I parked the car at a metered spot on Market and walked a couple of blocks to the historic Hearst Building.
The doorman escorted me down the stairs to the subterranean room that once housed the San Francisco Examiner’s printing presses and was now a dark and glamorous club.
The ceilings were high; typewriters lined the walls; the long bar was of polished wood, with rows and rows of wineglasses hanging on overhead racks by their stems. Looking around the perimeter of the room, I saw red leather booths facing white leather swivel chairs across white marble tables, and a number of huge presses were still on the floor, adding to the 1950s feel of the place.
I released a long sigh.
I was going to drink and laugh tonight, that was for sure.
The doorman showed me to our table, and I was about to sit down when Yuki appeared and fairly danced across the floor.
I was reaching for Yuki when Claire called out “Hey, you two,” and joined us in a three-way hug.
When we were seated, we said “Phones off” in unison, and when we had done it, Claire said to Yuki, “I heard you’ve got big news.”
Yuki had already called me about her settlement for her client, but it was a great pleasure to hear her telling the story to Claire, using her hands, imitating Parisi’s voice.
“When he signed the agreement, he said to me, ‘You really are a little shit, Yuki.’ And I said, ‘I learned from the biggest and the best.’”
And then Yuki laughed her joyous, infectious chortle, and we laughed with her, loud and long. When she got her breath, she said, “Then he winked at me.”
“Did he?” I asked.
“He did. He winked. He smiled. He passed the document across the table and said, ‘Have a good day. I think you will.’”
“He adores you,” Claire said. “He still totally adores you.”
Feeling her presence before we saw her, we looked up to see Cindy wearing slinky black, smelling of lilies of the valley as she leaned down, hugging and kissing all of us.
“Who still adores you?” she asked Yuki, sliding in beside her.
Yuki got to tell the story again, and as Cindy had been out of the loop, she heard the long version. She laughed and asked for more detailed explanations, which broke up the dramatic flow, but hell, Cindy is a reporter and facts are her thing.
Then Cindy said, “I’ve got a little news of my own.”
“We know your book got great reviews,” Claire said. “What else you got?”
Cindy said, “I found this next to my clock this morning.”
She pulled a black velvet box from her handbag and put it on the table. There was a collective gasp. We’d seen this movie before. The first time, Richie had gotten down on one knee in the nave of Grace Cathedral. He had proposed and had given Cindy his mother’s ring. In her telling at the time, the angels sang and doves flew through the church and she knew she was blessed.
Then, after the pre-honeymoon period, when the conversation turned to children, she and Richie had hit a thick brick wall.
What had changed?
Cindy opened the box and pulled out a fine gold chain with a sizable diamond pendant.
“This was the ring,” she said. “Richie had it made into something different. Just for me.”
Cindy fastened the chain around her neck, then held the stone in its simple setting and slid it back and forth on the chain. That stone was a gasper then, and it was a gasper now.
“So you’re not engaged?” Yuki asked Cindy, the only one of our group who was still single.
“There was a note with the necklace,” said Cindy. “Richie wrote, ‘When we’re ready to get married, we’ll pick out a ring together.’”
“Beautiful,” said Claire. “The diamond and the note.”
“That calls for a drink,” said Yuki.
The waiter appeared and recommended several house special cocktails named for people, places, and headline events in the newspaper business.
We toasted everything: Cindy and Richie’s renewed commitment, Yuki’s settlement for the Kordells, Claire’s baby girl’s admission to first grade—and as for me, we toasted the fact that nine months after Julie was born, I could pull off a skinny red dress—“fabulously.”
It was customary for the four of us to discuss our cases, but I just wasn’t up for sharing Numero Uno and the Windbreaker Crew. Not tonight. I held up my phone.
“I’m just calling my husband to say I’m on my way.”
I punched in Joe’s number, and when he answered, I said, “Hey. I’ll be home by nine.”
