14th Deadly Sin: (Women’s Murder Club 14) (24 page)

She texted Brady before she left the Hall, again from the street, and another time from the parking lot at Whole Foods on Fourth Street. No reply.

During her drive home to Telegraph Hill, she revisited highlights of her meeting with Parisi, especially the part when he’d said, “I think two million is the right number.” And she had said, “No, it’s not, Len. No freaking way.”

Yuki hardly remembered arriving home, but after putting away the groceries, she checked her landline and saw that Brady still hadn’t called. And now she was getting annoyed about that.

She took a bottle of coconut water from the fridge, got into her comfy chair, and was opening her e-mail when the doorbell rang. She bounced up, looked through the peephole, and saw a teenager standing in the hallway with a clipboard and a gigantic bouquet of flowers.

This was more like it.

She exchanged her signature for the flowers and read the note on her way to the kitchen.
Damn, Yuki. Hiring you was the best thing I ever did in my life. Congratulations. Zac.

Yuki liberated the flowers from the wrapping and carried the vase to the console table behind the sofa. Then she returned to her laptop and opened her mailbox.

There was an e-mail from Chief Jacobi.

Yuki, thought you’d like to know that Inspector Brand is on suspension pending an investigation. I’ve got your young Arturo Mendez in protective custody until I can park him someplace safe. Sorry to tell you Li’l Tony Willis passed. As for you, young lady, hell of a job. Hell of a job.

Yuki’s eyes stung.

She palmed them and tried to hold back the tears. She thought about Li’l Tony, with tubes in his nose and his arms, asking her to get him moved to another prison. That was all he’d wanted. When she opened her eyes again, she had a new e-mail.

Yuki, we’re moving as soon as we can to a better place for our child. I am sorry Aaron-Rey never met you. He would have loved you like we do. We will never forget you.

Love, Bea Kordell

That was when Yuki really started to cry. She went to the bedroom, undressed, and got into bed. She was sleeping deeply when she was awoken by a kiss on the cheek.

Brady was sitting next to her, looking at her in a way he hadn’t looked at her since before she took the job at the Defense League. She backed up to the headboard and sat up.

“I’m a dumb dick,” he said.

“Uh-huh.”

“I’m dumb, I’ve been a dick, and I’m sorry.”

She was still mad. She reached for a tissue and blew her nose. She said, “It wasn’t anyone’s fault that we weren’t allowed to talk about our cases.”

“I could have made tea. We could have watched movies together. Had pillow fights. Something.”

“I’m not that mad at you,” she said.

“You
are.
You
should
be. You know why I couldn’t take your calls today? Because I was in nonstop meetings. Because you cracked this dirty-cop murder case that I’ve been working—me and the entire Southern Station—”

“I didn’t do all that.”

“You kicked the door down, darlin’. We’ve got a chance now of closing this whole nasty thing. Thanks to you.”

“I’m glad.” She liked his voice. That southern thang. She couldn’t take her eyes away from him, either.

Brady put his hand along her cheek, under her chin. She looked up at him.

“I was a dick,” he said, “but it was killing me. I’ve really missed you.”

“Me, too.” Her voice cracked.

Brady got up and closed the blinds. He took off his tie, then his jacket, threw them onto the chair, unstrapped his holster, kicked off his shoes, and opened his shirt. He went for the button at his waistband.

Yuki said, “Wait, Brady. I have to be somewhere.”

“Really?” he said.

Yuki laughed. “No.”

Brady stepped out of his pants and she gazed at him adoringly. He opened the envelope of blankets and sheets and got into bed. Yuki put her arms around his neck, fitted herself against him, and let him take it from there.

He always knew just what to do.

JOE AND I were in bed. It was early, ten something o’clock, but I was too tired to go for a run, too edgy to sleep. Joe yawned and stretched beside me. He was feeling wonderful. In fact, the last time he’d been in this kind of mood was when he’d first seen the face of his baby girl.

My version of Joe’s day had been terrifying.

I could still hear his breathless voice over the phone saying I had to come quick—he had Clement Hubbell in custody.

