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  “What’s that?” I pressed.

  He walked me over to a lab counter. “Partial sneaker print. Off the tar on the roof where the shots came from. Looks like a standard shoe. But we did take out some traces of a fine white powder. No guarantees it even came from him.”

  “Powder?”

  “Chalk,” Charlie said. “That narrows it down to about fifty million possibilities. If this guy’s signing his pictures, Lindsay, he’s making it tough to find.”

  “He signed it, Charlie,” I said with conviction. “It was the shot.”

  “We’re sending the nine-one-one tape out for a voice reading. I’ll let you know when we get it back.”

  I patted him appreciatively. “Get some sleep, Charlie.”

  He lifted the Doritos bag. “Sure, I will. After breakfast.”

  Chapter 36

  I WENT BACK to the office and sank disappointedly back behind my desk. I had to know more about that chimera. I was about to dial Stu Kirkwood at the hate crimes desk when a cadre of three men in dark suits came into the squad room.

  One of them was Mercer. No surprise. He had been on the morning talk shows, pushing for calm. I knew facing tough questions without concrete results didn’t sit well with him.

  But the other, accompanied by his press liaison, was a man I had never seen on the floor in seven years in Homicide.

  It was the mayor of San Francisco.

  “I don’t want the slightest bit of bullshit,” Art Fernandez, San Francisco’s two-term mayor, said. “I don’t want the standard protecting the ranks, and I don’t want any misplaced reflex to control the situation.” He shifted his eyes on a narrow track between Mercer and me. “What I want is an honest answer. Do we have a read on this situation?”

  We were crammed into my tiny glass-enclosed office. Outside, I could see staffers standing around, watching the circus.

  I fumbled under my desk to get my pumps back on. “We do not,” I admitted.

  “So Vernon Jones is right.” The mayor exhaled, sinking into a chair across from my desk. “What we have is an out-of-control spree of hate-driven killings on which the police have no handle, but the FBI may.”

  “No, that’s not it,” I replied.

  “That’s not it?” he arched his eyebrows. He looked at Mercer and frowned. “What is it I don’t understand? You’ve got a recognized hate group symbol, this chimera, at two of the three crime scenes. Our own M.E. believes the Catchings girl was the intended target of this madman.”

  “What the lieutenant is saying,” Mercer cut in, “is that this may not be simply a hate crime issue.”

  My mouth was a little cottony, and I swallowed. “I think it’s deeper than a hate crime spree.”

  “Deeper, Lieutenant Boxer? Just what is it you believe we have?”

  I stared straight at Fernandez. “What I think we have is someone with a personal vendetta. Possibly a single assailant. He’s couching his murders in the MO of a hate crime.”

  “A vendetta, you say,” Carr, the mayor’s man, chimed in. “A vendetta against blacks, but not a hate crime. Against black children and widows… but not a hate crime?”

  “Against black cops,” I said.

  The mayor’s eyes narrowed. “Go on.”

  I explained that Tasha Catchings and Estelle Chipman had been related to cops. “There has to be some further relationship, though we don’t know what it is yet. The killer is organized, haughty in the way he’s leaving his clues. I do not believe a hate crime killer would leave their mark on the hits. The getaway van, the little drawing in Chipman’s basement, that cocky nine-one-one tape. I don’t think this is a hate crime spree. It’s a vendetta—calculated, personal.”

  The mayor looked at Mercer. “You go along with this, Earl?”

  “Protecting the ranks aside…” Mercer smiled tightly. “I do.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Carr said. “Everything points to a hate crime.”

  There was silence in the cramped room; the temperature suddenly felt like 120 degrees.

  “So it seems I have two choices,” the mayor said. “Under the Hate Crimes Legislation, Article Four, I can call in the FBI, who, I believe, keep a close watch on these groups…”

  “They have no fucking idea how to run a homicide investigation,” Mercer protested.

  “Or… I can let the lieutenant do her job. Tell the Feds we got it all handled ourselves,” the mayor said.

