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  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 knew, she wasn’t even a little bit dangerous. Still, my heart was pounding as if I’d walked in on an armed robbery in progress.

  My fear reaction was quickly followed by mortification.

  I’d forgotten to call Karen to say I was going to be late. I apologized now, thanked her for hanging in.

  “We watched a movie,” Karen said, then added to Martha, “Didn’t we, big girl? And I baked a potato,” she said to me. “And finished off the ice cream. I hope that’s okay.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Of course. I’m sorry that I lost track of the time.”

  “Martha has a real crush on Tom Cruise,” she said.

  I walked Karen out to her car, stood on the sidewalk until I couldn’t see her taillights anymore, then I went back upstairs to my dog.

  The phone was ringing when I got inside.

  I looked at the caller ID and saw it was my sister, Catherine, who lives a little way down the coast in Half Moon Bay.

  I’m four years older than Cat; we’ve both been divorced, and she has two girls. She’s been coaching me on the care of my child onboard, name to be determined, sex unknown to me and Joe.

  I grabbed the receiver off the hook, took Joe’s big chair in the living room, and put my hand on my tummy; Martha circled, then collapsed onto my feet.

  “Linds, why don’t you call me back? I get worried.”

  “I just walked in,” I told her.

  “Joe is still out of town?”

  “He’ll be back tomorrow, I think.”

  “You sound like the walking dead.”

  “Thank you. That’s how I feel, if the walking dead feel anything.”

  “Yeah, well, pregnancy does that. It also makes you feel like you’ve lost about fifty IQ points, as I recall.”

  I laughed, and my sister prodded me to tell her about my two active cases. I held a few things back, but I gave her the basic rundown on the heads found at the Ellsworth compo
und. And I told Cat about the triple homicide that had kept me working late tonight, first at the scene, then at the Hall, then at the morgue, and finally at the forensics lab until a half hour ago.

  “The guy is some kinda vigilante,” I told Cat. “I guess he doesn’t trust the cops will bring in the bad guys so he figures he’s the man to do the job.”

  “Lindsay. You’re saying he’s armed and dangerous. And you’re trying to bring him down. Why won’t he go after you?”

  “I’ll be fine, Cat, really.”

  “Bull. You can’t know that.”

  Cat was now beginning her lectures on the value of rest, on how I could burn out, on how my workload wasn’t good for the baby. I couldn’t argue with her. I just had to take it.

  Then a call-waiting signal beeped in my ear. I checked the caller ID, and if I hadn’t been trying to get away from my sister, I never would have taken the call from Jason Blayney.

  I told Cat I had an urgent call, said good-bye, and then put on a frosty voice for the crime reporter from the San Francisco Post.

  Chapter 38

  “IT’S LATE, MR. BLAYNEY. And listen, don’t call me again. The person you want to talk to is Bec Rollins in Media Relations. She’ll be happy to speak with you. Use my name.”

  Blayney ignored me, pressed on. “We got off to a bad start, Sergeant, and I know it was my fault. I get a little carried away. Does that ever happen to you?”

  “Does what ever happen to me?”

  “Do you ever get a little carried away when you’re really into a case? In my situation, when I’m on a story, I want to live it, breathe it, dream it.”

  Blayney was trying to bait me into saying Yes, I sometimes get carried away. Did he think I was stupid?

  “I understand that sometimes reporters who are living, breathing, and dreaming their stories get carried away. They should take care that what they consider enthusiasm isn’t actually stalking or assault.”

  Blayney laughed. “Okay, okay, you win, Sergeant. But I still have an offer for you.”

  “Oh, really.”

  I was tired. Unlike the dealers who’d died tonight, I had inhaled smoke. And unlike Chuck Hanni, I’d gotten soot all over me. I looked charred. I felt charred.

  “Good night, Mr. Blayney.”

  “Listen, I don’t think you’ll go to hell if you call me Jason. And here’s my offer.”

  I sighed loudly.

  “Have lunch with me. I want to tell you what I’m trying to do at the Post. I think you’ll see that I’m not a bad guy. I’m on your side. I could be even more on your side if we work together.”

  I laughed at him. It was a genuine laugh. The guy was actually funny. I recognized a journalist’s trick of the trade: make friends with your subject and gain trust — then betray that trust.

  “I want to give you my number,” he said. “I sleep with my phone next to my pillow.”

  I said, “Who doesn’t?”

  “I never miss a call.”

  “Sweet dreams,” I said. I heard him calling my name as I moved the receiver toward the hook.

  I said, “What is it?”

  “Just take my number, okay? You may change your mind about talking to me.”

  I said, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” pretending to write down his number, then I hung up. I was dying for a Corona, but instead I had a big glass of full-fat milk, got into bed with Martha, and put my feet up on some pillows.

  Martha put her head on my belly, about where I thought the baby’s little butt might be. I talked to them both for a few minutes, laughed at myself, and then turned on the news.

  I fell asleep with all the lights on. I hadn’t set the alarm. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. And then came the call from the crime lab, from Charlie Clapper, who was pulling a double, maybe a triple shift.

  Clapper said, “We found a gun inside the car. Thought you’d want to be the first to know.”

  “What kind of gun?”

  “A twenty-two. The number had been filed off, but we recovered it with acid and traced it. We already know all about that gun.”

