breathed smoke in or not.”
“Okay. What else?”
Hanni grinned at me and said, “Patience, Lindsay. I’m getting there. I removed all of the debris that fell from the dashboard, headliner, and door panels, and I found a spent round for you. Twenty-two caliber.”
I got a little chill. The good kind you get when your hunches pay off. Doesn’t happen every day. There are a million. 22-caliber guns on the street, and our cop shooter had used one of them on Chaz Smith. Maybe he’d used the same gun to take out a few drug dealers from the projects.
I thanked Hanni and started to call Claire to find out if she’d found soot inside the victims’ nostrils but got distracted by the loud whoop-whoop of a siren announcing that another cop car was arriving at the scene.
It was Conklin and he came toward me at a trot. He was hyperventilating and it wasn’t because of the thirty-yard sprint.
“She’s here,” he said. “We’ve got our witness.”
It felt like Christmas and my birthday and Mother’s Day all wrapped up together and tied with a bow.
A witness had seen a cop pull a car over on Schwerin just moments before that car had become a fireball.
The witness had given her name and number to the 911 operator. She wanted to talk.
Chapter 36
Anna Watson sat across from us at the fold-down Formica table inside the RV that served as our command post. She was sixty-four, black, small, chain-smoking Marlboros and stubbing out the butts in a tinfoil ashtray.
I tried to keep my expectations in check but failed. Anna Watson knew the victims and she’d seen them just before they were shot and their car burned to a turn.
“I was driving along Schwerin,” Watson told us. “I was going to my daughter’s house over in Daly City? I was a ways back from Jace’s BMW,” she said, hooking a thumb in the direction of the crime scene. “But I recognized it easy from the decals, and I know the boys driving that car. I’ve known them since they were small. I used to babysit two of them.”
I pushed a pad and pen over to Watson’s side of the table and asked her to write down the names. As she did it, I saw her eyes tear up and her lips quiver.
Reality was hitting her. Three people she knew were dead. She passed the list over to me and as Conklin continued to question her, I ran the names through the computer: Jace Winter, Marvin “Bam” Cox, Turell “Little T” Jackson.
Winter, the oldest of the three, was nineteen.
All three were gangbangers and had been arrested many, many times while they were still juveniles: possession of illegal substances, possession with intent to sell, attempted murder. Robbery, multiple counts.
They had gotten off because all their cases had been thrown out. Witnesses had failed to show up in court. Evidence got lost. Nobody wanted to go against these young hoods and have their homes shot up, their kids ambushed on the way to school. No one wanted to get murdered.
Anna Watson was saying to Conklin, “I was feeding my grandkids in front of the TV and I saw the news chopper, you know? And it’s taking video of that car burning up. God Almighty.”
Her hands were shaking. Another cigarette came out of the pack.
“Could I have some water, please?”
“Sure,” Conklin said; he got up, pulled a bottle of water out of the minifridge, handed it to Watson.
“So I called nine-one-one,” Watson said, “because I saw that car right after it was stopped by the police. I drove right past it on my way to Malika’s house.”
“Let me get this straight,” Conklin said. “At about six o’clock, give or take a few minutes, you were behind that BMW and then you passed it on the side of the road because the driver had been pulled over by a cop.”
“That’s right.”
“The car was speeding?” Conklin asked.
“No, Jace wasn’t speeding. He probably had a warrant or something. That’s what I thought when I saw him stopped by this cop car with all the lights a-blinking.”
“Did you get a good look at the cop?”
Watson shook her head no.
“His back was to me and he had a flashlight in his hand and was pointing it at Jace. I was looking at the flashing lights and I was looking at Jace.”
“You got a look at the cop’s vehicle though?”
“I wasn’t paying attention to that car. I slowed down so I didn’t get stopped myself, and then I just kept going.”
“Was it a cruiser? A black-and-white?”
“No, it was one of those SUVs.”
“Was there any kind of insignia on the car?”
She shook her head no.
“Can you describe the flashers?”
“Front headlights were blinking, first one, then the other.”
“Wigwags,” said Conklin.
“And there was blue and red lights, I don’t know if they came from the grille or the dashboard…”
“That’s very good, Mrs. Watson.”
“Oh Jesus. Do you think that cop set Jace’s car on fire?”
“We’d just be speculating at this point,” Conklin said. “We’re going to have to check out the names you gave us, and we’d like you to come down to the Hall and look at some photographs. Vehicles and people. Is that okay with you?”
Watson said, “What if I had stopped? Maybe those boys would be alive.”
I said, “If you had stopped, you might have been killed, Mrs. Watson. This isn’t your fault. You’re helping us to find who killed those kids.”
And then she started crying. Anna Watson was maybe the only person in the world who felt bad that those gangbangers were dead.
And then she said to Conklin, “I don’t know who’s going to take care of me now.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Jace is gone. How’m I going to get my — ”
Conklin held up his hand and said, “Mrs. Watson, I’m sorry you lost your dealer. I can’t help you with that.”
Watson nodded. She said to my partner, “If you drop me off at my house for a minute, after that I can come with you to look at pictures.”
Chapter 37
It was after eleven when I got home. I was hoping for some quiet time with a half-pint of ice cream, just me and Martha and Baby made three.
I put my key in the lock, but the front door was open. I went inside, saw lights on in the living room. The TV was on too. Heyyy. Joe wasn’t supposed to be home for a day or two.
How great was this?
“Joe?” I called out.
Martha galloped into the foyer, and a person in loose clothing came up behind my dog. The figure was backlit, in silhouette, and was definitely not my husband. I started and had my hand on my gun before it clicked.
The woman with the long red hair and cute glasses was Karen Triebel, Martha’s “nanny,” and as far as I
