Then I bent at the window of an unmarked car to talk to Lieutenant Meile from Vice. He was working off his guilty conscience by giving us a tip and following up by providing all hands on deck.
He gave me a room number, said, “History tells us he’ll be in there for another twenty minutes.”
Two cops from Vice, Billy Fried and Johnny Rizzo, got out of the unmarked and joined me and the girls on the sidewalk.
The six of us entered the Abby’s scruffy, mildewed lobby; we passed on the rickety metal elevator car and instead took the fire stairs to the third floor.
Vice took the lead. Fried rapped on the door while Rizzo took a stance on the other side of the doorway, holding his gun in a two-fisted grip.
Fried said, “Open the door. This is the SFPD.”
There was a scuffle inside, two alarmed voices, and then the sound of something crashing.
Fried turned the knob, saw the chain, and applied the force of his foot to break in the door. He stepped in and said, “Hands up, Blayney. Everyone, freeze.”
I headed into the room and saw Jason Blayney raise his hands, dropping the stained sheet he’d been holding in front of his privates. Jewel Bling, a low-rent call girl, was still in the bed. She drew a ratty blanket up to her chest. A lamp had been shattered during Blayney’s overheated rush to get dressed and lay on the carpet of this beyond horrific maroon-and-gray-appointed room.
“I’m researching a story on prostitution,” Blayney yelled. A bulb hanging from a cord above him swayed, casting a harsh, unflattering light on his blanched face and naked body.
“Research?” The hooker hooted. “What kind of research? How many times you can get your pipes cleaned for thirty dollars?”
Cindy stepped forward with her camera and shot a lot of pictures of Blayney trying to cover himself with his hands.
“I want to make a deal,” said Jewel Bling. “Shut up!” Blayney bellowed.
He grabbed the sheet off the floor and turned a pitiful face to Cindy. His eyes were squinched up, and he cried out, “Cindy, please. Let this go and I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
I was stunned.
This was the bastard who wrote lies and leaked information for the pure glory of getting his name on the front page. Now he was begging for mercy.
“My wife will leave me if she sees those pictures,” he said.
“She’ll take the kids. They’re all still young. I won’t be able to explain this to them.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re a hypocrite, Blayney. This is part of the SFPD’s crackdown on crime. He’s your collar, Billy.”
Billy Fried walked to Blayney, dragged the reporter’s hands behind his back, and cuffed him.
“You’re under arrest for pandering, buddy. Don’t worry. The penalty is just going to be a fine.”
Cindy fired off a few more shots with her Nikon, then said, “I think I’ve got your best angle, Jason. And don’t worry. I will spell your name right. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Chapter 116
Rich Conklin was dragged away from a deep place of no pain.
He’d been sleeping when Cindy squeezed his good shoulder, called his name. He opened his eyes and saw the tops of her breasts showing in the neckline of her loose pink top.
“If you don’t get up, you won’t be able to sleep tonight,” she said.
He loved looking at her sweet face. Her rhinestone clip sparkled in her blond curls. Rhinestones looked like diamonds on Cindy. Still, he wanted to get her actual diamonds someday.
“Come to bed,” he said. He took her hand, tugged on it. She frowned, said, “No. You have to get up. Come on.” She left the room.
“What’s wrong, Cin?”
“You said you wanted to talk,” she called.
“I said that? Oh, last week? When you were steaming toward a deadline and said you couldn’t be disturbed?”
Rich heard her choking on a laugh in the next room.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost six. Jeez. He’d been sleeping all day.
He shuffled into the living room in his T-shirt, sling, boxers.
The table was set and champagne was open, standing in a flowerpot full of ice. Cindy bent over the table and lit some candles.
“Sit here, honey,” she said, patting the back of the chair. He did what she told him to do, then watched her pour champagne into the two flutes they had gotten at a flea market six months ago.
“What’s the occasion?” he asked.
“It’s a new tradition,” Cindy told him.
Now he smelled the aroma of herbs and spices coming from the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten anything in twelve hours.
“What are we calling this tradition?” he asked. “It’s the first-day-of-the-month dinner, Richie. And I propose that we do this every month, no matter what. No matter what case. No matter what deadline. We need to shut everything off for an hour and just be together.”
“Sure, Cindy. It’s a good idea. Why do you look so sad?”
