Joe saw that my mind was far, far away.
“Talk to me,” he said.
“Martha needs a senior checkup,” I said.
“I’ll call the vet. What’s worrying you about the IAD meeting?”
“I’m nervous, Joe. Let’s face it. Stevens is going to try to ruin me. But I know what I saw. My intentions are damned good, and if that’s not enough, well, what else can I do?”
Julie ran out of her bedroom, entering the large living room, waving her arms and making sputtering, airplanelike noises. Joe tensed, ready to jump into action if she took a fall.
“Joooo-leee,” he called out. “Come to Daddy.”
She dipped her wings and course-corrected. The curly-haired single-engine aircraft flew to her daddy’s knees.
After she’d climbed into Joe’s lap, I said to him, “If the panel finds that I was out of line, the punishment phase is up to Jacobi. I saved his life once, don’t forget.”
“I know,” said Joe. He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “You’ll do fine. I’m sure of it. Call me as soon as it’s over.”
“I will.”
I got up, kissed him, then bent to kiss my daughter, wondering how she’d adjust to the intrusion of another little attention-getter in the house. And what about Joe and me? How would a new child impact Joe’s hoped-for job, and what would it do to my own? Assuming I still had one.
I left the kitchen–living room–dining room and went to the bedroom closet. I hit the light switch and stared at my wardrobe. Next to my long red cocktail dress hung a raft of mostly white button-front shirts and a dozen pairs of blue, black, and khaki trousers. I had three blue blazers and one gray one in a dry cleaner’s bag, along with a pair of dark-gray slacks.
I went with the gray.
I put on makeup with an overly careful, possibly shaky hand, then drove to 850 Bryant, arriving at 8:40. I parked across the street, dodged traffic against the light, entered the Hall, and passed through security without a hitch.
The elevator whisked me to the fifth floor, and I didn’t run into anyone I knew. That was good. I wasn’t in a chatty mood.
I had rehearsed my complaint in my head, but when the elevator doors slid open on five, my mind blanked.
I no longer remembered even my opening line.
CHAPTER 64
THE DOUBLE DOORS to the IAD hearing room were wide open to the hallway.
I crossed the threshold and quickly got my bearings.
The white-painted room was no-frills. The overhead strip lighting was fluorescent. The California state flag and the Stars and Stripes flanked the long wooden table for the panel at the front of the room.
Hon was speaking to a man I didn’t know.
There were two front-facing tables at midpoint for the complainants, and a stenographer sat off to the side with her console. Neither Stevens nor my union rep nor Brady were there.
A row of folding chairs had been set up at the back of the room. Given the renowned secrecy of IAD, I wasn’t surprised that there was no gallery for press, curiosity seekers, or interested parties.
My phone buzzed.
I reached into my blazer pocket and checked the caller ID before answering. It was Carol Hannah, my union rep. I’d sent her an e-mail and left her a couple of messages but hadn’t heard back. Carol was a solid and feisty defender. It would be good to have her sitting next to me even if she didn’t say a word.
I took my phone to the rear of the room and faced the corner. In the privacy of my imaginary phone booth, I said, “Carol? Where are you?”
“On a steamer about ten miles off the coast of Norway. Since you asked.”
“What? No. Really?”
“Really. I want to see reindeer before they’re extinct. It’s still night here, though.”
“Aw, no. I mean, good for you.”
But it was bad for me. My hopeful expectations were dashed, against Norway’s frigid shoreline.
Carol’s voice was staticky. “You didn’t murder anyone, right, Lindsay?”
“Right. I committed no crimes. Well, except for stepping over the thin blue line hard onto Sergeant Stevens’s toes.”
“From your e-mail, I say you did the right thing, and this is why we have IAD. Just remember who you are, a great police officer with a dozen commendations. Tell the whole truth. And don’t cry.”
I laughed. “Okay. No tears. Love to Rudolph and Blitzen and the rest of them.”
