The 6th Target (Women's Murder Club)
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When a horrifying attack leaves one of the four members of the Women's Murder Club struggling for her life, the others fight to keep a madman behind bars before anyone else is hurt.
And Lindsay Boxer and her new partner in the San Francisco police department run flat-out to stop a series of kidnappings that has electrified the city: children are being plucked off the streets together with their nannies--but the kidnappers aren't demanding ransom. Amid uncertainty and rising panic, Lindsay juggles the possibility of a new love with an unsolvable investigation, and the knowledge that one member of the club could be on the brink of death.
And just when everything appears momentarily under control, the case takes a terrifying turn, putting an entire city in lethal danger. Lindsay must make a choice she never dreamed she'd face--with no certainty that either outcome has more than a prayer of success.
numbers—the fatal lightning strikes since 1900, the inches of snowfall in Vermont, the verified sightings of cows sucked into the air by tornadoes—when a garbage truck began its halting clamor up the block. He thought his fricking skull would crack open. He wasn’t crazy, either. He was having a perfectly reasoned response to a horrific assault on the senses. He clapped his hands over his ears, but the squeals, screeches, galvanized shimmies, came through—and they set off Oliver! The goddamned
of the jurors as he spoke. “Mr. Brinkley was standing beside a woman this community holds in high regard, Dr. Claire Washburn, San Francisco’s chief medical examiner. Dr. Washburn was terrified, but she had the presence of mind to say to Mr. Brinkley, ‘Okay, son… give me the gun.’ “Instead, Mr. Brinkley gave her a bullet in the chest. And when Dr. Washburn’s teenage son, Willie, went to her assistance, Mr. Brinkley shot at him, too. “Luckily, the boat bumped the pier at that moment, and Mr.
filled them in. “He’s ‘writing’ this book called The Accounting,” I told them. “It’s subtitled A Statistical Compendium of the Twentieth Century.” “Come on! He’s writing about everything that happened in the last hundred years?” Yuki asked. “Yeah, if you can call page after page of statistics ‘writing’! Like, how much milk and grain were produced in each state in each year, how many kids went through grade school, the number of accidents involving kitchen appliances—” “Jeez, you can Google
in behind Renfrew when he reached Sacramento Street while Jacobi and Macklin took a northern route toward Broadway. Our walkie-talkies bleeped and chattered as our team members called in their locations and that of the BMW, following, dropping back, weaving into place, and picking up the trail. My heart was thudding at a good steady rate as we followed Paul Renfrew’s run to wherever the hell he was taking us. We crossed the Bay Bridge and drove east on Highway 24, finally entering Contra Costa
Brinkley said, spittle flying from his lips. “And I killed those people on the ferry because he told me, I’m a very dangerous man.” Sherman sat down in his seat behind the defense table and calmly put folders into an accordion file. Brinkley shouted, “That day on the ferry. I lined those people up in my gun sight and I pulled the trigger. I could do it again.” The jurors were wide-eyed as Alfred Brinkley wiped tears from his sunken cheeks with the palms of his hands. “That’s enough, Mr.