CHAPTER 101
RICH CONKLIN WAS waiting in a patrol car, parked in front of a row of three-story wood-frame buildings on Stockton Street in Chinatown. All the buildings were occupied by ground-floor retail businesses, while the top floors were mostly residential.
From where Conklin was parked, he had a full view of the downstairs deli-type greengrocer and the door next to it, which was the entrance to the lobby of the Sylvestrie Hotel, a rent-by-the-hour flophouse.
Conklin knew this place pretty well, having busted drug dealers and prostitutes there when he was a beat cop, before Lindsay got him moved up to Homicide.
What he remembered most about the Sylvestrie was that the rooms were pitifully furnished, with dirty sheets in the windows instead of curtains, and that the place vibrated nonstop from the air conditioning in the market downstairs.
This evening, Conklin had been on his way home when he’d gotten a tip from one K. J. Herkus, a CI and a small-time dope dealer. Herk lived and worked the streets in Chinatown, and he had recognized the narc with a short beard and John Lennon–type glasses who’d checked into the Sylvestrie.
Herk was hoping Conklin could hook him up with the narc with the glasses, that maybe he could make himself useful from time to time.
Conklin said, “Don’t approach him unless I say so, OK, Herk? He’s undercover. I’ll look for some work for you.”
Conklin had been watching the hotel for about two hours before Inspector Stan Whitney came out. Whitney went to the market, came out ten minutes later with a plastic bag of something, then reentered the hotel.
Conklin thought there was a good chance that Whitney had gotten take-out for dinner and wouldn’t be going out again. He thought about going into the hotel, getting Whitney’s room number, and knocking on the door.
But he quickly quashed the idea.
Whitney was likely desperate enough to introduce a loaded gun into the conversation. Conklin knew the best thing for him to do was continue to keep an eye on the door and be ready to tail the cop.
Conklin called Brady. He described Whitney’s denim shirt, jeans, and blue cap partially hiding his face, and asked for backup in an unmarked.
Brady took down the details and said, “Don’t lose him.”
Conklin resumed watching the door, and damn if Whitney didn’t walk out and take a right, then a tight left toward Vallejo.
Conklin let a car get in front of him, then pulled into traffic, in time for the light to turn red. When it changed to green, he could see Whitney, still proceeding south on Stockton through Chinatown, passing shops and bakeries, hands in his pockets, as if he had just gone out for a stroll.
Conklin tailed Whitney without incident, watched him take a left on Clay and another left on Kearny. He followed Whitney for another two blocks and was just behind him when the man in denim disappeared into Portsmouth Square Garage across from the Hilton.
Conklin parked in a no-parking zone with a view of the garage. A silver Chevy crawled past Conklin. The man in the driver’s seat was Officer Allen Benjamin, a cop Conklin knew. Conklin made radio contact with Brady, who said he was keeping a channel open and restricted to the three of them: Benjamin, Brady, and Conklin.
Benjamin drove ahead, parked his unmarked in front of a hydrant up the block, and waited there. At 8:15 p.m., ten minutes after entering the garage, a blue pickup with Texas plates rolled up out of the garage and took a right.
It was Whitney.
Conklin pulled ahead of Benjamin, and they took turns staying on the pickup’s tail. Whitney took a left on Washington, then another left on Stockton, the main drag through Chinatown, which was still congested with trucks making deliveries, as well as pedestrians and tourists in cabs taking in the evening lights.
Without warning, the truck Whitney was driving stopped at the intersection of Stockton and Bush just long enough for a thickly muscled guy to leave the sidewalk and get into the truck’s passenger seat.
Conklin recognized this passenger. It was Bill Brand, Whitney’s partner.
Neither Whitney nor Brand was in violation of the law, and stopping them would only tip them off. With two police cars shadowing it, the blue truck turned right on Sutter, went half a mile to Polk, and parked in an empty spot outside a nail salon.
When they got out of the truck, Whitney and Brand were wearing blue SFPD Windbreakers. They crossed the street to a gray stucco building with awnings and neon signs in the windows reading PAYDAY LOANS, CHECKS CHECKED, WESTERN UNION.
