“The returning hero.” The rotund CSU man stood up and smiled. “A little bent over at the waist, but otherwise you look okay.”
“Charlie,” I said, “how long until we have a match on the gun?”
“Gun…?” He screwed his brow.
“Coombs’s gun. How long until we can match it up against the piece that killed Mercer?”
“It’s a little late, gorgeous, if you’re trying to narrow down your suspects. I’d start with the dude on Claire’s slab.”
“When, Charlie?” I shot back. “How long ’til you get a match?”
“Maybe Wednesday.” He shrugged. “We’ve got to scan the inside of the gun, get a reading on the—”
“Tomorrow, Charlie,” I said. “I need it by tomorrow.”
“Lindsay,” he said, looking a little confused, “what the hell is going on?”
I turned to Claire, a swallow of bile making an unpleasant retreat into my chest. “We have to bring this upstairs.”
We grabbed an elevator up to the fifth floor. I was so dumbfounded and racked with emotions, I hardly felt the pain shooting through my side. We barged into Acting Chief Tracchio’s office. He was scribbling at his desk.
“What are you doing here?” he exclaimed. “You should be home. Good God, Lieutenant, if anyone has a well-earned leave coming to them—”
I stopped him in midsentence. Then I told him what Claire had found. Suddenly, Tracchio looked as if he had swallowed a mouthful of bad oysters.
“I don’t buy this, Lieutenant,” he said. “You solved the case. It’s over.”
“You may not buy it,” Claire said firmly, “but I’ve never been so sure of anything in my professional life. There is no way Coombs could’ve pulled off those shots.”
“But this is all speculation,” Tracchio objected. “The links to the Sikes killing… Coombs’s Chimera background… his qualifications with weapons. These are all facts. Your facts, Lieutenant.” He wagged his finger at me, stabbing me point by point with my own analysis. “No one else could possibly fit that profile. I can’t argue with your conclusions, Dr. Washburn, but eliminating Coombs…”
“We can test his DNA against the sample of skin we found under Estelle Chipman’s nails,” Claire replied, “which is what I’m going to do. But I’ll bet my reputation against yours, they don’t match.”
“In the meantime, we have to reopen the case,” I said.
“Reopen the case?” Tracchio gasped. “I’m not going to give any such order.”
“If Chimera’s still out there,” I pressed, “he could be planning another hit right now. I suspect that he is.”
“Only yesterday,” Tracchio blurted, “you were one hundred percent sure Coombs was Chimera.”
“That was yesterday,” I said. “We told you why it’s changed. Right now I’m about one hundred percent sure Coombs isn’t Chimera.”
“What you’ve told me is medical speculation. I want solid proof. Get me the DNA check.”
“That could take days,” Claire said. “A week…”
“Then match the ballistics,” Tracchio ordered. “Chief Mercer was killed with a thirty-eight. I’ll guarantee you Clapper will show it was the same gun.”
“I’m on it. But in the meantime—”
“There is no meantime, Lieutenant. As far as I’m concerned, you did one hell of a job. Put your own life on the line. What you should be on now is medical leave, not trying to start another investigation.”
Claire and I looked at each other.
Then Tracchio picked up a few papers, the way figures of authority learn to do to communicate that a meeting is over. Fuck him.
Back in the hallway, I looked at Claire. “I’m about to bring the whole city down on us. You better be damn sure.”
“Course I’m sure,” she replied. “What are you going to do?”
“I’m going to wait for ballistics, Claire. And pray that nothing happens in between. I’m also putting everybody back on the investigation.”
Chapter 108
“CINDY THOMAS, is that you?”
Aaron Winslow almost couldn’t believe what his eyes were telling him. When Cindy opened the door to her apartment, she was wearing a tailored black pantsuit, sling-back heels, a solitaire diamond necklace. Directly behind her, he could see her dining room—lit candles, china, silver flatware, and crystal.
Cindy stepped forward and gave Aaron a kiss. Then she pulled away. God, she did look stunning. She was absolutely radiant tonight.
