Greeley pushed Anderson a couple more times, his hands flat against Anderson’s chest, Anderson saying, “Get your hands off me, Mr. Greeley. I don’t want to hurt you,” as the older man backed him into the stone wall.
I saw potential for tragedy. I shouted, “Freeze. Everyone freeze!” but no one was listening.
I was closing in on Anderson when he really snapped.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Greeley.”
A shovel had been leaning against the wall, and now it was in Anderson’s hand. He drew back his right arm and swung the shovel, connecting with Greeley’s shoulder. Greeley cried out and spun into a tombstone, where he crumpled and dropped.
Jacobi helped the dead woman’s father to his feet. Once he was standing, Greeley tried to pull free of Jacobi’s grasp, cursing, “You son of a bitch, Anderson. How fucking dare you?”
I drew my nine and went for Anderson, shouting, “Hands behind your back.”
He started to do it, but as I pulled my cuffs from my jacket pocket, Anderson turned and, seeing an opportunity, punched me square in the face.
I hadn’t seen it coming. I stumbled back, my ankle twisting in my stupid high-heel shoes. I lost my balance and sat down hard on the ground.
Someone reached a hand down to help me up, but as soon as I was standing on my wobbling feet, Anderson swung at me again.
This time I ducked, and then I decked him.
CHAPTER 79
REPORTERS SCRAMBLED ACROSS the sloping field of the cemetery, joined by bystanders, and together they outnumbered the local gendarmes ten to one.
Reverend Grandgeorge held up his hands and asked for the commotion to stop in the name of God, but he had no chance against those who believed deeply that Paul Baron was filth and the others, friends of the Greeleys, who reasonably saw the funeral as sacrosanct.
Barefoot and bleeding, I retrieved my gun from the grass and ordered Anderson to stay facedown on the ground. Conklin intervened. As I rubbed my jaw and tried to clear away the fog behind my eyes, Conklin arrested Anderson for assault on a police officer and read him his rights.
Jacobi helped Anderson to his feet and marched him to the car across the road. The noisy crowd followed.
Conklin said loudly, “Who else wants to go to jail?”
I got into the passenger seat of the unmarked car, and Jacobi took the wheel. He backed out of the churchyard and pointed us southeast toward San Francisco, about an hour away. But he had a hard time keeping his eyes on the road.
“Are your knuckles broken?” he asked. “Let me run you by the emergency room.”
“Jacobi. I’m fine. Really.”
I knew without looking that I had a fat lip, a swollen eye, a scraped cheek, and a pulsing ache in my right ankle. I didn’t think I had broken bones, but I was pissed.
I held my bloody right fist in my lap and picked up the mike with my left hand. I reported to dispatch that we were on our way back to the Hall. The dispatcher’s voice came over the radio along with a big pile of static, and she confirmed.
I dialed down the noise, rotated my bad ankle, and looked out the car window, ignoring the kicking and cage rattling from the back seat. Anderson was freaking out, but he was cuffed. The doors were locked, and no one had been shot or maimed.
An hour later we were back at the Hall.
I washed up and iced my face, and after Anderson was booked, he was brought to Interview 2 in an orange jumpsuit. He didn’t ask for anything, not a cold drink or a phone call or even a lawyer. Good. Jacobi and I were experienced working together, and we gave Anderson a thorough three-hour interrogation with tape rolling.
Since Anderson punched me, I was throbbing all over. Maybe I just wanted it all to be done with, but I believed Anderson’s story. He had no independent knowledge of the Barons’ drug involvement, but he’d seen the news. His story was short and bitter. He had loved Ramona when they were in high school. And he hated Paul. He put his head down on the table and cried.
“Lock me up,” he said. “I deserve it. There’s no other place I want to be.”
By then we knew that Anderson didn’t own a gun, had never been in the military, had no priors or outstanding warrants. He didn’t even have a computer, owing to the iffy wireless service in the area. He wasn’t one of the Moving Targets shooters, but we were keeping him in lockup while Greeley got a lawyer and pressed charges.
