cover

CONTENTS

About the Book
About the Authors
Also by James Patterson
Title Page
Dedication
Part One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Part Two
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Part Three
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Acknowledgments
Read On
Meet the Women’s Murder Club
Copyright

ABOUT THE BOOK

A KILLER WHO CHOOSES VICTIMS PERSONALLY GETS TOO CLOSE TO SERGEANT LINDSAY BOXER.

A series of shootings exposes San Francisco to a methodical yet unpredictable killer, and a reluctant woman decides to put her trust in Lindsay Boxer. The confidential informant’s tip leads Lindsay to disturbing conclusions, including that something has gone horribly wrong inside the police department itself.

The hunt for the killer lures Lindsay out of her jurisdiction, and gets inside her in dangerous ways. Lindsay’s friends and confidantes in the Women’s Murder Club warn her against taking the crimes too much to heart. With lives at stake, the detective can’t stop herself from following the case into ever more terrifying terrain.

A decorated officer, loving wife, devoted mother and loyal friend, Lindsay is confronting a killer who is determined to undermine it all.

ABOUT THE AUTHORS

James Patterson is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. His books have sold in excess of 365 million copies worldwide. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past two decades – the Alex Cross, Women’s Murder Club, Detective Michael Bennett and Private novels – and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers.

James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books for young readers including the Middle School, I Funny, Treasure Hunters, House of Robots, Confessions, and Maximum Ride series. James has donated millions in grants to independent bookshops and has been the most borrowed author of adult fiction in UK libraries for the past eleven years in a row. He lives in Florida with his wife and son.

Maxine Paetro has collaborated with James Patterson on the bestselling Women’s Murder Club, Private, and Confessions series. She lives with her husband in New York State.

Title page for 17th Suspect

To the friends of the Women’s Murder Club

Have You Read Them All?

1ST TO DIE

Four friends come together to form the Women’s Murder Club. Their job? To find a killer who is brutally slaughtering newly-wed couples on their wedding night.

2ND CHANCE (with Andrew Gross)

The Women’s Murder Club tracks a mystifying serial killer, but things get dangerous when he turns his pursuers into prey.

3RD DEGREE (with Andrew Gross)

A wave of violence sweeps the city, and whoever is behind it is intent on killing someone every three days. Now he has targeted one of the Women’s Murder Club …

4TH OF JULY (with Maxine Paetro)

In a deadly shoot-out, Detective Lindsay Boxer makes a split-second decision that threatens everything she’s ever worked for.

THE 5TH HORSEMAN (with Maxine Paetro)

Recovering patients are dying inexplicably in hospital. Nobody is claiming responsibility. Could these deaths be tragic coincidences, or something more sinister?

THE 6TH TARGET (with Maxine Paetro)

Children from rich families are being abducted off the streets – but the kidnappers aren’t demanding a ransom. Can Lindsay Boxer find the children before it’s too late?

7TH HEAVEN (with Maxine Paetro)

The hunt for a deranged murderer with a taste for fire and the disappearance of the governor’s son have pushed Lindsay to the limit. The trails have gone cold. But a raging fire is getting ever closer, and somebody will get burned.

8TH CONFESSION (with Maxine Paetro)

Four celebrities are found killed and there are no clues: the perfect crime. Few people are as interested when a lowly preacher is murdered. But could he have been hiding a dark secret?

9TH JUDGEMENT (with Maxine Paetro)

A psychopathic killer targets San Francisco’s most innocent and vulnerable, while a burglary gone horribly wrong leads to a high-profile murder.

10TH ANNIVERSARY (with Maxine Paetro)

A badly injured teenage girl is left for dead, and her newborn baby is nowhere to be found. But is the victim keeping secrets?

11TH HOUR (with Maxine Paetro)

Is one of Detective Lindsay Boxer’s colleagues a vicious killer? She won’t know until the 11th hour.

12TH OF NEVER (with Maxine Paetro)

A convicted serial killer wakes from a two-year coma. He says he’s ready to tell where the bodies are buried, but what does he want in return?