  I met his eyes. “I went to the academy with Art Davidson. You think you want to catch his killer any more than I do?”

  “Then catch him,” the mayor said and rose. “Just so we know what’s at stake,” he added.

  I was nodding glumly when Lorraine burst through my door. “Sorry to interrupt, Lieutenant, but it’s urgent. Jacobi called in from Vallejo. He said make the place up nice and neat for an important guest. They found the biker from the Blue Parrot.

  “They found Red.”

  Chapter 37

  ABOUT AN HOUR LATER, Jacobi and Cappy entered the squad room. They were pushing a large redheaded biker type, his hands cuffed behind his back.

  “Look who decided to drop in.” Jacobi smirked.

  Red jerked his arms defiantly out of Cappy’s grip as the policeman shoved him into Interrogation Room 1, where he tripped over a wooden chair and crashed to the floor.

  “Sorry, big fella.” Cappy shrugged. “Thought I warned you about that first step.”

  “Richard Earl Evans,” Jacobi announced. “AKA Red, Boomer, Duke. Don’t feel insulted if he doesn’t stand up and shake hands.”

  “This is what you thought I meant by no contact?” I said, looking cross but inside delighted that they had brought him in.

  “The guy’s got a CCI sheet so long it begins with ‘Call me Ishmael.’ ” Jacobi grinned. “Theft, aggravated mischief, attempted murder, two weapons charges.”

  “Behold,” exclaimed Cappy, producing a dime bag of marijuana, a five-inch hunter’s blade, and a palm-sized Beretta .22-caliber pistol out of a Nordstrom’s shopping bag.

  “He know why he’s here?” I asked.

  “Nah,” Cappy grunted. “We busted him on the gun charge. Let him cool his jets in the backseat.”

  The three of us crowded into the small interrogation room facing Richard Earl Evans. The creep leered up at us with a smug grin, sleeves of tattoos covering both arms. He wore a black T-shirt with block letters on the back: “If You Can Read This… the Bitch Must’ve Fallen Off!”

  I nodded, and Cappy freed him from the cuffs. “You know why you’re here, Mr. Evans?”

  “I know you guys are in deep shit if you think I’m talking to you.” Evans sniffed a mixture of mucus and blood. “You got no teeth in Vallejo.”

  I raised the bag of dope. “Santa seems to have brought you a lot of naughty toys. Two felonies… still on parole for a weapons charge. Time at Folsom, Quentin. My sense is you must like it there, ’cause next time up, you qualify for the thirty-year lease.”

  “One thing I do know”—Evans rolled his eyes—“is you didn’t drag me all this way for some two-bit weapons rap. The sign on the door says Homicide.”

  “No, big fella, you’re right,” Cappy injected. “Tossing your sorry ass in jail on a gun charge is only a hobby for us. But depending on how you answer a few questions, that weapons rap could determine where you spend the next thirty years.”

  “Pupshit,” the biker grunted, leveling his cold, hard eyes in his face. “That’s all you assholes got on me.”

  Cappy shrugged, then brought the flat end of an unopened soda can down hard on the biker’s hand.

  Evans yelped in pain.

  “Damn, I thought you said you were thirsty,” Cappy said contritely.

  Red leered at Cappy, no doubt imagining running over the cop’s face with his bike.

  “But you’re right, Mr. Evans,” I said. “We didn’t ask you down here to go over your current possessions, though it wouldn’t take much to hand your sorry ass right over to the Vallejo
police. But today could work out lucky for you. Cappy, ask Mr. Evans if he’d like another drink.”

  Cappy feinted, and Evans jerked his hand off the table.

  Then the big cop opened the can and placed it in front of him, grinning widely. “This all right, or would you prefer a glass?”

  “See,” I assured him, “we can be nice. Truth is, we don’t give a shit about you. All you have to do is answer a few questions and you’ll be headed home, compliments of the SFPD. You never have to see us again. Or we can lock your three-time-loser ass on the tenth floor for a few days until we remember we got you here and notify the Vallejo police. And, when it comes to a third felony offense, we’ll see about just how much teeth we really have.”

