“Who told you to do this, Tony?” Yuki asked him.
“Listen to me, lady, before I fuckin’ die. It was a cop who told me to whack A-Rey.”
“What cop? Give me a name.”
“On the street, he called One. Like Numero Uno.”
“Tony. That’s not a name. What else can you give me? I can’t make a deal for you if all you’ve got to bargain with is that you killed Aaron-Rey. No one is looking for his killer anymore.”
Tony was straining to breathe. Any second now a nurse was going to chase her out. She touched his hand.
“You’ve got to give me something I can run with, Tony. You understand. Numero Uno isn’t going to cut it.”
“You don’t look it, but you are a tough lady.” He swallowed hard. Then he said, “Arturo. Mendez. Find him. He’s A-Rey’s fren’. He saw who shot those pushers.”
“How do I find him?”
Tony closed his eyes. His breathing was ragged.
“F-u-u-u-u-u-ck,” he said. “I got to do everything? Ask A-Rey’s mom.”
“Hang in,” Yuki said. “I’ll do what I can.”
CHAPTER 75
YUKI CALLED AARON-REY’S mother, Bea Kordell, who had her son’s phone, which showed a contact listing for “Arturo.” Yuki sent Arturo a text, replied to his response, then sent another.
An hour later, at nearly 8 p.m., she parked on Turk near Dodge, the bad-news block directly across the street from the peeling three-story crack house on the corner.
She didn’t have to wait long.
A kid came out of the Chinese restaurant next door to the crack house. He looked about five eight, one forty. He was wearing jeans hanging below his hip bones, striped boxer shorts, and a dark hoodie, and had iPod cords dangling from his ears.
He stood on the corner for a while, looking every which way, his eyes resting for a moment every time he swept his gaze across her bronze-colored Acura two-door sedan.
When the traffic thinned, the kid ambled across the street, nodding his head in time to music. Then he walked over to her window.
“Yuki?”
“Arturo. Get in the car,” she said.
Yuki thought if Brady could see her inviting a crack dealer into her car, he would go bug-nuts.
Arturo got in and pulled the door closed, saying, “I got one minute.”
“Mrs. Kordell told you? I need to know what happened that day in the crack house.”
“And what I get?”
“A chance to do the right thing.”
“And a free lawyer if I ever need one?”
“Yes. Free lawyer. Deal.”
They shook on that. She fished a card out of her bag and handed it to Arturo. Christ. She’d tripled her client base today. Meanwhile, Arturo’s eyes were working the streets from under his hood. The sidewalks were empty. He started talking.
“Aaron didn’t shoot no one. It was three men that did that. They looked like cops. They wore police jackets. They showed up on the second floor and everyone scattered—but I was coming out the bathroom and I saw it going down.”
Yuki was startled. More than that. She was shocked.
“The men who shot those dealers—were cops?”
“I don’t know if they were cops. They were wearing cop jackets. They had guns. They said ‘SFPD.’ But they were wearing plastic masks. They pushed Duane, A. Biggy, and Dubble D up against the wall. They kicked their legs apart, patted them down. They took they money, they drugs, they guns, they phones, naked pictures of they girlfriends for all I know.
“Then A. Biggy and his crew turns around and A. Biggy says, ‘You done?’”
“And one of them cops, seemed like the head dude, said, ‘I’m sorry. Put yourself in my shoes,’ something like that, and he just blew them away.”
Arturo’s expression drooped, like he was seeing it all over again. He shook his head like he couldn’t stop the images.
Yuki said, “Arturo. Why haven’t I heard this before?”
“’Cause I was the only living one that saw it go down. And then I see the three of them men go down the stairs like nothing happened.”
“Then what?” Yuki asked.
“I wait a couple of minutes, make sure the coast is clear, and then I’m ready to run out and A-Rey comes charging upstairs. He missed the shooting and he’s looking for his homies like always. They treat him OK. He doesn’t see anything yet. He says to me, ‘Lookit what I found on the stairs, ’Turo.’
