3rd Degree (Women's Murder Club 3)

Something’s happened to Jill! I wanted to scream, but I was afraid to lift my face.

“I’m sorry, too.” He held me close. Then he squeezed me gently by the shoulders and looked into my swollen eyes. “I was with the Department of Justice,” he said, and brushed away a few tears, “when the Trade Towers fell. I knew guys who were killed. Some of the fire chiefs, John O’Neill in Trade Center Security. I was one of the heads of the emergency response team, but when all the names started coming in, people I’d worked with, I couldn’t take it anymore. I went into the men’s room. I knew everything was on the line. But I sat in a stall and cried. There’s no shame.”

I unlocked the front door and we went inside. Molinari made me tea as I sat curled up on the couch, Martha’s chin on my thigh. I didn’t know what I would do if I was alone. He came over and poured it for me. I nestled into him, the tea warming me, his arms draped around my shoulders. And we just sat there for a long time. He was right, too—there’s no shame.

“Thank you,” I sighed into his chest.

“For what? Knowing how to make tea?”

“Just thank you. For not being one of the assholes.” I closed my eyes. For a moment, everything bad was outside, far away from my living room.

The telephone rang. I didn’t want to answer it. For a moment, I was feeling a million miles away and,

selfish as it was, I liked it.

Then I was thinking, What if it’s Jill?

I grabbed the phone and Cindy’s voice came on. “Lindsay, thank God. Something bad’s happened.”

My body clenched. I held on to Molinari. “Jill?”

“No,” she answered, “August Spies.”

Chapter 67

I LISTENED with a sick, sinking feeling as Cindy read me the latest message. “‘You were warned,’ it says. ‘But you were arrogant and didn’t listen. We’re not surprised. You’ve never listened before. So we struck again.’ Lindsay, it’s signed August Spies.”

“There’s been another killing,” I said, turning to Molinari. Then I finished up with Cindy.

The full message said we’d find what we were looking for at 333 Harrison Street, down by the piers in Oakland. It had been exactly three days since Cindy received the first e-mail. August Spies were true to their threats.

I hung up with Cindy and called the Emergency Task Force. I wanted our cops on the scene, and all traffic down to the Oakland port blocked off. I had no idea what type of incident we had or how many lives were involved, so I called Claire and told her to go there, too.

Molinari already had his jacket on and was on the phone. It took me about a minute to get ready. “C’mon,” I said at the door, “you might as well drive with me.”

We were barreling down Third Street toward the bridge with our siren wailing. That time of night there was almost no traffic. It was clear sailing over the Bay Bridge.

Transmissions began to crackle on the radio. Oakland cops had picked up the 911. Molinari and I listened to hear what kind of scene we were dealing with: fire, explosion, multiple injuries?

I shot off the bridge onto 880, getting off at the exit for the port. A police checkpoint had already been set up. Two patrol cars with flashing lights. We pulled up. I saw Cindy’s purple VW being held there. She was arguing with one of the officers.

“Climb in!” I yelled to her. Molinari flashed his badge to a young patrolman, whose eyes bulged. “She’s with us.”

From the exit ramp it was only a short drive down to the port. Harrison Street was right off the piers. Cindy explained how she had received the e-mail. She’d brought a copy, and Molinari read as we drove.

As we neared the port, flashing green and red lights were all over the place. It seemed as if every cop in Oakland was on the scene. “C’mon, we’re getting out here.”

The three of us jumped out and ran toward an old brick warehouse marked 333. Trestles rose into the night. Huge container loads were stacked everywhere. The port of Oakland actually handled the majority of the freight traffic in the Bay Area.

I heard my name being called. Claire, jumping out of her Pathfinder, ran up to us. “What do we have?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said.

Finally I saw an Oakland precinct captain I’d worked with coming out of the building. “Gene!” I ran up to him. With what was going on, I didn’t have to ask.

“The victim’s dumped on the second floor. Single shot to the back of the head.”

Part of me winced, part of me relaxed. At least it was only one.