  Evans ran his hand across the bridge of his nose, dabbing at the blood. “Maybe I will take a swig of that soda, if you’re still offering.”

  “Congratulations, son,” Jacobi said. “That’s the first thing you’ve done that makes sense since we set eyes on you.”

  Chapter 38

  I LAID OUT A BLACK-AND-WHITE surveillance photo of the Templars in front of Red’s startled face. “First thing we need to know is where can we find your buddies?”

  Evans looked up grinning. “So that’s what this is all about?”

  “C’mon, sharp-as-nails,” pressed Jacobi, “the lieutenant asked a question.”

  One by one, I spread on the table three more photos showing various members.

  Evans shook his head. “Never ran with those guys.”

  The last photo I put down was a surveillance shot of him.

  Cappy reached out, all two hundred fifty pounds of him, and raised the biker by the shirt, lifting him out of his seat. “Listen, codshit, you’re only lucky we’re not concerned here with what you sorry bunch of losers got off doing. So act smart and you’ll be outta here, and we can go on to what we do give a shit about.”

  Evans shrugged. “Maybe I did run a bit with them. But no more. Club’s disbanded. Too much heat. I ain’t seen these guys around here in months. They split. You wanna find them, start with Five South.”

  I looked at the two inspectors. As much as I doubted whether Evans would actually turn over on his buddies, I believed him.

  “One more question,” I said. “A big one.” I laid down the photo of the biker with the chimera jacket. “What does this mean to you?”

  Evans sniffed. “The dude’s got bogus taste in attire?”

  Cappy leaned forward.

  Evans recoiled. “It’s a symbol, man. Means he’s in the movement. A patriot.”

  “A patriot?” I asked him. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “An advocate of the white race, the self-determination of a free and orderly society.” He smiled at Cappy. “Present company excluded, of course. Course, none of this shit necessarily reflects my personal views.”

  “Did this guy head off to the Sun Belt, too?” Jacobi asked.

  “Him? Why? What do you think he’s done?”

  “There he goes”—Cappy stood over him—“answering questions with questions again.”

  “Look.” Evans swallowed. “The brother only hung with us a short while. I don’t even know his real name. Mac… McMillan, McArthur? What’d he do?”

  I figured there was no reason not to tell him what we thought. “What’s the word about what happened in La Salle Heights?”

  Red finally flinched. His pupils widened. All of a sudden, it was falling into place. “You think my old dudes lit up that church? This guy… Mac?”

  “You know how we could talk to him?” I said.

  Evans grinned. “That’s a tough order. Even for you.”

  “Try us,” I said. “We’re resourceful.”

  “I’m sure you are, but this fucker’s dead. Back in June. He and a partner blew themselves up, in Oregon. Sonofabitch must’ve read somewhere you could turn cowshit into a bomb.”

  Chapter 39

  IN THE SMALL BLACKTOP parking lot adjacent to the La Salle Heights Church, Cindy Thomas climbed out of her Mazda. Her stomach growled, telling her that it didn’t quite know what she was doing here.

  She took a breath and opened the large oak door into the main chapel. Just yesterday it had been filled with the choir’s resonating sound. Now it was eerily quiet, the pews empty. She walked through the chapel and into a connecting building.

  A carpeted hallway led to a row of offices. A black woman, glancing up from a copy machine, asked, “Can I help you? What do you want?”

  “I’m here to see Reverend Winslow.”

  “He’s not seeing visitors now,” the woman said.

  Winslow’s voice rang out from one of the offices. “It’s all right, Carol.”

  Cindy was led to his office. It was small, crowded with books. He was wearing a black T-shirt and khakis, and didn’t look like any minister she’d ever known.

  “So, we managed to get you back after all,” he said. Then finally, he smiled.

  He had her take a seat on a small couch and he sat in a well-worn red leather chair. A pair of glasses was resting on a book nearby, and she instinctively sneaked a peek. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Not what she would have expected.

