The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club #17)(17)

God, she was confused.

She wished he hadn’t run off that group of women. She could have handled them. And yet he was showing her he cared.

She let out a sigh as she headed home to their empty apartment, the empty chair in front of the TV, the empty spot next to hers in their bed.

What good was flimsy nightwear if there was no one home to see it?





CHAPTER 23


I WAS IN the shower when Joe pulled back the curtain, showed me my cell phone, put the mouthpiece against his chest, and said, “Millie Cushing?”

I took the phone and said, “Millie. I’ll call you back.”

I muttered to myself as I toweled off, something about the sanctity of my rain box, and then I got over myself. After dressing in pj’s, I returned Millie’s call.

I knew what she wanted. She was checking up on what if any police progress had been made in the shooting death of Jimmy Dolan, who’d been shot dead outside Sydney G. Walton Square. I had nothing for her.

It was not my case. Not my beat. I would apologize, of course, but I’d done what I promised to do. I’d followed up and had been told by the detectives in charge to mind my own business.

I tapped out her phone number and waited for her to pick up. The ringing was going on too long. I was a nanosecond from clicking off when Millie said my name. I had my apology all teed up, but I never got the words out of my mouth.

“There’s been another murder,” she said. “And before you ask if the police were called, they were, but no one has arrived. You have to see this, Sergeant. You really have to see this. In the name of God, something has to be done.”

My partner and I had spent the day in court, testifying for the prosecution on a carjacking homicide that had taken a year to get to trial. I was tired. I knew Conklin was dragging his back end, too. But I called him anyway and summarized Millie’s call.

“We can just kick it to Brady,” I said. “He can call Central. That may be enough.”

Conklin said, “Fisherman’s Wharf, near the museum. I’ll meet you there.”

I told Joe the breaking news while I changed out of my jammies into jeans, a sweater, and flat-heeled boots. I explained that I had a bit of a moral debt to Millie and that I would call home as soon as I had scoped out the situation.

He was very understanding, but he said, “You’re skipping dinner again.”

“I have PowerBars in the car. Save a plate for me?”

“Be careful,” he said.

“I will.”

I strapped on my gun, hung my badge on its chain around my neck, and grabbed my keys, and after I had buttoned up my jacket, I went for the stairs. I had just started the downward jog to the street when a wave of light-headedness and nausea swept over me.

I clutched at the railing, stopping my fall, and I sat down on the staircase. What was going on?

Was it the hot shower and rushing to dress compounded by an empty stomach?

I put my head between my knees until the feeling passed, then got to my feet. I walked down the last flight of stairs, steady as she goes. I was okay. I thought I was okay. Out on the street I got into my vehicle and switched on the ignition. I did a personal systems check, too. I was fine. Much better now.

I warmed up the engine, then called Richie to say that I was on the way.





CHAPTER 24


AT EIGHT THIRTY that night I drove to Fisherman’s Wharf, a neighborhood best known for Pier 39, attracting tourists with its rambunctious sea lions and tours of the bay. Within walking distance were Ghirardelli Square and the cable car turnaround at Hyde Street, which took visitors across Nob Hill to Union Square on the other side.

I made a turn off the Embarcadero and onto Pier 45, busy with foot traffic. The restaurants were open, street vendors sold Dungeness crab from their steaming cauldrons, and tourists mingled happily in the seaside-resort atmosphere.

I also noted the shadow population of street people who had set up their carts and sleeping bags in gaps between buildings, begged from tourists, and searched trash bins for food.

Millie Cushing had told me that the murder had taken place next to the Musée Mécanique, a museum of antique penny arcade games and musical instruments.

I saw the museum up ahead.

It was closed for the night, but still, red lights winked inside the arcade. I turned onto the road to the parking area at the side of the museum but didn’t get far before I was stopped by two uniformed officers standing beside a police cruiser that partially blocked the entrance to the pier.

I buzzed down my window and badged the patrolmen, explaining that I’d gotten a citizen call about a homicide, and asked to be pointed to the first officers on the scene. I was told that Officers Baskin and Casey were just inside the perimeter.

I drove into the desolate parking area, bounded on both sides by the rear walls of buildings, open to the Embarcadero on one end and to San Francisco Bay at the other. Panhandlers were known to use this area after hours to gather and sleep.

I expected my headlights to illuminate a scrum of law enforcement vehicles around the crime scene. Instead I saw one other solitary cruiser. Two uniformed cops had taken up positions near a taped-off area enclosing an inert, lumpy form on the ground. A small gaggle of homeless people loitered in the vicinity, some of them taunting the cops.

A horn honked behind me. It was Conklin in his ancient Bronco. We parked and greeted each other, the cold wind coming off the bay blowing the words out of our mouths.