UNLUCKY 13 (with Maxine Paetro)

Someone returns to San Francisco to pay a visit to some old friends. But a cheerful reunion is not on the cards.

14TH DEADLY SIN (with Maxine Paetro)

A new terror is sweeping the streets of San Francisco, and the killers are dressed in police uniform. Lindsay treads a dangerous line as she investigates whether the criminals are brilliant imposters or police officers gone rogue.

15TH AFFAIR (with Maxine Paetro)

Four bodies are found in a luxury hotel. Lindsay is sent in to investigate and hunt down an elusive and dangerous suspect. But when her husband Joe goes missing, she begins to fear that the suspect she is searching for could be him.

16TH SEDUCTION (with Maxine Paetro)

At the trial of a bomber Lindsay and Joe worked together to capture, his defence raises damning questions about Lindsay and Joe’s investigation.

A list of more titles by James Patterson can be found at the back of this book

PART ONE

CHAPTER 1

JUST AFTER 4 A.M. under a starless sky, a man in a well-worn tweed coat and black knit cap crossed Broadway onto Front Street, humming a tune as he strolled south to Sydney G. Walton Square.

The square was a cozy one-block park, bounded by iron fencing with an artifact of a brick gate set at a diagonal on one corner. Inside were paths and seating and garden beds, cut back now at the end of the growing season.

During the day Walton Square was crowded with office workers from San Francisco’s Financial District, eating their take-out lunches near the fountain. At night the streets were empty and the park was occupied by homeless people going through the trash cans, sleeping on the benches, congregating near the gate.

The man in the shapeless tweed coat stopped outside the iron fencing and looked around the park and surroundings with purpose. He was still humming tunelessly and gripping a 9mm gun in his right-hand pocket.

The man, Michael, was looking for someone in particular. He watched for a while as the vagrants moseyed around the park and on the sidewalks that bounded it. He didn’t see the woman he was looking for, but he wasn’t going to let this night go to waste.

As he watched, a man in a ragged layering of dirty clothing left the park and headed east, in the direction of the Embarcadero and the piers, where the garbage in the trash cans was more exotic than discarded office worker sandwiches.

The ragged man was talking to himself, scratching his beard, and seemed to be counting, touching his right thumb to each of the fingers on his right hand and pensively repeating the ritual.

He didn’t notice the man in the tweed coat standing against the fence.

Michael called out to him. “Hey, buddy. Got a smoke?”

The ragged man turned his bleary eyes to the man pointing the gun at him. He got it fast. He put up his hands and started to explain.

“No, man, I didn’t take the money. It was her. I was an innocent—”

The man in the coat raised the gun and pulled the trigger once, shooting the bum square in the chest. Pigeons flew up from the adjacent buildings.

The bum clapped his hand over his chest and opened his mouth in a wordless expression of shock. But he was still standing, still staring at him.

Michael fired another shot. The ragged man’s knees folded and he dropped without a sound.

He said to the corpse, “Worthless piece of shit, you asked for that. You should thank me.”

He looked around and ducked into a section of shade in the park. He placed his gun on the ground, stripped off his gloves, jammed them into his pockets, and shucked the old coat.

He was dressed all in black under the coat, in jeans, a turtleneck, and a quilted jacket. He transferred the gun to his jacket, gathered up the coat, and stuffed it into a trash can.

Someone would find them. Someone would put them on. And good luck to him.

Michael slipped out from behind the copse of trees and took a seat on a bench. Screams started up. And the crummy vermin poured out of the park like a line of ants and surrounded the body.

No one noticed him. There were no keening sirens, no “Dude, did you see what happened?”

Nothing.

After a few minutes the killer stood up and, with his hands in his jacket pockets, left the park and headed home.

There would be other nights.

One of these times he was bound to get lucky.

CHAPTER 2

ON MONDAY MORNING assistant district attorney Yuki Castellano was in the San Francisco DA’s conference room, sitting across the mahogany table from a boyishly handsome young man. Yuki was building a sexual abuse case that she thought, if brought to trial, could change the face of rape prosecution on a national scale. An executive at a top creative San Francisco ad agency had allegedly raped an employee at gunpoint, and Yuki was determined to try the case.