I was disappointed that Carol wouldn’t be here with me, but I was less afraid of crying than of tossing my breakfast. We said our good-byes and clicked off. I turned around just as Stevens came into the room with his advocate.
This sleazy former pal of my very dodgy father was dressed in friendly earth tones. Even with a middle-aged beer gut and a comb-over, he looked clean cut. And damn it. He had an honest face.
I, on the other hand, was wearing scuffed shoes. I needed a haircut. I was nauseous.
I sat down at the right-hand complainant’s table and folded my hands in front of me. Stevens and his advocate sat at the table across the aisle. The IAD brass took their seats up front. Hon sat in the middle seat between two men wearing severe expressions, jackets, and ties.
Brady came through the doorway in his usual denim everything, but he was wearing a tie. He nodded to me and took one of the folding chairs behind me. Central Homicide’s Chris Levant did the same.
A hush came over the hearing room and Hon spoke, saying that investigators from two homicide squads had filed complaints against each other. He said that each complainant would speak, the panel would ask questions if needed, and after the hearing they would come to a recommendation that would be sent up to Chief Jacobi.
My heart was galloping now. My impromptu meeting with Brady and Jacobi three days ago had been rough—but safe. Hon had been kind, bordering on condescending, in our one-on-one, but this speech was clinical. There was no wiggle room, no backing out, no place to hide.
I called my rehearsed speech to mind, and thank God, I remembered the first line. I hoped that once I got rolling, the story of unsolved murders would unfold without a hitch.
My mouth was dry. Bright spots sparkled in front of my eyes. I felt the presence of a stone-faced Brady behind me.
He had told me that the worst-case scenario was desk duty or a thirty-day suspension. But he was wrong. The worst-case scenario was the waterfall of humiliation and disrespect that would spring from bringing a charge against another cop—and losing.
CHAPTER 65
HON SPOKE FROM his seat at the front of the room.
“Sergeant Boxer. If you’re ready, you may proceed.”
I said, “Thank you, Lieutenant. I’m here today—”
Hon interrupted, saying, “Please stand, Sergeant.”
I did it, the legs of my chair scraping loudly against the floor. The room faded around me. I steadied myself against the table and focused my tunnel vision on the gray-haired IAD lieutenant. And I reminded myself of Carol Hannah’s words. You’re a great cop. This is why we have IAD. Don’t cry.
I took in a breath and started my speech again.
“About a month ago a homeless woman named Millie Cushing sought me out to tell me that a man she knew had been shot dead on the street. His name was Jimmy Dolan. He was a poet and a friend, and she told me that other homeless people had been shot to death near places where they often congregated. Millie told me that the police were not taking these crimes seriously, that no one had been arrested or even questioned. She was afraid for her friends, for her community of street people, and she begged me to help.
“I didn’t know her, but she seemed sincere and mentally competent. I promised I’d look into these homicides. I didn’t expect that I would become involved in them, and I didn’t imagine that only weeks after Millie Cushing grabbed my arm on the front steps of this building, she herself would become a victim.”
Hon nodded. I was in a good groove, so I kept talking.
I told the panel about the
shooting of Laura Russell at Pier 45 and the similar execution-style shooting of the still-unidentified Jane Doe on Geary Street. I sketched in the corrupted crime scenes, the way I had become the de facto primary on these cases while waiting hours for Sergeant Stevens and his partner to arrive. I mentioned that although I had introduced myself to Stevens, he had not wanted my help.
“Each time he told me not to worry. It was under control.
“I’ve filed my report. And I’ve looked into the progress of these homicides. As far as I can tell, there are no suspects, no arrests, and because my CI was murdered two and a half days ago on the south side of Mission near Spear, I’m officially the primary on her case.”
Hon said, “In a sentence or two, what is your complaint against Sergeant Stevens?”
“He didn’t work these cases with urgency. Perhaps if these victims hadn’t been homeless, if there were family members making inquiries, the cases would have received more attention. Perhaps, then, a woman who was doing her civic duty by coming to the police would be alive—and a spree killer would be awaiting trial.”
