The 5th Horseman (Women's Murder Club 5)

I opened the envelope that I’d taken from the drawing board in Louie’s living room, took out five thin pages, inscribed from margin to margin in a neat, rounded hand.

“I think she was still writing this when we entered your apartment,” I said. “See, the signature is smudged. The ink was still wet.”

Louie’s mouth was parted. His breathing shallow. His eyes were focused on me.

“Cherry says here, ‘Forgive me, my love, but I can’t live without you. You were the one dream I ever had that came true. . . .’

“Well, this is pretty private,” I said, neatening the pages, folding them back into the envelope. “It almost breaks my heart.”

Louie said, “Tell me what I have to do. I’ll do whatever.”

“Listen to me,” said Montana, putting a hand on Louie’s arm. “Don’t say a word. Let me do my job. Their only witness against you is dead.”

Things got a little crazy suddenly. Louie backhanded his lawyer with a loud crack, sending Montana and his chair crashing to the floor. Blood spouted from Montana’s nose.

I leaped from my seat as Louie stood, clenched his fists, and screamed down at him.

“Don’t you understand, you little turd? I don’t care if I live or die. My life is over. I’m never going to see her again.”

He turned his livid eyes on me. “What do I have to say to get that fucking LETTER?”

“Just tell us what you did.”

“Okay. I said I’ll do it.”

I thought my heart would explode from exhilaration.

I forced my expression to remain neutral even though I was doing jump splits and dancing under a shower of champagne inside my head.

I stepped outside the room to make damned sure that the camera was still rolling. I returned as Conklin was getting Montana back on his feet.

“I’ll call the DA,” I said to Louie. “You can have a copy of the letter. Right after we hear your confession.”

Chapter 92

JACOBI WAS ON A HIGH just thinking about Louie folding into a big, wet heap—feeling fantastic that he’d been on the team that had brought that psycho down. Both psychos.

Now, at 8:00 p.m., he was still working, trying to nail another sicko to the wall.

Maybe a worse one. Possibly the most dangerous killer ever in San Francisco.

He steered the unmarked police car north along Leavenworth, keeping track of Dennis Garza’s black Mercedes sports coupe two cars ahead. The fog swirled up eerily from the pavement even as rain pelted down.

He braked for the red light at Clay, stared at the red-haloed taillights, thinking how Garza seemed to have a pretty damned good life for himself.

So why would he want to screw himself by playing God at the hospital?

As the oncoming traffic lit the interior of the car in front of him, Jacobi was startled to recognize Yuki Castellano driving the Acura that was between him and the Mercedes. What the hell?

Traffic rolled forward, and Jacobi accelerated, keeping both cars in view, his surprise growing into certainty as the Acura followed the Mercedes through every turn. Jacobi considered his two options. Then he flicked on the siren and the grille lights, turning the gray Crown Vic into something that looked and sounded like a demon from hell.

Ahead of him, the young lawyer glanced into her rearview mirror, pulled her car over to the curb.

Jacobi slid the Vic in behind her, called Dispatch, asked for an unmarked car to pick up the surveillance. He read out the Mercedes’ plate number and signed off. Pulled up the collar of his tweed jacket and got out of his car.

He walked up and stooped to the height of the Acura’s passenger window, flashed his light into Yuki’s eyes.

“May I see your driver’s license?” he said.