The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(22)

“Item next,” I said. “Randi told me that she deliberately fired over our heads. She didn’t hit anyone, so that could be true. The slugs she fired were blanks.”

As Brady made notes, I thought about the two bodies, one sprawled across the desk, the other lying faceup on the carpet. Two perfectly placed kill shots had done that.

Who had done the shootings and why? What on earth would have motivated Barkley to murder the Barons, and how did those killings link up with the homicides of drug dealers in LA and Chicago at precisely the same time?

Brady pushed back his chair, linked his hands behind his neck. “Bottom line,” he said, “we don’t know where Barkley is, the wife ain’t talkin’, and there’s no known connection between Barkley and the Barons. Got a whole lot of parts on the floor of the shop, but can’t make a car.”

I repeated a version of what Joe always says to me when I’m overstimulated and a wreck about how much time is flying by.

“It’s ‘day one,’ Brady. Day one and we have Randi White Barkley in custody. That’s a start.”

Brady added that the picture of Leonard Barkley standing behind his car door on San Anselmo Avenue two days before the killings had been disseminated to every cop on the force—Northern, Central, and Southern Stations, as well as the motorcycle cops and the Sheriff’s Department.

Brady said, “I don’t have to tell you, unless we nab the son of a bitch, we gotta break the wife.”

Randi hadn’t cracked while she was in pain and with me questioning her. Conklin was good with everyone, but he was especially good with women. His sincerity always came through.

I said, “Sounds like a job for my partner.”

Cappy called over from his desk, “Hey, Richie. Cindy’s on the tube.”

Brady rearranged things on my desk until he got his hand around the remote. He pointed it at the TV mounted on the wall, where it could be seen throughout the squad room, and boosted the volume.

And there was Cindy Thomas standing in front of the Barkleys’ house, miked up, made up, a lower-third screen graphic displaying her name and San Francisco Chronicle. Brian Whalen, a TV reporter from the local CBS affiliate said, “Cindy, can you bring us up to date on the incident that took place here this morning?”

“Brian, this is what we know. This man”—she held up an enlargement of a photo I had scrutinized dozens of times—“Leonard Barkley, is wanted for questioning in the murders of Paul and Ramona Baron.”

“You’re saying he’s a suspect in those murders?”

“The police department is calling Barkley a person of interest. He may be a witness and have useful information. The incident this afternoon involved the police trying to bring him in, but he got away, and his whereabouts are unknown.

“If anyone knows or sees this man, do not approach him. He’s presumed to be armed and dangerous. Call the SFPD hotline immediately.”

She gave the number.

Then she added, “Mr. Barkley, if you’re listening, the police want you to know that your wife has been injured by gunfire and is in police custody. Please call the number on the screen. The SFPD and your wife need to speak to you.”

I was pretty sure that if Barkley was watching from his bunker, he was scoffing and loading his weapon. Brady muted the volume on the TV.

He said, “Before you start looking for leakers, I’m Cindy’s police source.”

I said, “You told her?”

“Thanks, Brady,” said Conklin. “We owed her one.”

“That’s what she said. Y’all go home now and brace for a deluge coming over the tip line. Let’s hope for a lead that pays off.”





CHAPTER 35





“I CAN’T LEAVE Dave right now,” Joe told Lindsay.

He was sitting in his car in the parking lot, watching a rabbit hop across the patio outside the Channing restaurant.

“Hang on a sec,” she said. “I’m parking the car.”

He heard her shut the door and set the car alarm. He wanted to be home with her, talk to her, hold Julie-Bug on his lap and rock her to sleep.

“He’s a mess, huh?” Lindsay asked.

Joe said, “Well, he thinks Ray’s doctor murdered him. I don’t know if he’s grief stricken or delusional or both. But I do know that he’s alone and in a bad place.”

Joe heard Mrs. Rose speak to Lindsay over the intercom. “Come on up, Lindsay dear.”

“Thanks. I’ll be right there.”

Lindsay said to Joe, “I never asked. Does Dave have a girlfriend?”

“He pays for the girlfriend experience.”

“Aw, jeez. Do whatever you need to do,” she said.

Lindsay told him that after she put Julie to bed, she’d ask Mrs. Rose to take over for another couple of hours so she could have dinner with the girls.

“I’ll bring her a case of Channing’s Private Reserve Cab,” Joe said.

“And one for us.”

“No problem.”

Joe said he’d be home tomorrow, and after exchanging good nights and phone kisses, he returned to Dave’s small, two-story stone house, which was identical to the house about twenty yards away—the house where his parents, Ray and Nancy, had lived. Dave had left the lights on, telling Joe, “If Ray’s restless spirit is still around, he’ll want to see the lights.”