After she quit her job and spent a year at the nonprofit Defense League, district attorney Leonard “Red Dog” Parisi had asked her to come back and try an explosive case as his second chair—but they had suffered a humiliating loss. Now Yuki wanted very much to have a win for herself, for Parisi, and for the city.

She asked, “Marc, can we get you anything? Sparkling water? Coffee?”

“No, thanks. I’m good.”

Marc Christopher was a television commercial producer with the Ad Shop—and the victim in the case, claiming that Briana Hill, the head of the agency’s TV production department and his boss, had assaulted him. The Sex Crimes detail of SFPD’s Southern Station had investigated Christopher’s complaint and found convincing enough evidence to bring the case to the DA’s office.

After reviewing the evidence and meeting with Christopher, Yuki had asked Parisi to let her take the case to the grand jury.

Parisi said, “Yuki, this could be a glue trap. You’re going to have to convince a jury that this kid could keep it up with a loaded weapon pointed at his head. That a woman could rape him. You really want to do this? Win or lose, this case is going to stick to you.”

She said, “Len, I’m absolutely sure he was raped and I can prove it. If we get an indictment, I want to run with this.”

“Okay,” Len said dubiously. “Give it your best shot.”

In Yuki’s opinion, nonconsensual sex was rape, irrespective of gender. Women raping men rarely got traction unless the woman was a schoolteacher or in another position of authority, and the victim was a child or, more commonly, a teenage boy. In those instances the crime had more to do with the age of the victim than a presumed act of brutality by a woman.

In this case Briana Hill and Marc Christopher were about the same age, both in their late twenties. Christopher was Hill’s subordinate at the Ad Shop, true, but he wasn’t accusing her of sexual harassment at work. He claimed that Hill had threatened to shoot him if he didn’t comply with a sadistic sex act.

Would Hill really have pulled the trigger? For legal purposes, it didn’t matter.

It mattered only that Marc Christopher had believed she would shoot him.

As Len Parisi had said, it was going to be a challenge to convince a jury that this confident young man couldn’t have fought Hill off; that he’d maintained an erection at gunpoint, against his will; and that he’d been forced to have sex with a woman he had dated and had sex with many times before.

But Yuki would tell Christopher’s story: he’d said no and Hill had violated him anyway. Yuki had seen the proof. The grand jury would have to decide if there was enough evidence to support that version of events. Once this case went to trial, win or lose, Marc would be known for accusing a woman of raping him. If Briana Hill was found guilty, she would go to jail—and the face of workplace sexual harassment would change.

CHAPTER 3

GLASS WALLS SEPARATED the conference room from the hallway, with its flow of busy, noisy, and nosy foot traffic.

Yuki ignored those who were sneaking looks at the broad-shouldered, dark-haired agency producer slumping slightly in his chair. He was clearly wounded, describing what he claimed had transpired two months before, and seemed very vulnerable.

Yuki stepped outside the conference room to have a word with a colleague. When she returned to her seat, Christopher had turned his chair so that he was staring out through the windows at the uninspiring third-floor view of Bryant Street.

Yuki said, “Marc, let’s talk it through again, okay?”

He swiveled the chair back around and said, “I understand that I have to testify to the grand jury. I can do that. I’m worried about going to trial and how I’m going to react when Briana’s attorney calls me a liar.”

Yuki was glad Marc had dropped in to talk about this. He was right to be apprehensive. Briana Hill’s attorney, James Giftos, looked and dressed like a mild-mannered shoe salesman, but that was just a disarming guise for an attack attorney who would do whatever it took to destroy Marc Christopher’s credibility.

Yuki asked, “How do you think you might react?”

“I don’t know. I could get angry and go after the guy. I could break down and come across as a complete wimp.”

“It’s good to think about this in advance,” Yuki said, “but Giftos won’t be at the grand jury hearing. We’re just asking the jury for an indictment based on the facts of this case. I think the jury is going to believe you, as I do.

