“Not out of our budget, of course, but a private citizen has already stepped forward with the cash, yes.”
“Chief, we can’t let anyone pay off a murderer. It opens the way for every freak with a gun and a sick idea—”
“She’s right,” Jacobi said. “You know that, Tony. Giving in to him is the worst thing we can do.”
Tracchio leaned forward, smacked the flat of his hand down on the newsprint, and said, “You all listen to me. Several innocent people have been shot dead in the last couple of weeks. Forty men and women are working this case around the clock, and we’ve got nothing. Nothing. Except the chief medical examiner saying that people should start packing.
“What choice do I have? None. This letter is going to run,” the chief said, glaring at each of us in turn, “and I can’t stop it. So figure out how to catch this psycho. Set a trap. How you do it is up to you. I know it’s hard. That’s why it’s called ‘work.’ Now, I need my office. I’ve got to call the mayor.”
Chapter 53
I JOGGED BACK down the stairs with Chi and Jacobi, the three of us wrapped in our own mortified silence. Yes, Tracchio’s drubbing was humiliating, but far worse was the fact that the city was being held hostage by a psychopath. And Tracchio was in such a bind, he was giving in to a terrorist.
Apparently the giving-in was already in motion. Someone in the mayor’s inner circle had stepped forward with two million dollars to pay off the Lipstick Killer before his letter even ran. It was insane, completely magical thinking to believe that if we handed the killer his millions, he would leave town. And even if he did, where would he go? What would he do when he got there? And how many more crazies would be inspired to commit murder for pay?
When Jacobi, Chi, and I walked into the squad room, all eyes turned to us, the silent question hanging in the air like a thundercloud.
What did the chief say?
Jacobi stopped at the head of the room. He was livid, biting off each word as he said to the six men staring up at him, “The Lipstick Killer wants two million bucks to stop the killings. The chief wants us to set a trap.”
The gasping and commentary were as loud as that thundercloud breaking into a downpour. “That’s enough,” Jacobi said. “Boxer’s in charge. Sergeant, keep me posted. Every hour. On the hour.”
I sat down at my desk across from Conklin, and Chi dragged up a chair. I filled Conklin in on the beat-down we’d taken from Tracchio as I dialed Henry Tyler. I was passed from automatic menu to Tyler’s personal assistant, then to Muzak as I was put on hold.
Henry Tyler is a powerful man, the associate publisher of the San Francisco Chronicle. His daughter, Madison, had been kidnapped a while ago, a sweet, precocious little girl, some kind of musical prodigy.
Because of Conklin’s work and mine, Madison Tyler had not been found dead in a ditch. Instead, she was playing the piano, going to school, and romping with her little dog.
Tyler and his wife had been so grateful to Conklin and me for saving Madison’s life, Tyler had said he owed us a big favor. I hoped he’d remember that promise—and then he was on the line.
Chapter 54
“MR. TYLER,” I said into the phone, calling up a mental image of the tall, gray-haired man. The last time I’d seen him, he’d been in the park with his little girl. He’d been laughing.
“Lindsay, I’ve told you, call me Henry,” Tyler said now. “I’ve been expecting your call. It’s too bad it has to be about this guy.”
“We’re glad he’s surfaced,” I told Tyler. “It’s an opportunity, but only if we have time to work up a plan. Can you stall him, Henry? What if you don’t run his letter tomorrow, maybe give us another day?”
“How can I do that? If I don’t run his letter and he kills more people, it’ll be my fault—and I can’t live with that. But, Lindsay, I can get the money for him. I was hoping you could be our go-between.”
?
?You’re paying him the two million?”
“It’s cheap any way you look at it,” Tyler said to me. “He could have asked five times as much, and paying him off would still be the right thing to do. He’s going to keep killing kids and their mothers unless we give him what he wants—you know that. I’m sure that he’s had this payout in mind from the beginning.”
I was startled to hear Henry Tyler say he was going to pay off the killer and even more stunned at his conclusion: that the Lipstick Killer’s spree had been about the money all along.
“Henry, what worries me is that buying off the killer won’t stop him from killing, and it will only encourage others to make similar threats.”
“I understand, Lindsay. We have to trip him up somehow. That’s why I’ll be working with you.”
My headache had gone molten right between my eyes. I was a cop, nothing more. I couldn’t see through walls or into the mind of a psycho. While it was flattering that Henry Tyler thought I could stop the Lipstick Killer, it was obvious the murderer was smart—too smart to fall for your basic van full of cops waiting for him to pick up a briefcase of money.
The worst-case scenario was the one that seemed the most likely: Killer gets the cash. Killer gets away. Killer continues to kill. And he inspires terrorism all over the country. There weren’t enough cops in America to cover an epidemic of sickos killing for money.
“I want to be sure I understand,” I said to Tyler. “You haven’t been in touch with the Lipstick Killer. He doesn’t know you’re going to give him the money?”