2nd Chance (Women's Murder Club)
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2nd Chance reconvenes the Women's Murder Club, four friends (a detective, a reporter, an assistant district attorney, and a medical examiner) who used their networking skills, feminine intuition, and professional wiles to solve a baffling series of murders in 1st to Die. This time, the murders of two African Americans, a little girl and an old woman, bear all the signs of a serial killer for Lindsay Boxer, newly promoted to lieutenant of San Francisco's homicide squad. But there's an odd detail she finds even more disturbing: both victims were related to city cops. A symbol glimpsed at both murder scenes leads to a racist hate group, but the taunting killer strikes again and again, leaving deliberate clues and eluding the police ever more cleverly. In the meantime, each of the women has a personal stake at risk--and the killer knows who they are.
“You’ve got to find out what that lion image represents,” insisted Claire. I nodded. “I’m on it. Big-time.” Jill, the A.D.A., inquired, “Anything out there that actually ties these two victims together?” “Nothing so far.” “What about motive?” she pressed. “Everyone’s reading them as hate crimes, Jill.” She nodded cautiously. “And you?” “I’m starting to read them differently. I think we have to consider the possibility that someone’s using the hate crime scenario as a smoke screen.” There
and a football running back’s build. Everyone in San Francisco knew what he was doing for this neighborhood. He was supposed to be a real-life hero, and I must say he looked the part. I walked over. “This is Reverend Aaron Winslow,” Chin said, introducing us. “Lindsay Boxer,” I said, extending my hand. “Lieutenant Boxer,” said Chin. “She’ll be overseeing the case.” “I’m familiar with your work,” I said. “You’ve given a lot to this neighborhood. I’m so sorry for this. I don’t have any words
IT. I stood there gawking. I looked at Cindy, then back at Winslow, my surprise slowly giving way to a blushing smile. “Lieutenant.” Winslow nodded, cutting through the awkward murk. “When Cindy said she was meeting friends, I wasn’t expecting to find you here.” “Yeah, me too,” I babbled back. “We’re headed to the Blue Door,” Cindy said to the crowd, going through the introductions. “Pinetop Perkins is in town.” “Terrific.” Claire nodded. “Beatific,” snipped Jill. “Anybody care to join?”
to do. Tomorrow. He was going for another personal record. Chapter 9 THE NEXT MORNING Jacobi and I were back examining the grounds of the La Salle Heights Church. All night long, I had fretted over what Cindy had told me about a case that had come across her desk. It involved an elderly black woman who lived alone in the Gustave White projects in West Oakland. Three days ago, the Oakland police had found her hanging from a pipe in the basement laundry room, an electrical cord tightly
deposition had been folded open to a page highlighted in yellow. “You might as well read it, Lindsay.” I braced myself and, as dispassionately as I could, read through Kenneth Charles’s testimony. Then I read it over again. All the while, a sinking feeling of disappointment. And then fear. My first reaction was not to believe it; anger filled me. But at the same time, I knew it had to be true. My father had lied and covered up his whole life. He had conned and bullshitted and disappointed anyone