Part 1 (1/2)

Dead Center.

The Rookie Club.

by Danielle Girard.

Dedication.

For Helen Breitwieser, for guidance, untiring support, and friends.h.i.+p. This one is all yours!.

Acknowledgements.

As always, I am indebted to so many generous people who took the time to keep this book on track. I hope I have done them justice. Any errors are wholly mine.

The San Francisco Police Department has continued to be incredibly generous. Thank you to Lieutenant Richard Corriea of the s.e.xual a.s.sault division for access to the department and to Inspector Dan Everson, now of the homicide division, who took me through a day in the life of a s.e.x crimes inspector. I am especially grateful to s.e.x crimes inspector Dolly Casazza who has answered every question and then some as The Rookie Club came to being. For DNA information, I would like to thank police inspector and DNA expert Pam Hofsa.s.s. For coroner information, I am indebted to Andrea Wagner of the Santa Clara County Medical Examiner-Coroner's Office. I appreciate the help of Anthony Toby O'Geen, Ph.D., Soil Resource Specialist in Cooperative Extension from the Department of Land, Air & Water Resources at UC Davis.

In addition to wonderful professional resources, I am also very fortunate to have an amazing cast of friends who were involved in The Rookie Club. I am extremely grateful to Tony Kelly, who spent many lunch hours walking the streets of San Francisco, talking about New York City and trying to make sense of 9/11. Thank you to Dr. Rachel Lewis for the mock-ups of medical diagnoses for my victims, to Brian Grossenbacher of Grossenbacher Guides for fis.h.i.+ng terminology, to David Wanderer of Ridgeline Computer Solutions for endless technical support, and to Dr. Tracey Hessel for setting me straight on San Rafael geography. Thank you to Inglath, Monica, Lisa H., Lisa B., and Jean for reading and commenting on all stages of the ma.n.u.script and for the moral support only other authors know how to provide.

I'm also deeply indebted to the editorial staff at New American Library. To Claire Zion and Kara Welsh for making this happen and especially to my brilliant editor, Kara Cesare, for the incredible time and energy she has invested.

Lastly, I want to thank friends and family who know when to tiptoe around me and when to drag me out into daylight. Especially Marcie, Ixtla, Albee, Tiffany, Dani, and Julia. And to Leigh Anne, for Tuesday lunches.

Finally, my sincerest grat.i.tude and affection go to my husband without whom any achievement would be diminished... and especially for this latest chapter. It's one worth writing.

Chapter 1.

Emily Osbourne stepped out of the darkened s.e.x crimes department and closed the door behind her. The station was deserted, everyone already at the awards ceremony. Truly the last place she wanted to go. She'd been up since five a.m., in the lab for fourteen hours. Cases were so backlogged that evidence in even the most time-sensitive ones was taking up to three months. Any crime less serious than murder was backed up six months or more.

At least she'd finally finished the initial findings on Jamie Vail's serial rapist case. It was more than six months old and Vail had been on her hard. Now all she had to do was stay awake for two or three hours of acceptance speeches and she'd be able to catch a few hours of sleep. Maybe even seven. It might feel like a record.

In the bright hallway, Emily blinked away the spots. Her eyes burned as she punched the down arrow on the elevator. Propped against the wall, she closed her eyes, certain she could sleep right there. Forcing herself up, she jabbed the b.u.t.ton again. Nothing. If she took the stairs, the walk might wake her up a bit. She leaned against the long metal bar and the heavy door creaked open.

The cold, steel handrail stuck to her clammy hand and the soles of her boots sc.r.a.ped against the cement stairs. She pa.s.sed the fourth floor. Three more. As she reached the landing, a door creaked open above her.

She looked up but saw no one, took a breath and shook it off. She'd never liked the police station. She preferred the bright open s.p.a.ce of the crime lab at Hunters Point Naval Station. She picked up her pace, almost out.

Footsteps clunked above her. At the second floor landing, she eyed the door. She could duck out here. No, she was almost there. One more floor. The footsteps neared and she hesitated. She glanced back, then moved forward again, her heart pattering.

The footsteps stopped. She halted, like a rabbit with ears perked, poised to run. The exhaustion swept away. Adrenaline racing. A door opened then shut and she was alone again. She paused to shake off the fear. It was too much. The hours, the lack of sleep. Forget the awards. She was going home.

With a deep breath, she began down the final flight of stairs. She imagined her bed. The down comforter that was like sleeping beneath warm air. The soft cotton sheets that her mother had picked out for her new apartment. She was twenty-six, too young to be working this hard. She was going home and tomorrow, she was calling in sick. She jogged the last steps. She reached for the door. The cool metal grazed her fingertips when the strap of her purse yanked her backwards. Caught on something, she turned back. Something struck the side of her head. She stumbled into the wall. Hands out, she tried to brace herself against the impact.

