14th Deadly Sin (Women's Murder Club 14)

“And were they able to contribute anything?”

“Nothing useful. I found the autopsy report. Like your victim who was stabbed in the back outside her father’s diner, this girl was also stabbed from behind. The first or second blows were fatal, but the killer kept going. Stabbed her all over her back, arms, buttocks—thirty-five separate wounds.

“Based on the shape and depth of the wounds, the weapon was probably a paring knife, but it wasn’t found. Again, no witnesses, no evidence—and because there were no leads, and no friends or relatives stepping forward putting pressure on the police, and there were a whole lot of open cases at that time, this one went cold.”

I understood. I might even have been aware of this crime. All murder cases should be worked and solved. But there’s not enough manpower, not enough time, and some cases just don’t get solved.

I said, “Whoever killed these women is smart, aware of cameras and bystanders and what constitutes forensic evidence. The victims were all women, and it looks like the five you’ve identified were all killed by a common type of knife that is never left behind.”

“Agreed, Linds. Add all that to the date they were all killed, May twelfth. And that’s why I suspect one person killed the five of them.”

“So you conclude what about the killer?”

“If my theory is right, this dude didn’t know his victims,” said Joe. “He chose these women because the circumstances were favorable to him. And whatever his motive for murder, he was driven to kill violently. This is a guess, but I’d say he was mad as hell. He kills people he doesn’t know in a ferocious rage.”

“Yeah, I can see that. And since he kills in daylight, and no one sees him, he’s got a cloak of invisibility.”

“I decided to leave something for you to figure out.”

“Awww. Thanks.”

My husband patted my thigh. “I believe my work here is done. Let’s go to bed.”

CHAPTER 30

AT QUARTER TO eight the next morning, my partner and I met in the break room and made coffee. Conklin’s face was lined from sleeping facedown, and I’m sure I looked like I’d gotten no sleep at all. Which was true.

When Julie wasn’t calling for something, Martha was edging me off my side of the bed.

And then there were my vivid, disturbing dreams about Maya Perez, in which she begged me not to let her die. I knew enough pop-culture dream analysis to know that I was Maya in that dream and I didn’t want to die or let anything hurt my baby.

Conklin and I sugared our coffees and went to our computers. I took A to M and he took N to Z as we started going through Human Resources files looking for “sore thumbs.” That was what we were calling disgruntled cops who’d been demoted or dropped or had stalled in dead-end careers—the type of malcontent who might risk life in a federal pen without chance of parole in return for a quick payday.

We found plenty of sore thumbs, none of them named Juan, but every last one of them had guns and a navy-blue Windbreaker with white letters across the chest and back spelling out SFPD.

At eight thirty Brady called us into his office.

One look at him and I knew it was Groundhog Day. Just as he’d been every day this week, Brady was grouchy.

I almost said “What now?” but I kept my mouth shut.

Brady said, “I’m sorry I’ve been a pain in the ass.”

What? Say that again?

“Jacobi thinks the whole station is going down the tubes This is between us three, OK?”

“OK,” Conklin said. “What’s happened?”

Brady said, “In the past year, a half dozen drug dealers have been shot in crack houses and stash pads all across the city. The cash and the drugs disappear, never to be seen again. Word on the street is that the robbers are cops.”

No wonder Brady was pissed. There was a bad cop epidemic. And we were just about the last to know.

I said, “Are you thinking these cops who’re ripping off drug dealers could be the same rogue cops we’re looking at for the check-cashing stores?”

“Could be, or maybe not. We’ve got no surveillance of the shooters, of course, and no one’s naming names. I’m just saying, keep this in mind.”

When I got back to my desk, there was a note on my chair, handwritten on my own FROM THE DESK OF LINDSAY BOXER notepad.