“In my opinion, that’s unlikely.”

  The judge asked Switzer if he wanted to cross-examine his witness, and Switzer cut his losses and said “no.” However, as he had reserved the right to cross-examine Barbara Sullivan, he asked for her to be called to the stand.

  CHAPTER 40

  FOR THE SECOND time this week, Yuki watched as Barbara Sullivan was wheeled into the courtroom, her leg still extended straight out and encased in plaster. There was a thick bandage over where her eyelid had been sutured closed. She wore a long over-blouse, a dark purple tunic with sleeves that covered her wrists so that almost none of her skin showed, and black pants, one leg slashed along the side seam to accommodate her cast.

  Barbara was wheeled over to the witness stand but remained in her chair. She swore on the Bible to tell the truth.

  Switzer addressed Barbara Sullivan kindly, asked how she was feeling and said he hoped she’d be walking soon. Then he began his cross-examination of his client’s wife, victim, and the person who could put Lewis Sullivan in jail for life.

  Yuki had spent an hour with Barbara preparing her for today’s testimony and she had seemed vague about the beatings. There was nothing Yuki could do but watch, listen, and hope that Barbara would stay focused.

  Now, Switzer was asking her, “You like what is termed rough sex, isn’t that right, Barbara?”

  “There’s fantasy and there’s over the line.”

  “Which is this?”

  Defense counsel read a journal entry by Barbara in which she wrote, “I had another rape dream. I couldn’t see the man’s face as he was hurting me. He said he knew that I liked my hair pulled hard. I woke up in a sweat.”

  Switzer showed the small black canvas-covered book to Barbara and asked, “Did you write this?”

  Barbara said, “I don’t remember. That’s my dream diary.”

  “If not you, who would write in your dream diary?”

  Barbara said, “I don’t remember if I wrote it, but if I did, it was about a dream. It says that, doesn’t it?”

  “How about this? Is this your handwriting?”

  Switzer showed Barbara an enlarged photo of the basement wall taken after the time Barbara was tied down and tortured. The photo clearly showed the words in slanted block lettering, ‘I love you,’ written in blood. Switzer said, “Looks like the handwritten entry in your journal.”

  Yuki stood. “Objection, your honor. Handwriting is an unreliable indicator when used to match with other samples. This is especially true when one sample is written with a pen on paper and the other, written on wallpaper with a finger dipped in blood. I move to exclude.”

  The judge said, “So ordered.”

  Switzer shrugged off the objection and continued his cross-examination. “You’re comfortable in the role of victim, isn’t that right, Barbara? Wouldn’t you say that you actually crave victimhood?”

  Yuki objected on the grounds that counsel was leading the witness. Badgering her, too.

  The judge sustained the objection and cautioned Switzer not to put his thoughts into the witness’s mouth.

  Smooth as ever, Switzer stepped over to his table, looked at a note and returned with an object in hand.

  “If it pleases your honor, the defense wishes to introduce this bread knife into evidence as Exhibit X.”

  Yuki recognized the bread knife recovered from the Sullivans’ basement. It had been processed by the crime lab, had Barbara’s blood and fingerprints on the handle. Lewis Sullivan’s prints were also on the knife.

  Switzer said, “This is your bread knife, isn’t it?”

  “It looks like one of our kitchen knives.”

  Switzer said, “So, it would be yours, isn’t that right?”

  Barbara said, “That looks like our knife, but I’m not sure. I have brain damage. From what he did.”

  Switzer said, “Thank you, Mrs. Sullivan,” and to the judge, “We have nothing further for the witness.”

  Yuki thought, this cross-examination has been a big nothing for the defense, but the jury has had another look at Barbara, who looked pitiful. Still, Switzer had drilled down on Sullivan’s defense. My wife made me do it.

  Yuki said, “Your Honor, redirect.”

  “Go ahead, Ms. Castellano.”

  CHAPTER 41

  YUKI HOPED BARBARA Sullivan would be able to handle another round of testimony. Given her condition, antagonistic questions from the opposition had surely disturbed her.