“If Hill is indicted,” Yuki continued, “we go to court. She’ll be there to contest your testimony and present her version of this attack. James Giftos will do everything he can to make you look like a liar and worse.”

“Oh, God. Can you walk me through that?”

“Okay, I’ll give it to you straight. Because you dated Briana, you won’t be protected by the rape shield law. Giftos could ask you about your sex life with Briana in detail—how often, what it was like, what made you invite her to your apartment. Nothing will be off-limits.”

“Wonderful,” said Christopher miserably. “Piece o’ cake.”

“The press will cover the trial. Public opinion may favor Briana, and you may be verbally attacked. It could get very ugly, Marc. And when we win, your life may never be quite the same.”

The young man covered his face with his hands.

“Marc, if you don’t want to go through with this, I’ll understand.”

“Thanks for that. I’ll be ready. I’ll make myself be ready.”

“You have my number. Call me, anytime.”

Yuki walked Christopher to the elevator, and as she shook his hand, he said, “I thought of something.”

“Tell me.”

“You should talk to Paul Yates. He’s a copywriter at the Ad Shop. We’re only casual friends, but I think something happened with him and Briana.”

“Really? Something sexual?”

“I don’t know,” said Christopher. “I’m pretty sure they dated. They seemed friendly around the shop, then the big chill.”

“There’s no record of him speaking to Sex Crimes.”

“No, I don’t think he talked to them or anyone. I would have heard.”

“Paul Yates,” Yuki said. “I’ll get in touch with him. Marc, stay strong.”

His smile was shaky when he got into the elevator car.

Yuki stood in place as the doors closed, then headed back to her office. She wasn’t confident that Marc would hang tough, and she couldn’t blame him. In his place, she would feel conflict and fear, too. But the key facts in the case against Briana Hill were incontrovertible: Marc had recorded the rape, and Briana always carried a gun. Marc’s testimony would bring those facts to life for the jurors.

CHAPTER 4

TWO DAYS AFTER her last meeting with Marc Christopher, Yuki got a call from James Giftos, Briana Hill’s defense attorney.

“Ms. Castellano. James Giftos here. My client wants to speak with you. By chance do you have a gap in your schedule sometime this week?”

“Oh? What’s this about?”

Yuki’s laptop was open and she began making notes as Giftos spoke.

He said, “Ms. Castellano, uh, Yuki—my client wants to tell you her side of the story. She hopes that when you hear what really happened, you’ll see that Mr. Christopher’s allegations have no basis in fact. She’s willing to apologize if there’s been a misunderstanding, and then, she hopes, Marc can drop the drama and they can go on with their lives.”

So James Giftos wanted a “queen for a day” interview, a proffer agreement. In this meeting Ms. Hill would attempt to convince Yuki that she should drop the case because of insufficient evidence.

The rules of engagement for these interviews were clear. Briana Hill and her attorney would come to Yuki’s office, where Hill would be sworn in, then submit to Yuki’s questions, her answers transcribed by a court reporter. Hill would not be allowed to invoke the Fifth Amendment, and most importantly for Yuki’s purposes, if the DA decided to proceed with the case, nothing Hill said could be used against her in the grand jury hearing or at trial.

However, and it was a big however, if Hill took the stand and her testimony differed from what she’d told Yuki under oath, all bets would be off. Her formerly privileged testimony would no longer be privileged, and Yuki could use anything she’d said in her proffer interview against her.

It was a good deal for the prosecution.

Briana Hill would give her side of the story, meaning that Yuki would learn the basis for the opposition’s case.

Yuki said to Giftos, “Turns out I have an opening at two today.”

“Sold,” he said.

Yuki hung up with Giftos, made notes to add to the file, and then walked down the hallway for a pickup meeting with Len.

CHAPTER 5

YUKI GREETED BRIANA Hill and James Giftos at two that afternoon and walked them to the conference room where the court reporter was waiting.

Hill was petite, her dark hair blunt-cut to her shoulders, and she wore a modest silk blouse and sharp gray suit.

