglar. Marcus didn’t do it.”

Chapter 32

PETE GORDON WAS hunting along the Embarcadero, the eastern roadway that fronts the bay, running from 2nd and King, past the Ferry Building, and north under the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge, an artery traveled by locals and tourists alike. People flowed around him on foot, on bike, on skateboard, as the setting sun licked at the indigo sky.

Pete had picked his target outside the Ferry Building, a reed-thin blonde wearing a hooded black Windbreaker over her long black skirt, her clothes billowing and snapping in the breeze. Made him think of a woman in a burka.

The thin blonde was pushing a kiddo in a stroller, a calm child in pink who seemed to be taking in the travelers getting off the ferry and fanning out through the marketplace.

Pete followed the black-cloaked blonde through the farmer’s market, watching her pick out one loaf of bread, one head of lettuce, and one fish fillet. He stayed on her tail as she left the market, plastic bags looped over her wrists, not talking to her daughter, who in some way seemed to be in charge.

When his target got to the intersection of Market and Spear, she headed toward the BART entrance. She tilted the stroller up and stepped onto the down escalator, and Pete knew it was time. He gripped his gun in his right hand, the whole of it buried in his pocket, and followed her off the moving stairway.

“Miss? Ma’am?” he shouted. The third time he called her, she whipped her head around and shot him a look: What is it?

He ducked his head and gave her a shy smile. “I’m supposed to meet a friend at the corner of California. I’ve, uh, gotten lost.”

The woman stared at him and said, “I can’t help you,” and pushed the stroller out from the arch toward the entrance to the underground.

“Hey, thanks, lady!” Pete yelled out. “I appreciate the fucking time of day.”

Hands jammed in his pockets, Pete continued north. It wasn’t over yet. He wondered if his expression had given him away. Had he looked too eager? Too raw?

It hadn’t been this way in Iraq. And he wouldn’t mess up here.

He was steady. He was focused. He had a mission.

And he would accomplish it.

Chapter 33

AS PETE WALKED into the crosswind, he was remembering PFC Kenneth Marshall’s last day.

Pete had been in the lead vehicle on the dusty road just outside Haditha, his men in a caravan behind him. They were within forty meters of a cluster of houses when the car bomb exploded, blowing Corporal Lennar out of the last vehicle in the line, separating Kenny Marshall from his legs.

Pete loved Kenny like a brother. He was a smart kid with dimples and a picture of Jesus inside his helmet. He played kick-the-can with the enemy kiddos, gave them rations, believed in the mission—to bring freedom to Iraq. Kenny liked to say that when it was his time, God would find him wherever he was.

After God called Kenny, after the IED killed this good American son and soldier, after the troops in Captain Peter Gordon’s command came out of their crouches, they looked to Pete for orders. It was easy. He did it by the book. His book.

Pete was sure he knew who had remotely triggered the IED. They were in the car behind the Humvee that Kenny had been driving. The next minutes were so vivid, he could smell the cordite and the dust and the fear even now. He could still hear his enemies scream as he shot them.

Now, on this cool evening in San Francisco, Pete Gordon gripped the gun inside his jacket pocket as he stalked the Embarcadero. He came to an alley between Sansome and Battery that was set up with plastic tables and chairs. A young mother was cleaning up after eating there with her bawler.

Petey followed Young Mom and her kiddo into the mall at the ground level of 1 EC, past the pastry shop and the Italian restaurant, up the escalator to the movie theater that stood apart and alone, anchoring the dead end at the western part of the second floor.

Mom was sitting on a bench, gazing at the movie posters, combing her baby’s hair with her fingers. It was between shows, and they had the place to themselves.