The 5th Horseman - James Patterson [58]
Jacobi started to laugh.
“Oh. Tell me the joke.”
“Sorry. Imagining the guy holding his joint when he feels the gun sticking in his back. It’s a guy thing, Boxer.
“Anyway. The holdup guy uses the driver to get the other guy out of the truck. Knocks them both out with a stun gun. Then he and his buddy load them into the back of the truck, tape and gag them.”
“So now they’ve got a truck with approved plates and the driver’s ID,” I said. “You’re thinking they transferred our victim into that truck? Maybe she was inside some kind of container?”
“No flies on you, Lieutenant.”
“I try to keep up with you, Jacobi. I’m listening. Keep talking.”
Jacobi nodded. “So they drive to the convention center loading docks, unload this young lady’s container onto a hand truck, wait for the right moment. Then they decant her inside and pose her in the Ferrari.”
“Maybe the container was a suitcase,” I said. “A big one. Leather. With wheels.”
“Could very well have been something like that.”
“Unbelievable,” Claire said. “That they have the nerve to move a body in full sight, let alone pose her inside a car at the auto show!”
“She would’ve looked like a dummy if anyone had noticed her—and no one did,” Jacobi said. “I scanned all the videos. It was pure chaos last night. Forklifts doing wheelies. Cars being unloaded. Hundreds of look-alike guys in work clothes setting up the booths.”
“Can the drivers ID their attackers?” I asked.
“It was dark. They were completely surprised. The perps wore stocking masks.”
Jacobi came closer to the victim’s body. “Smell that? There it is again. That’s swamp magnolia.”
“Black Pearl.”
A thought broke through to my conscious mind like a bubble rising up from the bottom of a lake. It was so simple and obvious. Why had it taken me so long to make the connection?
“It’s one-stop shopping,” I said out loud.
“What do you mean, Boxer?”
“The designer clothes and the shoes. The killers grabbed what they could off the rack, clothes for a girl they hadn’t met yet. So sometimes they got the wrong size. The real jewelry, the good stuff, was under lock and key, but beads and rhinestones? No problem.”
“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,