As a guard took Anderson to holding, he said to me, “I’m sorry about … hitting you. I’m sorry for what I did.”
“Tell it to the judge,” said Jacobi.
Back at my desk, I slumped down in my chair and said to Conklin, “It’s still Saturday, right?”
My partner grinned at me. “Want to go out to dinner with me and Cindy?”
“Thanks, but no. I have a date.”
CHAPTER 80
MY DAUGHTER SCREAMED and ran into her room when she saw me.
Martha made quite a racket, too, took a stance outside Julie’s door until my little girl let her in. And poor Gloria Rose stood by, wringing her hands.
“What happened? Lindsay, what happened?”
I put my gun away and peered into the hallway mirror. I looked worse than I’d thought. My swollen lower lip was split, and one of my front teeth was chipped. Dark-blue circles had come up around my eyes, and I was starting to worry about my knuckles. I couldn’t straighten my hand.
I said to Mrs. Rose, “I had to break up a brawl. I’m fine. If you keep looking at me like that, I’m going to start to feel sorry for myself.”
“I’ll get some ice. Be right back.”
“Gloria, I’m going to look like a beauty queen again by this time next week.”
She was supposed to laugh, but our good family friend and nanny nodded and said, “Sit down, Lindsay. Pull your hair away from your face, so I can see if you need stitches.”
“Make that ice pack for the road,” I said.
“That’s why God made sandwich bags.”
I sat down like she’d told me, and I let her clean my face with alcohol, hardly screaming at all, but enough that Julie crept out to see what the ruckus was all about.
“What happened, Mommy?”
“It’s a long story, honey. But the bad guy’s in jail.”
“Ohhhhhh. And he’ll never get out?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that. He flipped out. Hurt some people. It’s a long story. I’ll tell you later. Do you want to go to the park?”
“And bring home noodles for dinner?”
“I’ll have to ask Daddy what he wants, but I’m sure we can find a couple of noodles for you.”
“A couple?”
Mrs. Rose led me to the sink, unwrapped and washed my knuckles. While I told her what a good person she was, she poured alcohol over my right hand, telling me that I needed to take a nap.
“Don’t take offense, but you look like you crawled out of a dumpster. This was a nice suit, but you’d never know it.”
She showed me the rip under the armhole, the grass stains on the elbows, the bloody lapels.
“This is what I get for wearing heels. Let me up, Gloria. Martha? You want to go to the park?”
Did she ever. I told her and Julie to give me a minute and repeated to my darling daughter’s nanny, “I have to get into jeans, okay? And spend some time with Jules. I need it. She needs it, too.”
“You’ve got a point,” she said. “Go change. Put on some lace-up boots. You’re limping.”
A bit later, while we still had late-afternoon sunlight, I hugged Gloria Rose good-bye. I leashed my good old border collie and helped Julie on with a jacket, and we took a leisurely three-block walk to Mountain Lake Park.
It would have been a great idea but for the phone. Brady called. After I briefed him, Conklin called to make sure I was okay.
The park was busy. New rules were now posted about keeping dogs on leashes and not feeding the ducks. Not a problem for Martha in her old age. She was more of a flock herder than a duck fetcher. I found a seat on
a bench where I could see everything. Julie and Martha lay down in the grass, and Julie told Martha a story involving bad men and her big, strong mother.
I couldn’t help but laugh, and then Chi called, a methodical man with a list of witnesses, two of them who said I’d thrown the first punch.
“How many say I didn’t?”
“More.”
Chi went down the list of mourners, giving their opinions on who had reason to shoot Paul and Ramona Baron.
“Here’s the net-net,” Chi told me. “Anderson is popular. He played football. He can fix anything. And he has friends. They thought Paul Baron was a dirtbag, that Ramona was the real deal, and they felt sorry for Anderson, who had loved her for twenty years. None of them had any thoughts about the snipers, nothing. ‘Moving Targets? What’s that? Never heard of it.’ But they trusted we would crack the case. And nobody is filing charges against you.”