I said, “Thank you,” and sat down.
I heard Hon call Stevens, asking him to speak.
I had no idea what to expect, but I was sure he wouldn’t be blowing kisses at me from across the aisle.
CHAPTER 66
SERGEANT GARTH STEVENS stood up, put his hands in his pockets, and smiled.
He looked cool, composed, and confident. There was no murder too heinous, no charge against him too dire, to disturb his good mood. Noooo problems at all.
“Lieutenant Hon,” he said. “Gentlemen. I can make this real short. My partner, Evan Moran, and I work graveyard shift for Central Station, Homicide. Over the last six months a number of people have been shot in areas, as Sergeant Boxer put it, where homeless people congregate. We have worked seven of these cases.
“While being called to those street crimes, we have also been called to gang killings, domestic homicides, liquor store shootings, and hit-and-runs. Same day of the Geary Street murder, we were called to a home where a five-year-old boy had drowned his baby sister.
“In short, we’ve been busy and have closed 70 percent of our cases, which is a high-water mark for the entire SFPD. We have not made similar progress in these homeless murders, but it’s not because we were sleeping in our cars. Our squad is small and sometimes shorthanded. We get to our crime scenes as fast as we can, and we work the scenes in a professional manner.
“I have filed my report as well as the reports of the first-responding officers, CSI, and the medical examiner. Lieutenant Levant has been kept up to speed on all of my cases, and he has not found me or my partner negligent in any of them.
“If I may, I wish to put forth a theory as to why this series of possibly related crimes has gotten Sergeant Boxer into such a twist.”
“Go ahead,” said Hon.
“Okay,” said Stevens. “I was a psychology major back when I went to Fordham. Skipping ahead, I became a police officer for the SFPD. Back in those early days I was friends with Sergeant Boxer’s father, Marty. I even knew Lindsay, here, when she was a child.”
“Can we move it along, Stevens?”
“Yes, sir. Sergeant Boxer didn’t get along with her father. This isn’t gossip. It’s common knowledge, and maybe she has valid reasons. Regardless, I think she has transferred her anger at Marty Boxer to me. I think she sees me, she sees him. And she sees red.”
As Stevens had said, I saw red. Blood red. I was flooded with rage.
“Okay,” said Hon. “Thank you, Stevens.”
“One more thing,” said Stevens. “I’m requesting that the Cushing case be transferred to Central. My partner and I are conversant on this string of shootings and therefore have a better chance of closing the lot of them if we have all of the information.”
Hon said, “Duly noted.”
Stevens sat down.
Somehow the hearing ended and I left the room under my own power. I took the stairs down to the squad room.
Conklin was there.
“How’d it go?”
“I don’t have any idea,” I said. “I don’t have a clue in the world.”
CHAPTER 67
WHEN I PULLED open the door to MacBain’s, a wave of lunchtime chatter washed over me.
Most days the laughter and exuberant din recalled the good times I’d spent there. But not today.
Today I needed to see Claire.
I looked for her, hoping she’d nailed down the small table near the window, then Syd tapped me on the shoulder and pointed. I followed her finger with my eyes. Claire was at a table in the back, half hidden by the bar.
I parted the crowd with my hip and shoulder and made my way toward my best friend.
“I’m starving,” she shouted when she saw me.
Food wasn’t on my top twenty list of concerns, but I said, “Let’s order. What’re we waiting for?”
Claire grinned, waved Syd down, and placed our order in the fewest possible words, “The usual.” Meaning deluxe burgers and a double order of fries.
“The fish tacos rock,” said Syd.
“Maybe some other time,” Claire said.
She put her elbows on the table and I did the same, both of us leaning in so we could talk without shouting.
Claire said, “So, what’s the verdict?”
She was asking about the IAD decision. She knew what was at stake. Had I been suspended for a month—or worse? Had Sergeant Stevens been sidelined? Who was going to track down the person killing homeless people in our city?
