Джеймс Паттерсон - 14th Deadly Sin:

At the plate stood St. Louis’s best hitter, Matt Holliday, with the score tied 1–1 in the bottom of the ninth. All eyes were on the pitcher, Tim Lincecum. All except mine and Conklin’s. We had still photos of both Wolfe and Valdeen in our breast pockets. All we had to do was pick those two out from the other forty thousand spectators.

Lincecum dealt Holliday an inside fastball that he lined over third and into the left-field corner. The fans erupted in unison as everyone sprang to their feet. But it was the last my partner and I saw of the game.

Conklin pointed off to our right and about six rows above us to a group of men standing in front of a Tres Mexican Kitchen.

“That’s Donald Wolfe. Dark jacket, Giants ball cap.”

“You’ve got a good eye, buster.”

I wasn’t sure, but by the time we had trotted up the aisle, I saw that it was Wolfe, beyond a doubt.

I approached Wolfe from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. When he spun around, I said, “Donald Wolfe. I’m Sergeant Boxer, SFPD. We need to have a word with you about your recent grand theft auto.”

I put Wolfe against the wall and frisked him. As I dealt with Wolfe, Valdeen threw a wild roundhouse punch at Conklin. Conklin blocked it and Valdeen threw another, putting his full weight into it. This time Conklin ducked, then landed an uppercut to Valdeen’s chin that made the big guy stagger backward into the Doggie Diner stand.

Tin panels rattled. The vendor squawked. Conklin twisted Valdeen’s arms around his back and clapped on the cuffs, saying, “Ralph Valdeen, you’re under arrest for assault on a police officer.”

No one thought either Wolfe or Valdeen was one of the Wicker House shooters, but there was every chance they knew who had executed the seven men inside. If the shooters were Windbreaker cops, we might have a clue that would help us solve the armed robberies of the check-cashing stores and the mercados, and the shakedowns and shootings of drug dealers all over the city.

I couldn’t wait to get these two into the box.

“Hands behind your back,” I said to Wolfe.

That was when he decided to make a break for it.

CHAPTER 44

RALPH VALDEEN WAS winded, cuffed, and newly docile.

But Donald Wolfe had taken a split second of opportunity, tucked his bag under his arm, and run for his life. He tore off past the Doggie Diner, the Port Walk Pizza stand, and the coffee cart, through a group of fans, knocking them over like bowling pins.

Wolfe was small and he was fast. While I stood with Valdeen and called for backup, Wolfe gave Conklin a workout, vaulting over seats, stiff-arming spectators as he wildly searched for an exit.

Wolfe had reached the lower rows of the stadium when Conklin tackled him. My partner got a cheer from all the fans in that entire section as he dragged Wolfe to his feet and shoved him back up the steps to where I stood with Valdeen at the hot dog concession.

“You have the right to remain silent,” Conklin said to Wolfe. “Anything you say can be used against you, jerk-off …”

Wolfe said, “I gotta call my girl. You gonna hold that against me in a court a law?”

Wolfe is what’s called a real smartass. There was no fear in his face at all. And there should have been. He was in trouble. I pulled his duffel bag away from him and unzipped it. There was an astonishing amount of money inside, maybe fifty thousand in neatly banded used bills.

“I’ll hold this for you,” I said to Wolfe, “until you can produce your pay stub.”

Meanwhile, we had attracted some attention at the Doggie Diner. The fans were pumped up and buzzed, and now some of them were turning on my partner and me. Oh, I really love the sound of drunken a-holes yelling, “Hey! They didn’t do anything wrong. It’s a free country, isn’t it? We’re all just watching a ball game. What’s the damn problem?”

The backup I’d called for was on the way and stadium security was trotting directly toward us.

I said to the hecklers, “Anyone feel like joining our party? Because we’ve got plenty of room at the jail.”

“Police brutality. That’s what this is,” said a beefy young bruiser showing off for his girlfriend. “I saw it,” he insisted. “I’m going to report you. What’s your badge number?”

The girlfriend and others were pointing their phones in my face and at my badge. And you know what? I finally got mad.

I shouted to the security guards, “Cuff these people. This one. These two. And her. I’m taking you all in for interference with the police. For obstruction. For being drunk and disorderly.”

Hecklers fell back, but not before we had four of them in Flex-Cuffs and were marching them out to the cruisers at the gates.

Two hours later, at half past dinnertime, the night shift was parking at their desks in the squad room. Ralph “Rascal” Valdeen was in holding, and Conklin and I were set to interrogate Donald Francis Wolfe in Interview 1.

CHAPTER 45

I HADN’T EATEN anything but a burger and a stack of pickle chips since Brady’s surprise visit at six that morning. I was irritable and frustrated, and now Conklin and I were in the box with Donald Wolfe, who didn’t act like a man who was going down for a felony.

“Do you understand you’re on the hook for a felony?” Conklin asked him.

“I didn’t do nothing. You tackled me. That’s assault, yo. With a deadly weapon on your person. I got witnesses. I didn’t know you were a cop and that’s why I ran.”

Conklin yawned. Then he said, “For the record, Sergeant Boxer announced that she was a police officer and showed you her badge. I’m a witness. Sergeant, I’ll be back.”

Conklin got out of his chair and left the interview room. Generally, Conklin took the role of “good” cop, but right now, he was keeping his powder dry for Valdeen. So I took over the interview with Wolfe.

“Donald,” I said. “OK for me to call you Donnie?”

“Donnie is OK,” he said. He was twenty-five. He had a sixth-grade education. He had done small time and had had a lot of experience in rooms just like this one.

“Look, Donnie. We’ve got you on boosting the Honda. Got you cold. I’m going to say you didn’t find that big bag of money under a bench at a streetcar stop.”

“Funny you say that, Sergeant. That’s right. Bench outside the ferry terminal. You got a report of that money being stolen? No, right? It’s all mine.”

I acted like he hadn’t said anything.

“Grand theft auto is going to get you twelve to fifteen.”

“For that beater? It’s an oh-seven, and I didn’t steal it anyway.”

“Found it at the ferry terminal?”

“Yes, ma’am. Man said to me, ‘Take this car from me, please. I can’t afford to have it fixed.’ I gave one large in cash and he said, ‘Thanks.’”

I picked up the rather thick file of Donald Wolfe’s record of juvenile and petty crimes and slammed it down hard on the table. It made a nice loud crack.

I said, “Cut the shit. You want a break on that stolen car, you’ve got exactly one minute to help me out. After that, my partner is getting what we need from Valdeen. He looks soft, Donnie. I’m betting he’s gonna step up to the line.”

Wolfe looked down at the table and started shaking his head while muttering, “Nuh-uh-uh. No-no-no.”

“No what, Donnie?”

“What is it you want to know, exactly?”

“What do you know about the armed robbery at Wicker House this morning?”

“ N.O. Nothing. When I left work, everything was cool. Do you understand? Rascal and me. We’re stockroom boys. We unpack the boxes. We ship boxes out. We make labels and check inventory and sometimes we bring coffee to some decorator lady. I don’t know shit about shit.”