Chandler lifted his eyes, met my gaze. “I don’t know this boy. I have never seen him before, alive or dead.”
Against his lawyer’s advice, Chandler gave us the names of shops he and Kaye had visited. He produced time-stamped digital photos of them together, and just for good measure, he said there was surveillance video at the yacht club showing that he’d taken the boat out at four in the morning and returned at nine at night.
I asked him when he’d last seen his son, Todd.
“Years and years ago,” Chandler said. “And no, I don’t think he killed anyone. But you should ask him yourself.”
I said, “We’ve obtained a search warrant for your boat.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“The Crime Scene Unit is there right now.”
“They’re inside my boat?”
I guess we finally pissed off Harry Chandler. He stood abruptly and said to his attorney, “I don’t have to answer any more questions, do I?” And he stormed out of the interrogation room.
Charlie Clapper called me at the end of the day, said he’d found no incriminating evidence on the Cecily; no blood, no trace, no bleach, no nothing.
I had just hung up the phone with Clapper when it rang again. Claire calling to say, “That surfer boy who washed up on Big Sur?”
“Yes?”
“The ME in Monterey County said cause of death was blunt-force trauma to the head. The wound matched to his surfboard that also washed up. Witnesses saw him going out into the surf on that board.”
“It was an accident.”
“Right, Lindsay. Accidental death.”
That card with the number 613 on it that some insane tipster said he’d found — it was pure fiction.
Chapter 70
I WAS IN desperate need of a laugh or, even better, a boxcar full of them.
I called an impromptu meeting of the Women’s Murder Club, and because it was only two blocks from the Hall, I convinced everyone to meet at MacBain’s Beers o’ the World Saloon.
An hour after sending up the flare, I climbed the wooden back steps to the small room with two tables and one window where Captain MacBain used to count out the day’s cash. Cindy and Claire had already made good progress on the first pitcher of beer, and Yuki had only about an inch left of her margarita.
I could have put down a pitcher of beer all by myself, but the little bundle I was carrying under my jacket had the majority vote and that vote was no to booze.
Claire pulled out a chair and patted the seat and I dropped into it.
Yuki flashed me a grin, said, “I was telling everyone about Brian McInerny.”
“The comedian? Go ahead, Yuki.”
“Okay, so he’s suing a transit worker for taking a punch at him. He deserved the punch, but anyway, I’m deposing him,” Yuki said. “McInerny wants to give answers as both himself and his alter ego.”
“I’ve seen his act,” Cindy said. “He has an imaginary twin.”
“Right,” Yuki said. “And it’s easier to let him do it than stop him. I’m asking him questions and he’s answering as himself and as his character. So crazy. We have it all on tape.”
I gave my order to the waitress, and Yuki continued her story.
“And you know, during a deposition, when someone needs a break, the videographer says, ‘All right, it’s eleven twenty-three and we’re going off the record.’ And then when you’re coming back on, the videographer says, ‘It’s eleven thirty-five and now we are back on the record.’
“So McInerny needs a lot of breaks. He doesn’t like the deli food we served, so he has to order lunch from his favorite restaurant. Then he has to have a conference with his imaginary twin. As if that weren’t enough to make us all crazy, now he’s got a new shtick.
“When we restart the camera, McInerny pretends that he’s in the middle of a conversation. The camera goes on and McInerny says to me, ‘That’s the filthiest joke I’ve ever heard in my life.’”
Yuki demonstrated the shocked look she got on her face; it was hysterical and we all laughed. Yuki said, “The second time we come back he looks directly at the videographer and says to her, ‘Are you hitting on me? Are you coming on to me?’
“Then, of course, we had to take a five-minute break because she was laughing so hard she was crying.”
One minute I was laughing at the story, but the next my mind must have wandered off, because I suddenly realized that the girls were staring at me.
Yuki in particular gave me an appraising eye.
“Something’s wrong, Lindsay. What is it?”
