The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club #17)(8)

After saying “hey” to Conklin, I went to the break room and snagged the last donut in the box. Someone had hacked off a piece of it. In my humble opinion, that was an irrelevant detail.

It was chocolate-glazed chocolate, the very best kind. I bit into it. It was good.





CHAPTER 11


THE HOMICIDE SQUAD room is a square gray bull pen with our receptionist just inside the door, our lieutenant’s glassed-in office in the back corner with a window onto the freeway. In between, on both sides of the narrow center aisle, are a handful of desks used by the other Homicide inspectors. There has been some talk that we’ll be moving to newer quarters within the decade, and I hope it’s more than gossip.

Conklin and I have facing desks at the front of the room, equidistant from the entrance and the break room. I shucked off my jacket, threw it over the back of my chair, and dropped into the seat.

Conklin said, “You have chocolate right here.”

He pointed to the right side of his mouth.

I sighed, grabbed a tissue, and, under his direction, rubbed at the spot.

“Okay now?” I asked him.

Conklin and I have known each other for years. He was a beat cop who told me he’d like to be in Homicide. When positions in our department reshuffled, my former partner, Warren Jacobi, got a promotion and Rich Conklin and I became a team.

Known around the Hall as Inspector Hottie, Conklin is in his midthirties, brown eyed, brown haired, good lookin’ and good doin’, altogether just about the perfect American boy next door. We love each other like siblings without the rivalry, complement each other’s strengths, and shore up the other’s weaknesses.

In confrontational situations, interrogations for instance, I’m the one throwing fastballs and Richie is the “good cop,” telling me to take it easy. Wink-wink. He’s especially good with women. They trust him on sight.

Conklin gave me a thumbs-up after assessing the chocolate. He said, “You going to tell me about your mystery breakfast?”

Phones were ringing. The overhead TV was on low, but not mute, and people were talking over the ambient noise.

I said, “A homeless woman named Millie Cushing tagged me as I was coming through the door. She wanted to tell me that a series of homeless people have been shot to death over the last year or so, and that the cops haven’t done anything about it.”

“First I’ve heard of this,” Rich said.

“The shootings have been happening in Central Station’s beat, that’s why.”

“Aw, jeez,” my partner said. “This isn’t good.”

While the citywide Homicide Detail is located here at Southern Station, a vestigial Homicide Detail operates out of Central Station, the result of a redistricting before my time. Officially called a station investigative team, Central Homicide sweeps up homicides that are called into their district during the graveyard shift.

That’s fine with me. God knows we have enough crimes to solve right here in our own house.

I told my partner what Cushing had told me: that a man named Jimmy Dolan had been shot sometime in the wee hours down on Front Street. Since I hadn’t heard about any killings of street people on our beat—and I would have—it could only mean that all of these shootings had happened in Central.

“I promised Millie I’d look into what she says is an ongoing pattern of homeless shootings, no arrests,” I concluded.

Rich was already tapping on his keyboard, searching for a report of a homicide outside Sydney G. Walton Square.

“Got it,” he said. “Victim: James Dolan, white male, fifty, shot twice in the chest at approximately four a.m. No witnesses to the shooting. Investigation ongoing. Body at Metro Hospital morgue.”

I said, “That’s the guy. Who was assigned to the case?”

“Sergeant Garth Stevens and Inspector Evan Moran. I don’t know them. You?”

“I know of Stevens,” I said. “He’s been on the job for twenty-five years.”

“Stevens and Moran work graveyard shift,” Conklin said.

I called Sergeant Stevens before Conklin and I clocked out for the day, and was put through to his desk at Central. He knew my name, said he’d even worked with my father, Marty Boxer, back in the day. My father was a bad-news cop and a worse husband and dad, but I let the comment slide with a “No kidding.”

I said, “Sergeant, you’re investigating that shooting at Walton Square early this morning?”

“Yeah. Vagrant took a couple of rounds to the chest. Killed instantly. Why do you want to know?”

“A citizen got hold of me and said there may have been several incidents like this one. Does that sound right?”

“You have a suspect in this shooting?” he asked, answering my question with one of his own.

“No.”

“Then don’t worry about this, Sergeant. Moran and I are on it. Nice chatting with you.”

And then he hung up.

I put the receiver back in the cradle and said to Conklin, “Stevens blew me off.”

“Typical,” said Conklin. “Old-timer. Get offa my cloud.”

I had a bad feeling about it. It wasn’t just that the old-timer had been rude; maybe he had a reason for blowing me off. Maybe there was something he didn’t want me to know.