and while it might hurt your feelings, I’m good with Julie. I can take fine care of her.”
“Okay.”
“Okay what?”
“Okay, yes. I’ll go back to work.”
“Wait.”
“What am I waiting for?”
“I had some persuasive arguments I haven’t used yet.”
I started laughing. “I’m persuaded. You did a good job, Joe.”
“But you said you didn’t want to go back to work.”
“You won, sweetie. Don’t be a spoilsport.”
He laughed and I fell asleep without saying another word. I woke up at seven, snuck out of bed, and showered. After that, I felt around in the dark for my blue blazer; I found it and my trousers in plastic wrap on hangers in the closet.
Since my trousers seemed to have shrunk, I picked out a big shirt—one with pink pinstripes—and hung it out over my waistband, which I would have to do until I was a size 10 again.
Get used to it, everyone.
I buckled on my shoulder holster, got my gun out of the nightstand, then hung the chain holding my badge around my neck.
I air-kissed Joe and Julie so that neither of them woke up, carried my shoes out to the hallway, and put them on as Martha did a happy dance.
I took my dog for a short walk. I mean
Did I feel guilty leaving Julie?
You bet I did. I thought of my baby girl, and it was like an umbilical bungee cord was connecting us, pulling me back toward home.
But I had gotten a compelling, nearly irresistible call from my former partner, Warren Jacobi, now chief of police. He had said, “I’m not saying drop-kick the baby and come in right away. It’s like this. Brady is short-staffed and over-whelmed. He needs your help.”
My old blue Explorer was parked a half block down from our apartment. I got in, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine started right up, almost as if it had been waiting for me.
I pulled out onto Lake Street and the car shot away from the curb, tires screeching. I could not wait to get to the Hall.
Chapter 20
BRADY’S GLASS-WALLED OFFICE is about the size and shape of a votive candleholder. He was sitting at his desk, dwarfing it with his bulk, his head bowed over an open file, phone clapped to his ear.
I no longer felt steamed that this once was my office when I was squad lieutenant. I had wanted to work hands-on, on the street, and I wanted that badly enough to ask for a demotion to sergeant. I rarely regretted that decision.
I knocked on the glass door and Brady looked up, said into the phone, “I’ll call you later.” He hung up, got to his feet, reached across the desk, and shook my hand.
“Good to have you back, Boxer. You feel okay? Want desk work for a couple of weeks? Kind of ease back into things?”
“I’m good, Lieutenant. I’ve been running. Doing tai chi. I’m good.”
He nodded, said, “Sit down. I think the chief told you—Peters asked for time off. Oxner transferred to Vice, so I’m down a team. I’ve been working with Conklin but he needs a real partner. I have to manage the bullshit going on around here.”
“Sure. I understand.”
As Brady sat back down and began patting down his desk, I thought about how much we’d been through since he joined the squad a year and a half ago. His first day, he told me to my face that I was nowhere on my current case. That I was sucking swamp water. He wasn’t running for office, that’s for sure, and I didn’t like him.
About a week after that, we were bringing down a freaking serial psycho killer together. Bombs went off and Brady took a stance in front of a moving car and unloaded his gun.
Six months ago—another killer, a different day—Brady took two bullets during another act of profound bravery.
Jackson Brady didn’t give good eye contact. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. I didn’t love his management style. But I did respect him.
He was a good cop.
He found the file he was looking for and started filling me in on the death of Faye Farmer, former
“Take a look,” Brady said. He handed me a sheaf of crimescene photos of the victim in the driver’s seat of a late-model Audi, slumped against the car window. Close-ups of the gunshot wound made it look to me like the shot had been delivered at close range.
Brady said, “You and Conklin are on this case. He’ll bring you up to speed.”
“Sure thing.”
“I wish it was a sure thing,” said Brady. “Conklin will tell you. The DB has vanished from the morgue.”
“Vanished how?”
“Vanished—poof,” Brady said. “The case of the purloined corpse. The media is going to go nuts when they find out. Claire says doors were opened with keys. Surveillance disk was jacked. It had to be an inside job, so talk to her. We find out why her body went poof, we’ve got a lead into who killed her. It goes without saying I want to be kept posted.”
Brady was already back on the phone before I left his office to find my partner.
Chapter 21
MARIA ORTEGA WAS a naturalized American citizen, but she looked scared, as if Immigration were waiting to deport her when she stepped off the witness stand. Yuki knew that Ortega was timid, but even if Kinsela crushed her on cross, her story would be on the record and firmly in the jurors’ minds.
Yuki smiled at the young woman in the demure navy-blue dress and walked toward the witness box.
“How are you today, Ms. Ortega?”
“Fine,” she said in a near whisper. “Thank you.”
“Will you tell us where you worked in December of last year?”
“I work for Mr. and Mrs. Sean Murphy on Lopez Avenue.”
“And what did you do for the Murphys?”
“I clean their house every day.”
“And is the Murphy house near the house where Keith Herman lived with his family?”
“Yes. They live three houses away.”
“Okay. Mr. Kinsela, you mind if I borrow your overhead view of Lopez Avenue?”
“Since you’re unprepared,” Kinsela said.
“Thank you, Counselor,” Yuki said, smiling for the jury. She pointed to the house three doors north of the Herman house. “Ms. Ortega, is this the Murphy house?”
“Yes.”
“So can you tell us about a certain conversation you had there with Lily Herman? And please speak loud enough for the jury to hear you.”
“I was sweeping the walk and Lily was riding her bike on the sidewalk. She stopped to say hello.”
