The 9th Judgment (Women's Murder Club)
During an intimate dinner party, a cat burglar breaks into the home of A-list actor Marcus Dowling. When his wife walks in on the thief, the situation quickly teeters out of control, leaving an empty safe and a lifeless body.
The same night, a woman and her infant child are ruthlessly gunned down in an abandoned garage. The killer hasn't left a shred of evidence, except for a foreboding and cryptic message: WCF, the letters written in blood-red letters.
With two deranged killers on the loose Detective Lindsay Boxer calls on the Women's Murder Club to help her stop the insane killers. But someone is leaking information to the press--details that only those on the inside could know. As allegations fly that Lindsay is the source, she has to wonder--how much she can trust her closest friends?
the worried look on my partner’s face as the train pulled out of the station. “Take off your jacket and put it in the trash can,” the killer said. “My house keys are in the pocket.” “Throw your jacket into the trash. Don’t question me, sweetmeat. Just do what I say. Now, go to the stairs. On the first landing, pan around so I can see if anyone is following you.” I did it, and the killer was satisfied. “Let’s go, princess. We’ve got a date at the Whitcomb.” Chapter 61 I CAME OUT of
back and a name tag on her blue suit jacket reading SHARRON. Sharron asked if I’d be dining alone, and I said, “Actually, I’m here to pick up a letter for my boss. Mr. Tyler. He thinks he left it here at breakfast.” “Oh yes,” Sharron said. “I saw that envelope. I put it away. Hang on a minute.” The hostess dug inside the stand and, with a little cry of “I’ve got it,” handed me a white envelope with “H. Tyler” written in marker pen. I wanted to ask if she’d seen the man who’d left the
nothing I could do. Nothing.” Rich kissed her palm. “I’m always knocked out by the bravery of women,” he said. “Like you, Cin. Working ‘crime.’ Living here.” Cindy’s mind flashed over the “living here” part. She’d moved to this sunny apartment in the Blakely Arms, a great building in a borderline neighborhood, only to learn after her furniture arrived that someone was killing residents of the building. “I’m scared all the time,” Cindy said. “What you’re calling bravery, that’s me pushing back
I told Gordon to hold, and I briefed Benbow, who shook his head and said, “No frickin’ way.” I said, “I’m not coming in, Gordon. I need you to come out with Steven. I guarantee your safety. My word of honor, no one will shoot.” “Lindsay, you want the kiddo, you have to come to me. I’ll use you and the kid as a shield. We get into your car, and no one follows. If I see a gun, I shoot the kid and myself. If I hear a chopper, I shoot. If anyone breaks a window or steps on the lawn, the house
was a diversion. The guy knows how to make a bomb.” “Did I set off the charge?” “The doorbell. When you pressed the button, signals went to two blasting caps, one in a cooler at the curb. The other blew up the back of the house—what used to be a house.” “He asked for me, Joe. He demanded that I come to the door. He planned for me to detonate that bomb. Why me? Payback because he didn’t get the money?” “I think so. He’s putting your face on his power struggle with the city—” The doctor came