Chapters (148)

“The perfume that they sprayed on those girls,” said Jacobi, picking up the thread. “It’s exclusive. Only sold at one place.”

“Our killers had easy access,” I said. “They snatched it all at the same store.”

Chapter 83

I WAS BEHIND THE WHEEL of a new Lincoln sedan at 8:00 that Monday morning. The chief was scrunched in beside me, looking about as comfortable as a pickle in a jar. He was in uniform, his hair slicked down, and he was sweating.

A dozen squad cars caravaned behind us as we took to the roller-coaster streets of San Francisco. What a ride this was going to be.

“We’re pissing off a lot of important people for a dead hooker,” Tracchio said to me.

“We owe her.”

“I know, Boxer. We owe them all.”

Tracchio buzzed down the car windows, letting in the chilly 54 degrees.

I knew he was feeling the heat.

He’d taken over the job of captain without having been a detective. And he’d inherited a police department with the most pathetic record of crime solution in the country. Right now, he was relying on me. I wanted to deliver for him.

The Sunday Chronicle was on the seat between us. The front page headline read CAR SHOW MURDER, and the story continued on page three with a photo of our victim, now dubbed Show Girl, along with a public plea for information on the girl, or anything else.

The victim’s devastated friends had come forward, and now Show Girl had a name.

Lauren McKenna had no current boyfriend, liked pretty, trendy shoes, and while she may have been hooking, she was at Berkeley full-time.

She’d only been nineteen.

Her death was senseless and tragic. And her killers were still enjoying their freedom. And probably planning to kill again.

Tracchio drummed his fingers on the door panel as I turned right into Union Square.

I ran my theory through my mind once more. If I was wrong, the chief was going to bear the brunt of it.

Despite a nauseating flicker of doubt, it still added up for me. The Car Girl killers worked at Nordstrom.

Chapter 84

THE UPSCALE DEPARTMENT STORE, and one of my own favorites, wasn’t yet open to the public. But Nordstrom’s employees were assembled and waiting in shifting clumps on the store’s main floor.

Nordstrom’s president, Peter Fox, was looking very handsome in Ralph Lauren, houndstooth check, and five-hundred-dollar shoes from Italy.

He had a calm demeanor, but I could see the sweat on his upper lip and worry in his eyes as he walked the chief and me through the store.

“I carefully checked the merchandise on the list you faxed me,” he said to me. “Checked it myself. You were right that those items had been stolen, but I can’t believe any of our people had anything to do with murders.”