My old blue Explorer was parked a half block down from our apartment. I got in, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine started right up, almost as if it had been waiting for me.
I pulled out onto Lake Street and the car shot away from the curb, tires screeching. I could not wait to get to the Hall.
Chapter 20
BRADY’S GLASS-WALLED OFFICE is about the size and shape of a votive candleholder. He was sitting at his desk, dwarfing it with his bulk, his head bowed over an open file, phone clapped to his ear.
I no longer felt steamed that this once was my office when I was squad lieutenant. I had wanted to work hands-on, on the street, and I wanted that badly enough to ask for a demotion to sergeant. I rarely regretted that decision.
I knocked on the glass door and Brady looked up, said into the phone, “I’ll call you later.” He hung up, got to his feet, reached across the desk, and shook my hand.
“Good to have you back, Boxer. You feel okay? Want desk work for a couple of weeks? Kind of ease back into things?”
“I’m good, Lieutenant. I’ve been running. Doing tai chi. I’m good.”
He nodded, said, “Sit down. I think the chief told you—Peters asked for time off. Oxner transferred to Vice, so I’m down a team. I’ve been working with Conklin but he needs a real partner. I have to manage the bullshit going on around here.”
“Sure. I understand.”
As Brady sat back down and began patting down his desk, I thought about how much we’d been through since he joined the squad a year and a half ago. His first day, he told me to my face that I was nowhere on my current case. That I was sucking swamp water. He wasn’t running for office, that’s for sure, and I didn’t like him.
About a week after that, we were bringing down a freaking serial psycho killer together. Bombs went off and Brady took a stance in front of a moving car and unloaded his gun.
Six months ago—another killer, a different day—Brady took two bullets during another act of profound bravery.
Jackson Brady didn’t give good eye contact. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. I didn’t love his management style. But I did respect him.
He was a good cop.
He found the file he was looking for and started filling me in on the death of Faye Farmer, former Project Runway winner and late, great designer to the stars.
“Take a look,” Brady said. He handed me a sheaf of crimescene photos of the victim in the driver’s seat of a late-model Audi, slumped against the car window. Close-ups of the gunshot wound made it look to me like the shot had been delivered at close range.
Brady said, “You and Conklin are on this case. He’ll bring you up to speed.”
“Sure thing.”
“I wish it was a sure thing,” said Brady. “Conklin will tell you. The DB has vanished from the morgue.”
“Vanished how?”
“Vanished—poof,” Brady said. “The case of the purloined corpse. The media is going to go nuts when they find out. Claire says doors were opened with keys. Surveillance disk was jacked. It had to be an inside job, so talk to her. We find out why her body went poof, we’ve got a lead into who killed her. It goes without saying I want to be kept posted.”
Brady was already back on the phone before I left his office to find my partner.
Chapter 21
MARIA ORTEGA WAS a naturalized American citizen, but she looked scared, as if Immigration were waiting to deport her when she stepped off the witness stand. Yuki knew that Ortega was timid, but even if Kinsela crushed her on cross, her story would be on the record and firmly in the jurors’ minds.
Yuki smiled at the young woman in the demure navy-blue dress and walked toward the witness box.
“How are you today, Ms. Ortega?”
“Fine,” she said in a near whisper. “Thank you.”
“Will you tell us where you worked in December of last year?”
“I work for Mr. and Mrs. Sean Murphy on Lopez Avenue.”
“And what did you do for the Murphys?”
“I clean their house every day.”
“And is the Murphy house near the house where Keith Herman lived with his family?”
“Yes. They live three houses away.”
“Okay. Mr. Kinsela, you mind if I borrow your overhead view of Lopez Avenue?”
“Since you’re unprepared,” Kinsela said.
“Thank you, Counselor,” Yuki said, smiling for the jury. She pointed to the house three doors north of the Herman house. “Ms. Ortega, is this the Murphy house?”
“Yes.”