“All right, I have a confession to make,” she said. “The Armani suit belongs to my friend Jill, the lawyer. So do the Ferragamo shoes. If I spill anything on the Armani, or as much as scuff the shoes, she’ll never talk to me again.”
Cindy smiled and took Aaron’s hand.
“Come in. Don’t be too afraid. Even though I am. Tonight we celebrate the end of a horrible siege and a terrible man.”
Aaron had started to laugh. “You certainly look beautiful for the celebration.”
Cindy continued to beam. “Yes, and I prepared almond-crusted chicken, a romaine salad, orzo pasta with peas and mint. Unfortunately, the chicken happens to be one of only three dinners I know how to make.”
“Your honesty is refreshing,” Aaron said. “Who belongs to the china and crystal?”
Cindy laughed out loud as she led him into the dining room. Jeez, she felt a little like Bridget Jones.
“Believe it or not, the china and crystal is all mine. My mother has been giving me prewedding gifts since I was eighteen. I thought Wedgwood and Waterford would be perfect for our special night. The grub is ready. Let’s do it.”
“May I help you serve the feast?” Aaron asked.
“That would be just perfect. Like everything else tonight.”
Everything was, actually, and a few minutes later they were seated at the dining table with the delicious-looking food in front of them.
Cindy tapped her wineglass. “I want to make a toast,” she said.
Just then, Aaron saw a reflection moving in the mirror over the sideboard behind Cindy. His heart fell. Not again; not here.
“Cindy, no!” he screamed. Suddenly he was out of his chair and he dove headfirst across the dining table. He only hoped he was in time.
He took Cindy and most of her china and crystal down. Everything hit the floor with a crash just as the first shot shattered the dining room window. Several more shots followed in quick succession. Trailer fire. Chimera was here. He was coming for them now.
Cindy had the presence of mind to grab the cord and pull the phone off the console in the hallway. She pressed the number four on her quick dial, then speaker, and she heard Lindsay’s voice.
“He’s here at my apartment. He’s shooting at Aaron and me!” she screamed over the phone. “Chimera is here and he’s still shooting!”
Chapter 109
THIS COULDN’T BE HAPPENING, but it was.
I called for all available units, then I rushed to Cindy’s apartment. I got there as fast as humanly possible. Maybe a little faster. I saw Cindy and Aaron standing on the front porch. Half a dozen patrol cars were parked all around the house. But they were still targets, weren’t they?
My hands were clutched tightly as I ran to her. I hugged Cindy, and she was still trembling badly. I’d never seen her look so vulnerable, so afraid and lost.
“Thank God a patrol car was here in minutes, Lindsay. It either scared him off or he was gone already.”
“Are you all right?” I turned my attention to Aaron. He and Cindy both had stains all over their clothes. It looked as if they’d had a food fight. What the hell had happened here?
“Aaron saved me,” Cindy said in a whisper. He just shook his head and held Cindy’s hand. There was a tenderness between them that touched me a great deal.
“He’s losing it,” I muttered, more to myself than to either of them. Whoever Chimera was, he was in a rage. Obviously, he wanted to hurt me, or anyone I was close to. Or maybe he was
offended by the idea of Aaron Winslow and Cindy. That could be part of it. He wasn’t planning his hits as carefully now; he was reckless and rattled, but still very dangerous.
And he was out there somewhere. Maybe even watching us right now.
“C’mon, let’s go back inside,” I said.
“Why, Lindsay?” asked Cindy. “That’s where he shot at us. Who the hell is this guy? What does he want?”
“I don’t know, Cindy. Please go inside, sweetie.”
Inspectors were already checking where the shots had come from. CSU was after the caliber of the weapon. But I knew. And I knew that it was him: Chimera.
I’m still here, he was telling us. Telling me.
Warren Jacobi’s blue Ford pulled up, and I watched him get out and hurry over to me. “The two of them okay?”
“Yeah. They’re inside now. Jesus, Warren. This has something to do with me. It has to.”
I rested my head on his shoulder for a second. Tears welled in my eyes, and I felt them come. They ran down my cheeks, hot and stinging.