She was very pretty, and Yuki knew that she was also plenty smart. Born and raised in Dallas, Briana Hill had a film degree from USC and an MBA from NYU. She had gotten her first job at a production company, and a few years later was hired by the Ad Shop, where she rose quickly to head of TV production.

As head of TV, Hill reported to the agency president and was responsible for millions per year in TV commercials for big-name clients.

Briana looked the part of a highly placed young executive. She appeared cool and confident, but Yuki noted the dark circles under her eyes and the way Hill clutched at the silver crucifix hanging from a long chain around her neck.

Giftos turned off his phone, Hill was sworn in, and the court reporter typed at her console in the corner of the room.

Yuki said, “Ms. Hill, do you understand that this interview means that we have a binding agreement, that you are required to answer all of my questions truthfully, and if you don’t tell the truth, our agreement is void?”

“I sure do,” said Hill. “I asked for this meeting. I want to tell you what happened. I swear to tell the truth.”

The conference room door opened and Len Parisi entered. The DA was a big man, tall, over three hundred pounds, and had coarse red hair. He was known for his sharp legal mind, his tenacity, and his impressive record of wins.

Parisi was taking special interest in this case, among hundreds under his purview, because The People v. Hill would be a media supermagnet: a sex scandal with radical social implications. Before his office asked for an indictment, Parisi wanted to get his own sense of Briana Hill.

He shook hands with Hill and Giftos and sat down heavily in the chair next to Yuki. He clicked a ballpoint pen a few times with his large thumb and tapped the point on a pad of paper in front of him. He looked across the table, smiled, and said, “Ms. Hill, this is your meeting. As long as you tell the truth, nothing you say can be used against you.”

I’m aware,” said Hill.

Yuki kept a poker face, but she was excited to be facing off against James Giftos on such an important case. This was why she loved her job with the DA.

CHAPTER 6

BRIANA HILL CLASPED her hands in front of her and said, “This is a pretty grim story, but it needs to be told. Where should I start, James? With the so-called incident—or with what led up to it?”

Her attorney said, “Give us the background first.”

“Okay. Mr. Parisi. Ms. Castellano. The first thing you should know is that Marc had been working for me for about six months when he let me know he was interested in me. He sent flowers to my apartment on my birthday, and I wouldn’t say he was stalking me, but he was just there when I’d leave the office, go over to Starbucks, like that. He bought me coffee, and the next time I bought coffee for him. Takeout.

“Then he asked me out.

“I said no. I wasn’t thinking of him that way. If the thought even crossed my mind, I shut it down. It was possible that going out with Marc could screw up the chain of command and make people in the creative department uncomfortable.”

Yuki said, “What changed your mind?”

Said Hill, “I’m getting to it. Coming right up. Anyway. I fended Marc off, but he persisted and I realized that I was starting to like him. He was funny. Very charming, and by the way, a good producer. So I said okay to lunch. It’s just lunch, right?”

Yuki noted a couple of things as Briana spoke. One, she was an accomplished presenter. Two, according to Hill, Christopher had made the advances. That meant nothing in terms of her guilt or innocence, but it was good for the defense version of the assault.

“I liked Marc,” Hill said, “but this was just a flirtation until—cue the dramatic music—the Chronos Beer shoot in Phoenix four months ago. It was a great shoot, big budget, terrific director, and all of us, the production company and the agency people, were staying in a nice hotel. So we wrapped the shoot and went for dinner and drinks at the hotel bar and grill at the end of the last day.

“I was very happy,” Hill said. “Everyone was. It was a celebration, and Marc and I closed the bar. It was like we were alone on a desert island. He invited me back to his room. I went.”

Hill clamped her mouth shut. She swallowed hard. She seemed to be remembering what had transpired that night. It looked to Yuki that she was unhappy with the memory.

Giftos said, “Go on, Briana. What happened when you came back to town and reentered the atmosphere of everyday life?”

Hill sighed, then seemed to steel herself for the sordid tale of her new relationship with Marc Christopher.