  “You mending?” she asked.

  “Trying to. I read your story today. It was terrible about that policeman. It’s true? Tasha’s murder might be tied up with two others?”

  “The police think so,” Cindy answered. “The M.E. believes she was deliberately shot.”

  Winslow grimaced and then shook his head. “I don’t understand. Tasha was just a little girl. What possible connection could there be?”

  “It wasn’t so much Tasha”—Cindy held eye contact with Aaron Winslow—“as what she represented. All the victims apparently have a link to San Francisco cops.”

  Winslow’s eyes narrowed. “So tell me, what brings you back so soon? Your soul aching? Why are you here?”

  Cindy lowered her eyes. “The service yesterday. It was moving. I felt chills. It’s been a long time for me. Actually, I think my soul has been aching. I just haven’t bothered to notice.”

  Winslow’s look softened. She’d told him a small truth, and it had touched him. “Well, good. I’m glad to hear you were moved.”

  Cindy smiled. Incredibly, he made her feel at ease. He seemed centered, genuine, and she’d heard nothing but good things about him. She wanted to do a story on him, and she knew it would be a good one, maybe a great story.

  “I bet I know what you’re thinking,” Aaron Winslow said.

  “Okay,” she said, “shoot.”

  “You’re wondering… the man seems together enough, not completely weirded out. He doesn’t seem like a minister. So what is he doing making his living working like this?”

  Cindy flashed an embarrassed smile. “I admit, something like that did cross my mind. I’d like to do a story about you and the Bay View neighborhood.”

  He seemed to be thinking it over. But then he changed the subject on her.

  “What is it you like to do, Cindy?”

  “Do…?”

  “In the big, bad world of San Francisco you cover out there. After you call in your story. What moves you besides your job at the Chronicle? What are your passions?”

  She found herself smiling. “Hey, I ask the questions. I want to do a story on you. Not the other way around,” she said. “All right. I like yoga. I take a class twice a week on Chestnut Street. You ever do yoga?”

  “No, but I meditate every day.”

  Cindy smiled some more. She wasn’t even sure why. “I’m in a women’s book club. Two women’s clubs, actually. I like jazz.”

  Winslow’s eyes lit. “What kind of jazz? I like jazz myself.”

  Cindy laughed. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. What kind of jazz do you like?”

  “Progressive. Interpretive. Anything from Pinetop Perkins to Coltrane.”

  “You know the Blue Door? On Geary?” she asked.

  “Of course I know the
Blue Door. I go there Saturday nights, whenever Carlos Reyes is in town. Maybe we could go sometime. As part of your story. You don’t have to answer right now.”

  “Then you agree to let me do a piece on you?” Cindy said.

  “I agree… to let you do a piece on the neighborhood. I’ll help you with it.”

  A half hour later, in her car, Cindy sat letting the engine run, almost too astonished to put it in gear. I don’t believe what I just did…. Lindsay would rap her in the head. Question whether her gadgets were properly working.

  But they were working. They were humming a little, actually. The tiny hairs on her arms were standing straight up.

  She had the beginnings of what she thought might be a good story, maybe a prizewinner.

  She’d also just accepted a date from Tasha Catchings’s pastor, and she couldn’t wait to see him again.

  Maybe my soul has been aching, Cindy thought as she finally drove away from the church.

  Chapter 40

  IT WAS CLOSE TO SEVEN on Saturday. The end of a long, insane, incredibly stressful week. Three people had died. My only good leads had come and gone.

  I needed to talk to somebody, so I went up to eight, where the D.A.’s staff was located. Two doors down from the big man himself was Jill’s corner office.

  The executive corner was dark, offices empty, staff scattered for the weekend. In a way, though I needed to vent, I was sort of hoping Jill—the new Jill—would be at home, maybe picking through swatch books for her baby’s room.

  But as I approached, I heard the sound of classical music coming from within. Jill’s door was cracked half open.