I grabbed the mike and barked over the car’s PA system, “Clear the street! Move over now!”

“Fuck this,” said Jacobi.

He flipped the switches that turned on the grille lights and the headlight strobes, and as our siren screamed into action, we tore past the Camry, clipping its taillight.

“Good one, Warren.”

We blew across the intersection at Howard Street, and I called in a Code 33 to keep the radio band free for the pursuit.

“We’re going northbound on Sixth, south of Market, in pursuit of a black Mercedes, attempting to pull it over. All units in the area, head into this vicinity.”

“Reason for the pursuit, Lieutenant?”

“Ongoing homicide investigation.”

Adrenaline flooded my body. We were going to land this baby, and I prayed we wouldn’t kill any bystanders in the process. Radio units sang out their locations as we crossed Mission against the light, going at least sixty.

I pressed my foot against virtual brakes as Jacobi gunned our car across Market, the largest and busiest street in town, heavy now with buses, Muni trains, and late commuter traffic.

“Hang a right,” I shouted to Jacobi.

The Mercedes veered onto Taylor at a split in the road. We were two car lengths behind but not close enough in the darkening night to get any sense of who was driving, who was riding shotgun.

We followed the car onto Ellis, heading west past the Hotel Coronado, where the first electrocution murder had happened. This was the killer’s turf, wasn’t it? The bastard knew these streets as well as I did.

Cars hugged the curbs, and we blew past cross streets at eighty, our siren blaring, speeding uphill at full throttle, going airborne for a few heart-stopping seconds before dropping onto the downside curve of the incline—and even so, we lost the Mercedes at Leavenworth as cars and pedestrians clogged the intersection.

I yelled into the mike again and thanked God when a radio car called in, “We’ve got him in sight, Lieutenant. Black Mercedes heading west on Turk, going seventy-five.” Another unit joined the chase at Hyde.

“I’m guessing he’s headed toward Polk,” I said to Jacobi.

“My thoughts exactly.”

We deferred the main route to the squad cars, shot past Krim’s and Kram’s Palace of Fine Junk on the corner of Turk, and picked up Polk heading north. There were about a dozen one-way alleys branching off Polk. I drilled each one of them with my eyes as we passed Willow, Ellis, and Olive.

“That’s him, dragging his butt,” I shouted to Jacobi. The Mercedes wobbled on a blown right rear tire as it took the turn past the Mitchell Brothers’ theater, then onto Larkin.

I grabbed the dash with both hands as Jacobi followed. The Mercedes lost control, caromed off a parked minivan, flew up onto the pavement, and charged a mailbox. Torn metal screamed as the mailbox punched the undercarriage of the car, which then came to rest with its nose pointing upward at a forty-five-degree angle, the driver’s side canting down toward the gutter.

The hood popped, and steam poured out as the radiator hose gave up the ghost. The stink of burned rubber and the candy apple smell of antifreeze permeated the air.

Jacobi halted our vehicle, and we ran toward the Mercedes, guns in hand.

“Get your hands in the air,” I shouted. “Do it now!”

I saw that both occupants were pinned by the airbags. As the airbags deflated, I got my first look at their faces. They were white kids, maybe thirteen and fifteen, and they were terrified.

As Jacobi and I gripped our weapons with both hands and approached the Mercedes, the kids started bawling their hearts out.

Chapter 6

MY HEART WAS BOOMING almost audibly, and now I was furious. Unless Dr. Cabot was Doogie Howser’s age, he wasn’t in this car. These kids were idiots or speed freaks or car thieves—or maybe all three.

I kept my gun pointed at the driver’s-side window.

“Put your hands in the air. That’s it. Touch the ceiling. Both of you.”

Tears were cascading down the driver’s face, and with a shock, I realized it was a girl. She had a short pink-tipped haircut, no makeup, no face piercings: a Seventeen magazine version of punk that she hadn’t quite pulled off. When she lifted her hands, I saw glass shards dusting her black T-shirt. Her name hung from a chain around her neck.