“I’m fine. It’s been a really long day, but I’m okay.”
“I know what you look like when you’re tired, Lindsay,” Yuki said. “This is different. You look like you’ve been running laps in hell.”
Cindy said, “Yuki’s right. Are you feeling sick? Are you coming down with something?”
The waitress brought over another pitcher of tap along with a bottle of Australian root beer and a frosty mug of ice, both of which she put down in front of me.
When her footsteps faded I said to my friends, “Joe is having an affair.”
Chapter 71
I POURED ROOT beer into my mug with a shaking hand. For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the hiss and crackle of the soda hitting the ice. Then everyone spoke at once.
Claire shouted — actually, she insisted — “No. No. Joe would never cheat on you.”
Cindy cut in. “This just can’t be true.”
But Yuki believed me.
She was back in her role of human nail gun, pinning me with her eyes, firing questions, bam-bam-bam.
“Who is the woman?”
“June Freundorfer. An old partner of Joe’s in DC.”
“How old?”
“My age.”
“How did you find out, Lindsay?”
“Does it matter?”
“Did Joe tell you about the affair?”
“No. She did,” I said.
“She called you?” Yuki pulled back, her face flattened in surprise.
“She called Joe. I picked up his phone.”
Claire got up from her chair, wrapped her arms around me, squeezed the tears right out of my eyes.
Yuki went on as if I weren’t crying, as if Claire weren’t beaming stop signs at her with her eyes.
“Did you ask Joe about this?”
“Uh-huh.”
“He admitted it?”
I shook my head no.
Cindy reached across the table and clutched my hands.
Yuki said, “So, just to make sure I’ve got this right, Joe denies the affair.”
“He’s lying about it, yes. So I kicked him out of the house.”
Claire said, “Honey, what did this woman say?”
I shook my head. I couldn’t talk anymore.
Cindy let go of my hands and gave me a wad of paper napkins stamped with MacBain’s logo: the planet Earth whirling through a sudsy amber sky.
I sobbed into the napkins. It was disgraceful. It was pathetic. I couldn’t stop crying. Yuki shook my arm like she was a terrier and my arm was a sock doll.
“Lindsay, do you think it’s serious? Maybe it just happened and he can get you to forgive him.”
By then Cindy had typed Freundorfer into her iPad and pulled up the benefit story. She held up the candid photo of Joe with his mistress looking adoringly into his face.
“Oh my God,” Yuki said. “Oh, Lindsay. I’m going to be sick.”
I loosed some fresh tears and then all of us were crying. It seemed a little less pathetic when we were all wet together, but still: Joe was having an affair, my baby and I were alone, and I wanted to die. Before I could drown myself in root beer, my blinking phone rang.
Was it Joe?
No. It was Brady. He was with Conklin.
I hugged and kissed my friends, then fled down the stairs.
Chapter 72
I PARKED THE Explorer behind Brady’s unma
rked sedan on the north side of Ivy, a one-way residential street in Hayes Valley dotted with trees and lined with ordinary single and multifamily houses built so close together there was no space between them.
Jacobi’s brown, shingled house was at the far end of the block, and although he had a garage that took up the ground floor, his black Hyundai SUV was parked on the street.
Jacobi had a black SUV — like half the law enforcement officers in California.
Brady and Conklin got out of the unmarked and Conklin got into the Explorer beside me.
Brady stooped down by the window, said, “We’ve had a team on him all day. He came in about an hour ago. Lights went on. He’s probably in for the night.”
“I take it you didn’t catch him killing anyone?”
Brady ignored my tone. “You and Conklin do four hours. Narcotics will spell you at eleven. If he leaves the house, call me.”
“Yes, sir.”
I watched Brady get into his car, then I pulled out my phone, saw three messages from Joe, and ignored them. I arranged dog-sitting for Martha, then leaned back.