  Yuki got up from the counsel table and crossed the well to the witness stand.

  Barbara looked dazed. Yuki smiled and asked her how she was doing. After hesitation, the injured woman said, “I’m okay. Considering.”

  “This won’t take long,” Yuki said, hoping that she wasn’t over-promising.

  “Barbara,” she said, “do you remember if Lewis ever beat you before the incident that hospitalized you?”

  “Yes,” Barbara said in a soft, sibilant voice. “I was allowed back into our house last night. It was the first time since … what happened. I got some clean things from the closet and memories began to come back to me.”

  Switzer objected to the introduction of new testimony.

  Before the judge could rule on Switzer’s BS objection—meant only to break Yuki’s rhythm and interrupt Barbara’s distractible train of thought—there was a disruption from an unexpected source. Juror number three, Mrs. Doris Caro, clapped her hands to her chest and slid from her seat onto the floor of the jury box.

  The court officers went directly to the fallen woman, one of them calling 911. Judge Froman adjourned the court until Monday morning and ordered the courtroom cleared. Yuki and Nick Gaines went to the witness stand and, assisted by the bailiff, carefully helped wheel Barbara out of the courtroom.

  Yuki knew that a car and driver were waiting for Barbara outside the Hall in the All-Day parking lot across the street. Lew Sullivan called his wife’s name. She turned her head in his direction and Yuki leaned down to Barbara’s ear.

  “Not now, Barbara. You can’t speak to him while the trial is ongoing. It’s not part of our strategy. Nicky, let’s get Barbara downstairs.”

  Yuki was thinking that, in a minute, the paramedics would be coming up the elevator with a stretcher for Juror number three. She had to get Barbara into her car before anyone—the press, another witness—spoke to her client. She stabbed the call button and pictured getting Barbara into the elevator without banging her leg against the wall.

  She would get Barbara safely into the elevator and then into the car across the street before Switzer called for a mistrial. With Nick’s help. So help her, God.

  CHAPTER 42

  CINDY WAS PLEASANTLY exhausted. It was 9:30 p.m. and she’d had a wonderful event at the Writer’s Block.

  Now she stood in the hall outside her room at the Legend Hotel, just off the strip. She’d asked Stefan the bellman if he’d mind going through her room before her, and he’d said, “Not a problem.” He checked the bathroom, pulled open the curtains, looked under the bed and inside the narrow closet.

  Cindy chattered as Stefan secured the room, saying, “I’m a writer, you know. I have a vivid imagination.”

  “It’s okay, Miss. Happy to do it.”

  She thought about Blackout and how Richie and Lindsay had worried her and pleaded with her not to go on any trips, pointing to the killings after her speeches. Damn. She wished they could have seen her today.

  When the bellhop finished checking every conceivable hiding spot, he showed her the wine cooler and the temperature controls and that to reach security she’d only need to call 05 on the landline. She thanked him and gave him a twenty-dollar bill. Secure in her room with its very mid-twentieth-century furnishings, Cindy found a news station on the TV and got ready for bed.

  Only when she was wearing her nightgown and ensconced in the Cal King bed with a lot of pillows did she call Richie. He didn’t answer, which was odd. At this time of night, he was usually falling asleep in front of the TV. She left a message saying she was going to sleep and would see him at the San Francisco airport tomorrow morning at ten.

  Cindy set the alarm and called the desk for a 7:00 a.m. wake-up call and texted her driver to make sure he would be on time. She got out of bed to double-check the door locks and memorized the directions to the fire exit and brought back a glass of ice water before turning out all of the lights again.

  Outside her window, raindrops fell and the neon-lit strip made a silent, blinking light show through the curtains. Very quickly Cindy fell sound asleep.

  And then she was awake.

  There had been a sound, not very loud, maybe someone in an adjacent room had closed a door or bumped against the wall. She listened and the sound came again. It was a knock at her door. And she heard a man’s voice call her name.

  Cindy took the receiver off the hook and felt for the zero five buttons that would call help when a man’s voice called out.

  “Cindy, it’s me.”

  Oh, my God. It was Richie.

