20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(27)

I clicked on a news link and read the chyron running along the lower edge of my screen: SFPD has no leads in the deaths of Ramona and Paul Baron.

Great. Tell me something I don’t know.

A box with an arrow appeared in the upper right with the title “The Mysterious Deaths of Paul and Ramona Baron.”

“Richie. Come here.”

I double-clicked on the arrow and was immediately alarmed to see a slide show of images of the Barons’ office after they’d been murdered. There were close-ups of the bullet holes in the casement windows, Ramona’s desk chair, the bloodstained carpet, and the taped outline of Paul’s body across the surface of the partners desk.

The voice-over reporter was saying, “Acting chief of police Jackson Brady tells Real Crime News that he can’t comment while the Baron case is under investigation.”

I stabbed the Mute button with my finger and said to Conklin, “Did you see that? Someone leaked the crime scene photos, for God’s sake.”

“Taking a wild guess here. A CSI was bribed.”

“Huh,” I said. “Nice little severance package for someone.”

I had Clapper’s mobile on speed dial. I left him a message, and then I stewed about this wide-open case and kicked it around with Conklin.

I said, “Graphic photos of blood and bullet holes, and the shooter’s defense attorney tells a judge that the jury pool has been poisoned. If it ever comes to a judge and jury.”

“You’re not looking at the bright side.”

“You’re a riot, Richie.”

All we had was a suspect who’d been photographed holding a gun sight and was currently as free as fog. According to Randi White Barkley, her husband had PTSD. He’d run from the police out of fear. My theory was a little different. Barkley had run because he’d killed two prominent citizens and we were onto him. The odds were ten to nothing that he was preparing to kill again.

Still. We had his car, his wife, his laptop, his fingerprints, and his dog. Cops were on his doorstep. Maybe if Randi asked him to come in, he would do it.

I had a question for Richie, the eternal optimist.

“Check me on this. The Barons’ murders actually link up with the shootings at the same time in other cities, right?”

“So it seems. Roccio, yes. Peavey, yes. Eight thirty a.m.”

“So in your view, selling drugs—major league or minor—is at the root of the murders?”

“Well, do you believe in coincidences?” he asked me.

“Let me get back to you on that.”

Detective Richards of Chicago PD had shown a distinct disinclination to share information about his victim, Albert Roccio, but he’d agreed to take our call at noon. I said to Conklin, “Here we go.”

I tapped Richards’s contact on my phone.

A woman answered, saying, “Detective Wilkens. May I help you?”

“I’m Sergeant Boxer. Detective Richards is expecting my call,” I said.

“He just ran out, but he’ll be back in a few.”

I left my number as Brenda poked her head into the room. “I’ve got Inspector McNeil for you.”

Cappy’s husky voice, filtered through the car radio mike and whatever he was eating.

“Boxer, you ready for a big pile of nothing much?”

“Bring it.”

He laughed, said, “Ready, set, go.”

And then he reported in.





CHAPTER 42





I PICTURED CAPPY swiping his bald head with his forearm, replacing his ball cap, setting it just right.

He spoke into the mic, saying, “Okay, so here’s what we know from working the Taco King.

“Jennings was a regular. His movements were known. If someone wanted to take him out, they could find him. So he was prob’ly a target, not a random ‘rehearsal,’ and that goes to motive.

“We spoke with Woody Moynihan. ’Member him? First baseman, .300 batting average until he took a hundred-mile-per-hour fastball to his head.”

I said, “Does Moynihan have an idea who shot Jennings?”

My cell phone buzzed, Brenda texting, Detective Noble is on line three.

I asked Cappy to hang on, punched the button on the console, said hello to the LAPD homicide detective who was primary on the LA shooting.

Conklin punched line three on his own console and at the same time activated speakerphone. “Cappy,” he said. “Talk to me. Boxer has another call.”

“Fine, tell her Jennings was peddling pills to friends. Moynihan says actually he was a customer, but it coulda been a wide circle. Friends of friends. Conklin. You still there?”

“I’m all yours,” said Conklin.

“Okay. I talk to myself, but not on the phone. So Moynihan has no idea who woulda capped Jennings, but there’s a variety of reasons someone might have gone crazy and offed his dealer. It happens, you know. Narcotics might have a line on it.”

I was listening to Cappy and at the same time thinking how Narcotics was a shell of its former self. There were jobs that had to be filled, and this was a great example of why.

Noble said, “Hello?”

I turned my attention back to Noble, saying, “Right here.”

He said, “We’ve doubled up our manpower on this school shooting.”