I must have sighed. “So you ready to tell me what’s going on, Linds? I’m not going to leave you alone until you spill.”
My mind was still in high gear, boosted by my surging hormones and the whole crappy day.
“Have you cheated on Cindy?” I asked him.
His mouth fell open and he stared at me, a look of shock and disappointment on his face I hadn’t seen in all the years I’d known him.
“Why would you ask me that? Is that what she thinks? Did Cindy say that to you?”
“No. So, have you, Rich?”
“No. Hell no. Seriously, is this what you’ve been thinking? Is this what’s got you all jammed up?”
Conklin’s gaze left me, went past me and through my window, but his shocked expression didn’t change. I heard a hard rapping on the glass.
I swung my head, saw Jacobi’s face right there. He was scowling. He knew that we weren’t parked on his street by accident.
He signaled to me to roll down my window, and I did it.
All I could get out of my mouth was “Jacobi” before he lit into me, lit into us both.
“How nice of you to visit. You are visiting, right, Boxer? You too, Conklin. My old friends, stopping by to see how I’m getting along?”
“It’s a stakeout,” I said miserably.
“You’re tailing me.”
I dropped my head. I was ashamed and mortified. Jacobi gripped the window frame and shook it as if he were rattling bars on a cage.
“You think I’m that Revenge shooter? Is that it, Boxer? I don’t hear from you for weeks, months, then, suddenly, ‘Can you help me with my cases, Warren?’
“I don’t know how many thousands of hours I worked with both of you,” he spat. “Put my life in your hands and vice versa.” He looked at me, then at Conklin, then turned his hooded eyes back to me.
“You turn my stomach, both of you.”
“Jacobi, I’m sorry. Wait!”
“That’s Chief. Chief Jacobi.” He turned away, stalked off with his wooden gait. The silence in the car rang like a bell.
Conklin said, “I’m going after him.”
“Okay. I’ll be there in a minute.”
I called Brady.
“Is Jacobi leaving the house?” he asked me.
“Brady, he made us. He made us and he called us out.”
Chapter 73
CONKLIN CAME HOME to the apartment he shared with Cindy. It was completely dark except for the light in the kitchen. That meant that Cindy had been working for hours and hadn’t gotten up to turn on the rest of the lights.
He put his keys in the dish on the hall table, called out, “Honey, I’m home.” Heard a faint “Hey” in response.
He hung up his coat and gun, went into the kitchen, saw Cindy at the table exactly as he’d pictured her.
Her head was bent over her laptop, eyes obscured by the blond curls falling across her face, fingers dancing over the keys. She paused, turned, lifted her face for a kiss, and, after getting a peck, said, “Everything okay?”
“Had a completely terrible day is all.” Cindy said, “Did anyone die?”
“No.”
“Shots fired?”
He laughed. “Has to be a shooting for it to be a bad day?”
“Then — can you tell me about it later, Richie, because I’ve got to get this done.”
“Go ahead,” he said. “I’ll see you in bed.”
Conklin opened the fridge, got out a couple of frozen dinners, put them in the microwave. While the microwave turned the turkey dinners into something resembling hot meals, he went into the bathroom and got in the shower.
Nothing like hydrotherapy at the end of the day. He thought about Jacobi saying if Rich didn’t walk away from his front door, he was going to throw some shots through it.
That scene was followed by Brady chewing him out, chewing Lindsay out too, saying that they had royally screwed the pooch and were off the surveillance detail.
And he thought about Lindsay being a bitch and accusing him of cheating on Cindy, which was the last thing he’d ever do in his life.
Yes, it had been a crap day. All the way around.
Conklin got out of the shower, put on a pair of shorts, and went to the kitchen, where Cindy was still absorbed in whatever she was doing that left almost no time for him.
He pulled the plastic film off the dinners, asked, “What are you working on?”
“The Chron website. They gave me a blog.”
“A blog, huh?”
