Violets Are Blue

right about paranoia.
    I had a powerful gut feeling that Jamilla Hughes could be in danger right now. I couldn’t shake it off. Couldn’t ignore it, even if I wanted to. The vibrations in my head were too strong, overwhelming. It was one of my famous feelings, and I had to go with it.
    I thought about my former partner Patsy Hampton —
and her murder
.
    I remembered Betsey Cavalierre —
and her murder
.
    And Detective Maureen Cooke in New Orleans.
    A long time ago as a homicide detective, I had just about stopped believing in coincidences. Still, I had no logical reason to believe that a psychopathic killer could be out here in California, possibly stalking Inspector Jamilla Hughes.
    I just felt it.
    Total awareness.
    The Mastermind was out here, wasn’t he? It was the sense I had. I waited for his call. I was ready to nail him once and for all. I was so ready.

Chapter 94

    I DROVE from the airport to Jamilla’s apartment at several miles above the posted speed limit. On the way, I used my cell phone. There was still no answer at her place. I was already in a cold sweat. I had never followed a hunch quite like this one.
    I thought about what I could do right now. One possibility was to call in help from the SFPD, but I didn’t like it. Police officers are logical creatures, and coldly suspicious of gut feelings. My track record with psychopaths might buy me some credibility in Washington, but not out here in California.
    I could call the FBI — but I chose not to do it. There were a couple of reasons why. More gut feelings that I wanted to keep to myself for a while longer.
    I decided to park a block over from Texas Street, where Jamilla lived. But I took a ride up the steep Potrero Hill first. I turned onto the street about half a dozen blocks south of her place, then I toured the connecting streets. There was a mixed style of row houses: the more charming wooden ones from the early 1900s and the boxier three- and four-story ones with lots of aluminum detail. I could see the bay, the loading docks of Pier 84, and Oakland in the distance. I passed the New Potrero Market, J.J. Mac’s, the North Star Restaurant — Jamilla’s home turf. But where was Jamilla?
    The traffic was fairly heavy. I hoped my rented sedan wouldn’t be spotted easily. And that I’d see Jamilla lugging groceries, or jogging home from a nearby park where she’d worked out.
    But I didn’t see her. Damn it, where was she? Not that she didn’t have a right to a day off.
    I couldn’t imagine anything happening to her, but that was the way I had felt about Patsy Hampton, and then about Betsey Cavalierre.
    Two dead partners in two years.
    I didn’t believe in coincidences.
    Patsy Hampton had been murdered by a British diplomat named Shafer. I was almost certain of that. Betsey’s murder remained unsolved, and that was the one that worried me. I kept thinking about the Mastermind. Somehow I had become a part of his story, his fantasy world. How? Why? I had received a late phone call from him one night in the summer: “
Betsey Cavalierre is dead. . . . I’m the one you call Mastermind. That’s a name I can live with. I am that good
.”
    The killer had used a knife on her, everywhere, even between Betsey’s legs. He hated women. That was clear. I had encountered only one other killer who hated women so much: Casanova in North Carolina. But I was sure Casanova was dead and couldn’t have killed Betsey Cavalierre. Still . . . I felt some kind of strange link to Casanova and what had happened in North Carolina. What was the connection?
    I found a spot and parked about two blocks from Jamilla Hughes’s apartment on the hill near Eighteenth. Her building was older, a remodeled yellow Victorian with the familiar three-sided bay windows you often see in San Francisco. Very nice, very homey. There were neat little signs on the trees: “Friends of the Urban Forest.”
    I called her again on the cell. Still no answer.
    My heart was pumping fast. The cold sweat continued. I had to do something. I went to the front door of the house, rang the bell, but no one answered.
Damn it. Where is she
?
    “Safe Neighborhood” signs were stuck in bright green patches of grass up and down the street. I hoped the street was very safe. I prayed to God that it was as safe as it looked.
    I went back and waited in the car. Fidgeted. Grew even more nervous and impatient. I thought about who the Mastermind might be, then about Betsey’s murder again. I