It was a direct shot to the heart and caught me off guard. I struggled to keep my composure.
“How are you going to do that?” I asked.
Sierra had an unpleasant, high-pitched laugh.
I’d misjudged him. He had taken control of this meeting and I would learn nothing from him about Sarah Brenner—or about anyone else. The flush rising from under my collar let both of us know that he’d won the round.
I left Jorge Sierra, that disgusting load of rat dung, and jogged down the stairs to the squad room, muttering, promising myself that the next point would be mine.
Conklin and I sat near the front of the room. We’d pushed our desks together so that we faced each other, and I saw that Cindy was sitting in my chair and Conklin was in his own. There were open Chinese food cartons between them.
I said hello to Cindy. Conklin dragged up a chair for her and I dropped into mine.
“Nice of you to bring lunch,” I said, looking at the containers. I had no appetite whatsoever. Definitely not for shrimp with lobster sauce. Not even for tea.
“I’ve brought you something even nicer,” she said, holding up a little black SIM card, like from a mobile phone.
“What’s that?”
“This is a ray of golden sunshine breaking through the bleak skies overhead.”
“Make me a believer,” I said.
“A witness dropped this off at the Chron for me this morning,” Cindy said. “It’s a video of the shooting at the Vault’s bar. You can see the gun in the King’s hand. You can see the muzzle aimed at Lucy Stone’s chest. You can see the flare after he pulled the trigger.”
“This is evidence of Sierra shooting Stone on film?”
She gave me a Cheshire cat smile.
“The person who shot this video has a name?”
“Name, number, and is willing to testify.”
“I love you, Cindy.”
“I know.”
“I mean I really love you.”
Cindy and Rich burst out laughing, and after a stunned beat I laughed, too. We looked at the video together. It was good. We had direct evidence and a witness. Jorge Sierra was cooked.
Four Months Later
Chapter 16
No matter what kind of crappy day life dealt out, it was almost impossible to sustain a bad mood at Susie’s Café.
I parked my car on Jackson Street, buttoned my coat, and lowered my head against the cold April wind as I trudged toward the brightly lit Caribbean-style eatery frequented by the Women’s Murder Club.
My feet knew the way, which was good, because my mind was elsewhere. Kingfisher’s trial was starting tomorrow.
The media’s interest in him had been revived, and news outlets of all kinds had gone on high alert. Traffic on Bryant and all around the Hall had been jammed all week with satellite vans. None of my phones had stopped ringing: office, home, or mobile.
I felt brittle and edgy as I went through the front door of Susie’s. I was first to arrive and claimed “our” booth in the back room. I signaled to Lorraine and she brought me a tall, icy brewski, and pretty soon that golden anesthetic had smoothed down my edges.
Just about then I heard Yuki and Cindy bantering together and saw the two of them heading toward our table. There were kiss-kisses all around, then two of my blood sisters slid onto the banquette across from me.
Cindy ordered a beer and Yuki ordered a Grasshopper, a frothy green drink that would send her to the moon, and she always enjoyed the flight. So did the rest of us.
Cindy told me that Claire had phoned to say she would be late, and once Cindy had downed some of my beer, she said, “I’ve got news.”
Cindy, like every other reporter in the world, was covering the Sierra trial. But she was a crime pro and the story was happening on her beat. Other papers were running her stories under her byline. That was good for Cindy, and I could see from the bloom in her cheeks that she was on an adrenaline high.
She leaned in and spoke only loud enough to be heard over the steel drums in the front room and the laughter at the tables around ours.
She said, “I got an anonymous e-mail saying that ‘something dramatic’ is going to happen if the charges against Sierra aren’t dismissed.”
“Dramatic how?” I asked.
“Don’t know,” Cindy said. “But I could find out. Apparently, the King wants me to interview him.”
Cindy’s book about a pair of serial killers had swept to the top of the bestseller lists last year. Sierra could have heard about her. He might be a fan.