  “It was one of the guns stolen from our evidence room.”

  “Well, you took all the fun out of that,” said Clapper.

  “Brady is going to want to know.”

  “He’s next on my call list.”

  I thanked Charlie, said good night.

  I stared at the ceiling until six, then got dressed and took Martha for a run. The killer Jason Blayney had nicknamed Revenge had taken out seven people, one of them an undercover narc.

  Revenge was on a spree, and he was stepping up his timeline, doing multiple homicides. He was growing into his job as an executioner and he was becoming fearless.

  These days, I couldn’t walk through the Hall of Justice without looking at every cop and wondering, Did you do it? Are you the one who’s gone rogue? I had the sense that I knew Revenge, that he was a regular cop, hiding in plain sight.

  Chapter 39

  AT 8:00 A.M. WE were in an unmarked Chevy Malibu, Conklin at the wheel.

  “I slept on the couch again last night,” he told me. “If this keeps up, I’ve got to upgrade to a king-size couch. Or cut my feet off.”

  “Cindy’s upset, you’re saying?”

  “She said it was because I stunk and whatnot, but it wasn’t the smoke in my hair, Linds. She’s pissed.”

  “I know. I know. What should we do? Tell her we’re looking for a cop who’s taking out drug dealers? Then she’ll get the scoop, and we’ll be whistling and wearing white gloves directing traffic.”

  Conklin laughed. “That’s not funny.”

  “She’ll get over this.”

  “When?”

  “Sorry I can’t do more to help your love life,” I said. “She’s mad at me too, you know.”

  Conklin laughed again, said, “Yeah, but you’re sleeping in your bed, am I right?”

  He made the turn onto the wide and beautiful stretch of Vallejo Street, now barricaded and three reporters deep on the sidewalks. I saw the local guys as well as some press displaying decals of various countries’ flags on their satellite vans.

  There was nothing like severed heads at the home of a movie star who’d once been tried for murder to bring out inquiring minds from all nations.

  I was recognized and a small mob stampeded toward our car even as a uniformed cop pivoted a sawhorse to let the car through.

  “There’s your friend,” Conklin said to me, indicating the young guy at the front of the barricade who was taking pictures and looking very pleased with life. It seemed like Jason Blayney didn’t ever have bad days.

  “Yeah. My friend.” I snorted. “Wants to have lunch with me.”

  “You going to do it?”

  “Be serious.”

  We drove up to a space in front of the mansion, left the car under the protection of the men and women of the SFPD, then went through the gate.

  Ricky Perez, Harry Chandler’s gardener, was sitting on the front steps of the Ellsworth house waiting for us. He was in his twenties, and his massive upper-body musculature showed under his sweatshirt and plaid flannel jacket.

  He also had a great smile.

  This kid was in charge of the trophy garden. He was too young to have been caretaking the Ellsworth garden when the heads were first buried there. But I hoped he could lead us to a killer with the sensibility of a department-store window dresser and the bloodlust of Jeffrey Dahmer.

  Chapter 40

  I INTRODUCED MYSELF and my partner to Ricardo “Ricky” Perez, then asked him what he knew about the heads that had been presented on the back patio of the house, garnished with chrysanthemums.

  Perez said, “All I know is what I read and what Janet Worley told me. She grilled me, for God’s sake. You ought to consider hiring her for your rubber-hose-and-third-degree department.”

  He looked for a laugh, didn’t get one. He appeared surprised. Big, good-looking kid, worked for a movie star. He was probably used to adoration and h
e seemed to like attention.

  I asked Perez where he’d been over the last week, and he had no trouble remembering. He’d been out with three different girls over the weekend and had slept in with Miss Early Monday Morning in his flat.

  He was awoken by a call from Janet Worley, who’d filled him in on the shocking events. According to Perez, the whole story was from “the planet Weird, man,” and he had no idea how these heads could have been buried right under his feet without him knowing it.

  He was either genuinely perplexed or a pathological liar. I asked, “When was the last time you were in the back garden?”

  “Last Friday. I work Tuesdays and Fridays. There were absolutely no heads lying around when I weeded the flower beds. And I didn’t see any sign of digging. Nothing. At all. When do you think I can get in there and get the place cleaned up?”

  “You work exclusively for Mr. Chandler?”

  “No, but he’s my main job.”

  The three of us took a stroll along the outer path of the garden. The tape was still up, and so was the main tent just off the patio. The piles of dirt were casting shadows over the pachysandra.

  The kid told us that he’d had this job for only three years, but he was attached to the place. He got agitated when he saw what the forensics team had done to the garden.

  “Look at this mess. Just look. I’m pretty freaked out, if you want to know the truth. Whoever did this knows this garden. He could be someone I know.”

  I said, “Who, Ricky? Who do you know who could have done this?”

  “Look, I want to tell you something, but not officially.”

  “Okay,” Conklin said, playing along.

  “Nigel Worley doesn’t like Mr. Chandler. And I know why, because Janet confided in me. She had a thing with Mr. Chandler when the Worleys first moved in, like ten years ago.”

  “A ‘thing’?” Conklin said.

  “Janet told me it was just a fling and that she didn’t hold that against Mr. Chandler. She was married. He was married. It went on for a couple of months.