11th hour wmc-11 Read online

“No.”

  “So he can’t be a character reference for you, I’m sorry, and he said he wouldn’t be surprised if you’d killed his wife.”

  “Oh, no, no, he can’t be serious.”

  “It’s all serious. This is a homicide investigation.”

  I had her attention now, and I knew when to shut up.

  I folded my hands and watched Connie Kerr think it all through, how she could go from being a trespasser to being a murder suspect with a movie star willing to testify against her.

  “I did see someone in the garden,” she blurted out.

  “Don’t make anything up,” Conklin said.

  “It’s true. I spied on the garden. It’s black as a damned soul in there at night, but every once in a silver moon, I’d see someone doing nighttime gardening — with a shovel. It looked more like a shadow than an actual person. The shadow would bury something, then put down a rock to mark the spot.”

  Tears spurted, made tracks down her cheeks.

  “I did suspect foul play, but I couldn’t tell anyone. I was afraid Harry would put me out on the street. Although I did want to know what was buried under those stones.

  “That’s why I did what I did.”

  “What did you do exactly?” Conklin asked.

  “One night, when the lights were out in the house… Excuse me, I need to blow my nose.”

  I had a packet of tissues in my jacket pocket; I gave them to Connie, waited for her to speak again.

  “I took my hammer and went around to the front gate and I broke the lock,” she said. “Mercy. That’s breaking and entering.”

  Conklin and I just kept up a steady gaze.

  “I knew where the gardener kept his tools,” Connie said. “So I went around back to where the walls meet and there’s the toolshed. It wasn’t locked.”

  “Okay.”

  “I borrowed a shovel and gardening gloves and went to one of the stones — and I dug a hole. I didn’t have to go very deep.

  “I found that old skull, and when I brushed it off, an idea came to me. That’s how it happens when you write, you know. Sometimes an idea just arrives fully dressed when you didn’t even know it was there.”

  Connie Kerr seemed sane to me. Cracked, yes; loony enough to dig up skulls in a garden while thinking she was creating fiction. But I wasn’t picking up stark raving cuckoo. And I wasn’t feeling her as a murderer.

  “What happened after you dug up that skull, Connie?”

  “Well. I dug up another one.”

  Chapter 95

  Connie dabbed at her eyes with a wad of tissues and continued her story.

  “The second head was bad,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting it to be — to have — hell. I didn’t expect it to be so disgusting. I was coming up with my plan, though, and I just told myself to have courage. I thought of it as forensic archaeology.”

  “Appropriate term,” I said.

  “You think so?”

  I said, “Yes,” not adding that in this situation, the correct term for her activity was evidence tampering.

  Connie went on to say that she’d placed the “horrid remains” on the patio, returned to get the first skull, and then the idea took full form.

  “I went back to my place and got a pair of index cards. I had a cool idea, very dramatic, but I was scared going back to the garden,” she said.

  “I was thinking that I was now wandering into the area of premeditation. But I couldn’t stop. I was on a roll. The chrysanthemums were so white. So I plucked some and I made a wreath. I laid it around the heads,” Connie Kerr said, making a wide circle with her arms. “It looked very good. After I finished the wreath, I started to feel better. In fact, I felt elated.”

  “You were excited.”

  “Yes, that’s it. I was excited and my wheels were turning. I wanted to draw attention to the victims, you see. I wrote numbers on the index cards. I knew the numbers would make these heads into a big story. And I did a clever thing.”

  “Those numbers are a code.”

  “You’re warm.” Coy smile from Connie.

  “Numerology,” I said. “The number six.”

  “Aren’t you smart!” she said. She clapped her hands together, and for a moment the woman who had pirouetted around her small apartment was back.

  “So you wanted the police to find you?”

  “Yes! I wanted the police to find the killer and I wanted to be the heroine who helped solve the case. I wanted good realistic details for my book. I’m calling it Eleventh Hour, because the crime is solved at the last moment. But I never expected to be charged.”