“I’m gonna kill this guy,” I whispered.
Jacobi held me even tighter. Good old Warren.
We were back at zero. I had no idea who it was. I didn’t know where we would start to look for him.
A black Lincoln Town Car wound its way along the barricaded street and swooshed up to the curb. The door opened, and a grim-faced Chief Tracchio stepped out, surveying the shooting scene.
He caught my eye with a guilty swallow, the flashing lights of the crime scene reflected on his glasses.
I glared at him. Proof enough?
Chapter 110
THE NEXT MORNING, half of Homicide banged our heads together in the conference room, reexamining every piece of evidence, every assumption we had made. As the meeting was ending, I took Jacobi aside. “One other thing, Warren. I want you to look at something for me. Make certain that Tom Keating really is in a wheelchair.”
By one o’clock, I had to take a break. I needed thinking outside the box. We weren’t seeing something.
I had to talk to the girls, so I called them together for a quick lunch at the Rialto, across the street from the Hall. Even Cindy said she was coming. She insisted on it.
When she arrived at the Rialto everybody hugged her, and tears came into our eyes. None of us could believe Chimera had gone after Cindy and Aaron—but he certainly had.
“This is crazy,” I said as we huddled around a table, nibbling at salads and calzones. “Everything matched. Coombs’s past, Chimera, the incident in Bay View. Everything pointed there. We can’t be wrong.”
“What you need to do first,” Claire cautioned, “is take the pressure off yourself. It’s horrible, what’s happened. But we can’t get too emotional.”
“I know that.” I exhaled. “It’s probably what the killer wants. Jesus.”
Jill shuffled in her seat. “Listen, Coombs has to be at the center of this. Too many things check out. He may not have pulled the trigger, but what if he got someone else to? What about those asshole buddies of his in South San Francisco?”
“Two are still missing,” I said, “but my gut tells me no. Oh hell, I don’t know anymore. Everybody in Homicide is stumped. Coombs was one madman. Who the hell is the other one?”
“You checked everything you found in his hotel room?” Cindy asked. She had been unusually quiet until then.
“Checked, double-checked,” I replied.
For what seemed like the tenth time, my mind went to the tiny, disheveled hotel room—the suitcase full of Coombs’s prison things, the clippings stashed under his mattress, the numbers on the desk, his letters…
Except this time, something hit….
Cindy was asking if we had ever considered the possibility that someone was trying to set Coombs up, but I didn’t respond. My mind was elsewhere… rooted back in that dingy hotel room. The line of beer cans and cigarette butts on the sill above the bed. Something else there. I had never given it a second thought. I squinted into space, trying to visualize the sight. Then I saw what I was looking for—and what I might have missed.
“Lindsay?” Claire cocked her head. “Everything all right?”
“Earth to Lindsay…,” Jill taunted.
Cindy put her hand on my wrist. “Lindsay, what’s going on?”
I grabbed my bag and stood up. “We’ve got to get back to the Hall. I think I just figured something out.”
Chapter 111
EVIDENCE TAKEN INTO CUSTODY is kept under lock and key in a storage room in the basement of the Hall.
Fred Karl, the day duty officer, looked a little annoyed at the four of us. “This isn’t a social room,” he grumbled, pushing a clipboard in my direction and pressing a button that opened the chain-link gate. “You and Ms. Bernhardt can sign and go in. These other two, they’ll have to wait out here.”
“Arrest us, Fred,” I said, waving everyone through.
The contents of Coombs’s hotel room had been placed in large storage bins near the back. I led the girls to the spot and hung my jacket on a ledge as I pulled a couple of bins down from the shelf coded with Coombs’s case number. I started rummaging through the contents.
“Would you mind telling me just what the hell we’re looking for?” Jill asked, seeming annoyed. “What the hell didn’t I see?”
“You saw it perfectly,” I said as I pawed through Frank Coombs’s effects. “So did I. But neither of us put it together at the time. Look at this.”