I sighed into the phone, told Chi I’d see him on Monday, and I’d just hung up when my phone rang.
“Joe! What’s your ETA?”
“Not tonight, sweetheart. If I could leave Napa right now, I would.”
“But … why not? Dave?”
“Yeah. Long story.”
He said he’d call me after the child was asleep. Julie climbed up on the bench and asked if I was talking to Daddy.
I handed her the phone.
“Daddy. Chinese noodles for dinner, okay?”
There was a moment of silence. Then the question “Why?” was repeated several times before she said, “Okay. Bye,” and handed me the phone. Joe had hung up.
“Sorry, Julie, but his friend Dave is in a bad way and only Daddy can help him.”
Julie threw her arms around me, and Martha dropped her head onto my knees.
“It’s okay, Mommy,” Julie said. “I just love being with my two best girls.”
I laughed at that direct quote from her father. I hugged her and ruffled my doggy’s head, and after a while we walked home, stopping off at the Chinese noodle joint, of course. Bought takeout tan tan noodles for two.
We were home and halfway through our noodles when my phone buzzed.
I looked at the screen. It was Brady. Damn.
I grabbed the phone and prepared myself to tell him I’d be fine after a day in bed, but he spared me the trouble. Jacobi had briefed him through the right hook to my face and let him know that the perp was booked.
But that wasn’t why he was calling.
“There’s been another shooting, Boxer.”
“No. Where?”
“LA. One shot to the head. The dead man was a retired cop.”
“No, Brady, no. What the hell is this? Was he dealing?”
“I’ve got more news, Boxer. Stempien ran the pictures Lemke took at the funeral. He got a hit on Barkley.”
“I’m speechless.”
“I sent you the photo. He shaved, but it’s Barkley with a rock-solid alibi for the shooting today. He couldn’t have been in Bolinas and the City of Angels at the same time.”
I looked at the picture of an average-size white man, clean shaven, wearing a black sports coat, white shirt, and a tie. Had I seen him and not recognized him?
“Lemke will circulate the photo,” he said. “You take the day off.” I laughed. It was about 6:30 p.m.
“See you in the morning,” said Lieutenant Brady.
CHAPTER 81
JOE HAD BEEN sleeping in Dave’s spare bedroom on the second floor when he was jarred awake by the squeal of hydraulic brakes and the sound of shouting.
He peered out the window and saw Dave directing a crew in overalls, carrying furniture and boxes from Ray and Nancy Channing’s house next door and loading up a large truck.
This disturbed Joe, as it would any investigator. Was there something in that house that could be evidence against Dave? If so, there was nothing he could do to stop him. In fact, the whole situation stank of secrecy, misdirection, and Dave’s uncharacteristic anxiety and paranoia.
Joe showered, dressed, packed, and took his bag downstairs. He left the house by the front door and watched the move of furnishings, garment bags, plastic tubs, and whatnots into the truck. Dave waved and called out, “This is all going to auction,” he said.
“Can I give you a hand?”
“We’re good,” Dave said.
Joe shouted back, “I’ll make breakfast.”
Comfortable in any kitchen, Joe found the coffee, set up the pot, took eggs out of the fridge, and whipped them in a bowl. There was a loaf of bread in a basket, and he sliced it.
He lined a pan with bacon, then went outside and gave Dave a five-minute warning.
A few minutes later Dave came into the house with items on his lap: a paint box, a pair of men’s boots, and a rifle.
“Wow, it feels good to send all that stuff to auction,” he said. “Anything that doesn’t sell goes to Goodwill. I got cash for Mom’s paintings and Dad’s clock collection.”
“I put cheese and onions in the eggs,” Joe said.
“Take a look.”
Dave took an envelope from his shirt pocket, opened it, and showed a check to Joe. “I can pay you back and meet the payroll, too. Okay?”
“Sure. That’s great.”
Dave placed the boots on the floor, the paint box and the gun on the chair in front of the fireplace, before pulling his chair up to the table. It wasn’t long before he began rolling it back and forth. He appeared to Joe to be preoccupied and anxious.
