Page 112

CHAPTER 110

FBI SPECIAL AGENT James Walsh drove the armored black Escalade. I was in the passenger seat. We were both armed. There was a steel mesh divider between the front and back seats, and in the back seat was another FBI agent, a hefty one. His name was Brian “Buddy” Houghton of the San Francisco field office of the FBI. Today Buddy’s assignment was to be a human restraint on our forthcoming passenger.

Walsh pulled the black Caddy to the curb in front of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. James tipped the valet to leave the car right there, told him we’d be back shortly. Then we entered the hotel through its gilded doors.

I had spoken with ma?tre d’ Ryan McCall at eight fifteen this morning, and he had told me that Brett Palmer had a breakfast reservation for nine.

I hoped to hell Palmer hadn’t changed or cancelled that reservation. I wanted to put this scum away.

Walsh said, “You okay, Lindsay?”

“Sure. Just hoping Brett Palmer is in the dining room.”

I unhooked my badge from the chain around my neck and pinned it to my breast pocket. My gun was in its holster, and if all went to plan, Walsh and I would be out of this place and back in the Caddy with a serial killer in five to ten minutes.

Ryan McCall was at the ma?tre d’s podium. He smiled when he saw me, and I introduced him to Walsh and asked him to point out Palmer’s table.

Ryan said, “He’s at the small table in the far southeast corner. Blue jacket.”

I looked across the floor to the southeast corner. The room was spacious, and the tables were nearly full. I didn’t see Palmer. And then I saw him.

“He’s half hidden by the pillar over there.”

Palmer was alone, facing away from us, using his phone. Keeping in mind that if he suspected anything, Palmer might panic the moment he saw Agent Walsh—and not knowing if he, too, was armed—we made a simple plan.

We would approach Palmer’s table from behind, me to the right, Walsh to the left. It wasn’t a long walk to that table, but the dining room was an obstacle course. I was aware of Walsh as we crossed the room from different angles, and then we were both within five paces from the man in the blue jacket.

Palmer was reading his phone and had a plate of pancakes in front of him.

Walsh called out, “Brett. Hey, Brett. It’s me, Jimmy Walsh.”

Palmer turned around in his seat. He was clearly happy to see Walsh. He put the phone down, tossed his napkin to the table, got to his feet, and opened his arms to his old friend. Then he saw me coming toward him, too. And he recognized me.

“Wait,” he said, looking from Walsh to me and back to Walsh as we closed in on his table. “You two know each other?”

“Yes, Brett, we do,” Walsh said. “We’re both armed, and neither of us wants this to get ugly. So just put your hands behind your back. Sergeant Boxer is going to cuff you, and we’re going to walk out of the hotel together without a fuss.”

Palmer looked around for an escape route, knowing that the only way out was through us.

He turned back to Walsh, saying, “What is this? What’s going on here?”

I said, “Brett Palmer, you’re under arrest. We can talk about the details in the car and at the station. Now. Hands behind your back.”

Around us, people got up from their tables and moved away. Brett Palmer looked me in the eyes, his expression a mix of fear, anger, and then resignation. I had a feeling he’d seen similar expressions on the faces of the women he’d killed.

“Brett. Don’t make us ask again.”

“Why not? This is as good a time and place to die as any. Better than most.”

Walsh closed the distance between himself and Brett Palmer in two steps. He was bigger than Palmer, taller and stronger. He grabbed Palmer’s left arm and easily twisted it behind the man’s back. I moved in and did the same from Palmer’s right side, and then I cuffed him. James and I turned our prisoner around and marched him between the tables and out of the restaurant, right to the car.