“So can you tell us about a certain conversation you had there with Lily Herman? And please speak loud enough for the jury to hear you.”
“I was sweeping the walk and Lily was riding her bike on the sidewalk. She stopped to say hello.”
“What made this conversation memorable to you?”
Ortega wrung her hands. “Lily looked like she had been crying. She got off her bike and it fall to the ground. She ran to me for comfort. Into my arms.”
“Please go on, Ms. Ortega.”
“I hugged her and she started to cry some more. She said her father shook her. She pulled up her sweater. She showed me bruises on her arms,” Ortega said. “They look like they were from fingers. Squeezing hard.”
“She had these bruises on both arms?”
“Yes. And on her neck. I saw marks.”
Yuki counted to ten, letting Ortega’s words soak into the room before she spoke again.
“And did you ask Lily about these marks?”
“Oh, yes.”
“And what did Lily say?”
The witness followed Yuki with her eyes, as if Yuki were a clock and Maria was desperate to know the time.
“Lily told me that her father grab her. And that he shake her. And that he tell her he would like to kill her.”
“Objection, Your Honor. This is hearsay and it is prejudicial. I move that the testimony be struck and the jury be instructed to disregard it.”
Nussbaum said, “I’m still the judge, Mr. Kinsela. Both you and Ms. Castellano come here so that we can have a quiet chat.”
Yuki and Kinsela crossed to the bench and Yuki said, “Your Honor, the witness reported this incident to the police on the day Lily spoke to her. It’s in the police report. Opposing counsel knows this and the sole purpose of his objection is to intimidate the witness.”
“No more shenanigans, Mr. Kinsela. Ms. Castellano, continue with your direct.”
Yuki went back to the witness and asked Maria Ortega if she had called the police to report the incident. Ortega said she had. Yuki asked her the name of the police officer and she said, “Officer Joseph Sorbera.”
“When Officer Sorbera came to the Murphy house in response to your call, what happened?”
“I talked to him for a minute, then Mr. Murphy told the officer that I was confused. That I was … ‘hysterical.’”
“What happened after that?”
“They fire me,” she said.
“Did they give you a reason?”
“I not supposed to make Mr. Herman mad.”
Yuki said, “Were the Murphys afraid of Mr. Herman?”
Kinsela said, “Objection. Leading the witness and also inappropriate as hell.”
“Sustained.”
Yuki said, “I withdraw the question. Ms. Ortega, did you ever talk to Lily again?”
Ortega burst into tears. Yuki handed the young woman a tissue, and after a moment, asked her if she could continue.
Ortega nodded and regained her fragile composure. She said, “I never saw her again.” She said it more strongly the second time. “I never saw her again.”
“Thank you. Your witness,” Yuki said to Kinsela.
Kinsela had turned his back on the witness and was talking behind his hand into his client’s ear.
“I have nothing for Ms. Ortega,” Kinsela said over his shoulder.
Yuki felt a rush of elation. Kinsela knew he wouldn?
??t be able to shift Maria’s testimony, so he put on a show to say she was unimportant. She was sure Maria’s testimony had moved the jury.
Point to the prosecution. She was ready when Nussbaum said, “Ms. Castellano, please call your next witness.”
Chapter 22
YUKI CALLED PATROLMAN Joseph Sorbera, the cop who responded to Maria Ortega’s call regarding Lily. Sorbera was a solid guy, had been on the job for fifteen years, and Yuki knew he would be a very credible witness.
Sorbera told the jury about his brief interview with Maria Ortega, who had told him about the bruises on Lily Herman’s arms and neck. He also verified that Sean Murphy, Ortega’s employer, did tell him that Ortega had what he referred to as post-traumatic stress disorder from an attack when she was a teen—and that she couldn’t be believed.
“And then what did you do, Officer?”
“I went to the home of Keith Herman.”
“Did you speak with Mr. Herman?”
“No. He wasn’t there. I spoke with Jennifer Herman, his wife.”
