The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club #17)(58)

Water dripped from the umbrella spokes.

“Could be him, Boxer. The picture is awful grainy, and it’s hard to really see his face with that hat pulled down over his eyebrows. But I see what you mean.”

I zoomed in on the hand gripping the handle and focused in on the man’s wedding ring.

I said to Richie, “You noticed his ring, right?”

“Silver with gold on the edges.”

“Correct,” I said. “Is this the same ring?”

“It’s possible,” my partner said. “But with this lighting? The shadows, the headlights, a lot of contrast for a phone shot. I want to look at his face again.”

I adjusted the picture on the screen and said, “Well?”

“Let’s go to the videotape,” Rich said.

He went to his desk, picked up the phone, and tapped in a couple of numbers, saying, “Maybe we’ll catch Benny.”

Benny is our interview room AV tech, among other roles.

“Benny,” Conklin said into the mouthpiece. “This is urgent. I need a still shot of the dude Boxer and I just talked to in Interview 1. Find me the best frontal face shot and a profile if you’ve got one. You mind? I’ll wait.”

He hung up and drummed his fingers on the desk.

I knew he and I were both having the same thought. The lab could do a little facial-recognition magic on the two images, compare the Michael Dunn we’d just interviewed with the unknown man under the umbrella on Geary.

While we waited for Benny, I did a database search for everything related to Michael Dunn. I didn’t find much. He had no arrest sheet, no prints on file, not even a traffic violation.

And then I got a hit.

I said, “Holy moly,” and rotated my monitor so Rich could read a line of type in the database. Michael Dunn of Union Street, San Francisco, had a registered 9mm Kimber handgun.

“Good catch,” said Rich.

“Thanks, bud.”

It was a good catch. Michael Dunn had purchased a gun of the same caliber as the one that had killed several homeless people, including Dunn’s mother, Millie Cushing.

The lab had kept the bullets taken from the bodies of Jimmy Dolan, Laura Russell, Lou Doe, and Millie Cushing. Ballistics had logged them all as cold hits. All had been fired from the same gun, a gun that had not been used in a crime or otherwise entered into our system.

It wasn’t a gotcha—yet. But if the mystery man on Geary Street was our Michael Dunn, and he had a weapon that matched the type that had fired bullets into his mother’s body, that would be enough probable cause to arrest him on suspicion of murder.

Had those bullets come from Michael Dunn’s Kimber? We really needed to get his gun.





CHAPTER 85


IT WAS 8:30 A.M. the morning after our interview with Michael Dunn.

Conklin and I sat together in a parked squad car near the intersection of Leidesdorff and Commercial Streets in the Financial District. The Transamerica building was directly behind us, and we were within shouting distance of the red-and-white-brick three-story office building where Dunn worked as a paralegal.

We had confirmation from the lab that the man in our interview room was the same as the one I’d snapped standing across the street from the body of that poor dead woman on Geary.

Michael Dunn hadn’t said a word to us about the scene on Geary. Why wouldn’t he mention that he’d seen the body, as similar as it was to what he now knew about his mother’s death?

We could ask him and hold him as a material witness for forty-eight hours while we got an ADA to get us a search warrant for his apartment.

But neither Rich nor I could bear to sit at our desks while waiting for an ADA to find a judge to sign a warrant. Not while our one suspect, Michael Dunn, was walking around with a gun.

Our plan was simple and entirely legal. We would pick Dunn up and bring him back to the Hall for questioning about the shooting of Lou Doe at 77 Geary.

That would buy a little time, and maybe Dunn would give up information we could use to arrest him for murder.

Dunn had told us that he was a creature of habit. Every morning he got to his office by nine, he spent his day doing legal research, and at the close of business he went home. What he’d called his “Groundhog Day life.”

I hoped today would be just another Groundhog Day for Michael Dunn.

I turned the police radio down to a hiss and watched the early-morning traffic on Leidesdorff, a charming street a few blocks from Sydney G. Walton Square, eight or nine blocks from both 77 Geary and the spot on Mission Street where Millie Cushing had been gunned down just over a week ago.

It had been very loud on Mission after Millie died. I remembered every minute of that night with high-definition clarity. I had stood there in the fog, surrounded by hundreds of flashing red and blue lights, with the shrieks of law enforcement vehicle sirens speeding toward the murder scene from all points.

If he was strolling around the area at that time, Michael could have seen the light show. Hell, he could have called dispatch himself.





CHAPTER 86


I FELT THE adrenaline rush before my brain made the connection.

Michael Dunn was walking toward his office building right on time.

I said to Richie, “There. See him?”

The man who more or less resembled Jimmy Fallon was passing the intersection at Commercial Street, heading toward us on Leidesdorff in the direction of the three-story building where he worked nine to six, five days a week.