The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(10)

“There. See that?”

This time I couldn’t miss it. The two shots must have come through the windows. But we were on the second floor. How the hell had the shooter managed two perfect kill shots from outside the house?

I “grabbed the wall,” meaning I walked carefully around the murder tableau and looked out through the windows. There was a pretty brick patio below but no ledge outside the window, no purchase for a shooter to stand and take his shots.

Could the shots have been fired from a neighboring house? Or, more likely, from the top of San Anselmo, two streets over?

I turned back to Clapper. “A sniper,” I said. “A damned good one.”

Clapper was on to the next. He said, “Look over here, Boxer. I’d like to get into that closet.”





CHAPTER 17





CLAPPER AND I didn’t need a search warrant to collect evidence in plain sight.

But incriminating evidence found inside a closed room, or drawer or anything with a lid, would be inadmissible in court if, say, a Baron friend or associate was suspected of having committed a crime. So a closed door was off-limits without a search warrant.

However, there was a loophole: “exigent circumstances.”

If we had reason to believe that another shooter, or possibly an injured person, was hiding in that closet, we had to check it out. It was reasonable, and I felt duty-bound to clear this room of an armed individual before the CSIs entered it.

I pulled my gun, said to Clapper, “On the count of three. One.”

Clapper pulled his gun.

“Two.”

I stood to one side of the door as he said, “Three,” then flipped on the light switch and jerked open the door, using it as a shield.

My heart was pounding hard and fast as, leading with my weapon, I took in all four walls of the closet. I saw nothing but shelves and cubbyholes stuffed with padded envelopes.

“Clear,” I said. “Thank God.” I put my gun away. We gloved up and went in.

A metal cabinet about five feet tall by three feet wide by two feet deep stood at the back of the closet with the doors open. Inside were more padded mailers, some loose glassine envelopes with white powder inside.

Clapper stood beside me. He said, “If they were running a mailbox fentanyl business, we’re talking about big money here.”

I felt sick with a letdown that was hard to understand, let alone explain. I had been feeling sympathy for the Barons. Now I saw what Clapper saw: an addictive drug, a mailbox business. And if the drug was fentanyl, it was addictive and deadly. If the Barons were dealing, I cared a lot less. Still. I’m a cop. Two people were dead on the floor behind me.

I said, “What the hell, Charlie? Possibly millions in drugs and nothing was stolen. These people were professionally assassinated—but why?”

“What’s your theory?” he asked me.

“I see two options. This was a calculated hit, planned and executed by a pro, motive unknown. Or … maybe it was a psycho with a high-powered rifle playing God this morning.

“Either way, shooter braces his rifle on the top of his car, takes a look through the sight. He sees two people he can take out with little to no chance of getting caught. Bang. Bang. Hit man or thrill killer gets back into his car and takes off.”

Clapper said, “And now he’s on his couch, waiting for headline news.”

I didn’t like it either way. Joe would say, “You’ve been on the case for a half hour, Linds. Take it easy on yourself.”

Clapper said, “I’ve got guys out on the road looking for shell casings, a cigarette butt, something.”

“I’ll check on that warrant,” I said.





CHAPTER 18





CONKLIN TEXTED ME: Judge Hoffman signed the ticket.

“We’re good, Charlie,” I said to Clapper. “We own this place.”

I left the Barons’ house by the side door as a half dozen CSIs, carrying kits, lights, cameras, and other accessories of their trade, headed up the front walk.

I remembered that I needed a ride back to the Hall and was about to text my partner when the medical examiner’s van arrived. I waited to exchange a few words with Claire, but the doctor who climbed down from the van was not a busty black woman with a wry comment about the crispy critters in her cold room. This doc was white, dainty, with streaked blond hair and purple eyeglass frames.

I introduced myself, and the pathologist told me her name, Dr. Mary Dugan, and that she was on loan from Metro Hospital until Dr. Washburn returned.

I asked, “I just saw Claire a couple of hours ago. Do you know what this is about?”

“All I know is that Lieutenant Brady called the hospital asking for a pathologist to sub for Dr. Washburn. And here I am.”

It made sense that Claire was probably sacked out at home and would call me when she woke up. I told Dr. Dugan that as soon as she retrieved the slugs from the victims, she should get them to Clapper.

“No problem,” said Dugan.

I gave her my card and was looking up the street when I heard my name. There, behind the tape, was Cindy waving to get my attention.

I waved back and ducked under the tape, and Cindy took me by the arm, saying, “Richie said you could use a ride.”

I laughed out loud. “What a great guy.”