  “So that’s your story, Connie? You did forensic archaeology, left some false clues for the police that led to your door.”

  “I’ve committed crimes, haven’t I?”

  I nodded. I wanted her to be afraid, but truthfully she wasn’t guilty of much. Trespassing. Falsifying evidence. It wasn’t illegal not to call the police to report a crime.

  “See, I am cooperating,” she said. “I didn’t even get a lawyer. Can’t you help me, please?”

  “Who was the so-called night gardener?” Conklin asked.

  “I don’t know. I was peeking through a curtain sixty feet above the ground. It was always dark. I would tell you if I could.”

  “How do you get your food?” I asked.

  “Nicole leaves it for me on the back steps. She’s that lovely girl who lives next door.”

  “I’ll look into getting you released,” Conklin said. “But if we can do it, you can’t leave your house.”

  “Don’t worry. I’m quite the homebody,” Constance Kerr said, “and, you know, I’ve got a lot of writing to do.”

  Chapter 96

  Will Randall sat on the side of his bed and sent a text message to Jimmy Lesko. He used a disposable phone and identified himself as Buck Barry, one of Lesko’s private customers, a cautious man with an impressive drug habit.

  The confirmation from Lesko came rocketing back, and the meeting was set for eleven that night; a transfer of cash for coke on a dodgy street in the Lower Haight.

  It wouldn’t be the transfer Jimmy Lesko was expecting.

  Will closed the phone, leaned over, and kissed Becky. He whispered that he loved her, left an envelope on the night table describing Chaz Smith’s double-dealing drug operation and how Smith had profited from being a cop. Then Will turned off the light.

  He went to Link’s room and stood over the bed watching his son’s jerking, restless sleep.

  His sweet boy.

  Link should have been at Notre Dame now, on a scholarship. Should have been going out with girls. Should have been a lot of things he wasn’t and would never be, in a world of things he would never do.

  Will kissed Link’s forehead, then went downstairs to the main floor and opened the door to the girls’ room. There were handmade quilts on the beds and a mural of a pastoral countryside painted on the cream-colored walls.

  He picked stuffed animals off the floor, tucked them into Mandy’s bed, kissed her, then kissed her twin, Sara. Sara stirred and opened her eyes.

  “I was flying, Daddy.”

  “Like a bird? Or like a plane?”

  “Like a rock-et.”

  “Was it fun?”

  “So fun. I’m going to go back now…”

  Will covered Sara’s shoulders with her quilt, said, “Have a safe flight, sweetheart,” then went to the boys’ room across the hall.

  The hamster was running on the endless track of his wheel. The two goldfish stared at him, almost motionless in the stream of bubbles coming up from the little ceramic diver at the bottom of the bowl.

  Willie was asleep on his stomach, but Sam was awake and he grabbed Will’s hand and wouldn’t let go.

  Will smiled at his boy, sat down on the bed beside him. “What, son? What can I do for you?”

  “Are you going out?”

  “Yeah, the car’s gas tank is empty and I don’t want to stop tomorrow when I’m on the way to w
ork. Rush hour, you know?”

  “Will you get me something?”

  “If I can.”

  “A motorcycle. A Harley. Black one.”

  “No problem.”

  “Really?”

  “What about a peanut butter granola bar instead?”

  “Sure,” said Sam. “That’ll be okay.”

  The kid was a born negotiator.

  “Go to sleep now,” Will said to his boy. “It’s late.”

  Will kissed his youngest son, went down the hallway, and stopped to speak with Charlie, who was in his La-Z-Boy watching the news.

  “Is that you, Hiram?”

  “It’s Will, Charlie. Becky’s husband. I want to give you something.”

  “Sure, what is it?”

  “You need a good shake.”

  “Ahhh-hah-hah.” Charlie laughed as Will leaned in and grabbed his father-in-law by both shoulders and shook him gently. Will said, “You’re a good man, Charlie Bean. I’ll see you later.”

  “That’s fine, Hiram. I’ll wait up for you.”