  Or was it?

  “Rich?”

  “Let me in, Cindy, before security shows me out.”

  She peered through the peephole. Richie was outside her door, alone, his hair falling over his eyes.

  “Hang on,” she said.

  Leaving the chain in its track, she cracked the door and looked into Rich’s big brown eyes.

  “Surprise, honey. Do you know me now? Or do you want to see my badge?”

  She opened the door fully and once Richie was inside the room and had re-locked the door, she threw her arms around his neck.

  “You okay?” he said between kisses.

  “Feel my heart. Feel it. I’m fine except that between you and Lindsay, I’m a freaking scaredy cat like never before.”

  “Well, I’m really happy to see you.”

  “I think I’m mad at you for scaring me.”

  Rich swooped Cindy up into his arms and she tucked her head between his neck and shoulder as her lover carried her across the shag carpeting to the bed. He put her down and kissed her again.

  “We’re just begging you to use common sense.”

  “I am using common sense and also keeping my commitment to my publisher. I’m doing great. I wish you could have seen me tonight.”

  “God, you’re frustrating,” he said sitting on the side of the bed. He took off his shoes and socks, stood, shed his jacket, tie, shirt, and pants, then got into the bed in the dimly lit room. He turned to Cindy and their arms went around each other.

  “You’re so crazy,” she said, her voice cracking running her hands down his body. “I had to do this, you understand?”

  “Don’t stop,” he said.

  She laughed and he handled her in the ways he knew she loved. There was so much adrenaline streaming through her and at the same time there were clashing images in her mind of strangers knocking at the door, and then, in a rush, all of her fear was replaced by this man she loved.

  She told him. He told her. They made love with flashing neon signs lighting the curtains and Cindy, breathless, managed to say, “I’ve never—I love you, Richie.”

  CHAPTER 43

  I’D SLEPT IN short bursts broken by bad dreams featuring Blackout’s Ruger pointed between my eyes. The last time my eyes flashed open, it was 5:10 a.m., and there was no sleep left in me. I got myself and my good dog, Martha, ready for a Saturday workday. I made oatmeal with bananas for me and left Martha and a box of dog biscuits with my neighbor, Mrs. Rose. Then I drove to the Hall.

  Blackout’s trailer of “coming attractions” had jacked up my anxiety and I couldn’t do a thing about it. He was somewhere in his cycle, about to make a kill or he’d already done it.

  I texted Cindy and got no reply. Presumably, she was on the flight from Vegas on her way home.

  I was at my desk by seven thirty, grousing to Alvarez about Blackout’s damned email teasing us about a murder on his to-do list without a hint of who he had in his sights, where or when this killing would happen.

  She said, “He’s a ghoul, Lindsay. Insatiable. With special powers.”

  “Got any ideas, Sonia? I’m wide-open to even the wildest theories.”

  “I’ll keep you posted.”

  “Coffee?”

  “Thanks, no. I’m good.”

  I went to the break room, returned with a full mug, a couple of Cappy’s homemade peanut butter cookies, and Cappy himself.

  “Where’s Richie?” I asked.

  Cappy shrugged and took Conklin’s chair.

  I told him, “Blackout’s working on a new video.”

  Cappy said, “Brady was just filling me in on his take. That Blackout’s a classic malignant narcissist.”

  “Exactly. He says he’s creating a video masterpiece but provided no details. He’s keeping me in suspense, hanging me upside down from the rafters.”

  Cappy said, “So, it’s all about making the videos and getting a reaction. What’s the story on the lady in red?”

  I pushed a sheet of paper over to him that had Beth Welky’s particulars: married Seattle homemaker with two children under five, food-bank volunteer with no connection to books or bookstores or Cindy. She had been vacationing in Pasadena, jogging through the Fuller Theological Seminary, where she was killed.

  Cappy said, “Murder of convenience?”

  Alvarez said, “Maybe he was meeting a quota.”

  I said, “I see a connection to Cindy or through her to Burke. Killings happen after she makes a speech about the Burke book. The Burke book was found in Ralph Hammer’s car. The Fleet murders mimicked the murders of Tara and Lorrie Burke. Cindy is the world expert on Evan Burke. I can’t help but worry about her.”

