"No problem, princess. All you have to do is ask."

Pete pulled on his gloves, leaped out of the car, and opened the trunk lock, waiting as a vehicle sped out of the lot. When it was all clear, he stowed the groceries neatly beside the emergency road kit and the shoe box that held his loaded gun.

"Hey, Pete," Angie Weider called out to him, "you guys should come to dinner with us. We're going to the BlueJay Caf."

"Another time, okay?" Pete said, dropping the gun back into the box, fury flooding through him, a tidal wave of hatred directed at that bitch who had destroyed both his opportunity and his alibi in one blow. He thought for a moment of killing her and her tot, but he could hear Heidi screaming and see Sherry running and he'd never be able to murder them all without being seen.

Heidi ignored him. "Kids, want to go out for dinner?"

Sherry sang her approval and the stink bomb gurgled his. Pete slammed the trunk lid shut and, barely checking his temper, said, "You go ahead. There's a game on in ten minutes."

Heidi said, "Just remember to put the ice cream away, and I'll take care of the rest when I get home."

She grabbed the stink bomb out of his car seat, and Sherry skipped over to the Weiders' van. With a toot of the horn, they were gone.

Pete jerked the car into gear and backed out.

Change of plan. He wasn't going to go home after all.

Chapter 87

IT HAD BEEN a week since I'd stopped traffic on the Golden Gate Bridge with the front section of the Chronicle clasped to my chest, ten days since that psycho we call the Lipstick Killer had murdered Elaine Marone and her child. I could still feel the weight of the killer's cell phone hanging around my neck, could hear his jeers and gibes as he ordered me to disarm and disrobe myself on the way to the drop that never was.

I was relieved that the Feds had taken the Lipstick Psycho off our hands. The Dowling case was heating up. We had a wiretap transcript that could lead to probable cause. And in Evidence we had a climber's shoe, a Banana Republic sweater, and a bag of tools that probably belonged to Hello Kitty.

I liked the feeling of getting traction at last, so I was none too happy when Jackson Brady called at six that evening, saying the FBI had requested my help at a triple homicide.

Twenty minutes after Brady's call, Conklin and I were climbing the chilly ramp of a parking garage. It was several levels of a winding concrete helix that connected by an overpass to Pier 39, a gigantic mall full of restaurants and shops, the perfect place to disappear after bloody murders.

Brady introduced us to Special Agent Dick Benbow, a square-shouldered man of about forty with a crisp haircut and mirror-shined shoes. Benbow shook our hands, then walked us toward the scene, which was now being processed by a dozen Federal agents.

Benbow said, "Sergeant Boxer, no one knows this animal the way you do. I want to know what you see. What's the same? What's different? What's your theory of the case?"

My scalp tightened and every hair on my body stood up as we closed in on a young black woman lying under the glaring fluorescent lights, her eyes wide open and a bullet hole in the center of her forehead.

She was wearing expensive clothing: a long, printed designer skirt, a navy-blue jacket, a white blouse with tucks and fancy buttons. It looked like she was visiting here, not just going to the mall.

A tipped-over double-wide stroller lay six feet behind her. Two dead children were hidden by the stroller, but I could see a lot without taking a step: twin puddles of blood, a little foot wearing a small white shoe to the left of the stroller, the hand of another young child flung out to the right, a pacifier only inches away.

He might have reached for that small comfort before he died.

Benbow said, "The victims are Veronica Williams; her daughter, Tally; and her son, Van. They were visiting from LA. We've notified the family."

I held down a scream of outrage as I stood over the dead bodies of victims number seven, eight, and nine. It wasn't just murder. It was slaughter.

I stared helplessly at Benbow, then walked over to the Blazer with rental plates. The driver's-side door was hanging open, and lying on the ground was an expensive black leather handbag. It had disgorged a wallet, an open makeup bag, a pacifier, an airline-ticket folder, aspirin, a cell phone, and packets of moist towelettes.

I leaned into the vehicle. The light coming through the glass outlined the lipstick lettering and turned it black. Instead of three cryptic letters, there were six words, just as unfathomable.

WOMEN AND CHILDREN FIRST. GET IT?

No, I didn't get it. I didn't get it at all.

He was smart and slick, and he hated women and children, that much I got. But what set him off? How had he committed nine homicides without being noticed? How would we catch him?

Or would the Lipstick Killer case become one of those unsolved mysteries that haunt cops into their graves?