“I have to apologize.”
“For?”
“I’ve been straying in my mind.”
“Some other guy?”
“No, not that.”
Cindy explained to him that she’d been in a panic about committing to marriage and motherhood, had worried about losing her place as a journalist, being marginalized as a part-time writer.
“I’ve been keeping part of myself out of our relationship.”
“Okay, stop beating yourself up now.”
He got up from his seat and hugged Cindy with his good arm. “I want you to be happy, Cindy. I know you’re ambitious and I love that about you. Plus, I’m a boring guy without you.”
“I was so scared when you got shot.”
“I know.”
“It got me focused on the right stuff.”
“Did you make beef stew?”
“For instance, that you’re just the best man in the world.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes, Richie. I do.”
“Did you make your deadline today?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Are you pregnant?”
“Nope.”
“We won’t have babies until you say so. If you say so.”
“You still want to marry me?”
“Feed me our new traditional first-day-of-the-month dinner, Cindy. Please?”
“You betcha. I might have burned it though.”
“Kiss me.”
“Okay. Here. Here. And here.”
“After we eat, let’s go to bed.”
Chapter 117
Jacobi and I were having dinner at Aziza, a Moroccan restaurant; aromatic, homey, decorated in deep, earthy tones, and fragrant with all the spices of Arabia.
Jacobi’s color was good and he was wearing a blue sweater that made him look years younger than his age. Better than he’d looked in a long time.
“William Randall died without gaining consciousness,” Jacobi told me. “Good side of that is that he wasn’t convicted of anything. His widow will still get his pension.”
“You think Randall knew that Chaz Smith was a dirty cop?” Jacobi shrugged. “He could have known. It’s very possible. Ah. I got back the ballistics, Lindsay.”
“Are you going to tell me something bad, Jacobi? Because I just want to catch up and have dinner.”
“The shot to Randall’s kidney came from Brady’s gun.
That was the kill shot, and since Brady’s going to be on leave for a while, it won’t matter if he has to be without his gun and badge while we prove he fired on Randall in self-defense.”
“Don’t tell me I have to keep running the squad, Jacobi. I really don’t want to do it.”
“I’m going to be running the squad. Me.”
“Yeah?” I grinned. I liked what Jacobi was saying. A lot. “Until Brady returns and I can move back upstairs to my nice office with its beautiful view of Bryant
Street.”
I slapped his hand above the plate of couscous, lifted my virgin mojito, and said, “Here’s to having you back in the corner office.”
Jacobi grinned and clinked his glass against mine, and then he laughed.
“I’m not going to let you cowboy around while I’m running the squad.”
“Oh, like you can change me. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“You’ve got a baby in the oven, Boxer — ”
“I think that’s ‘bun in the oven’ — ”
“And I’m part of your family. Don’t forget that I walked you down the aisle on the happiest day of your life.”
“I haven’t forgotten.”
I hadn’t forgotten a minute of that day. Me on Jacobi’s arm. Walking on rose petals. Seeing my husband-to-be waiting for me in the gazebo overlooking the sea.
I put my hand on my tummy, stared off into space, then came back to the moment when I realized that Jacobi was staring at me.
“Is something wrong, Boxer?”
I touched his hand. “You were terrific that day. Standing up for me.”
“It was a great honor.”
His eyes showed me what I already knew. How much he cared. How close we had been and would always be.
“I’m going to get sloppy,” I said. “Brace yourself.”
“No, no, please don’t do that,” he joked.
I got up and went around the table and he stood up, and I hugged him really hard. I said into his ear, “I missed you, Warren. I’m so glad you’re coming back.”
Chapter 118
It was a pretty Sunday morning and I was at Mountain Lake Park, herding children.
Well, Martha was herding children and I was blowing the whistle and giving commands. Martha was a little older than the kids, who were about six or seven, three girls and a boy.
I held Martha by the scruff of her neck, said, “Get ’em,” let her go, and she loped over to the little squealers and ran circles around them. I said, “Come,” blew on the whistle — high-low-high — and Martha ran back to me, wagging her tail, happy lights sparkling in her eyes.
I asked her to cut between the little kids, separate the tallest little girl from the rest. The kids and their nannies laughed and more people gathered.
