One Clean Shot

by Danielle Girard

  When they entered the department, the letter to Jim from Nicholas Fredricks was sitting on her desk in a clear, plastic evidence bag.

  She felt sick to see it. Why did Jim confide in her? No. It was the right thing to do. It would lead them to his shooter. But talking to Hal about Jim would not be easy.

  Kong sat in the center of Hailey’s desk, between the two tall stacks of case files.

  “There you are,” he said as they came in.

  “Get off my desk, Kong.” Hailey dropped her purse into her bottom drawer and carried her mug toward the coffee machine in the tiny copy room. Someone had left the pot on all morning. What was left in the bottom was thick and burned, more like wet mud than coffee. Hailey dumped it into the trash and started a fresh batch.

  Kong was a big jokester. He and O’Shea had large personalities. They were loud and outgoing always hassling each other in jest. It worked for them. It didn’t work for her. It never had, but it was much worse since John’s death.

  When she turned, Kong was leaned against the doorjamb, making the room seem even smaller than it was.

  “Any word on the officer who was shot in the sting?”

  “Still in ICU,” Kong said. “Doctors are optimistic though.”

  Optimism. She could have used some of that right now.

  Hal stood at her desk, reading the letter. When he looked up at her, there was anger in his expression. Hailey turned her back on both of them, watching coffee fill the stained glass pot in a slow, constant dribble.

  Growing impatient, she switched her mug for the pot so the coffee brewed directly into her cup. The few drops of spilled coffee sizzled and hissed beneath it.

  From the side of the mug, Ali, Camilla and John smiled in the matching plaid robes she’d given them all four or five Christmases ago. John’s hair was tossed, tufts stuck up in back where he’d slept on it. Camilla’s curls were a nest around her round cheeks, one of them bending into John’s chin, while Ali’s straight hair formed a halo of static electricity. She found it when she was packing up the house for sale.

  It had been a joke Valentine’s gift from John, the kind of gifts they used to exchange on February 14th.

  Before the campaign talk. Before John became more like Jim.

  She was sure John thought she’d never use it.

  Maybe she wouldn’t have if he hadn’t changed so much… if he hadn’t died.

  Hailey blinked hard and removed the half-full mug from under the stream, replaced the glass pot.

  Taking the moment to pull herself together, Hailey turned the image from her view, added two white sugar cubes, mixed it with a stir stick and turned to face Kong, “King” as some called him.

  “You hear about this letter?” Kong asked.

  “Last night. Jim told me.” She walked to her desk, looked down at it. “Where did it come from?”

  Kong sat again on her desk, but before he could get comfortable, Hailey waved him away. “Move it, Kong. I’m not in the mood.”

  “It got delivered to us today. Came from the senator’s office, directed to O’Shea.”

  “Well the guy who wrote that letter is dead,” Hal said.

  Kong nodded. “I know.” He turned to her. “But whoever shot your dad isn’t.”

  “Father-in-law, King,” Hal corrected. “He’s not her dad.”

  The reference didn’t bother her. These days, Jim was like a dad. That would never have happened before John’s death. Back then Jim was an obstacle to being with her husband. “I’m sure that’s why Jim sent it over. He thought it would be useful to compare against the letter he received when someone shot at him. He’s trying to help.”

  Hal pressed his lips together and said nothing.

  “What do you think of Robbins?” Hailey asked.

  “Kid didn’t shoot his friend, I’ll tell you that.” Hal sat up. “I’m going up there, take a look at his house after work.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  He shook his head, stood. “You go home to the girls and I’ll call you after.”

  Hailey lifted the stack of mail into her lap, thumbed through it, tossed out a stack of catalogues offering bulletproof vests and holsters, another with a listing of seminars for detectives, one in Hawaii, another in Florida. Something slid through her fingers and landed on the floor.

  A number ten envelope. Hal lifted it from one corner. “Harris and Wyatt” was typed across the front. No postage.

  Taking the scissors from the can on her desk, Hal cut it open and slid out the contents, dropped the envelope back on the desk and sat down.

  The top read San Francisco Chronicle, June 28, 2012. The headline read: “S&P 500, Tech Stocks… now Illegal Guns.” The byline was someone named D. Blake, and the tag read Chronicle Staff Writer. It was a short piece, maybe two square inches on the page.

  An unnamed East Coast fund manager has been accused of diversifying client investments into the sale of illegal guns. Few details have been released by insiders, who are pushing for an investigation into the one-man hedge fund allegedly investing client funds in stolen weapons.

  According to sources, referrals to the fund have come from as high up as heads of Fortune 500 businesses and several politicians currently holding congressional seats. The fund is also accused of using gang members to make street sales up and down the eastern shoreline. The SEC has made no announcement regarding their intent to investigate. Randall Lockhead, Deputy Assistant Director (East) for the Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms, was also unavailable for comment.

  At the bottom right corner, someone had scrawled, “No source, no story!”

  “How long’s that stack been there?” Hal asked.

  She tried to think if she’d looked at it yesterday. “Late last week maybe.”

  Hal pulled an evidence bag from the kit at her feet and dropped the letter in a clear Ziploc bag, still holding it by a corner.