Her face struck the wall. Hands gripped her shoulders, swung her around. The stairwell raced across her vision. She couldn't focus. He pushed her down and she landed hard against the cement floor. Her wrist collapsed and red pain rocked through her. She tried to lift herself, but he slammed her down on her back. His head was covered in a white hood that was cinched around his neck.

She gasped. ”No.”

Jagged eyeholes and a larger mouth were cut in the fabric.

She started to scream. He covered her mouth. ”Not a word,” he hissed.

”I've got a knife.” He jabbed the point into her side. The blade struck a rib. Warm blood dripped down her side. She closed her eyes. Fought to breathe. Fabric covered her face. She opened her eyes to blackness as panic filled her lungs like water. She coughed and choked, reared her head.

She did nothing-nothing. She turned her head into her arm and cried. Silently. Shamefully. Listened to the click, click, click of the building's old heating system. She pushed her mind away. Imagined a beach, sand, and ocean. G.o.d, drowning. She tried to inhale the water, to make this stop. Anywhere but here. She wasn't here. This wasn't happening. Not to her.

Then it was over.

His face was beside hers. Terrified, she turned away, squeezed her eyes closed. The next blow didn't come.

”Tell the inspector h.e.l.lo for me.”

She didn't move. Didn't speak. A hundred thoughts flashed through her mind. Inspector? Jamie Vail came first-Jamie Vail of s.e.x Crimes. Oh G.o.d. She trembled, shudders rocking through her.

She heard him stand. Held her breath. His shoes squeaked against the cement as he walked. The door whined open, hissed closed, and clicked as the lock engaged.

She waited. Counted to three. Then waited some more.

Shaking, she pulled the hood off. She blinked hard. Her focus was blurred. She couldn't separate her hands. Held them both to her face and ran her fingers across her skin. She felt the swollen ma.s.s of her left eye.

She sat up and looked down at herself. A single drop of blood struck her s.h.i.+rt. She watched as the white fibers drank in the red.

Collapsing, she sobbed.

Chapter 2.

From the far corner of the convention center ballroom, Jamie Vail cupped the perspiring gla.s.s of c.o.ke. s.h.i.+fting from one foot to the other against the wall, she tugged at the waist of her pants, adjusted them across her flat, bony hips. She couldn't get comfortable. Under the pants, her nylons pulled the fabric in strange places when she moved. Did women even wear nylons anymore? Did they call them nylons? Her captain had warned her to come dressed professionally, but now she wished she'd just come in khakis. She adjusted her jacket, then realized nothing would help. The problem wasn't the suit or the nylons or the pants; the problem was her.

She took a tentative sip of c.o.ke and watched the officers mingle. Natasha Devlin stood talking to a guy from Internal Affairs (IA). Devlin did that thing where she tossed her hair over one shoulder and kicked her head back to laugh at a joke. The man looked enamored. Jamie felt ill.

She imagined her own hair, the blunt cut just above her shoulders. Her brown strands had no rich color, no blond highlights, no s.e.xy curls. All she had was a weird wave she could never quite control, so she wore it up in a ponytail like a grade school kid. Which was also how she was built. Her green eyes were dull and pale, faded against her light skin and hair. She'd had people tell her she could accentuate them with makeup. But for what? Or whom?

Someone touched her elbow. She turned to face Tim Worley. Her ex-husband. Could things get worse?

Tim clinked his gla.s.s to hers. ”You okay?”

”Great,” she lied. She didn't even try to smile.

He smiled. ”Good.”

They stood awkwardly. She made no effort to fill the air. Why would she try? What did she possibly owe him? There was silence as his eyes traveled across the room. His attention piqued by something more interesting. More likely it was someone. Perhaps even Devlin, though Jamie no longer saw her. ”See you, J.”

She didn't answer. Screw this, she thought, and turned for the door. She'd gone ten steps when she saw the group sitting at a small table. Women she couldn't just walk by-members of the original Rookie Club.

Twelve years ago, when Jamie was a rookie cop in her early twenties, a group of women had bonded. It began as a drunken night back in the days when Jamie still drank. Coming off a nasty crime spree in the city that had them all working mandatory overtime, the women had ended up back at the station one night at about the same time. Six or seven of them. Someone decided they needed to blow off some steam. Someone else was craving nachos. Margaritas sounded just about right, so instead of going to O'Farrell's Sports Bar, the local police hangout, the woman opted for Tommy's Mexican down on Geary. When a dozen women in uniform walked through the door, the staff and patrons at Tommy's went nuts. Several men started chanting ”strip, strip, strip.” One of the rookies pulled out her badge and flashed her gun. The manager quieted the rowdies and found the women a table at the back of the restaurant. Tommy's famous margaritas appeared by the pitcher all night long. Jamie was pretty sure they didn't pay for a single one.