The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club #17)(20)

Stevens said, “Okay, shoot. But before you do, what brings you to our crime scene?”

I jumped back into the debriefing.

“Same as when I spoke to you the last time,” I said. “A citizen phoned me about a street person who had been shot dead and left for the buzzards.”

Conklin shot me a warning look. Stevens smirked and said, “Maybe your informant was the doer. Didja think of that?”

My partner cleared his throat and continued with his report.

“Boxer and I arrived at eight thirty to find four uniforms holding down the scene—two at the western perimeter, two standing watch over the body. They had a witness statement but no ID on the witness, and he left the scene. One bystander identified the victim as Laura Russell. Her family members are right over there, by their SUV.

“I did an area search with Officers Baskin and Casey. We found a perfectly good man’s coat in a trash can on the Embarcadero. A witness who may have seen the shooter told the uniforms that he was wearing a nice coat. So the coat we found qualifies as nice, and there were gloves in the pockets. Maybe it was dumped by the shooter. We handed it off to CSI Hallows.”

Moran asked about the victim, and Hallows told him that she had been shot twice in the chest. No casings on the ground. No ID on her person. No phone. Twenty-two dollars and thirty-eight cents in her coat pocket.

“I’ll have more for you after the lab goes over her clothing and after the ME signs off.”

Stevens said to Hallows, “You’ve got my number.”

I told Stevens I’d send him a copy of my report. He said, “Okay, Boxer. You’ve done your good deed. We can take it from here.” He turned his back.

You’re welcome.

Conklin and I headed to our cars, making way for the coroner’s van, which was just rolling through the perimeter. We stood outside the tape as the ME’s techs moved in and prepared to remove the body.

We could hear Stevens joking with Moran, saying that it was a good night for an unsolvable murder. That maybe the seals had seen the action go down.

Moran said, “Yeah, but no one is barking.”

Their banter gave me a headache. Someone had been murdered in a tourist area. The crime scene had been contaminated by passersby. The shooter and any witnesses to the crime had fled.

Stevens and Moran just didn’t care.





CHAPTER 28


THE WIND WAS to our backs as Conklin and I unlocked our cars.

I said across the roof, “Here’s a thought, Richie. They’re padding their time sheets. I wonder how many hundreds of man-hours they can bury in a case with no witnesses. The more dead ends, the better.”

“Like a factory slowdown, you’re saying. Could be.”

“What should we do about it?” I asked him.

“We should go home, Lindsay. I’m gonna have a couple of beers and grab some quality time with my woman before she falls asleep.”

I felt a pang from a promise I hadn’t kept. I told Conklin I’d see him in the morning, got into my vehicle, and turned on the engine. While the car warmed up, I called Joe.

When he picked up, I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier. We got involved here in a conflict that didn’t quite melt down into a dispute. Is everything okay at home? … Good. I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Tops.”

I made it home in less.

I opened the front door, expecting Martha, my old doggy, to charge at me with her trademark welcome-home woofing. But instead Joe was waiting inside the doorway.

He helped me out of my coat and holster.

“You look like you need a drink,” he said.

“Do I?”

“Did you eat?”

“I didn’t even think about food.”

“You’re in luck, Blondie. Big bowl of beef stew is coming right up.”

“Yummy,” I said with enthusiasm I didn’t feel. I wasn’t hungry at all. “Where is everybody?”

He told me, “Julie is curled up with Martha, both of them snoring.”

I threw myself down on the sofa and toed off my shoes. Joe headed to the kitchen, an open-space galley separated from the living room by an island. He talked about TV news while heating up my dinner.

Then he said, “Come sit at the table and tell me all about what happened tonight.”

I dropped into a chair and watched Joe taking care of me. He uncorked the wine and set down two glasses. The oven pinged and Joe brought my dinner to the table, sat across from me, and gave me that most wonderful of gifts: his undivided attention. I swear, it brought tears to my eyes.

“Let’s hear it,” Joe said. “Start talking.”

I told him the four-word headline.

“Dirty, no-good cops.”





CHAPTER 29


IN THE LIVING room of their apartment on Telegraph Hill, Yuki was sitting at her desk, fully dressed in comfortable pants and a pullover. She was typing on her laptop, with cable news on in the background, while waiting to hear Brady’s key in the lock.

When Brady finally came through the door at ten fifteen, he leaned over the back of her chair and kissed her cheek. He shed his jacket and gun belt and was heading toward the bathroom when Yuki called out, “I have an idea. Let’s go out.”

He turned to look at her and said, “Now? I’m a dead man walking.”