I had moved like there was a bomb tied to my tail. I got hold of the SWAT commander and said I’d get authorization later. I hoped to hell I could. I’d jumped into the lead SUV for the warp-speed race to Edgehill Mountain, the whole way hoping we would get there in time.

Now that it was behind us, I pictured SWAT battering down the red door, the hinges popping, the door lying down like a big red tongue on the floor as a dozen men with shields up and guns drawn stormed the kitchen. Joe was at the table with a muffin in his hand, sitting beside a shocked old woman, who’d huffed, “You could have
knocked.
”

Joe had started grinning like a kid who’d unlocked the parental controls on the adult entertainment channels—and that was
before
Hubbell had been booked.

I was still in post-adrenaline shock and kept thinking about how badly it could have gone. My husband could have died.

“You’re so tense,” Joe said, stretching out an arm, pulling me toward him.

“Pretty happy with yourself, aren’t you, hon?”

He laughed. “You bet I am. After all these years as a desk jockey, I still have the goods.”

He wrapped both arms around me, and I lifted my face for his kiss. His mouth and hands felt so good, I tried to let my thoughts go, but I couldn’t.

I was wired: flashing from the Calhoun family massacre, to the Windbreaker cops, to the notes from anonymous cowards accusing me of crossing the thin blue line.

“Lindsay?”

“I’m sorry, Joe. My mind’s still cranking. How about in the morning?” I said. “OK?”

He stroked my hair with his big paw.

“Course it’s OK. Talk to me,” he said.

I snuggled up to him and said the cases involving the dirty cops were still making me crazy. “I no longer know who to trust in the SFPD, not even in our own department.”

I hadn’t been talking long when I realized that Joe’s breathing had deepened and he’d dropped into sleep.

I got out of bed quietly and went to look in on Julie.

Little Miss Precious saw me peering into her crib. She burbled and raised her arms. I picked her up and took her to the chair by the window. I held her against my chest and rocked, all the while watching the traffic on Lake Street.

I saw no suspicious activity.

No men loitering or sitting in dark cars.

I rocked my sweetie until she fell asleep, and soothed by the motion of the chair and her breathing, I finally relaxed. I put her down in her crib and covered her up. Then I checked the locks on the front door and made sure the security system was on.

When all the hatches were battened down, I returned to bed, where my dear husband was alive and well, and maybe dreaming about his ten-star megaday.

I must have slept, because I woke up and looked at the clock. It was quarter after three. After what seemed like a minute, I looked at the clock again.

It was 7:45 a.m.

I had a meeting at eight. I was going to be late.

I CALLED JACOBI from my car and told him I was on the way. He barked, “Damn it, Boxer. Get your ass moving. We’re holding the meeting for
you.
”

He wasn’t kidding.

I said, “I’m ten minutes out,” and clicked off before I could bark back at him out of pure hurt-feelings reflex.

Of course my feelings were hurt.

Five years ago, when Jacobi and I were partners, we were both shot down in a dark alley in the Mission and almost died. I called in the “officers down” with what I thought would be my next-to-last breath. After that, Jacobi and I were bonded for life.

Yesterday, in a completely unrelated event, I’d interrogated a serial killer, which had been a lot like walking barefoot on the edge of a knife. I’d gotten the confession on video. All corners had been squared. Our solved cases rate shot up. Big day for the SFPD!

Today, I was late for a meeting with three men I trusted with my life, who trusted me with theirs. And Jacobi had chewed me out for being
late.

I heard my dead father saying,
Toughen up, Princess.

I have little love for my father, but this was right.

I had to toughen up. I applied the brakes about twelve inches before I rear-ended a minivan full of kids and dogs at the red light up ahead. I took a breath. A few of them.

I sat there and got my brains together, and when the light changed, I didn’t flip on the siren. I proceeded toward the Hall within the speed limit. I got to 850 Bryant at 8:46.

I parked in the all-day lot, tossed the keys to Carl, and crossed the street against the light. I badged security and took an elevator to the fifth floor.

When I walked into Jacobi’s office, three grim-faced men were sitting in “antiqued” leather furniture around a glass coffee table. The framed photos on the wall were of Jacobi with various politicos, and there was a shot of the two of us in our dress blues, receiving commendations from our former chief.

