for his smarts as well as his boldness — he would order a hit on anyone, anywhere, at any time.
“Ablamowicz controlled money,” Kearney said. “If you want to mess up cash flow in San Francisco, he was a good a place to start.”
Tryon again tapped on the picture of Frank Lanza. “Maybe Lanza offered Ablamowicz a deal. Maybe Ablamowicz didn’t take the offer.”
Robertson stood and smoothed his tie. “Thank you, Agent Tryon. That gives us more to look at. Tryon has copies of these photos for all of you, and he’s been kind enough to share addresses and hangouts for Lanza’s people. Brothers Steve, go talk to Paulie Caprise and Little Tommy Cosimo. Clauser and Chang, track down Goldblum and see if he has anything to say.”
Everyone started to file out, but Pookie hung back. Bryan waited to see what his partner wanted.
“Hey, Assistant Chief,” Pookie said. “Got a minute?”
Robertson nodded, then shook Tryon’s hand. Tryon walked out, leaving Robertson with Pookie and Bryan.
“What’s up, Pooks? You have some thoughts on Lanza?”
“No,” Pookie said. “We’ve got thoughts on Paul Maloney.”
Robertson nodded as he pushed his glasses higher on his nose. “Ah, I should have seen that coming.”
Bryan’s throat felt scratchy and dry. He needed some water — hopefully Pookie’s whining wouldn’t take long.
“We want this one,” Pookie said. “Come on, man. It went down in the middle of the night. It’s
Robertson shook his head. “Not going to happen, gents. It’s Verde’s case.”
“Don’t get me wrong,” Pookie said. “I like Rich Verde. I also like my grampa. My grampa drools a lot and tends to shit himself. Not that I’m making any association with Rich’s age, mind you.”
Robertson laughed. “The fact that Chief Zou wants you guys on the Ablamowicz case is a compliment to your skills. Be happy with that. Now go talk to Goldblum. Find me something.”
Robertson walked out.
Pookie shook his head. “I hate this L-I-T-F-A shit.”
“L-I-T-F-A?”
Pookie had a point, but a couple of
“Forget it,” Bryan said. “Come on, the sooner we find Goldblum, maybe the sooner we get back on nights.”
Robin-Robin Bo-Bobbin
Robin Hudson backed her Honda motorcycle into the thin parking strip on Harriet Street just outside the San Francisco Medical Examiner’s Office. Several bikes were already there, some owned by her co-workers. The guys had 1200s; the women mostly had scooters — Robin’s ride sat right in the middle at 745ccs.
The morgue van was already backed into the unloading dock. Maybe it had been a busy night. She walked past the AMBULANCES ONLY sign and up the ramp toward the loading dock. She liked to enter work every day the same way her subjects did — through the doors where the bodies were rolled in.
It surprised her to see her boss get out of the van and gingerly step down to the ground.
“Doctor Metz! How are you this morning?”
Metz stopped to look at her. He gave his trademark single slow nod. “Good morning, Robin.”
“Did you go out on a pickup?” When she’d started working here seven years ago, Metz had gone out on pickups three or four times a week, whenever there was a really bad killing or something unusual about a body, something interesting. As the years had passed, she’d watched him go out less and less. These days, he rarely left the office at all. He still ran the department, though, expecting his people to display the same dedication and perfection that he had shown for almost four decades.
“I did,” he said. “I’ll do the x-rays myself, right now, then I’ll be in the private exam room for the next few hours. I don’t want to be interrupted. Would you mind handling the department?”
“Sure, no problem.” Robin tried to keep her voice neutral, but she couldn’t help but feel a little excited by the request — yet another sign that he was grooming her to replace him. She had a lot of work ahead of her and a long way to go to qualify in his eyes, but everyone knew the chief medical examiner job was hers to lose. “Happy to do it,” she said.
“Thank you. And I will want to use that RapScan machine. You received the training on it, yes?”
She nodded. The rapid DNA tester was a potential sea change in law enforcement. DNA samples were usually taken at the morgue, then shipped off to labs for processing. Depending on the test, it could take weeks to get results — sometimes even as long as two months. The new portable machines, however, could be taken right to the body and provide a reliable DNA fingerprint in a matter of hours. Rapid Analysis, the RapScan 2000’s manufacturer, had given San Francisco a model because of Dr. Metz’s nationwide reputation in forensics.
Metz had asked Robin to master the device. For all the RapScan 2000 could do, the size still amazed her — it was no bigger than a typical leather briefcase. Labeling and data entry were done on a built-in touch screen. That same screen displayed results. Sample cartridges were the size of a matchbook, and the machine could process up to four samples simultaneously.
“It’s easy,” she said. “You could have taken it with you into the field, you know. It’s small enough to fit right in the back of the van. That’s the point of it, Doc — if you’d started the process while you were in the field, it would probably be kicking out the results right now.”
He thought about that, then gave his single slow nod. “That would have been helpful. Call the Rapid Analysis company and tell them I want a second test unit. But do that
“Sure thing, Doctor Metz.”
Why was he in such a hurry? She peeked past Metz to the body on the cart. The white body bag hid any details of the corpse, although the form inside it did look a little misshapen. She detected a whiff of urine. Not unusual for a body to void itself upon death, but it had to be pretty saturated for her to smell it through the thick material. She tilted her head toward the bagged corpse. “Something interesting in there?”
Metz looked at her for a few moments, as if he was thinking of saying something but then decided against it. He spoke a fraction of a second before the stare would have become uncomfortable.
“Maybe,” he said. “We shall see. A case like this … it’s delicate. Maybe I’ll tell you about it. Maybe soon.”
“When you do, boss man, I’m all ears.”
“Oh, I saw your boyfriend while I was out. How is Bryan these days?”
Robin’s smile faded. “Bryan and I broke up.”
Metz’s eyes saddened. “Recently?”
“About six months ago.”
He looked at her, then looked away. This time it
Not knowing what else to do, Robin just nodded. Metz rolled the body into the morgue one slow step at a time. Even at his age, he liked to handle everything himself.
It was hard to watch him forget things. Had to be murder for him — a man whose life and identity rested squarely on his intelligence — to see the first signs of his memory slipping away.
Robin walked through the receiving area where bodies were declothed, weighed and photographed. She entered the offices, which consisted of a dozen gray cubicles that made the old yellow carpet look brighter by contrast. Printouts and paper clippings were tacked up to the cubicles’ fabric, showing news coverage of various murders or high-profile suicides. Any photo that showed someone from the examiner’s office in action immediately went up as a trophy.