The check-cashing store was lit up inside and open for business. As Whitney and Brand reached the door, they removed masks from their pockets and pulled them on over their faces. The entry bell over the door jingled as the cops went inside.
CHAPTER 102
I CAME INTO our apartment and heard music coming from the bedroom. Joe was sitting up in bed in a T-shirt and boxers, his fingers on his laptop and an urban blues channel on the TV.
He looked up and saw me in my slinky red dress. He whistled and I grinned and did a little pirouette. I said, “After all these years in chinos and a blazer, I’ve still got it. No?”
He said, “Yes, you certainly do, Blondie.”
I said, “Be right back,” and turned to go in to see Julie.
Joe said, “She’s across the hall with Mrs. Rose. Martha’s there, too.”
“Oh? Why?”
“I told Mrs. Rose I needed a few hours off to get some work done and she said, ‘It would be lovely to have some company,’” Joe said, doing a pretty good version of Mrs. Rose’s English accent.
I laughed. He did Mrs. Rose so well.
He patted the bed next to him and I sat down.
He asked, “How was your dinner?”
“No kidding, it was the best time we’ve all had together in months,” I said. “We were all there, all in great moods. Richie gave Cindy his mother’s diamond in a new form.” I described the pendant.
I was facing away from Joe as I talked, and I lifted my hair. He zipped down my dress really slowly. I gasped. I was surprised at the heat that came over me from nowhere.
“Stand up,” he said. “You don’t want to wrinkle your dress.”
I did what he said and watched him close the lid on the computer without taking his eyes from me. I let down the asymmetrical neckline of my dress, and when my arms were free, the red silk dropped into a puddle around my feet.
He reached out his arms. I kicked off my shoes, and in the next second, by way of some deft maneuver of Joe’s, I was flat on my back in my underthings, looking up into his blue, blue eyes.
Yes, I heard my phone buzz in the other room.
No, I didn’t take the call. I knew it was that freaking phone terrorist, and I wasn’t going to let him steal this time with Joe away from me. It had been a long time since we’d been in bed without listening to the baby monitor, but we had that time now.
And we took full advantage of it.
His clothes flew over the side of the bed, and the blankets were shoved to the footboard. I closed my eyes and reveled in the feel of his whiskers and lips and hands on my skin and the delicious smell of him.
And I loved him back.
We romped and played like newlyweds, and at one point, Joe reached a hand down and helped me off the floor and back into the bed. The laughter was wonderful, and when we kissed deeply and connected completely, it felt as true as it had when we first fell in love.
Afterward, sweating and panting and still entwined with Joe, I rested my cheek against his shoulder and held him tightly.
I told him how much I loved him, and he said he’d never loved me more. Exhausted in the best possible way, I drifted off, telling myself that it was OK. Joe was in charge. I didn’t have to worry about anything. He would get the baby and her furry pal when it was time.
I was sleeping and maybe having a beautiful dream when Joe said, “Lindsay, your phone has been ringing every minute or two.”
He handed it to me.
I took it reluctantly. I said, “I’ve been getting hangups,” but when I looked at the caller ID, it read CONKLIN.
“Christ. Where’ve you been?” Conklin said. “OK. Never mind. Brand and Whitney tried to hold up a check-cashing store. We’ve got dead people. We’ve got hostages. They’re in there now.”
I heard a voice over a bullhorn, saying, “Put your hands up and come out. You don’t want anyone else to die, do you?”
Conklin gave me an address on Polk, which was about three miles and five minutes away. Four if I pushed it. I started scrambling around for something to wear, and Joe turned on the lights.
“Lindsay, be safe,” he said. “We want you back here. Your family loves you.”
I went into his arms and we held each other tightly.
I needed to go. But I knew Joe and I were thinking the same thing. We had a lot to live for.
CHAPTER 103
A PATROLMAN LET me and my Explorer through the cordon on Polk. I drove to midblock and saw Conklin and Brady standing together in front of a nail salon on the south side of the street. Their eyes were fixed on the north side, on the Checks Cashed store directly across from them.