  Taking the stairs down to the garage, Will thought about what was coming that night. He took his jacket off the hook, put it on, then got the gun out of a toolbox near the pyramid of paint cans. He wrapped the gun in a plastic bag, stuck it inside his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed a flashlight and left the house by the back door.

  Will knew cops would be watching Becky’s car on Golden Gate Avenue so he stayed on the deeply shadowed side of the street. There was an unmarked car at the corner of Scott, two guys in the front seat.

  Will kept his head down and walked past it, kept going south another couple of blocks until he saw the silver Chevy Impala, probably a 2006 model.

  The door was unlocked and Will got in, shutting off the dome light. It took him about five minutes by flashlight to remove the ignition plate and hot-wire the car, but the engine started right up and there was fuel in the tank.

  The risk was building. But Will had already passed the point of no return.

  Tonight was the night he’d been working toward for the last three months, the night when he would take his most personal revenge. He pulled the Impala out onto the street and headed for the Lower Haight.

  Chapter 97

  Jimmy Lesko had been in bed when he’d gotten a text message from Buck Barry, who was desperate to make a buy. It was a pain in the butt, but Lesko needed the extra cash.

  He parked his sparkling new Escalade on Haight, a two-way commercial corridor, crowded in on both sides by peeling Victorian houses. All of them were shades of gray at this time of night, mashed together with single-story concrete utility buildings and bars and shops and more residences after that.

  Sitting in the driver’s seat, Lesko watched the entrance to Finnerty’s, a bar between Steiner and Fillmore known for its cheap suds and oversize burgers. Buck would be waiting for him in the men’s room in about five minutes.

  A UCLA film-school dropout, former up-and-coming protege of the late Chaz Smith, Lesko traded in good-quality dope, had protection from the cops, and sometimes, like now, could make good money.

  Lesko anticipated a quick transaction and an equally quick return to his house and the delicious young medical student who was asleep in his bed. He looked at the time again and got out of the car, then locked it with his remote.

  He was crossing the street when someone called his name.

  He turned and saw a man coming up Haight on Finnerty’s side of the block. The guy was dark-haired, about forty, looked happy to see him.

  “Jimmy. Jimmy Lesko.”

  Lesko waited on the sidewalk for the guy to reach him, then said, “Do I know you?”

  “I’m William Randall,” the guy said.

  Lesko searched for some recognition. The name. The face. An association. Something. Nothing came up. Lesko had a good memory — but he didn’t know the guy.

  “What’s this about?” he said.

  “I want you to see this.”

  The guy took his hand out of his pocket. He was holding something weird. It was a plastic bag covering what looked to be a gun.

  Shit. A gun.

  This was not happening. This was just not on.

  Jimmy jerked back, but he was hemmed in by the clots of boozed-up pedestrians on the sidewalk and cars at the curb. He went for his gun, stuck into the waistband at the back of his pants. But this fucking asshole Randall had pushed him back onto a car and pinned him there. He put the gun right up to his forehead.

  Lesko threw his hands up. Dropped his keys. Wet his pants.

  What was this? What the hell was this?

  Didn’t anybody see what was happening?

  Lesko screamed, “What do you want? What do you want? Tell me what you want, for Christ’s sake!”

  “I’m Link Randall’s father,” the guy said. “Any idea who that is? Doesn’t matter. You ruined my son’s life. And now I’m going to ruin you. Totally.”

  Chapter 98

  As Will Randall pulled the trigger, he was jostled by a lurching bum in a woman’s coat who grabbed on to his arm to steady himself, saying, “Whooaaa.”

  Will’s shot went wild, and Lesko took the split second of confusion to get away.

  Will stiff-armed the bum and knocked him aside, then he aimed at Lesko. Jimmy was now a moving target in the dark, running like he was carrying a football under his arm, smashing into a couple of kids holding hands, ramming into a homeless grandma with a shopping cart. He knocked both the cart and grandma to the sidewalk, and she lay there with her limbs splayed out, her cart’s wheels spinning, garbage everywhere.

