12th of Never

recliner, Julie in his arms with her head on his shoulder, both of them sound asleep. Martha lifted her head, flapped her tail, then put her face back down on Joe’s slipper.
    I couldn’t imagine a warmer welcome.
    I ditched my gun, phone, jacket, and shoes—just dropped all of it on a chair. Then I hit the soft leather sofa with the puffy cushions, drew up the chenille throw, and settled in.
    I was dreaming about Julie wearing a big-girl party dress and blowing out birthday candles when I heard Joe speaking. I opened my eyes a crack, saw that lamps were lit, and that it was dark outside. I must have gotten about four hours of sleep.
    Joe was saying into the phone, “Okay. Tomorrow morning, nine a.m. We’ll be there.”
    He hung up looking grim and walked with the baby to the kitchen, where he heated up a bottle in the microwave. When the oven beeped, he tested the milk, then started back across the room with the baby.
    “Honey, who was that on the phone?” I asked.
    “Hey, you were really out. Do you feel better?”
    “Was that Dr. Gordon?”
    “Uh-huh. We have an appointment tomorrow morning.”
    “Did she get the tests back?”
    “I think so. But she would have told me if anything was wrong. The baby is warm,” he said.
    “How warm?”
    “She keeps fluctuating between normal and a hundred and three. She goes up. She goes down. Our roller-coaster baby.”
    “Joe. This can’t be right. I’m really getting scared. Actually, I’m way past scared. I’m terrified.”
    I rolled Julie’s crib into our bedroom, next to my side of the bed. It was another night when supposedly nothing was really wrong with Julie, but I didn’t believe it. I’d been told that babies get fevers, that all new mothers worry this way, but I felt alarmed every time I touched her skin.
    I was hovering uselessly over Julie’s crib when my phone rang. I didn’t answer, and then I didn’t answer it when it rang again. It had been a long time since a phone call had brought me good news.
    If I didn’t pick up the phone, maybe the caller would go away.

Chapter 55
    AFTER THE PHONE had rung three times in five minutes, I gave in and dug it out from under the pile of clothes on the chair. I looked at the caller ID.
    “For God’s sake. Whose life is this, anyway?”
    Joe said, “Who is it?”
    “The bad news bear.”
    I said, “Boxer,” into the mouthpiece and he said, “You’re not going to believe this.”
    Julie set up a wail from her crib. Her voice was pitched at extra loud. I could hardly hear Brady’s voice.
    “I’m a little busy right now, boss,” I said.
    “Remember Randolph Fish?”
    “Did he die?”
    “No, he woke up.”
    Randolph Fish was a brutal, clever, truly diabolical killer who had been linked to nine dead or missing college girls over a three-year span, all on the West Coast.
    The remains of five of the young women had been found in wooded areas and remote industrial locations. The victims had been tortured and mutilated, each dying by different means. Bludgeoning. Strangulation. Stabbing.
    The other three girls had never been found or heard from again, but they matched the killer’s type—petite, dark-haired, and very trusting. Because of the different locations and manners of death, it had taken years to connect the dead and missing girls to one killer.
    And then the killer made a mistake.
    A fingerprint found on a car belonging to one of the dead girls matched that of Randolph Fish, an itinerant bartender who had been arrested in San Francisco a month before for assault and then released.
    After victim number nine, Sandra Brody, was abducted from the campus of the University of San Francisco three years ago and taken to whereabouts unknown, Jacobi and I were asked to work with the FBI. Jacobi and I joined the stakeout in the Mission.
    It was about nine at night, windy and cold. We were watching two bars and a movie theater on 16th when Fish came out of the theater.
    He saw an FBI vehicle and, like a praying mantis nabbing a bug, Fish snatched a woman at random who was also leaving the theater. He held a knife under her throat and shouted to the agents in the black SUV, “I’ll kill her. Believe me, I will.”
    I was on the theater side of the street, crouched between two cars, and I had a clear shot at the back of Randolph Fish’s head. I couldn’t see the hostage’s face, only the line of her throat and the blade pressing against it.
    I stood up, held my gun with both hands, and