Nocturnal: A Novel

Pookie laughed. “Yeah, all those members of the Master Race have red hair and green eyes just like you.”

Bryan shrugged. “Dark-red. Irish have bright-red. I’m German through and through, going back three generations. Besides, oh sensitive one, I was talking about your big Buddha belly, not your slanty eyes.”

“Slanty eyes? Oh, yeah, that’s so much more politically correct. And I’m not fat. I’m big-boned.”

“I remember when you bought that coat,” Bryan said. “Four years ago. You could button it then — can you button it now?”

Pookie turned south on Van Ness, then cut across two lanes of traffic for no apparent reason. Bryan automatically pressed his feet to the floor and grabbed the door handle. He heard honks and a few screeches as drivers quickly hit their brakes.

“We Chicagoans like to eat,” Pookie said. “You have your tofu and bean sprouts, Cali boy, I’ll keep my brats and bear claws. Besides, the ladies love my belly. That’s why in our cop show, you’re the brooding, misunderstood, tough-guy rebel. I’m the pretty one that gets the babes. In the grander hot-or-not scale? I’m ranked like nine hundred levels above you.”

“That’s a lot of levels.”

Pookie nodded. “Most assuredly.”

“How’s the script coming?”

Pookie’s latest hobby was writing something called a series bible for a police show. He had never acted a day in his life, never been involved in show business, but that didn’t slow him down in the least. He attacked everything in life the same way he attacked a buffet.

Pookie shrugged. “So-so. I thought a cop drama would write itself. Turns out not so much. But don’t worry, I’ll lick it like I licked your mom.”

“Name the show yet?”

“Yeah, listen to this. Midnight Shield. How’s that sit in your mouth?”

“Like bad sushi,” Bryan said. “Midnight Shield? Really?”

“Yeah, ’cause the characters are cops like us, and they work the overnight shift, and—”

“I got the wordplay, Pooks. It’s not that I don’t understand it, it just sucks.”

“The fuck you know about entertainment?”

Pookie swerved sharply to cut off a Prius. He probably did that on purpose — he wasn’t a fan of green energy, green technology, or anything else green that didn’t come complete with the face of a dead president.

“Pooks, anyone ever tell you that you drive like shit?”

“I may have heard that once or twice, Bri-Bri. Although I stand by my theory that feces can neither apply for, nor pass, a driver’s license exam.” He accelerated through a yellow-turning-red. “Don’t worry, God loves me.”

“Your imaginary Sky Daddy is going to keep you safe?”

“Of course,” Pookie said. “I’m one of the chosen ones. If we get into an accident, though, I can’t say what he’ll do for you. You atheists are a bit lower on the miracle depth-chart.”

Pookie unexpectedly slowed and got into the left-turn lane at O’Farrell. They were supposed to start the day at 850 Bryant, police headquarters. For that, they’d stay on Van Ness for another four blocks.

“Where we going?”

“Someone found a body this morning,” Pookie said. “Five thirty-seven Jones Street. Kind of a big deal. Remember the name Paul Maloney?”

“Uh … it rings a bell, but I can’t place it.”

“How about Father Paul Maloney?”

“No shit. The child molester?”

Pookie nodded. “Child molester is too nice a word for the guy. Was too nice a word, I mean. He was murdered last night. Call him what he was — a rapist.”

San Francisco hadn’t escaped the wave of accusations that had crashed into the Catholic Church. Maloney first came to attention because he helped cover up early accusations against other priests who were clearly guilty. As more and more adults came forward about what had happened to them as children, the reasons for Maloney’s efforts became clear; he wasn’t just protecting pedophiles, he was one himself. Investigations ensued, producing enough clear-cut evidence that Maloney was finally defrocked.

It didn’t surprise Bryan that someone had killed the man. That didn’t make it right, not by any stretch, but it wasn’t exactly a shocker.

“Wait a minute,” Bryan said. “Time of death?”

“Word is about three or four A.M.”

“So why didn’t we get called in?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Pookie said. “We’re temporarily assigned to days and all, but the Maloney murder is just as high-profile as Ablamowicz. The press is going to circle-jerk all over this one.”

“Circle-jerk might not be the best metaphor, considering.”

“Sorry, Mister Sensitive,” Pookie said. “I’ll refrain from sexual innuendo.”

“So who got the case?”

“Verde.”

Bryan nodded. No wonder Pookie wanted to get to the scene. “Polyester Rich, nice. Your favorite guy.”

“I love him so.”

“So we’re driving to the crime scene, to which we’re not assigned, to be a pain in Verde’s ass.”

“You’re very deductive,” Pookie said. “They should make you a cop or something.”

A murder scene, in daylight. That might bring about an uncomfortable situation Bryan desperately wanted to avoid. “Any word on who the ME is for this?”

“Don’t know,” Pookie said. “But you can’t avoid the girl forever, Bryan. She’s a medical examiner, you’re a homicide cop. Those things go together like chocolate and peanut butter. It’s just been dumb luck she hasn’t been at one of our scenes in the past six months. Maybe we’ll luck out and Robin-Robin Bo-Bobbin’s pretty little face will be perched over the dead body.”

Bryan shook his head before he realized he was doing it. “I wouldn’t call that lucky.”

“You should really give her a call.”

“And you should really mind your own business.” He didn’t want to think about Robin Hudson. Time to change the subject. “Verde still working with Bobby Pigeon?”

“Verde and the Birdman. Sadly, that would be a pretty kick-ass name for a cop show. But Verde is just plain ugly, and they don’t make prime-time dramas about stoner cops.”

Pookie turned left on Jones. This part of the city was a mix of buildings, two stories up to five or six, most built in the 1930s or 1940s and with the city’s trademark angled bay windows. Just half a block away, three black- and-whites blocked the area. Pookie reached his hand out the window to place the portable bubble-light on top of the Buick, then pulled a little closer and double-parked.

“This case should be ours,” he said as he got out. “Especially if this is some vigilante bullshit.”

“I know, I know,” Bryan said. “Rule of law and all that.”

Five thirty-seven Jones Street was a two-story building sandwiched between a parking garage and a five- story apartment complex. Half of 537 was a locksmith, the other half a mail services building.

Bryan saw little movement inside the buildings. Up above, however, he saw bits of motion.

Pookie pointed up. “The goddamn roof?”

Bryan nodded. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

A whiff of something strange tickled Bryan’s nose. There, then gone.

They ducked under police tape. The uniforms smiled at Pookie, nodded at Bryan. Pookie waved to each, calling them by name. Bryan knew their faces, but most times names were beyond him.

They entered the building, found the stairs and headed up. Pookie and Bryan stepped onto a flat roof painted in many gloopy layers of light gray. A morning breeze hit them from behind, snapping their clothes just a little. Rich Verde and Bobby “Birdman” Pigeon stood near the body.

Fortunately, the ME was not a hot little Asian woman with her long black hair done up in a tight bun. It was a