Other dogs saw that a good time was going on and wanted to get in on it. And so barking and yapping added volume and range to the giddiness.
Bystanders called out asking for more tricks, and volunteers stepped forward to be herded. Martha showed off and we got rounds of applause.
Oh, man, I had to do this more often.
And that’s when I felt a pain in my gut.
I bent over, grabbed my knees, and Martha broke ranks and licked my face. I was hit with another cramp, and this time, I thought the worst.
I was about to miscarry in my second trimester. How could this happen? Please, God. Don’t let me lose my baby.
I leashed Martha, summoned a smile for the children, waved good-bye, and found a bench at the edge of the park.
My cell phone wasn’t charged to the limit, but I had enough juice to call police dispatch, then my doctor, and then Joe. I was able to reach only the police.
A squad car pulled up. Tom Ferrino jumped out.
I said, “Take me to the hospital, Tommy. I’m going to give you my keys so you can bring Martha home afterward.”
“What’s wrong, Sergeant? Are you in pain?”
He helped me and Martha into the back of the car. “Put on the siren,” I said. “Drive as fast as you can.”
My phone rang as we rounded the corner from Arguello Boulevard to Sacramento Street and were in sight of the hospital. I looked at my phone. The caller was Joe.
“Where are you?” I asked him.
“I’m at the airport. My flight leaves in fifteen minutes. What’s happening?”
“You’re going back to DC?” I asked.
I’d lost him. I’d lost Joe to that woman in DC. I’d shut him out, locked my door, refused phone calls. What in God’s name could I expect? I bit my lip and held on to the armrest as the cramps hit me again.
Joe said, “I’m told that I’m the best border security guy around. I’m in demand.” He laughed. “Lindsay? I can’t hear you. Wait until the sirens blow past you.”
I shouted, “I’m going to Metro Hospital. I need you, Joe. I need you to come right now. The sirens are with me.”
Chapter 119
I was home in bed, under the covers and with orders to rest. The cramping had turned out to be nothing more than ligaments stretching to support my growing womb.
But with the pain and my stress level, which was off the charts, I panicked.
Joe had canceled his flight and was sitting in the chair next to the bed with his shoes off, his feet on the mattress. My fingers crawled over to his toes and held them.
Joe was saying, “She had been my partner. When I was a Fed.”
“June Freundorfer.”
“We had a thing after my divorce.”
“A thing.”
“A fling.”
“Did you love her?”
“Maybe. Once. But then I wanted to move on. I said so and June took our breakup hard. I started seeing you. I fell in love with you.”
I felt tears welling up, but I was determined not to cry. “I fell in love with my honey-blond honey Lindsay Boxer, Sergeant Superwoman, SFPD. June asked about you and I told her.”
“Uh-huh.”
“She called me a lot. Sometimes I talked to her. She got promoted. After that, she called me less. A couple of years passed and I assumed she was over me. I had lunch with her a few times, as friends. And yes, I went with her to that charity dinner. I should have told you, but I thought the explanation was going to make it seem like more than it was. It was easier just to take her to the dinner and then fly home.
“Then Jason Blayney came across the photo. Don’t ask me how.”
“So why did June tell me that you two were still involved?”
“She lied, Lindsay. She lied her face off. I can’t know what she was thinking, but I’m guessing she was trying to drive a wedge between us. She hasn’t given up.”
I looked into Joe’s eyes. I like to think that I’m very good at telling when a person is lying. Joe’s eyes didn’t shift to either side. He kept a soft and steady gaze, put his hand on my cheek. I moved the blanket aside.
Patted the bed next to me.
Joe sighed happily, undid his belt, shucked his clothes, and came into the bed. I rolled toward him, put my hand on his chest. It was a gentle, even tentative touch.
I had to get used to being with him again.
Joe put his arms around me and pulled me close. He wasn’t tentative at all.
“I’m two hundred percent yours, blondie. I’m sorry this happened.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t believe you, Joe.”
“It takes a while to make a marriage. We’re new at this. We’re still working out the kinks.”
I nodded, held on tight to my husband, my baby’s wonderful dad. I fell asleep. When my eyes opened again, Joe was still there, his arms around me and our baby.
I woke my husband up so that I could kiss him and tell him how much I loved him. I truly did.
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11th hour wmc-11 Page 22