“You need something?” Joe asked.
“I need to see Dr. Alex Murray in handcuffs.”
Dave backed up, made a sharp turn to the fridge, got his hands on a carton of juice—and it slipped from his fingers onto the floor.
Joe grabbed a dish towel, but the juice outran him. He turned his head so he could look up at Dave.
He said, “You’re the same guy who could throw the pigskin in a perfect spiral from the fifty-yard line to the end zone.”
“Yeah, well. That was a lifetime ago.”
While Joe mopped up, Dave went to the sideboard and pulled out dishes and coffee mugs and set the table. Joe watched him do it. His hands were shaking. Why?
Joe finished frying the bacon and cooking the eggs, and when the toast popped, he buttered four slices, set it all up on a pair of blue china plates, and brought breakfast to the table. Dave brought over the coffeepot, and as Joe would have predicted—it slipped from Dave’s hand, dropping from three inches above the tabletop.
Joe steadied the sloshing pot.
He said, “Dave, what the fuck is going on?”
“You mean besides watching a truck drive off with my parents’ stuff that I’ve grown up with my whole life? Besides my upcoming trial? Besides that I’ve lost my father, my best friend? And you, Joe, you look at me like you’d like me to get the electric chair.”
Joe sat down across from Dave and moved all of the plates out of the way. Dave was rolling the chair again, to and fro, to and fro, staring down at the table.
“Look at me,” Joe said.
Dave stared at the table.
Joe said it again, but this time not as a demand. Dave had every right to his feelings. And Joe had every right to his.
“Dave, I’m not the law. I work for you. You’re acting like a man with a bad conscience. I have to know the whole truth in order to help you. Did you have anything to do with Ray’s death?”
Joe braced himself for Dave to flip the table, knock the coffeepot to the floor, and then open his veins with a bread knife.
“No,” he said. “I didn’t do a damned thing to Ray but love him. Let me ask you, Joe. I’ve met your father. He’s a good guy. Could be a bit of a jerk. He had a lot on his hands, all you kids, afraid the money would run out. He said a few rough things to you in front of the coach. In front of me. Did you ever think of killing him?”
“No.”
“No. Under what circumstances would you have done it? If he was hurting someone? If he was a criminal? Not
even then, right?”
“Right.”
“Even if he was sick and told you to put him down, you wouldn’t do it.”
The pause lengthened, and then Dave spoke again.
“I swear to you on the memories of my mother, my father, and the love of my life, Rebecca, that I had nothing to do with Dad’s death. Someone did, but it wasn’t me.”
Throughout this speech Dave had fixed a direct and unwavering look into Joe’s eyes.
Joe said it with feeling. “I’m sorry, Dave.”
“Apology accepted. And don’t you dare ask me if I killed Ray ever again.”
Joe got up, walked around the wheelchair, and put his arms around Dave’s chest, hugging him from behind. Dave nodded his head and held Joe’s arms. They stayed this way for a long time, until Joe spoke.
“I’m going to cook up some more eggs, and then let’s go to work.”
CHAPTER 82
DAVE AND JOE moved into the sitting room, where Dave had laid out papers on the coffee table.
“I pulled these from funeral home websites,” he said. “I’ve got five question marks and four suspicious deaths, all of them patients of Doc Murray.”
“Playing devil’s advocate for a minute.”
“Oh, jeez. I thought we were done with that.”
“People die, Dave. Older people with heart conditions die all the time. Murray’s a cardiac surgeon. His patients all have heart disease.”
“Correct, Joe. And their deaths aren’t investigated because of that. Old person is brought into the hospital with heart issues and dies overnight. End of story. What if Murray is ending the story a little early?”
“Humor me, Dave. If it wasn’t Murray, who could be the angel of death? Who had the means, the opportunity, and the motive?”
They kicked it around as cars pulled up to the winery. And they made a list of nurses, aides, orderlies, other doctors, and a couple of laundry workers Dave knew by name.
20th Victim: (Women’s Murder Club 20) (Women's Murder Club) Page 17