I reached across the table and clasped Cindy’s hands.
“Cindy, do not even think about it. You don’t want this man to know anything about you. I oughta know.”
“For the first time since I met you,” Cindy said, “I’m going to say you are right. I’m not asking to see him. I’m going to just walk away.”
I said, “Thank you, God.”
Lorraine brought Cindy her beer, and Yuki took the floor.
She said almost wistfully, “I know Barry Schein pretty well. Worked with him for a couple of years. If anyone can handle the King’s drama, it’s Barry. I admire him. He could get Red Dog’s job one day.”
None of us would ever forget this very typical night at Susie’s. Before we left the table, it would be permanently engraved in our collective memories. We were chowing down on Susie’s Sunday-night special, fish fritters and rice, when my phone tootled. I had left it on only in case Claire called saying she wasn’t going to make it. But it was Brady’s ring tone that came through.
I took the call.
Brady gave me very bad news. I told him I was on my way and clicked off. I repeated the shocking bulletin to Cindy and Yuki. We hugged wordlessly.
Then I bolted for my car.
Chapter 17
From the look of it, the Scheins lived in a classic American dream home, a lovely Cape Cod on Pachecho Street in Golden Gate Heights with a princely view, two late-model cars, a grassy yard, and a tree with a swing.
Today, Pacheco Street was taped off. Cruisers with cherry flashers marked the perimeter, and halogen lights illuminated an evidence tent and three thousand square feet of pavement.
The first officer, Donnie Lewis, lifted the tape and let me onto the scene.
Normally cool, the flustered CSI director, Clapper, came toward me, saying, “Jesus, Boxer, brace yourself. This is brutal.”
My skin prickled and my stomach heaved as Clapper walked me to the Scheins’ driveway, which sloped down from the street to the attached garage. Barry’s body was lying faceup, eyes open, keys in his hand, the door to his silver-blue Honda Civic wide open.
I lost my place in time. The pavement shifted underfoot and the whole world went cold. I covered my face with my hands, felt Clapper’s arm around my shoulders. “I’m here, Lindsay. I’m here.”
I took my hands down and said to Clapper, “I just spoke with him yesterday. He was ready to go to trial. He was ready, Charlie.”
“I know. I know. It never makes sense.”
I stared down at Barry’s body. There were too many holes punched in his jacket for me to count. Blood had outlined his body and was running in rivulets down toward the garage.
I dropped enough f-bombs to be seen on the moon.
And then I asked Clapper to fill me in.
“The little boy was running down the steps right there to greet his father. Daddy was calling to the kid, then he turned back toward the street. Must have heard the shooter’s car pull up, or maybe his name was called. He turned to see—and was gunned down.”
“How old is the child?”
“Four. His name is Stevie.”
“Could he describe what he saw?” I asked Clapper.
“He told Officer Lewis that he saw a car stop about here on the road at the top of the driveway. He heard the shots, saw his father drop. He turned and ran back up the steps and inside. Then, according to Lewis, Barry’s wife, Melanie, she came out. She tried to resuscita
te her husband. Their daughter, Carol, age six, ran away to the house next door. Her best friend lives there.
“Melanie and Stevie are in the house until we can get all of them out of here.”
“What’s your take?” I asked Clapper.
“Either the driver tailed the victim, or he parked nearby, saw Schein’s car drive past, and followed him. When Barry got out of the car, the passenger emptied his load. Barry never had a chance.”
We stepped away from the body, and CSIs deployed in full. Cameras clicked, video rolled, and a sketch artist laid out the details of the crime scene from a bird’s-eye point of view. Techs searched for and located shell casings, put markers down, took more pictures, brought shell casings to the tent.
Conklin said, “Oh, my God.”
I hadn’t heard him arrive but I was so glad to see him. We hugged, hung on for a minute. Then we stood together in the sharp white light, looking down at Barry’s body lying at our feet. We couldn’t look away.