  Hal shook the bag, pushing the letter to the bottom. “I’m going to make a copy, get it to the lab. You want to call the paper, see what you can find out about Mr. Blake?”

  Hailey was glad to have a moment alone with her thoughts.

  Politicians holding congressional seats. Just the words made her antsy. Even if she believed Jim had nothing to do with these guns—which she did—there were just too many innuendos in his direction.

  She took her cell phone to the women’s room. Alone, she dialed Jim’s direct office line. Dee answered and said he was in a meeting.

  “I’ll call back,” Hailey said, wishing Jim would learn how to text.

  “Is it about John’s case?” Dee asked.

  “What?” Hailey said, fighting to sound normal. “No.”

  “We saw the interview this morning. I thought you looked strong. Jim did, too. You handled yourself well.”

  “Thank you, Dee. Will you tell him I called?”

  “Of course. Nothing I can help with?”

  She thought about the article. “Have you ever heard of someone named Donald Blake?”

  “I don’t think so. Is he one of Jim’s colleagues?”

  “No. He’s a reporter.”

  “I can look through the press files I’ve got. I save everything related to Jim or the campaigns.”

  “That would be great,” Hailey said.

  “No problem. I’ve got something to finish up here then I’ll get right on it.”

  “Thanks, Dee.”

  Back at her desk, Hailey called the Chronicle to follow up on Blake. She spoke to the publisher’s assistant then faxed her the copy of the letter Hal had left on her desk.

  While she waited, Hailey called down to the DA’s office to status the warrant for the financial records for Nicholas Fredricks’s funeral arrangement.

  “We’re taking it to the judge for a signature tomorrow,” the ADA told her.

/>   “Good. I’m also wondering if you can get your hands on a list of everyone who would have access to the phones at Martin Abbott’s law firm—secretaries, paralegals, that kind of thing.”

  “You want us to subpoena Martin Abbott?”

  She could have done without the pushback. She was trying to solve some murders. “I guess I could get Tom Rittenberg to call and request your help in solving his daughter’s murder. I was sort of hoping I wouldn’t have to. It’s an employee list. Not a client list.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Hailey thanked him and hung up. She added Donald Blake to the list of outstanding items in the case. The others read:

  Talk to Shakley.

  The officer who was shot in the sting. Next to it, she wrote, “Still in ICU.”

  Who paid for NF funeral?

  She could follow up on that one tomorrow—if the warrant came through. She made a note there, too.

  Hear from NYPD about NF.

  She added a question mark. She couldn’t imagine they would call her back, but she’d keep it on the list.

  Martin Abbott link.

  That one would have to wait, too.

  Jeremy Hayden

  The dead gunrunner killed during the sting. She underlined his name.

  None of the pieces even felt connected. Abbott and Fredricks and Hayden and now this guy Blake. These people didn’t know each other—there was no indication that their paths had ever crossed.

  Why were they all part of this case?

  She called over to the juvenile detention center and left a message requesting Jeremy Hayden’s record. Added it to her notes.

  She’d opened up a blank incident report to begin filling in the details of Fredricks’s vandalized corpse when her desk phone rang.

  “Wyatt,” Hailey answered, expecting Jim.

  “This is Carl Phillips. I’m the Deputy Publisher with the Chronicle returning your call regarding Donald Blake.”

  Hailey felt a jolt of energy. “Thanks for calling.”

  “I got the article submission you faxed, but I’m afraid I don’t have a whole lot to offer you. Both the publisher and I are relatively new. I’ve been here about two years. Stan about a year and a half and this was before our time. I checked the graveyard, though and I was able to confirm this article was never printed.”

  “And Donald Blake isn’t there any longer?”

  “No. Jeez, he’s been gone two years now.”

  Reporters obviously came and went. She was surprised the director had called her. “That’s no problem. Do you have a forwarding number for Mr. Blake?”

  The line went quiet.

  “Mr. Phillips?”

  “I’m sorry, Inspector. He died. He’s dead.”

  Hailey sank against her chair, the wheels screeching on the linoleum. Dead. Another death. “How did he die?”

  “God, it was a terrible tragedy.” He lowered his voice. “Really shook up the team.”

  “How did he die?” she asked again.

  “He and his family were killed in a gang shooting.”

  A gang shooting. Blake, too. How big would this thing get? Abby and Hank Dennig, Colby Wesson—they weren’t just murdered.

  It was like they were assassinated. But why?

  Hal walked through the department doors. He caught her eye and stopped.

  “Shot?” she repeated into the phone.

  Hal raised his brow.

  Hailey put the phone on her speaker. “Can you repeat that, Mr. Phillips? My partner Hal Harris has just joined me.”

  “Uh, sure.” He spoke louder, the way people did when they were on speaker phone. “Yeah. Donald Blake was shot trying to save his family during a gang shooting. The others were killed instantly. Don survived, but he took his own life a few months later.”

  Hailey watched Hal’s reaction as the words struck him. He stood straight, arched backwards. The knot of muscle in his jaw looked the size of a golf ball.