I stepped around Brady’s legs and took the seat next to Conklin. I felt better now. I was surrounded by friends, and I had myself back.

I said, “Sorry I’m late.”

Conklin passed me a container of coffee, no longer hot, but I knew he’d stirred in three sugars.

Brady said, “Chief, you want to tell her?”

I was saying, “Tell me what?” when Conklin said to me, “Robertson is dead.”

“Robertson?”

For a moment I didn’t know who the hell he was talking about, and then I got it. Kyle Robertson, Tom Calhoun’s partner, the fifty-something former beat cop looking for an early retirement as soon as possible.

“How did he die?” I asked the room.

Jacobi said, “He left his dog tied to the neighbor’s fence and stuck a note between the chain links. He put his badge on the dining table and then he sat down and ate his gun.”

“Aw, shit. What did the note say?” I asked.

“The note said, ‘I’m sorry. Please take care of Bruno. He’s a good boy.’ There was a check for the neighbor, a thousand bucks. Robertson signed and dated the note midnight last night. The neighbor called it in a couple hours ago.”

“What now?” I asked.

Jacobi said, “Deciding that is the job at hand.”

WHEN JACOBI SAID, “Deciding that is the job at hand,” he meant it was
our
job, the four of us, to connect the sketchy evidence and bring the bad cops down.

Brady is a list maker. He had a yellow pad, and he wrote names down on the left-hand side of the page with a red Sharpie.

Calhoun’s name was first on the list, and Robertson’s name followed. The two had been partners; now both were dead.

Brady said, “For the sake of argument, let’s say that Robertson killed himself because whatever had closed in on Calhoun was knocking on his door.”

I said, “When I interviewed Robertson, he vouched for Calhoun, said he was a good kid who’d had no dirty dealings of any kind. I didn’t pick up that he was covering for his partner—or himself. Maybe I got that wrong.” I went on, “Robertson and Calhoun reported to Ted Swanson.”

Jacobi said, “I called Swanson. He’s going through Robertson’s house now, looking for something that could explain this. He and Vasquez are talking to the neighbors.”

Conklin brought up Donnie Wolfe, the inside man at Wicker House who had informed the holdup team when the drugs and money would be in the house.

Conklin said, “Wolfe told us the robbers were cops, that the head dude’s tag was One, and that he was the boss of a six-man Windbreaker crew.”

Brady wrote
One + 5
on the top of his pad.

Jacobi said, “A witness to the crack house shootings saw a tattoo on the neck of one of the Windbreaker cops. It sounds a lot like Bill Brand’s tattoo.”

I’d seen that tattoo.
WB.
Like a Western cow brand.

Conklin said, “We were working with these guys. Every day. So it comes down to this: Brand, Calhoun, and Robertson are Windbreaker cops, and there may be a couple more we don’t know about. Whitney’s on the radar, too, by association with Brand.”

Brady said, “It’s a working theory. Brand is on suspension pending investigation. Jacobi and I are meeting with him in an hour. Boxer, you and Conklin talk to Whitney. Lean on him, hard. Whoever talks first gets a deal. The other guy gets the jackpot.”

Back at my desk, I called Whitney’s cell and left a message, the first of three. Conklin said, “Maybe this has to be done in person. I’ll be right back.”

And ten minutes later he was.

“Whitney isn’t in and hasn’t called in,” Conklin said. “But I’m gonna say he already got the message.”

We headed over to Brady’s see-through office. He looked up and said, “Brand didn’t show.”

Conklin said, “Likewise, Whitney hasn’t punched in. Hasn’t returned our calls.”

It was a good bet that Whitney and Brand had split. And without them, we might never find out who had killed Calhoun, who had ripped off Wicker House and killed seven people and a snitch called Rascal Valdeen. We might never know who had killed the dope slingers in the crack house, another half dozen pushers, or the innocent owners of a couple of check-cashing stores. And there was the matter of that mercado shooting. Maya Perez had died along with her unborn child.

I felt like we were on the verge of everything or nothing. And suddenly, my refried brain kicked up the obvious candidate for the job of “One.”