“And what did she tell you about the reported incident?”
“She said that her husband yelled at the child for breaking a glass, saying she could have hurt herself, but that he hadn’t touched her.”
“Did you ask to talk to Lily?”
“Yes. Mrs. Herman brought the little girl to the door. She said that she hadn’t been hurt and that she didn’t know what Ms. Ortega was referring to.”
“How did these two people seem to you, Officer Sorbera?”
“They both seemed scared out of their freaking minds.”
“What did you do next?” Yuki asked.
“I gave Mrs. Herman my card. And I told her that if she remembered anything, or wanted to talk to me for any reason, she should call me.”
“Did you report the incident to Family and Children Services?”
“Yes. But without corroboration from the child or the wife, they considered the incident closed.”
Yuki said, “Did you consider the incident closed?”
“Pretty much,” Sorbera said. “I didn’t hear from Mrs. Herman, but when the bags of human remains were identified as her body and the child was reported missing, I went to my captain and told him about the incident.”
“Thanks, Officer. I’m done, Your Honor.”
When Kinsela had no questions for Sorbera, Yuki called her next witness to the stand.
Chapter 23
GARY GOODFRIEND WORE a fringed buckskin jacket, distressed jeans, and a plaid shirt. He swaggered as he came up the aisle, then walked through the gate as though he were bellying up to a bar.
Yuki took a sip from her water bottle and watched as Goodfriend was sworn in. The man was cocky. He had an ego. But he had also come forward and volunteered to testify for the prosecution.
He was an uncontrollable yet important witness, and Yuki had decided to take a chance on him.
When he was seated, she greeted him and asked him about his business.
“I’m an FFL. A licensed gun dealer. I have a store over in Castro Valley.”
“Do you know the defendant?”
“I met him at a Calgun firearms show. I had a booth there. I talked to him for about ten, fifteen minutes.”
“Did you sell him a gun?”
“Yes. I sold him a Beretta Px4 Storm. It’s an exceptional weapon. Mr. Herman had a CCW and he paid cash.”
“Can you tell us what CCW stands for?”
“Carrying a concealed weapon—a permit.”
“Did you sell more than one gun at the gun show?”
“About fifteen guns that day. Another dozen the following day.”
“And what was it about Mr. Herman that made him stand out in your mind?”
“He was talking to another customer while I rang up a sale. Something he said just stayed in my mind.”
“And what was the nature of that conversation?”
“Two guys shooting the bull about guns. What they owned. What they liked. What they liked to shoot at.”
“And what did Mr. Herman like to shoot at?”
“Mr. Herman told the other guy that he had a rat problem.”
“Do you know the name of the other guy?”
“No, I didn’t sell him a gun. I never saw him before or since.”
“So you overheard Mr. Herman say he had a rat problem. What did the other guy say to that?”
“He said, ‘Rat problem? You mean like a snitch?’ And Herman over there said, ‘No, a rug rat problem.’”
“What did you take ‘rug rat’ to mean?”
“A rug rat is a kid. A child. At the time, I thought he was just, you know, joking, but when I heard about his wife turning up dead and his kid going missing, I remembered what he said and it got me worried.”
“Did you call the police?”
“Yes.”
Yuki showed the police report to the judge and to Kinsela, then handed it to the clerk along with the sales receipt for the gun. These items were entered into evidence.
Then she thanked Gary Goodfriend and turned him over to the defense for cross-examination.
Chapter 24
JOHN KINSELA GOT to his feet behind the prosecution table and stayed there. He looked bored as he questioned Yuki’s witness from across the room.
“Mr. Goodfriend, you say you sold thirty guns, more or less, at the gun show that weekend. Is that right?”
“Yes. More or less.”
“And presumably you talked to more than those thirty people who bought guns from you.”
“Oh, sure. I talked to hundreds of people.”
“But you’ve told us that you remember Mr. Herman distinctly two years later. Is that right?”
“He’s a memorable person.”