“He had a thirty-eight in his hand that belong to the shooter.
“And I say, ‘A-Rey, get out of here, man.’ He sees the dead guys and he starts to go over to them. He loves them, man, and he’s crying and I just yell, ‘Let’s go!’
“And then we run down the stairs. Aaron-Rey is first. And by the time I get to the street, he’s running and a patrol car sees that big boy and they chase him in the car. Then they get out and throw him to the ground.”
Arturo went on.
“I see that, but what I’m supposed to do, huh? It was cops who shoot those boys. I just fade out of sight.”
Yuki said, “You know what happened to A-Rey in jail?”
“I heard, yeah. He thought everyone was his friend.”
“Arturo. Could you ID those men in the police jackets?”
“Not really. Definitely not the head dude. One of the other two, maybe. He had a little tat on his neck. I might have seen a tat like that on a narc.”
Yuki felt the adrenaline shoot straight through her, but she kept her expression as neutral as possible. She said, “I’m suing the City on behalf of A-Rey’s family. I need you, Arturo. I need you to testify for Aaron-Rey.”
“And then what? I’ll be dead, too.”
“Let me see what I can do,” said Yuki.
“Oh, yeah. Right,” said Arturo. He started to get out of the car, but Yuki reached over and gripped his forearm.
She said, “I’m your lawyer. I’ve got pull. If I call you, take my call. It means I can get you whatever you need.”
Arturo got out of the car and didn’t look back.
Yuki sat in the car and watched him cross the street the way he’d come. Then she did the unthinkable. She called her former boss and current opponent, Red Dog Parisi. When he answered, she said, “Len. It’s Yuki. I’ve got two new witnesses who can turn this case upside down. We need to meet right away.”
CHAPTER 76
ON THE WAY home from another fruitless day of interviewing the Calhoun family’s friends and neighbors, I found myself thinking about Tina Strichler.
Taking a chance, I phoned Mr. and Mrs. Nathan Gosselin from the car.
The Gosselins had been on Balmy Alley when Dr. Tina Strichler had been knifed in the crosswalk, and Mrs. Gosselin had actually seen the killer, although from behind and with several people between her and the man with the knife.
Conklin had interviewed Nathan and Allyson Gosselin on the scene, and Inspectors Michaels and Wang, the two homicide cops in charge of the case, had also spoken to them that day.
But because the Gosselins had said they couldn’t make an ID, they’d been written off. In fact, I was pretty sure the entire case had been shelved now that every cop in the Hall of Justice was working some portion of the Windbreaker cop case.
The Gosselins sounded glad I’d called and told me they hadn’t thought about much other than the woman who’d been killed on the street since it had happened. Mr. Gosselin gave me their address, which turned out to be a well-kept apartment building at Elizabeth and Diamond Streets. Mrs. Gosselin buzzed me in, answered the door, and welcomed me into her home.
“Thanks for making time for me,” I said. “I just want to go over the events of that day one more time.”
After my brush with death at Wayne Broward’s house, I was cautious when entering, keeping my eyes on Mrs. Gosselin, walking practically sideways to the kitchen, where Mr. Gosselin was sitting at the table with the remains of his chicken dinner.
“No, please don’t get up,”
I said.
“Have a seat,” said Nathan Gosselin. “What can I get you?”
“Nothing, thanks,” I said. “I only need a few minutes of your time.” I said that, but I hoped the few minutes would be full of newly recollected information that would give me a toehold on the case.
I sat at the table and asked the basic questions: What did you see? Are you sure you didn’t see the killer’s face? Can you think of any detail that may have seemed insignificant at the time?
Allyson Gosselin sighed.
She said, “I’ve thought about this night and day. You have to understand, not only did it happen fast, the street was jam-packed and people were trying to make the light, and I wasn’t looking directly at the man who did that wretched thing.”
“I understand.”