I parked in a no-parking zone a few yards down the street from Brady and Conklin, right behind a blue Ford pickup with Texas plates. I got out of my vehicle and heard sirens from cars coming in from all points.
I walked up to my partner and asked, “What happened?”
He pushed his hair out of his eyes, cleared his throat, and said, “I had a tip that Whitney was staying at the Sylvestrie, so I staked it out. He left the hotel around eight p.m. and I tailed him with backup. He walked to a garage on Kearny and got that truck.” He pointed at it with his chin. Then he went on.
“He picked Brand up on the corner of Stockton and Bush, both of them in street clothes. When they got out of the truck, here, they were in PD Windbreakers.”
Car doors were slamming and cops were getting out, standing on the sidewalk, looking over the roofs of their vehicles. Radios set up a cacophony of blare and static along the street. I was wearing my vest, carrying my gun—but still, I felt naked and vulnerable.
I looked more closely at the check-cashing store. The signs were still lit up over the storefront, but it was dark inside the shop.
Conklin said, “One of them flipped the sign on the door to closed. The lights were on, and I saw them corral the two customers, both women, over to the left side of the store. They made them lie down and Brand cuffed them.
“While Brand did that, Whitney put his gun on the security guard and walked him back to the tellers’ cages. I’m guessing Whitney told them, ‘Open up or I’ll kill him.’”
“Shit,” I said. “So they let him in.”
“Right,” Conklin said. “By then, someone hit the alarm.”
Beside me, Brady lifted his bullhorn and said, “Whitney. Brand. I’m calling the store. Pick up the phone.” Brady was sweating in sixty degrees. You could see it on his forehead, his upper lip, but you couldn’t tell he was stressing from his voice or his actions. I was glad Brady was in charge.
“Keep going,” I said to my partner.
Conklin said, “So I can see the teller open the security door, and blam. Whitney shoots the guard, puts that threat down. Now the tellers run for the back door and I see muzzle flare. I guess Whitney panicked or no longer cared. I think he nailed a couple of them. I didn’t see them again.”
; Guns were everywhere on this short block. Soon SWAT would launch smoke bombs and storm Checks Cashed.
Brady spoke through the bullhorn: “Listen to me. This is going to end badly if you don’t do exactly what I say. The store is surrounded. We’ve got snipers on the roof. Put the guns down and come out with your hands in the air.”
A moment later, the front door opened a few inches and Whitney called, “Don’t shoot. We’re coming out with hostages.”
Brady called out over the megaphone, “Hold your fire!”
The door swung open and two terrified women with their hands behind their backs were muscled out of the store. Whitney was behind one of them, Brand behind the other.
I saw the glint of their handguns and that both rotten cops had duffel bags with the shoulder straps crossing their chests, probably containing their latest and final score.
I was standing with Conklin when Whitney and Brand, still wearing their creepy masks, awkwardly bumped and dragged their hostages between parked cars and toward the truck. It was only a fifty-foot walk—but they were encumbered and had to pass through a shooting gallery, including right past where Brady, Conklin, and I were standing.
I don’t know what came over Richie. Maybe he just couldn’t take what was happening. He shouted at Whitney and Brand, “You’re filth! Both of you. Fucking scum!”
Whitney lifted his gun and pointed it at Conklin. I saw my partner lift his arm, and by the time I heard the report of Whitney’s gun, my own gun was in my hand. I knew Conklin was hit. But I couldn’t stop what I was doing.
I didn’t have a clean head or chest shot, so I dropped to one knee and fired at Whitney’s hip. Before his leg buckled, a few hundred bullets pinged into the sidewalk from above.
Whitney dropped. The hostages ran, screaming. One of them fell on the asphalt, bleeding.
Brady reached Brand in terrifying slow motion and put his gun to the back of his neck. Brand dropped his gun and put up his hands.
“I give up,” Brand said. “Don’t shoot.”