CHAPTER 7

BRIANA HILL HAD been talking for half an hour, and her confident demeanor was starting to sag. She sounded resigned when she said, “Marc and I started dating.

“I wasn’t in love with him, but I wasn’t seeing anyone else. Eventually, though, I started losing interest, and Marc was getting the message. He got needy and borderline aggressive. One night he stopped by my office at the end of the day, and when he said, ‘Let’s grab a bite,’ I said okay. I thought we’d have a discussion about how the relationship wasn’t working out and probably agree to call it off.

“But that’s not what happened.

“We went to our usual place, a restaurant called Panacea, a short walk from Marc’s apartment. I started with a predinner drink. Actually, I was drinking before, during, and after dinner.

I think Marc was talking about politics, but I wasn’t really listening. I was trying to decide whether to break up with him that night or to give it more time, weighing the pros and cons. After dinner we moved to the restaurant bar. That’s when Marc pitched his big idea.”

“It was his big idea?” Len said.

“Yeah. He knew I carried a gun, and he said that it really turned him on. He said that he wanted me … to pretend to rape him. He said I should hold the gun on him and order him to tie himself to the bed and follow my directions, or I would kill him. Something like that.

“It was ridiculous, but I’d never played out a fantasy like that. He kept saying it would be fun, with this big grin on his face. And he said it would be good for our relationship—he wanted me to ‘gut-feel’ how much I wanted him. I think that’s how he put it.

“We went to his apartment. That’s where we always went,” Hill said. “I unloaded my gun, put the shells in my bag, then I followed his script and tried to get into the role. It was kind of fun, but also kind of weird, what I remember of it.

“After the sex was over, I fell asleep. We both did. Passed out is more like it. I woke up at about five and untied his hands. He was still sleeping, so I went home. I didn’t like how I felt and I didn’t like him, either. I knew that we’d crossed a line. There was no way back.

“I avoided him at work,” Hill continued, “but he called and left messages saying he wanted to get together. I told him no. ‘Sorry, Marc, but it’s over.’ He didn’t like that, but I thought he’d move on. Instead he came to my office after work a couple of days later and shut the door. That’s when he told me that he’d recorded our sex play—recorded it! And that he wanted a quarter of a million dollars or he was going to post the video online.”

Yuki asked, “You took this to be a serious threat?”

Hill’s expression crumpled. “Yes,” she said. “It was believable that he had a hidden camera. He’s a film producer. He knew that my grandma had died and that she had left me a big pile of money. I told him to go to hell, but I was scared.

“I was also in shock. I’m still in shock.”

Yuki found Briana utterly credible. Was she a world-class actress? Or was her version of the story true? One of them was lying.

Giftos put his hand on Briana’s shoulder and told her to take a minute.

After she’d collected herself, but still noticeably distressed, she said, “I remembered some of what we did in his bedroom but very little of what was said. Still, I’m positive that everything I did and said was entirely scripted by Marc. I never ever thought of rape as a turn-on. And I surely never knew that he was recording … this game.”

Hill went on, “I’ve always known the only way to defeat a bully is to stand up to him. Marc Christopher is a bully. He’s also insecure and vengeful, and that’s being kind. I did not rape him. It was all his idea. He set me up. And that’s the whole truth.”

CHAPTER 8

YUKI HAD QUESTIONS. Lots of them.

Sitting across the conference table from Briana Hill and her attorney, Len and Yuki fired away.

Yuki stuck to the workplace relationship between Hill and Christopher.

Did management at the Ad Shop prohibit relationships at the agency? Was Ms. Hill in a position to influence Mr. Christopher’s promotions and raises? Why was his performance review poor after the incident in Mr. Christopher’s apartment?

Hill told them that there was no explicit rule prohibiting relationships within the agency. Yes, she could influence his raises, but she explained that after the so-called rape incident, “Marc was defiant and threatening. He walked away from an assignment, leaving the team to scramble and endangering an account. Naturally, his crummy attitude and insubordination were reflected in the one performance review I conducted with him.”