“So, as I said at the time, I’m pretty sure he was white. He had brown hair, a black baseball-type jacket. He looked to be normal height. He never turned to face me. When Dr. Strichler dropped, most people panicked and ran. Me, too. I just wanted to find Nate and call nine-one-one, so when I finally did look for that man, he was just gone.”
I said, “Allyson, you are obviously a very astute woman, the kind of person who notices small details. And frankly, that’s the best kind of witness. Using your mind’s eye to search for detail, is there anything else, no matter how small it might seem?”
Allyson Gosselin said, “I have had a thought and didn’t say anything about it.”
“Well, it’s not too late,” I said, scootching my chair closer to the table.
“Well. I saw a lot of threes that day.”
“Threes?”
“Yes. There were three people between me and the man who killed Dr. Strichler. There were three squad cars that arrived first, and three policemen spoke with me. And I saw three blackbirds sitting on the telephone line.”
I did my best not to explode with For God’s sake! I channeled my good-natured partner and said, “Allyson—”
But she wasn’t done.
“And there were three EMTs around her body. And the date itself. The twelfth of May. One and two equals three,” she concluded triumphantly.
“OK,” I said. “So what does that mean to you?”
Mrs. Gosselin laughed. “I don’t know. You’re the detective, aren’t you, Sergeant?”
How much deader could a dead end be?
I thanked the Gosselins, left them my card, and left their apartment.
I called Joe.
“I’m going back to work, Joe. Save me some leftovers. I know. I’m sorry. I swear I’ll be home in two hours. I promise.”
CHAPTER 77
TINA STRICHLER’S CRUEL death disturbed me above and beyond Joe’s fixation on the possible sequential string of Claire’s Birthday Murders. The Strichler case wasn’t cold. It was active, and I knew Michaels and Wang weren’t working it.
It pissed me off, but I understood. They had no witnesses, no leads, and no time to dig into the case, which had fallen directly to the bottom of the list.
But the case was very real and present to me. I’d seen Strichler’s blood running into the street. I’d gone through her wallet and had seen that she’d had a psychiatric practice. She’d had a well-put-together appearance and, very likely, a full life, which had been terminated by a madman with a knife, an unknown killer who might never be known.
After talking with Joe, I drove to the Hall and took the elevator to the sixth-floor jail, where I asked to see Wayne Broward.
Broward was in jail because I’d breached his chain-link-barking-dog-no-trespassing-and-that-means-you security system, and I was going to be at his arraignment in the morning. However, he’d never answered my question.
I pulled rank on the desk sergeant, applying a little pressure, and Wayne was taken from his cell past visiting hours and shown into an interview room. When he saw me, he called out, “Sweetheart. Give me a kiss.”
“Against the rules, Wayne.”
His guard sat him down in the chair and locked his handcuffs to a hook in the table. The guard knew why Broward was in lockup, and he asked me, “Do you want me to hang in with you here, Sergeant?”
“Thanks, Santino, but I’ll be OK.”
It was embarrassing to be reminded, but it was true. The man sitting across from me might have killed me.
“Wayne, I have a question for you.”
“Isn’t my lawyer supposed to be here?”
“This has nothing to do with your case. You’re being charged for assaulting me with a deadly weapon.”
He laughed. “Assault. That’s an overstatement, don’t you think?”
I kept going. “I’m sure that’s the position your lawyer will take tomorrow. Meanwhile, remember why I came to see you at your house?”
“Nope. Remind me.”
I took Tina Strichler’s picture out of my jacket pocket. It was creased but still recognizable. “This woman. Have you ever seen her?”
“Not that I recall. Refresh my memory.”
“Do you know her, Wayne? Have you ever seen her?”
“She looks familiar.”
Really? I felt a little spark of hope.
“Wait,” he said. “Didn’t you show me her picture before?”
I nodded. “Yep. I showed you the picture before.”
Was Wayne Broward really this loony? Or was his crazy-guy persona a well-honed act? I’d dealt with crazy killers before. And actually, Wayne Broward wasn’t as crazy as some of them.
I told Wayne I’d see him around and called the guard.