And now I knew the answers to all of the above. I told Claire, “Brady says that the panel recommended no action.”
“None? That’s great, right?” she asked.
“Yes and no. Stevens wasn’t disciplined and neither was I. So that makes me feel like I blew this whole thing up, and for what? ‘No action recommended’?”
“Okay,” Claire said. “I get it. But you weren’t wrong. This is how it turned out. So work the Cushing case as best you can.”
The best I could do was under a lot of pressure. Time had been lost. The killer was a ghost, of a lethal variety. Serial killers have distinct MOs. Some have a preferred victim type or method of killing or a favorite location. Some have unique signatures: markings left on the bodies or methods of disposal or even letters to the press.
This killer’s MO was to shoot a defenseless vagrant at close range in the dark, and in a location without a surveillance camera. And then, poof. Gone with the wind.
That this psycho had gotten so close to his victims told me that they weren’t afraid of him. None had screamed, run, put up a fight. Maybe he knew them. Maybe he was one of them.
One crummy lead.
We needed one crummy lead: a video, a fingerprint, a bullet linked to a gun in our database, a witness statement, even an anonymous tip. Someone had to know something.
I didn’t know how I’d catch this ghost, but I had to. Millie’s killer mustn’t win.
CHAPTER 68
“HEY, HEY,” SAID Claire, snapping my attention back to the present.
Syd put platters down in front of us, saying, “Two daily specials with all the extras. Anything else I can get you ladies?”
“Thanks, we’re good,” Claire said, grabbing the ketchup bottle.
I stared down at my burger and fries. They had all the appeal of a wriggling pile of alien life-forms.
Claire noticed my revulsion and said, “Okay, Lindsay. What’s up? You’re usually a girl with an appetite, and seems to me you’ve dropped some pounds. What are you now? A size four?”
“I have to talk to you about this,” I said. I reached for my handbag and extracted a white paper bag. I handed it to Claire.
“What is this?” she asked. She peered into the bag. “Oh, my. Really, Linds?”
“I need you to be with me.”
“Right here?”
“There’s no place I’d rather be, Butterfly. No one I�
��d rather be with.”
Claire grinned and said, “I love you, too.”
I told Claire to go ahead and eat, and I nibbled. When our plates had been cleared and the check had been paid, Claire and I headed back past the cigarette machine and the old wall phone to the ladies’ room.
I took the home pregnancy test into a stall. My hands shook and the instruction sheet rattled, but I performed the procedure and a moment later brought the little stick out to where Claire was waiting for me.
Claire said, “What are we hoping for? Positive or no?”
“Que será será,” I said.
The refrain to an old song my mom used to sing to me. I imagined that millions of moms sang it to their daughters who wanted to know their futures. It meant, “What will be will be.”
Claire and I waited thirty seconds, and together we stared at the stick.
“Look it. There’s only one bar,” Claire said, examining the tester. “That would be a no.”
I must’ve been holding my breath, because I exhaled deeply.
“You okay, Linds?”
I leaned against a sink and said, “I’m not ready to be pregnant right now, Claire. But something is wrong. I feel … fatigued. Depressed. Nauseated.”
“How long has this been going on?”
“The last few weeks.”
She placed her hand on my forehead.
“You don’t feel warm to me. When are you seeing your doctor?”
“It’s just exhaustion,” I said. “I’ve been working like a donkey.”
“Call your doctor, Lindsay. I mean it.”
“Okay.”
“And call in sick right now. I say so. I’m a doctor.”
I called the squad room and left messages for Conklin and Brady. Then I went home and got under the bedcovers at two in the afternoon. Joe, Julie, and Martha made a fuss over me while I reassured them and tried to empty my mind.
Tomorrow. I would call the doctor tomorrow.
And then I slept.
CHAPTER 69
TWO AND A half days had passed since Marc Christopher was shot and Judge Rathburn granted a continuance.
The 17th Suspect Page 14