  “Yeah, it’s really tragic,” Phillips went on. “Like I said, people here are still really upset.”

  “When?”

  “Would have been the summer of 2013.”

  “Do you know where he lived?” Hal asked.

  “Uh.” Phillips seemed to jump at the sound of Hal’s deep baritone. “Not exactly. Oakland, I think. But in a safe neighborhood. From what I know.”

  “You’ve never seen that article submission before?” Hailey asked.

  “No. It seems so weird that it came up after all this time. Where did you say you got it?”

  “We received it here at the station,” Hailey said.

  “Do you know where the shooting happened?” Hal asked.

  Donald Blake and his family were killed.

  Jim and Shakley were alive, but so far, they were the only ones.

  No, James Robbins was alive, too, but with that bullet in his head, that could only be called a miracle.

  Why was Jim still alive? There was no question that these guys could shoot and shoot to kill. Why miss on Jim?

  Hailey pushed the thoughts aside as Phillips spoke. “Like I said to Inspector—”

  “Wyatt,” Hal said.

  “Right. Like I told her, I wasn’t here, but I know the deaths were ruled a gang shooting. He was with his family—taking his kids to the Oakland zoo.”

  Hal wiped his face with a palm the size of a basketball. “You have the story? About the shootings?”

  “I’m sure we do somewhere. I could fax it, if you’d like.”

  Hailey thanked him for the help and hung up. She called and left a message with Oakland PD’s homicide department to get more details on the Blake deaths. “What now?”

  As soon as the words were out, her phone rang. She lifted the receiver, hoping it wasn’t Jim. She didn’t want to have an awkward conversation.

  “It’s Lusheng, darling. I’ve got your file.”

  Hailey had to smile at the sing-songy voice of the man who kept the records at the juvenile detention center. Lusheng was smaller than more than half the inmates and openly gay. Somehow, he had managed to stay in the position for more than ten years. Hailey loved his spirit. “Lusheng. I just called down there ten minutes ago.” She put the phone on speaker.

  “You know flattery will get you everywhere,” he cooed.

  Hal shook his head.

  “I can fax it over if you want,” Lusheng offered.

  “Sure but would you give me the highlights?”

  “Of course. Looks like Mr. Hayden started his career at twelve—shoplifting, possession, drunk and disorderly, more shoplifting. Looks like the last one we’ve got in our records is a breaking and entering charge.”

  “When was that?” Hal asked.

  “Well, hello, Inspector Harris.”

  “Hi, Lusheng.”

  “Date was June 15th, 2004.”

  “Fredricks was murdered in April,” Hailey said.

  “Where was the B&E?” Hal asked.

  “Oakland.”

  Two months after Fredricks was killed but that wasn’t a connection. A thousand crimes had taken place in that time frame. “Does it say what was taken?”

  There was a moment of silence. “Some jewelry, a little cash. Looks like a smash and grab.”

  “Convicted?”

  “He spent two weeks in and six months on probation. Looks like the stuff got returned, too.”

  “Did Hayden live in Oakland?” Hal asked.

  Lusheng hesitated. “Nope. Driver’s license says San Francisco. Address on his jacket’s in the city, too.”

  Hailey looked at Hal, but he simply shrugged.

  “There’s nothing else?” she asked.

  “Not that I can find. He would have turned eighteen four months after the B&E. Any other
charges should be in the system.”

  “We already got those,” Hailey said. “Thanks, Lusheng.”

  “No problem. Sorry it wasn’t what you were looking for.”

  Hailey thanked him.

  Hal leaned forward to hang up when he said, “Hey, Lusheng?”

  “Yes?” he cooed.

  “You have the victim’s name on that file?”

  “Hmm.”

  Hailey started to stack the papers on her desk.

  “Ah, here it is,” Lusheng finally said. “Last name was Blake.”

  Hailey froze. That was it—a connection. Finally.

  “Blake?” Hal repeated.

  “You know them?” Lusheng asked. “Donald and Patricia Blake? He was an editor on the local paper. They were out at a work dinner when it happened. Kids were at a neighbor’s. House was empty…”

  Hal and Hailey stared at the phone in silence. Donald Blake and his family were murdered.

  A year before that, their dead gunrunner, Jeremy Hayden, had broken into his house.

  That could not be a coincidence.

  Chapter 14

  Hal grabbed his jacket. “I’m going down to evidence to get the keys to Robbins’s house.”

  “Should I come?”

  He shook his head. “You go home. Keep your phone on you and I’ll call when I’m done.” He took a few steps and turned back. “See what you can find out—”

  “About Blake. I know. And I’m going to talk to Ryaan Berry about Regal Insurance Group. She recognized the name when we talked the other night.”

  “Yes.” He was jazzed. “There’s got to be some connection to Regal Insurance.”

  Hal arrived at Hunters Point while it was still light enough to make the projects seem innocuous, especially from a distance. A series of blue and yellow faded blocks, the buildings sat high enough on the hill that it was hard to see the true state of them.

  Hal figured that was in the design.

  Aside from his house and the department, he’d visited these buildings more than any place in San Francisco—a sad statement to his personal life.