Len’s questions were about the gun and the sex. Was her gun registered? Did she have a concealed carry permit? Where exactly did she keep the gun? Did she ever have it out during sex with Christopher—or anyone else—prior to the event they were discussing? Would she describe her sexual preferences as nontraditional or “kinky”?

Hill asserted that she lived alone, traveled often, had obtained a concealed carry permit, and had carried a gun for most of her adult life. Her gun was registered, and she kept it in her handbag at all times for protection.

She added, “I don’t know what you would call kinky, Mr. Parisi, but until this encounter with Marc Christopher, I’d never experimented with aggressive sexual role-playing.”

Len said, “And you claim you don’t know what you said or did during this sex act?”

“I remember enough,” she said. “I remember the pitch he threw me in the bar but not much of what I said or what he said during the act itself. It was role-playing. We were having sex. I’d had a lot to drink. I wasn’t trying to remember what we said. Wouldn’t that have been crazy? When I think about it, I see flash images, as if the bed was under a strobe light. As soon as it was over, I wanted to forget it had happened.

“I have some questions for you. Mr. Parisi. Why didn’t Marc grab my gun? Run for the hills? Call the cops? Did you ask him?”

Parisi said mildly, “If you know, had Marc been drinking, too?”

Sure. I don’t remember what or how much.”

Parisi asked, “Before or during the sex, did Marc tell you to stop? Did he say no to you at any point?”

“He may have,” said Hill. “But that was the point of the script he laid out for me. He was supposed to be the victim and I was supposed to take him by force. That was his game.”

Yuki said, “Ms. Hill, can you prove that Mr. Christopher set up this game?”

“How? We had a conversation in a bar.”

“I have the recording Mr. Christopher made of your sexual encounter,” said Yuki. “We’ll have a copy sent to Mr. Giftos’s office this week. It’s video with sound, Ms. Hill. You can see and hear it all.”

After Briana Hill and James Giftos left, Yuki went to Len’s office. They sat at right angles to each other in his sitting area, surrounded by bookshelves, in view of the clock with a red bulldog face on the wall behind his desk.

“What did you think of the defense?” Yuki asked.

“Hill is credible,” said Len, “and a very accomplished presenter. But her defense of the rape, saying that Marc gave her the script and she performed to his direction, that’s her word against his. We don’t have the script discussion recorded. The video only shows and tells what happened in the bedroom, and even then, while the act was in progress.”

Yuki asked, “Does the fact that they’d slept together before the rape hurt his case?”

Parisi said, “Not legally, but it could make a juror wonder what the hell he was complaining about. Unless you can turn up more evidence, we’re pinning everything on the video. He said no and she kept the gun on him. He says it was loaded. She says it was not. He said, she said.

“But she asks good questions,” Parisi said. “Why didn’t he call the cops when he woke up? Why did he wait two weeks to do that? That’s going to come up. And I don’t like this story that he tried to blackmail her. Did that ring true to you?”

Yuki said, “This is the first I’ve heard of extortion. I’ll ask him.”

“Unless he puts that in writing, it’s more of his word against hers.”

Yuki nodded in agreement. “They have colleagues in common. I interviewed three people at the Ad Shop. I’ll review their notes again.”

Yuki went back to her office and made notes to file on the meeting with Briana Hill. Hill had sounded truthful, but Yuki had seen the video. Marc Christopher said no, and Briana Hill didn’t stop. And that was what mattered in the eyes of the law.

CHAPTER 9

AT A QUARTER to eight on a hazy Friday morning, I parked my Explorer in the All-Day Parking lot on Bryant Street across from the Hall of Justice, where I work in Homicide.

I crossed the street between breaks in the traffic and jogged up the steps to the main entrance of the gray granite building that housed not only the Southern Station of the SFPD, but also the DA, the municipal courts, a jail, and the motorcycle squad. I was reaching for the handle of the heavy steel-and-glass front door to the Hall when I heard someone call out, “Sergeant? Sergeant Lindsay Boxer.”

