The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(59)

Conklin conveyed Brady’s orders.

Samuels forwarded their phones to Brenda, and the two of them grabbed their jackets. We were all hoping for another crack at Barkley. I wanted him alive and in the box because he was all we had—and he might be a key to the whole Moving Targets operation.

The four of us jogged down the fire stairs to Bryant and signed out a couple of squad cars. Conklin took the wheel of ours and we went to Code 3, switching on our sirens and flashers, Conklin stepping on the gas.

I reported in, requesting a dedicated channel, and signed off. A minute later four-codes streamed over the speaker. Officer needs emergency help. Send ambulance. Requested assistance responding. A second request, send ambulance.

Traffic parted ahead of us, and within ten minutes we were on the main road through Portola, a working-class neighborhood on the edge of the city. We flew past the small businesses—shoe repair shop, bakeries, grocery store, a couple of restaurants—and then I saw the blinking neon sign up ahead.

SLEEP WELL MOTEL. VACANCIES. FREE WI-FI.

By the time we arrived, the motel’s parking lot was filled with law enforcement vehicles and cops on foot who were attempting to clear the area of bystanders.

My job as primary responder was to stabilize the scene, secure it for CSI, and determine what had happened for the record and for the lead investigator, who, please God, wouldn’t be me. I reached out to Clapper and filled him in. “We need prints right away.”

“In a motel room. Wish us luck.”

“All the luck in the world.”

I looked past the cruisers, ambulances, and guest vehicles, trying to get a fix on what the hell had gone down. Where was Nardone? Brady had said Barkley had been seen. Given time spent relaying orders and driving through noon traffic, it was a fair bet that Barkley was long gone.

I was out of the car before Conklin fully braked. I hobbled on my twisted ankle to the ambulance that was taking on a patient. The paramedic wouldn’t let me inside.

“He’s got a head injury. Please. Get out of our way.”

“What’s his name? What’s his name?”

“Glenn Healy. Officer Healy.”

“Where are you taking him?”

“Zuckerberg San Francisco General.”

The rear doors closed, sirens shrieked, and the bus moved onto the main road. Someone called out to me.

“Sergeant Boxer. Over here.”

Sergeant Robert Nardone was sitting on the third step of a staircase running from the parking area to the second floor. Cleaning supplies and toiletries were heaped around Nardone’s feet as if Mr. Clean and Bed Bath & Beyond had purged their trucks, haphazardly flinging samples across the area.

My eyes were drawn to an overturned housekeeper’s cart that had crashed into a vintage Buick some twenty feet from the foot of the stairs. That explained the toiletries.

But I still couldn’t picture what had happened here.

Nardone would have to tell me.

I asked him, “Bob, are you all right?”

“We lost him, Boxer. Bastard stole our car and booked.”





CHAPTER 86





NARDONE WAS PALE and had a nasty abrasion down the left side of his face, and he was holding his left arm tightly to his chest.

Any minute now paramedics would load him into an ambulance, but I held on to hope that before then I’d get his statement. I’d known Sergeant Robert Nardone for years. He had a sharp eye, worked hard, and was angling for a job in Homicide. Although he’d been injured, he was sitting up, speaking, and seemed to be tracking the scene as it devolved.

I said, “Nardone. Are you okay?”

“Good enough.”

“The guy who did this. Was it Barkley?”

“I forgot to ask for his ID.”

Sarcasm was a good sign. Nardone had a gift for it.

I brushed little bars of soap, bottles of shampoo, sponges, and a spray bottle off a step and sat down beside him. I now had a wide view of the parking lot.

Tourists, paying guests, and local looky-loos meandered across the two hundred square feet of asphalt, stepping on possible evidence and getting in the way of the cops who were doing their best to clear and cordon off the area. No one was taking witness names or statements. A lot rested on what Nardone had to tell me.

EMTs with lights flashing and sirens whooping filed into the area, and civilian drivers leaned on their horns as they tried to leave.

I told Nardone I was concerned that Barkley had hijacked a police cruiser. An armed criminal driving a patrol car could speed without being stopped, could pull drivers over, and if he could get them to step out of their vehicle, he could rob them, kill them, take their car. That stolen black-and-white made Leonard Barkley more dangerous than before.

Nardone gave me his car’s tag number and I called it in, requesting an APB, forthwith. And now I saw another victim. Standing beside the second bus, Lemke and Samuels talked to a patient who was strapped onto a gurney. She was sobbing, and I saw blood running down an arm.

I turned back to Nardone. “Who is she?”

“Housekeeper. Accidental casualty.”

He’d dropped the bravado and was fixing me with a hurt look in his eyes.

“He kicked the shit out of us, Boxer, and took everything but our skivvies. Healy got the worst of it. Way worse.”

“Okay,” I said. “Please start at the beginning.”