“Tons of mail coming in on Revenge. Do you have anything I can use?”
“Negative,” said Conklin. “Whatever is less than negative.”
“Okay,” Cindy said, tapping at the keys.
“Jeez, don’t quote me, Cindy. I’m off duty.”
“I wasn’t quoting you.”
“Good.”
Conklin sat down at the table, cleaned his plate, guzzled half a liter of Pepsi, and then finished off a half-full container of double chocolate ice cream, scraping the bottom with his spoon.
He watched Cindy as he ate. Her attention never broke. Bomb could go off across the street, and unless there was a story in it, she wouldn’t move.
He stood up, tousled her hair.
“I’m almost done,” she said.
Conklin went to bed. He was dozing when Cindy finally came into the bedroom and took off her clothes in the dark. She slid under the sheets without touching him.
Her breathing slowed and then deepened.
“Cindy?”
“Mmmm-hmmm.” She sighed.
Chapter 74
CINDY’S PHONE CALL woke me up out of a deep sleep.
“Sorry,” she said. “I know it’s early, but I wanted to catch you before you left the house. Can you have coffee with Richie and me?”
I said, “Sure,” agreed to the time and place. I lay in bed with Martha for twenty more minutes, first savagely missing Joe, then being flooded by thoughts of all the relationships I’d trashed in the previous twenty-four hours.
I supposed my asking Rich if he had cheated on Cindy had prompted Cindy’s call and the breakfast meeting. I owed apologies to them both.
I met Rich and Cindy at Old Jerusalem Café, a coffeehouse on Irving and Fourteenth that had a wide assortment of coffees and teas and delicious Mediterranean pastries. I found Mr. Conklin and the future Mrs. Conklin sitting at a table waiting for me.
I said, “Hi,” slid into the seat across from them, ordered Turkish coffee, and braced myself for a confrontation. I hoped I could handle it without snapping.
Rich brushed his hair out of his eyes with his fingers and said, “Cindy told me. About Joe.”
I nodded miserably, looked down.
“You’ll work it out,” he said. “You will.”
“I’m sorry about what I said, Rich.”
“Yeah. It’s okay. Cindy’s got something f
or us.”
I glanced up, wondering what he meant.
“Lookit,” Cindy said.
She took her iPad out of her handbag, began to type. My coffee came and I sugared it heavily and then followed up the sugar with a triple dose of cream.
Cindy turned the tablet toward me. “It’s numerology,” she said. She showed me this equation.
1 0 4 = 5
“In numerology, you add the numbers together. One plus zero is one. One plus four equals five.”
“Okay.”
“Now,” Cindy said, “let’s look at six one three.”
She typed:
6 1 3 = 10 = 1
“I get it,” I said. “Six and one is seven, and three makes ten.”
“Right. Then you reduce the ten by adding one and zero together. That equals one.”
“Got it.”
Cindy was typing numbers. She said, “Now add the two reduced numbers together.”
5 + 1 = 6
I waited for drums to roll. Cymbals to clash.
“What does six mean?”
“It means number six. As in number six Ellsworth Place.”
I sucked in a breath. Cindy was referring to one of the four brick buildings adjacent to the main Ellsworth house, the detached houses that backed onto the garden.
“We didn’t have a warrant to search number six,” I said.
“Cindy spoke to Yuki,” Rich said. “Yuki thinks she can make a case that the original warrant should have included those buildings. That the compound is all one property.”
“I’m coming with you to the compound,” said Cindy.
Rich and I turned to her and in unison said, “No.”
“Yes,” she said. “The numbers are mine. Lindsay, you gave them to me and asked me to solve them, and I think I did it. If you want me to ever talk to you again, either of you, I’m coming with you. The answer is yes.”
Chapter 75
YUKI AND I were in her cubicle at the DA’s offices in room 325, third floor of the Hall of Justice. I sat in a side chair, my white-knuckled hands clasped on her desk.
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