He straightened up and checked the time. Eleven fifty-five.
This isn’t right.
He smiled to himself, then leaned over again and tapped the window. Jeffrey Stark’s head jerked up. He blew out a breath when he saw it was Gage, then pushed himself to his feet and opened the door.
“Man, you scared the hell out of me,” Jeffrey said. “I thought you were my supervisor.”
“What are you doing at work so early?”
“I kinda used up my welcome where I was staying, so I’ve been sleeping here before my shift.”
A clunk sounded from the wall behind Jeffrey. Gage glanced over, then at the opposite window. A dime-sized hole was centered in the glass. He grabbed Jeffrey by the front of his uniform jacket and yanked him down to the floor. Gage heard a bone crack and a shriek as Jeffrey’s shoulder hit the linoleum, then the rapid-fire clunk-clunk- clunk of slugs piercing the trailer.
Gage dragged Jeffrey behind the desk, fired three times to knock out the overhead lights, then punched 911 into his cell phone.
“Shots fired at New Montgomery near Mission. MetroTowers,” Gage told the dispatcher. “We’re trapped in the construction trailer.”
The clunks then became methodical, as if the shooter was calculating how to place his shots for the best coverage. One slug ricocheted off the desktop, two hit the file cabinet.
Sirens in the distance brought them to a halt.
Jeffrey grabbed the edge of the desk with his good arm and tried to get up. He yelped as Gage pulled him back down and propped him against the wall.
“Let’s pick a story,” Gage said.
“As opposed to what?”
“You bird-dogging Charlie Palmer and conspiracy to commit murder.”
“Murder?” Jeffrey’s voice rose. “Murder wasn’t part of it. I was just supposed to keep an eye on him and report in.”
“To who?”
“I can’t say.”
Gage jammed his elbow into Jeffrey’s broken shoulder blade. “Yes you can.”
“Shit, man.”
“I need the name.”
“Mr. Botas.”
“Is that a nickname or last name?”
Gage didn’t tell him, but botas was Spanish for “boots.”
“That’s all I know. Botas. I never met him. Just by phone.”
“He have an accent?”
“Texan.”
“How’d you meet-”
Spotlight beams hit the side of the trailer. A voice boomed from a patrol car loudspeaker:
“This is the San Francisco Police.”
“I can’t go back to jail,” Jeffrey said. “What’s our story gonna be?”
“I’m investigating construction equipment thefts at a site down the street. I was canvassing the area. We’ve never met before.”
“Are we going to meet again?”
“You want to keep on living?”
W hat are you going to do with me?” Jeffrey asked Gage.
It was two o’clock in the morning and they were sitting outside the emergency room of SF Medical, waiting for the radiologist to examine the X-rays to decide whether a sling would be sufficient to immobilize Jeffrey’s broken shoulder. An icepack was strapped over it.
“That’s up to you.”
“Right now I’m afraid to leave this place. What if the guy’s waiting outside?”
“He probably is.”
Jeffrey’s gaze shifted toward the door. “Thanks. That’s just what I wanted to hear.”
“Tell me how you got hooked up with Botas.”
“Shit. Is he the one who’s out there?”
“Probably.”
Jeffrey held out a trembling hand. “Look at this. Nobody’s tried to kill me before.”
“How’d you meet him?”
“Through somebody in jail. He knew somebody who knew somebody who knew somebody who wanted a guy to keep an eye on Palmer. They set it up with Physical Therapy Associates to hire me and place me at his house.”
“Did you ask who arranged it?”
“The director just said somebody dropped by and offered to pay triple the going rate if they did it.”
“What was this somebody trying to find out?”
“They didn’t tell me. They just wanted me to cozy up to him. Dependent people tend to talk a lot. But I didn’t have much time. I was only there a week before he died.” Jeffrey drew back and winced. “Is that what this is about?”
“Yes.”
“So the comb-over guy really did it?”
“Porzolkiewski.”
“Yeah. Porzolkiewski.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. Tell me the truth about when he came by.”
“Sorry about that. Botas told me to say that Porzolkiewski showed up the day before Palmer died, not three days before.”
“Did you ask why?”
“I tried to, but he cut me off. And he isn’t the kind of guy you argue with.”
“Did Porzolkiewski come back?”
“Not that I saw. But I was only there in the afternoons.”
“Anything happen the day before Palmer died?”
“Aren’t you supposed to be asking me about the day he died? I thought he was murdered.”
“Just play along.”
Jeffrey tilted his head upward and scrunched up his face. “Let me think.” After a moment, he looked back at Gage. “Nothing except a messenger delivery from a pharmacy.”
“What was that?”
“Oxycontin tablets I gave him.”
“I didn’t see the bottle.”
“I… I… went into his bedroom and pocketed it after they took him away. He wasn’t gonna need it anymore and I figured I could make a little money on the side.”
Gage had the urge to jam his elbow in Jeffrey’s shoulder again. He now knew how Palmer had ingested the poison and imagined a couple dozen dead drug users scattered around San Francisco.
“You mean you sold them,” Gage said.
“No. I didn’t. Botas called me the night Palmer died. Somehow he guessed I took them. He told me to flush the pills and destroy the bottle.”
“Did you?”
“Flush money down the drain? No way. I just told him I would.”
“Where are they now?”
“I have a little stash of things where I used to stay. A guy down the hall let me use his storage locker in the basement until I find a new place.”
“Did you give any to Palmer?”
Jeffrey’s head snapped toward Gage. “Wait a second… you’re not saying I killed him?”
