Warren Jacobi, our friend, my former partner, and at that time chief of police, had to take the fall. He was retired out, and Jackson Brady, our good lieutenant, picked up the slack for Jacobi, simultaneously running Homicide and the Southern Station. When asked to choose which job he wanted, he’d put off the decision. Maybe he took too long. Lately, rumor had it that the mayor was having talks with Stefan Rowan, a heavyweight organized-crime commander from New York.
I loved working for Brady. He was smart. He never asked anyone to do anything he wouldn’t do. He was brave. And he was loyal to the people who reported to him.
What scared me most was that the rumor might be wrong. That Brady was going to step up to become chief of police, and the hard-ass New Yorker would replace him as Homicide CO.
Maybe a promotion would be good for Brady, but speaking for myself, it would break my heart.
Chapter 5
I looked past Conklin and saw Brady leave his office in the back corner of the squad room. He put on his jacket and headed up the center aisle toward the front of the room. Conklin got up from Cappy’s desk as Brady passed and joined me at our desks.
Brady took the floor, his blond-white hair pulled back in a pony, his denim shirt tucked in, his dark jacket unbuttoned. I couldn’t read his expression.
Brady took center stage at the front of the squad room, facing the dozen Homicide cops from the day shift, another dozen cops from the night shift, and more were coming in. Cops from other departments leaned against the walls, sat in empty chairs, or perched on the corners of desks, all quietly waiting for Brady to drop a bomb.
When the anticipation had stretched so thin it was starting to thrum, Brady said, “I know the wait time has been hard on everyone. I did my best to hold things together with your help. My wife says I look like I’ve been dragged behind a car. To tell the truth, I feel a little like that, but I was of two minds.
“Now, y’all know I’ve been running up and down the stairs, changing hats in the landing. I was asked to choose, fourth floor or fifth, but if I coulda kept doing both jobs, I woulda done it. But in the interest of safety, public good and welfare, and living to see my forty-fifth birthday, I’ve decided to hang my hat in Homicide.”
Big sigh of relief from me, and a spontaneous round of raucous applause and hooting from the squad.
I said loud enough for Brady to hear, “So glad, Brady. That was a sacrifice.”
“No,” he said, “it was selfish. I just couldn’t move into Jacobi’s swell office and push paper. I’m a street cop and I like being part of the action.”
Laughter came up all around the room and it was like sunshine breaking through the clouds. Then I realized we hadn’t heard the rest of the story.
Who was our new police chief?
Anticipating the question, Brady said, “And that leaves the last shoe. I make it to be size eleven medium wide, currently filled by a former Homicide cop from LA and Vegas who for the last dozen years has been heading up our forensic lab, ably, with good humor. Not prideful, but we know he’s a first-class CSI.”
It took a minute for the parts to come together, and then I got it. I had just never considered Charlie Clapper as chief of police, but damn, he was an excellent choice.
Brady was saying, “At this point, I’m supposed to draw back the curtain and say about a former cop and highly respected forensic scientist, ‘Round of applause for our own Charlie Clapper, now police chief, SFPD.’
“But I forgot to get a curtain, and Clapper isn’t here. He’s going to be across the street at MacBain’s—second-floor private room reserved for alla us, from noon to two. No cover charge, beer’s on the house. If there are any questions, we’ll get ya answers all in good time.”
Conklin got to his feet and said, “Brady? If you had anything to do with recommending Clapper for the chief job, I just want to say, hot dog. Good choice and all in the family. And I’m glad you’re staying with us.”
Chapter 6
Conklin and I walked across the street at the appointed time, still stunned by the breaking news. But pleased.
We both liked Clapper. A lot. He was a solid pro, never a showboat. I remembered so many cases where he’d been the forensic specialist; when hamburgers had become bombs, when we dug up a dozen decapitated heads in a backyard, when he’d gone through the exploded science museum where my husband, Joe, had been almost killed. He’d taken us through crime scenes and pointed out things he thought we ought to know.
The bottom line: Charlie Clapper had never let us down.
Richie held the door for me at MacBain’s and we entered the favorite watering hole for Hall of Justice workers, from court stenographers to the motorcycle police. At lunchtime, the ancient jukebox was cranked up and the place was packed to the walls, but we didn’t have to look for a table. We headed straight up the stairs to the second floor, where it was clear that the party had already started. A buffet had been set up with hot plates and servers, tables were arranged around the room, and a lot of cops were in attendance, not just from Homicide but from every section at the Hall.
Altogether, a hundred people were there, including Brady, everyone with a glass in their hand. I waved to Clapper as we passed and he waved back. When everyone from Lieutenant Tom Murry from Major Crimes to Lieutenant Lena Hurvitz from Special Victims to DA Len Parisi had a plate and was seated, Brady clinked his glass with a spoon.
He had our attention. He