  And yet Blackout had not contacted Cindy, nor sent her a video.

  Burke had done that. And the last time I’d checked, he was securely confined in maximum security at the Q.

  CHAPTER 44

  BY SATURDAY NOON Team Blackout was working hard and in concert. Brady had drafted Inspectors Billy Michaels and Tyler Wang to the task force, and I assigned them to Jacob Johnston’s case, the only murder I could not tie to the rest.

  I spoke with Tom Mancuso, lead investigator in Corte Madera, who was doggedly spinning his wheels on the Ralph Hammer case. Brad Fleet called twice asking for an update on the murders of his wife and child. The second time, he was crying.

  I had nothing for him.

  Lieutenant Rick Martinez, primary on the Beth Welky homicide, checked in. “Her killer left nothing on her body,” he said. “The bastard lured her in and killed her, leaving not a trace. No witnesses, no prints, no saliva, nothing under her nails.

  “I interviewed her friends and family. There were no reports of a stalker or an abusive husband. It was unanimous. Beth Welky was a bundle of goodness. Good mother, devout, made sandwiches for the homeless and handed out five-dollar bills to them, too. I’ve got no leads beyond your video and that takes me nowhere.”

  We worked through lunch and I checked my email again and again. At around four, Cappy gave his report on Marvin Bender, the dude who’d been caught on surveillance tape in two bookstores where Cindy had given a reading.

  Cappy said, “Bender’s coworkers say he’s an SOB. He’s touchy and mean, divorced with no friends and locked in an ongoing dispute with a neighbor about parking and garbage-can placement. Neighbor hates him. Otherwise, Bender is an average Joe.”

  An average Joe now awaiting arraignment for attempting to flee the SFPD. Still in jail. Still a suspect.

  I turned to my screen as I’d done a hundred times today.

  This time there was an email with the subject line reading, “Sergeant Boxer. Are you ready?”

  I told Cappy who said, “I’ll get Brady. Alvarez is in the break room.”

  When I entered the break room, Alvarez looked up from the Mr. Coffee machine.

  I said, “I’ve got mail.”

  Alvarez said, “I feel sick,” and followed me back to our desks where she and Cappy walked two chairs-on-wheels over to mine, pinning me in on both sides.

  “Hit it,” said Brady.

  I had the same hollow feeling I got whenever entering a blood-spattered crime scene. Dread. I braced, feeling faint at the thought of watching another murder through Blackout’s eyes.

  CHAPTER 45

  BLACKOUT’S UNTRACEABLE EMAIL came with the “Are you ready?” subject line and a video attachment. I pressed Play and without preamble, my partners and I were peering through a windshield into a dark and hazy night. The car’s parking lights lit up the broken yellow line in the center of what appeared to be a secondary road. Raindrops fell intermittently on the glass and the wipers came on. Blackout saw no streetlights or road signs or traffic so neither did we.

  Blackout glanced at his dashboard. We saw mileage, speed, and the time: 63,072 miles, fifty mph, 9:32, and the gas tank was half full. Was he in California? None of us could tell.

  Blackout’s eerie electronic voice came over the speaker. He said, “I don’t understand what happened.”

  Our view changed as a flashlight switched on inside the car and Blackout rotated his head to look at the passenger sitting beside him. I started making screenshots of the video, capturing the image of the passenger. He was white, looked to be in his mid-twenties, with dark, medium-length hair. It was hard to judge his height and build, but I guessed him to be an average six-footer, 180 or so. He wore a dark sweatshirt with a hood down on his shoulders.

  “He looks pissed,” said Cappy.

  Blackout’s eyes swung back to the road. His gloved hands were in the “9 and 3” position on the wheel.

  We watched raindrops and a broken yellow line as the passenger spoke, his voice also digitized.

  “I was walking home after work. I hitched a ride from a guy in a pickup truck but when I opened the door, I didn’t like his looks, so I changed my mind and got out.”

 

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