I turned to see a middle-aged woman with graying blond hair, who was wearing a dirty fleece hoodie and baggy jeans, hurrying up the steps toward me. I wasn’t surprised to be recognized. My last case had been high profile. A murdering psycho had blown up a museum, killing and injuring dozens of people, including my husband. For weeks after the bombing and all during the bomber’s trial, my picture had been on the front page of the San Francisco papers and on the local TV news. Months later memories of that unspeakable crime still rippled through the public consciousness.

From the woman’s dress she looked to me like she was living on the street. I had change from a ten in my jacket pocket, and I pulled out some bills, but she waved them away.

“I don’t need any money. Thank you, though. What I need is your help, Sergeant. I want to report a murder.”

I looked at her. The assertion sounded like the opening to an old episode of Murder, She Wrote, but I had to take it seriously. The woman was distressed. And I’m a cop.

We were blocking the entrance to the Hall. Attorneys and clerks and other cops were trying to get past me, some rudely, some urgently. I stepped aside.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“Millie Cushing. I pay my taxes.”

I let that one go. If she lived in San Francisco, she had a right to ask me for help.

“This murder,” I said. “What can you tell me about that?”

“Well, I didn’t see the murder happen, and I didn’t see the victim’s body, but I knew him. Jimmy Dolan wasn’t the first one to get shot dead on the street, and he’s not going to be the last, either.”

Was Millie Cushing of sound mind? I couldn’t tell.

I said, “You know what? The morning shift is just starting and our squad room is going to be noisy. Let’s go someplace where we can talk.”

CHAPTER 10

I LED MILLIE to Café Roma, a small chain coffee shop on Bryant, up the very long block and across the street from the Hall. We found a small booth near the plate-glass window, and the waitress took our orders; coffee for Millie, tea and dry toast for me.

I said, “Millie, order whatever you want.”

Millie took the cue and ordered eggs, toast, potatoes, sausage, and bacon. She laughed, saying, “I guess that will hold me for the weekend.”

When the waitress left the table, I asked Millie to tell me everything she knew about the murder that had brought her to the Hall that morning looking for me.

She leaned across the small table and began her story.

“The murder happened outside Walton Square,” she said. I knew the park well. It was in the Financial District, not far from Southern Station’s beat.

Millie said, “It happened very early on Monday morning. This nice man named Jimmy Dolan was shot on the sidewalk on Front Street. Right here,” she said, tapping the center of her chest. “Two and done.”

“How did you learn about this?” I asked.

“You wouldn’t think so, but we’re a tightly knit community. Jimmy was shot at four fifteen or so in the morning, and three hours later it was common knowledge on the street. And that’s by word of mouth and very few cell phones, you know.”

“Community?”

“Homeless,” she said. “For some it’s temporary. For others it’s a permanent way of life. The point is, we know one another. We keep tabs. We exchange news at the shelters and places we go on the street.”

Breakfast came and Millie tucked in.

I excused myself while she was occupied to call my partner, Rich Conklin, to tell him that I was running late but would be in soon.

I went back to my seat and sugared my tea. Millie was well into her scrambled eggs.

I said, “Millie. The police were called?”

“What I heard is they came, but they never asked around or did anything but wait until the meat wagon arrived. Jimmy deserves more than to be shoveled up and stuffed into a box. He deserves justice. The man was a poet. A good one. And before the voices got to him, he was a college professor. To the cops, he’s trash.”

I murmured, “Sorry to hear this,” and asked Millie to go on.

“Like I said, shootings are happening all over. Jimmy was one of I don’t know how many of us who have been killed, and I tell you, Sergeant, being with you is the safest I’ve felt in a year.”

“A year?”

I resisted an impulse to reach across the table and take her hands. If she was delusional, I was buying right in.

When the table was cleared, Millie said thanks to a coffee refill and picked up where she’d left off. It felt like she’d been waiting a long time for someone to listen to her. To help her.

“It’s obscene,” Millie said. “I can’t be exact, but I can count three other killings, Sergeant Boxer, and none of them have been properly investigated. I saw your picture in the paper after the bombing, and I felt something for you. Like a connection.”

As we stood to go, I told Millie I would follow up, giving her my card.