As if it were a silver chalice, I picked up the polished brass trophy of a prone sharpshooter aiming a rifle. 50 Meter Straight Target Champion, the inscription plate read. That was what I remembered from the first time I saw the trophy.
But the name above it changed everything.
Frank L. Coombs… not Frank C. Francis Laurence, not Francis Charles.
Rusty Coombs… The trophy had been awarded to Coombs’s son.
All of a sudden, every assumption and insight changed for me. Maybe because of all the paperwork I had looked at recently, Coombs Sr.’s full name had sunk into my consciousness.
Frank C. was the father, Frank L. the son.
“I’m not my father,” I remembered Rusty Coombs saying. I could see his face now, the convincing act he’d put on for Jacobi and me.
“It’s the son,” I whispered.
Jill sat back on the floor, stunned. “You’re telling me, Lindsay, these horrifying murders were committed by Coombs’s son? The boy at Stanford?”
Cindy blurted, “I thought he hated his father. I thought they hadn’t been in touch.”
“So did I,” I said. “He fooled everyone, didn’t he?”
We stood there, seeking one another’s eyes in the dim basement room. Did the new theory work? Did it stand up to scrutiny? My mind flashed again—the white van. The getaway car from Tasha Catchings’s murder… It had been stolen from Mountain View. Palo Alto and Mountain View were only a few minutes apart.
“The owner of the white van,” I said, “taught anthropology at a community college down there. He said he took on students from other schools. Sometimes, some of the jocks…”
All of a sudden, things were fitting into place. “Maybe one of them was Rusty Coombs?”
Chapter 112
I HURRIED BACK UPSTAIRS. The first thing I did was place a call to Professor Stasic at Mountain View Junior College. I was only able to get his voice mail. I left an urgent message for him to call me.
I punched the name Francis L. Coombs into the CCI databank computer. The father’s old conviction came up, but nothing on the son. No criminal record.
I felt that if the kid was cold enough to do these terrible crimes, he had to be in the system somewhere. I typed his name in the juvie databank. These records were sealed, unable to be used in a court, but we had access. After a few seconds, a file shot back. A long one… I blinked at the screen.
Rusty Coombs had had run-ins with the law at least seven times from the time he was thirteen.
>
In 1992, he’d been brought before a juvie court for shooting a neighbor’s dog with a pellet gun.
A year later, he’d been indicted for criminal mischief for killing a goose in a corporate park.
At age fifteen, he and a friend had been charged with desecrating a public place for spray painting a synagogue with anti-Semitic slogans.
He had been charged, but not convicted, with throwing beer bottles through a neighbor’s window. The complainant was black.
He was alleged to be part of a high school gang, the Kott Street Boys, known for race-based attacks on blacks, Latinos, and Asians.
One after another, I read on, stunned. Finally, I called Jacobi into my office. I laid the whole thing out for him. Rusty Coombs’s violent past. His name on the marksmanship trophy. The stolen van in Mountain View, not that far from Palo Alto.
“Obviously, they’ve seriously relaxed the admission requirements at Stanford since I applied.” Jacobi snorted.
“No jokes, Warren. Please. So what do you think? I’m losing it, right? Am I crazy?”
“Not so crazy we shouldn’t pay the kid another visit,” he said.
There were other things we could do to be sure. We could wait and see if Coombs Sr.’s DNA matched what was found under Estelle Chipman’s nails. But that took time. The more I thought about it, the more Rusty Coombs made sense.
My brain was buzzing now. A tremor of recognition reverberated through me. “Oh my God, Warren… the white chalk…”
Jacobi leaned forward and narrowed his eyes. “What about it?”
“The white powder Clapper found at two of the scenes.” I recalled an image of Rusty Coombs, his freckled face and wide lineman’s shoulders in a sweaty Cardinals T-shirt. The epitome of a superior kid who’d turned his life around, right?
“Remember when we met him?”
“Sure, the gym at Stanford.”
“He was lifting weights. What do weight lifters use, Warren, to hold on to the bar so it doesn’t slip?” I stood up. My mind settled on the vivid image of Rusty Coombs rubbing his thick, white hands together.
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