Rich said, “Barry told me that when this was over, he was taking the kids to Myrtle Beach. There’s family there.”
I said, “He told me he’d waited his whole career for a case like this. He told me he was going to wear his lucky tiepin. Belonged to his grandfather.”
My partner said, “Kingfisher put out the hit. Had to be. I wish I could ask Barry if he saw the shooter.”
I answered with a nod.
Together we mounted the brick front steps to the white clapboard house with black shutters, the remains of the Schein family’s life as they had known it.
Now a couple of cops were going to talk to this family in the worst hour of their lives.
Chapter 18
We rang the front doorbell. We knocked. We rang the bell again before Melanie Schein, a distraught woman in her midthirties, opened the front door.
She looked past us and spoke in a frantic, disbelieving voice. “My God, my God, this can’t be true. We’re having chicken and potatoes. Barry likes the dark meat. I got ice cream pie. We picked out a movie.”
Richie introduced us, said how sorry we were, that we knew Barry, that this was our case.
“We’re devastated,” Richie said.
But I don’t think Barry’s wife heard us.
She turned away from the door, and we followed her into the aromatic kitchen and, from there, into the living room. She looked around at her things and bent to line up the toes of a pair of men’s slippers in front of a reclining chair.
I asked her the questions I knew by heart.
“Do you have a security camera?”
She shook her head.
“Has either of you received any threats?”
“I want to go to him. I need be with him.”
“Has anyone threatened you or Barry, Mrs. Schein?”
She shook her head. Tears flew off her cheeks.
I wanted to give her something, but all I had were rules and platitudes and a promise to find Barry’s killer. It was a promise I wasn’t sure we could keep.
I promised anyway. And then I said, “Witness Protection will be here in a few minutes to take you and the children to a safe place. But first, could we talk with Stevie for just a minute?”
Mrs. Schein led us down a hallway lined with framed family photos on the walls. Wedding pictures. Baby pictures. The little girl on a pony. Stevie with an oversized catcher’s mitt.
It was almost impossible to reconcile this hominess with the truth of Barry’s still-warm body lying outside in the cold. Mrs. Schein asked us to wait, and when she opened the bedroom door, I was struck by the red lights flashing through the curtains. A little boy sat on the floor, pushing a toy truck back and forth mindlessly. What did he understand about what had happened to his father? I couldn’t shake the thought that an hour ago Barry had been alive.
With Mrs. Schein’s permission Richie went into the room and stooped beside the child. He spoke softly, but we could all hear his questions: “Stevie, did you see a car, a truck, or an SUV?…Car? What color car?…Have you seen it before?…Did you recognize the man who fired the gun?…Can you describe him at all?…Is there anything you want to tell me? I’m the police, Stevie. I’m here to help.”
Stevie said again, “Was a gray car.”
Conklin asked, “How many doors, Stevie? Try to picture it.” But Stevie was done. Conklin opened his arms and Stevie collapsed against him and sobbed.
I told Mrs. Schein to call either of us anytime. Please.
After giving her our cards, my partner and I took the steps down to the halogen-lit hell in front of the lovely house.
In the last ten minutes the street had thickened with frightened neighbors, frustrated motorists, and cops doing traffic control. The medical examiner’s van was parked inside the cordoned-off area of the street.
Dr. Claire Washburn, chief medical examiner and my dearest friend, was supervising the removal of Barry Schein’s bagged body into the back of her van.
I went to her and she grabbed my hands.
“God-awful shame. That talented young man. The doer made damned sure he was dead,” said Claire. “What a waste. You okay, Lindsay?”
“Not really.”
Claire and I agreed to speak later. The rear doors to the coroner’s van slammed shut and the vehicle took off. I was looking for Conklin when an enormous, pear-shaped man I knew very well ducked under the tape and cast his shadow over the scene.
Leonard Parisi was San Francisco’s district attorney. He wasn’t just physically imposing, he was a career prosecutor with a long record of wins.