  Forward motion blocked, Lesko took the clearest path, bounding up steps that led to the front deck of a house.

  Will fired at Lesko’s back — and missed. And now Lesko crouched on the deck one story above him and shot at Will through the wrought-iron railing.

  Will took to the street, then popped out from behind a van and got off six shots. But Lesko returned fire and Randall realized he had to corner this bastard and kill him at close range.

  Pedestrians screamed and fled as Will charged toward the stairs, and then tires squealed and voices came from behind him.

  “Freeze. Randall, put down your gun. Drop your gun now.”

  Will turned his head. He saw cops — cops that he knew. The blond guy with the ponytail — Brady. And the other two. Conklin and Boxer, who had brought him into the Hall.

  How had they found him?

  They’d been inside the unmarked car on Golden Gate Avenue and had seen him, followed him, that was how.

  There was screaming on both sides of the street, Lesko yelling for help, pedestrians freaking, cops shouting, “Drop your gun! Hands in the air!”

  Will turned toward the cops, waved his gun, and shouted, “I know what I’m doing. Clear out of here. Don’t make me shoot.”

  A cop yelled, “Drop your gun now!”

  And then the cops fired at him.

  He felt a shot hit his left shoulder and it enraged him. Adrenaline surged. He was right. They were wrong. He had told them to leave.

  He fired toward the cops, watched them duck and cover.

  Someone shouted, “Officer down. Officer down.”

  Cops were down.

  It was happening so fast. The blood left Will’s head as he realized, with an almost calming clarity, that he wasn’t going to leave this street alive. But he still had to do what he had come to do.

  Lesko was pulling the trigger on his empty gun. He pulled again and again, looked at the gun, swore, then dropped it.

  Will took the stairs and advanced on Lesko, the good-looking kid with blood staining his expensive clothes, blood dripping down his pants. He had his hands in the air, was backing up against the side of the house.

  Lesko shouted at Will, veins popping in his neck and forehead, “You’ve got the wrong person! I’m Jimmy Lesko. I don’t know you. I don’t know you.”

  Will said, “I feel sorry for your father. That’s all.”


  He fired two shots into Lesko’s chest, then turned with his gun still in his hand. He felt the blow of a shot to his gut. His legs folded.

  Will was on his belly, fading out of consciousness.

  Lights flashed. Images swam. Voices swirled around him.

  He got Jimmy Lesko.

  He was sure. Almost sure. That he’d got him.

  Chapter 99

  Cindy was at the half-moon table in the corner of the living room, what she liked to call her home office, when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock in the corner of her laptop screen, then snatched up the phone.

  “Ms. Thomas? This is Inspector May Hess, from radio communications. I have a message for you from Sergeant Boxer. There’s been a shooting. Go to Metro Hospital now.”

  “Oh my God. Is it Richard Conklin? Has he been shot? Tell me it’s not Rich. Please tell me.”

  “I just have the message for you.”

  “You must know. Is Inspector Conklin — ”

  “Ma’am, I’m just supposed to deliver the message. I’ve told you everything I know.”

  Cindy’s mind slipped and spun, then she got herself together. She phoned for a cab, put a coat on over her sweatpants and T-shirt, stepped into a pair of loafers, and headed downstairs.

  She paced in front of her apartment building, calling Richie’s phone, leaving messages when the call went to voicemail, then calling him again.

  The cab came after five minutes that seemed like five hours. Cindy shouted through the cabbie’s window, “Metropolitan Hospital. This is an emergency,” then threw herself back into the seat.

  She was trying to remember the last thing she’d said to Richie. Oh God, it was something like Not now, honey, I’m working.

  What the hell was wrong with her? What the hell?

  Her body was running hot and cold as she thought about Richie, about him being paralyzed or in pain or dying. God, she couldn’t lose him.

  Cindy didn’t pray often, but she did now.

  Please, God, let Richie be okay.

  The cabdriver was quiet and knew his way. He took Judah Street past UCSF Medical Center, made turns through the Castro and across Market, all the way to Valencia.