“Memorable because he said he had a rug rat problem. Is that correct?”
“Yes, it is.”
“And as I understand it, you took that to mean that he was buying a gun to kill a child?”
“You could take it to mean that.”
“Seriously? But you didn’t notify the police at that time, did you?”
“No. It just sounded like bull. Creepy bull, but bull.”
“Did the defendant also tell you directly that he had a rug rat problem?”
“Nope.”
“Would it surprise you to hear that, in fact, Mr. Herman’s house did have rodents? And that he hired an exterminator?”
“If you say so, I believe you.”
“Thanks. Now, apart from the overheard conversation, and whatever you two said during the gun transaction, did you have any conversations with the defendant at any other time?”
“Nope.”
“So apart from the joke he made with this ‘other guy,’ you had no additional reason to believe that Mr. Herman meant to harm his daughter.”
“No. Not really.”
“That’s all, Mr. Goodfriend. Thanks for your testimony.”
Goodfriend leaned forward and addressed Kinsela’s back. “Just his reputation as a criminal defense lawyer who is said to eliminate prosecution witnesses. Which means I’m putting my life on the line here.”
Kinsela spun around to face the judge. His face was red and he was clearly surprised by Goodfriend’s postscript.
“Your Honor, move to strike. The witness’s remark is hearsay on its face and highly prejudicial.”
Yuki was ready with a response.
“Your Honor, Mr. Goodfriend answered Mr. Kinsela’s question and now he’s objecting to the witness’s answer.”
“He offered his opinion on my client’s character, which was not asked for,” said Kinsela.
“All right, all right. Mr. Kinsela, before I instruct the jury, do you have any other questions for Mr. Goodfriend?”
“No, Your Honor.”
The judge told the clerk to strike Goodfriend’s last comment from the record. Then he instructed the jury that the witness’s characterization of Mr. Herman and his further opinion that his life
was in danger were not evidence and that the jurors were not to consider it during their deliberations.
Yuki controlled herself, but she was elated. Nicky Gaines nudged her. He was grinning like a jack-o’-lantern. Another point for the prosecution. Hey: Team Yuki was on a roll.
Chapter 25
I LEFT BRADY’S office and crossed the fluorescent-lit, twenty-by-thirty-foot bull pen/obstacle course, getting hugs and high fives from cops I’d known for a long time. At the front of the room were two gray metal desks butted head-to-head. One of those desks was mine. The other belonged to my partner.
A cute young woman with dark wavy hair, wearing a white T-shirt and tight jeans, was sitting in my chair. She was in deep conversation with Conklin, who got to his feet when he saw me.
“Boxer, hey. Good to see you.”
He gave me a gender-neutral hug, but a good one, and then said, “Meet Mackie Morales, our summer intern. Mackie, my partner, Sergeant Lindsay Boxer.”
Morales got out of my chair and reached out to shake my hand. She said she’d heard so much about me, and then she told Conklin she’d be in the file room.
He said, “Wait, Mackie. I’m going to bring the sergeant up to speed on the Faye Farmer case. Stick around for that.”
“Sure,” I said. “Stay.”
It’s rare to meet someone you like immediately, but I felt good about Mackie Morales. She had an open smile, a good handshake, and apparently Conklin approved of her.
“Thanks,” she said. She pulled a spare chair up to our desks, and I asked Conklin what he had on Faye Farmer.
“I was just on my way to notify her parents. Ask them about my list of her friends, her devotees, and her detractors,” Conklin said. “CSIU is down in the ME’s office now, going over the premises for trace after the body went missing.”
“The Chronicle just broke the story online,” Morales told me. “We’ve got phone calls, tweets, e-mail, and our website is swamped.”
Conklin said, “While Mackie runs down the phone leads—”
He never got to finish his sentence. Brady came out of his office, strode toward us, and then loomed over our desks. He said to Conklin, “Remember that weirdo professor, dreamed about a murder?”