I left the Hall around 8:30 p.m. and made the drive home, the whole time trying to shake Dr. Tina Strichler out of my head, and not managing it at all.
CHAPTER 78
JOE WAS NOT in a good mood.
“You said you’d be home at seven, Lindsay.”
“I’m sorry.”
“OK.”
His face was stiff, like he’d been fuming for a while. Embracing him was like hugging a tree.
“I’m sorry. Did something happen?”
“No,” he said. “Just your average single-parent day. I cleaned up the kitchen. I vacuumed. I did the laundry. I put together a bag of stuff for Goodwill. Julie, Martha, and I went to Whole Foods. I peeled, chopped, parboiled, and roasted dinner. I bathed Julie. I put her to bed. I trimmed Martha’s nails and I ate dinner. Alone. I cleaned up the kitchen. I took out the garbage. I made the bed. I applied for three consulting jobs in DC. Oh. I got a phone call from Evan Monroe, who was looking for you.”
“Who is Evan Monroe?”
“He’s Tina Strichler’s brother.”
Tina Strichler’s brother had called me? Why? I put that newsbreak on a back burner for the moment.
I said to Joe, “Would you have been this mad at me if I’d been home at seven?”
“I doubt it. You’re taking advantage, Linds.”
I did get it. While I was out doing my job all day, he was holding the home team together without benefit of stimulation or adult conversation. I got that he wasn’t just steamed up about today. It was an accumulation of days like this, added to the fact that I was working a very dangerous job that might follow me home—if I even got home.
I told Joe all of that, and I did my best to make amends. I said I would be more mindful of late hours and that I owed him a lot. And that tomorrow I would get Mrs. Rose to come in and that we could go out to dinner. “Anywhere.”
I stopped short of groveling.
“OK, OK, forget it. So. Where were you?” he asked.
“I went to see Wayne Broward.”
“In jail? How’d that go?”
“He’s nuts. He needs to stay locked up. I hope he gets a shitty lawyer.”
Joe hadn’t totally forgiven me, but he laughed. Then he took a plate of food out of the fridge. I got up and took it out of his hand.
“I can heat that up. You sit,” I said.
I put the plate of chicken and green beans in the microwave, and I poured wine for both of
us. While my dinner revolved, I took off my shoes, put my gun away, and went in to see Julie, who was sleeping deeply.
I heard the microwave beeping.
Joe worked on his computer while I ate, which was OK. My mind was focused on the message from Evan Monroe, wondering if it was too late to call him back and if my returning that call would irritate my husband even more.
I cleaned up the kitchen, and after a quick shower and a change of clothes, I said, “Joe, what did Evan Monroe want?”
Joe said, “Wang gave him your name. I think because you were first officer. So Monroe’s calling you because there hasn’t been any movement on the case. He told me he had an idea about who could have killed Tina.”
“He told you that?” I said.
“He was messed up, Lindsay. I told him you’d call, but he wouldn’t let me off the phone. He said that when Tina was in graduate school, she was raped. She identified the guy and he was put away for twenty-five years. She saw him when he was up for parole a while back, and she told Evan afterward that she was no longer sure he was the person who raped her.”
“Is the guy out?”
“Yep. His time was up five years ago. Beginning of May.”
“Holy crap. Evan Monroe told you the guy’s name?”
“Clement Hubbell. I looked him up on ViCAP.”
Joe went to the living room and sat on the sofa. I sat next to him, and he put his arm around me. That felt good.
Joe said, “Hubbell was let out on May fifth five years ago. If Tina wrongly identified him, he’s had a lot of time to make a plan. But it might have been hard to find her from lockup. She was Bettina Monroe when she was raped. She got married and divorced and kept her married name.”
“Let’s see what Hubbell looks like,” I said, putting my hand on my husband’s thigh.
Joe leaned forward, opened his laptop, and called up Hubbell’s mug shot. He was white. His hair was brown. He was five ten, which made him average height.
And as of May fifth five years ago, he was a free man.