The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(33)

He was pissed, I could tell.

“I got your car back,” he said, speaking of my comatose Explorer, which I’d left on Harriet Street when the night was still young. I thanked him sincerely and he talked right over me.

“It cost two hundred twenty-nine dollars for the auto shop to jump the car and drive it to Lake Street.”

I sighed into the phone.

“Don’t do that, Lindsay,” my husband said. “I’m the injured party here. By the way, Mrs. Rose’s daughter called. She’s taking the red-eye to SFO. I’m picking her up in the morning. Where are the keys to her mother’s apartment?”

“On a hook inside the cabinet next to the microwave. I’m sorry, Joe, but have a little compassion, will you? Do you think I want to be here? Do you?”

He grunted, then said, “Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. What if you just sign out for the night? Get a uniform to drive you home. You think you’re going to get canned if you leave? Because that’s not going to happen, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing if it did.”

“I’ve got to go now,” I said. “A suspect is waiting for me in the box.”

“We have to talk,” he told me.

“Fine,” I said. “Just not now.”

My eyes were swollen, my skin burned, and beneath my SFPD sweats, my underwear was still wet from the water cannon. And now my husband was mad at me.

His anger was justified.

But still, this hadn’t exactly been a day in the park tossing bread to the duckies for me.

Tips and clues were sucking us into black holes of nothingness. And yet Loman was still out there—somewhere.





CHAPTER 45





I POURED COFFEE into paper cups and went back to Interview 2, where Megan Rafferty, also wearing police department sweats, had folded her arms on the table and was sobbing into them.

I checked and saw that the camera in the corner of the ceiling was still rolling. I kicked a chair out from the table and sat down.

I said, “Hey, Megan. Look here.”

She lifted her head, saw the container of coffee I put down in front of her, and peeled off the lid. “Thanks,” she said. “When can I go home?”

Across the hallway Rich Conklin was talking to the lump of dump known as Corey Briggs, a minor-league drug dealer and likely part of the mysterious Loman’s crew.

Conklin had some leverage with Briggs.

Drugs and unregistered guns had been found on his person and inside his van. It was possible that Conklin could get the DA to make a deal in exchange for cooperation and usable information. He could promise to try.

Here in Interview 2, I was trying to get information from a twenty-two-year-old crack addict, a former college girl who no doubt had just about wrecked her parents’ dreams and her own future. But there was hope for her yet. The van belonged to her boyfriend. She hadn’t been armed and had had no drugs on her when we brought her down. Unless we found something that proved otherwise, she’d committed no crime.

If she helped us catch a dangerous criminal, maybe she’d use her clash with the SFPD to rethink her life, get clean. I knew my reasoning was wishful, but I felt sorry for her.

Megan said, “Corey didn’t tell me anything except that he was waiting for a phone call.”

“From whom?”

“He didn’t say. He didn’t tell me anything, Sergeant, I swear to God. Please believe me.”

I said, “You’re living with him. He had weapons and illegal substances inside the van. Why were you bunking in the van, Megan? You two live only a couple of blocks away. I really, really want to help you, but this makes no sense.”

“Corey was protecting me.”

“From what, exactly?”

She shrugged. Tears spilled. I patted her back. She said, “I don’t know one damned thing. Please let me go home now.”

“I’m afraid you have to stay with us for a while.”

“What do you mean?”

“We’re holding you as a material witness. Look on the bright side—you’re going to be able to take a shower and get some sleep.”

“And I can talk to a lawyer?”

I sighed again. A shower and sleep sounded pretty good to me.

“Sure. Just remember to tell him or her that you’re not under arrest.”

“I’m crashing, Sergeant. Everything hurts.”

“Megan, why are you protecting him? He’s a known criminal. He’s been tagged as a murderer. Could you think of yourself, help the police, and tell us where to find Loman?”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Be her friend. Be her friend, I counseled myself.

“I’ll get you some Advil,” I said.

I walked out to the short hallway between the two interview rooms and closed the door behind me to see Rich there with Lieutenant Brady.

My partner’s hair was wet. He’d changed his clothes. And he and our good friend were laughing their asses off.





CHAPTER 46





THE WAY I felt right now, watching Brady and Conklin snort and guffaw was like grabbing a downed electric line in the rain. A surge of unexpected fury shot through me.

What the hell was this? I’d been working for three days straight. I could count the number of hours I’d slept on one hand. And the two of them were having a good ol’ time.