“This is…abominable,” said Parisi.
“Fucking tragedy,” Conklin said, his voice cracking.
I said, “I’m so sorry, Len. We’re about to canvass. Maybe someone saw something. Maybe a camera caught a license plate.”
Parisi nodded. “I’m getting a continuance on the trial,” he said. “I’m taking over for Barry. I’m going to make Kingfisher wish he were dead.”
Chapter 19
A week had passed since Barry Schein was killed fifteen hours before Sierra’s trial had been scheduled to begin. We had no leads and no suspects for his murder, but we had convincing direct evidence against Sierra for the murders of Lucille Stone and Cameron Whittaker.
Our case was solid. What could possibly go wrong?
The Hall of Justice was home to the offices of the DA and the ME, as well as to the county jail and the superior court of the Criminal Division. For his security and ours, Sierra was being housed and tried right here.
Rich, Cindy, Yuki, and I sat together in the back row of a blond-wood-paneled courtroom that was packed with reporters, the friends and families of Sierra’s victims, and a smattering of law students who were able to get in to see the trial of the decade.
At 9:00 a.m. Sierra was brought in through the rear door of Courtroom 2C. A collective gasp nearly sucked up all the air in the room.
The King had cleaned up since I’d last seen him. He’d had a nice close shave and a haircut. The orange jumpsuit had been swapped out for a gray sports jacket, a freshly pressed pair of slacks, a blue shirt, and a paisley tie. He looked like a fine citizen, except for the ten pounds of shackles around his ankles and wrists that were linked to the belt cinched around his waist.
He clanked over to the defense table. Two marshals removed the handcuffs and took their seats in the first row behind the rail, directly behind Sierra and his attorney, J. C. Fuentes.
Sierra spoke into his lawyer’s ear, and Fuentes shook his head furiously, looking very much like a wild animal.
At the prosecution counsel table across the aisle, Red Dog Parisi and two of his ADAs represented the side of good against evil. Parisi was too big to be a snappy dresser, but his navy-blue suit and striped tie gave him a buttoned-up look and set off his coarse auburn hair.
He looked formidable. He looked loaded for bear.
I was sure of it. Kingfisher had met his match. And my money was on Red Dog.
Chapt
er 20
The butterflies in my stomach rose up and took a few laps as the Honorable Baron Crispin entered the courtroom and the bailiff asked us all to rise.
Judge Crispin came from Harvard Law, and it was said that he was a viable candidate for the US Supreme Court. I knew him to be a no-nonsense judge, strictly by the book. When he was seated, he took a look at his laptop, exchanged a few words with the court reporter, and then called the court to order.
The judge said a few words about proper decorum and instructed the spectators in what was unacceptable in his court. “This is not reality TV. There will be no outcries or applause. Cell phones must be turned off. If a phone rings, the owner of that phone will be removed from the courtroom. And please, wait for recesses before leaving for any reason. If someone sneezes, let’s just imagine that others are saying ‘God bless you.’”
While the judge was speaking, I was looking at the back of Kingfisher’s head. Without warning, the King shot to his feet. His attorney put a hand on his arm and made a futile attempt to force him back down.
But Kingfisher would not be stopped.
He turned his head toward DA Parisi and shouted, “You are going to die a terrible death if this trial proceeds, Mr. Dog. You, too, Judge Crispy. That’s a threat and a promise. A death sentence, too.”
Judge Crispin yelled to the marshals, “Get him out of here.”
Parisi’s voice boomed over the screams and general pandemonium. “Your Honor. Please sequester the jury.”
By then the marshals had charged through the gate, kicked chairs out of their way, and cuffed Sierra’s wrists, after which they shoved and pushed the defendant across the well and out the rear door.
I was also on my feet, following the marshals and their prisoner out that back door that connected to the private corridor and elevators for court officers and staff.
Kill or Be Killed Page 4
