Джеймс Паттерсон - 14th Deadly Sin:

Little Miss Precious saw me peering into her crib. She burbled and raised her arms. I picked her up and took her to the chair by the window. I held her against my chest and rocked, all the while watching the traffic on Lake Street.

I saw no suspicious activity.

No men loitering or sitting in dark cars.

I rocked my sweetie until she fell asleep, and soothed by the motion of the chair and her breathing, I finally relaxed. I put her down in her crib and covered her up. Then I checked the locks on the front door and made sure the security system was on.

When all the hatches were battened down, I returned to bed, where my dear husband was alive and well, and maybe dreaming about his ten-star megaday.

I must have slept, because I woke up and looked at the clock. It was quarter after three. After what seemed like a minute, I looked at the clock again.

It was 7:45 a.m.

I had a meeting at eight. I was going to be late.

CHAPTER 91

I CALLED JACOBI from my car and told him I was on the way. He barked, “Damn it, Boxer. Get your ass moving. We’re holding the meeting for you. ”

He wasn’t kidding.

I said, “I’m ten minutes out,” and clicked off before I could bark back at him out of pure hurt-feelings reflex.

Of course my feelings were hurt.

Five years ago, when Jacobi and I were partners, we were both shot down in a dark alley in the Mission and almost died. I called in the “officers down” with what I thought would be my next-to-last breath. After that, Jacobi and I were bonded for life.

Yesterday, in a completely unrelated event, I’d interrogated a serial killer, which had been a lot like walking barefoot on the edge of a knife. I’d gotten the confession on video. All corners had been squared. Our solved cases rate shot up. Big day for the SFPD!

Today, I was late for a meeting with three men I trusted with my life, who trusted me with theirs. And Jacobi had chewed me out for being late.

I heard my dead father saying, Toughen up, Princess.

I have little love for my father, but this was right.

I had to toughen up. I applied the brakes about twelve inches before I rear-ended a minivan full of kids and dogs at the red light up ahead. I took a breath. A few of them.

I sat there and got my brains together, and when the light changed, I didn’t flip on the siren. I proceeded toward the Hall within the speed limit. I got to 850 Bryant at 8:46.

I parked in the all-day lot, tossed the keys to Carl, and crossed the street against the light. I badged security and took an elevator to the fifth floor.

When I walked into Jacobi’s office, three grim-faced men were sitting in “antiqued” leather furniture around a glass coffee table. The framed photos on the wall were of Jacobi with various politicos, and there was a shot of the two of us in our dress blues, receiving commendations from our former chief.

I stepped around Brady’s legs and took the seat next to Conklin. I felt better now. I was surrounded by friends, and I had myself back.

I said, “Sorry I’m late.”

Conklin passed me a container of coffee, no longer hot, but I knew he’d stirred in three sugars.

Brady said, “Chief, you want to tell her?”

I was saying, “Tell me what?” when Conklin said to me, “Robertson is dead.”

“Robertson?”

For a moment I didn’t know who the hell he was talking about, and then I got it. Kyle Robertson, Tom Calhoun’s partner, the fifty-something former beat cop looking for an early retirement as soon as possible.

“How did he die?” I asked the room.

Jacobi said, “He left his dog tied to the neighbor’s fence and stuck a note between the chain links. He put his badge on the dining table and then he sat down and ate his gun.”

“Aw, shit. What did the note say?” I asked.

“The note said, ‘I’m sorry. Please take care of Bruno. He’s a good boy.’ There was a check for the neighbor, a thousand bucks. Robertson signed and dated the note midnight last night. The neighbor called it in a couple hours ago.”

“What now?” I asked.

Jacobi said, “Deciding that is the job at hand.”

CHAPTER 92

WHEN JACOBI SAID, “Deciding that is the job at hand,” he meant it was our job, the four of us, to connect the sketchy evidence and bring the bad cops down.

Brady is a list maker. He had a yellow pad, and he wrote names down on the left-hand side of the page with a red Sharpie.

Calhoun’s name was first on the list, and Robertson’s name followed. The two had been partners; now both were dead.

Brady said, “For the sake of argument, let’s say that Robertson killed himself because whatever had closed in on Calhoun was knocking on his door.”

I said, “When I interviewed Robertson, he vouched for Calhoun, said he was a good kid who’d had no dirty dealings of any kind. I didn’t pick up that he was covering for his partner—or himself. Maybe I got that wrong.” I went on, “Robertson and Calhoun reported to Ted Swanson.”

Jacobi said, “I called Swanson. He’s going through Robertson’s house now, looking for something that could explain this. He and Vasquez are talking to the neighbors.”

Conklin brought up Donnie Wolfe, the inside man at Wicker House who had informed the holdup team when the drugs and money would be in the house.

Conklin said, “Wolfe told us the robbers were cops, that the head dude’s tag was One, and that he was the boss of a six-man Windbreaker crew.”

Brady wrote One + 5 on the top of his pad.

Jacobi said, “A witness to the crack house shootings saw a tattoo on the neck of one of the Windbreaker cops. It sounds a lot like Bill Brand’s tattoo.”

I’d seen that tattoo. WB. Like a Western cow brand.

Conklin said, “We were working with these guys. Every day. So it comes down to this: Brand, Calhoun, and Robertson are Windbreaker cops, and there may be a couple more we don’t know about. Whitney’s on the radar, too, by association with Brand.”

Brady said, “It’s a working theory. Brand is on suspension pending investigation. Jacobi and I are meeting with him in an hour. Boxer, you and Conklin talk to Whitney. Lean on him, hard. Whoever talks first gets a deal. The other guy gets the jackpot.”

Back at my desk, I called Whitney’s cell and left a message, the first of three. Conklin said, “Maybe this has to be done in person. I’ll be right back.”

And ten minutes later he was.

“Whitney isn’t in and hasn’t called in,” Conklin said. “But I’m gonna say he already got the message.”

We headed over to Brady’s see-through office. He looked up and said, “Brand didn’t show.”

Conklin said, “Likewise, Whitney hasn’t punched in. Hasn’t returned our calls.”

It was a good bet that Whitney and Brand had split. And without them, we might never find out who had killed Calhoun, who had ripped off Wicker House and killed seven people and a snitch called Rascal Valdeen. We might never know who had killed the dope slingers in the crack house, another half dozen pushers, or the innocent owners of a couple of check-cashing stores. And there was the matter of that mercado shooting. Maya Perez had died along with her unborn child.

I felt like we were on the verge of everything or nothing. And suddenly, my refried brain kicked up the obvious candidate for the job of “One.”

I’d thought of him before, but his all-American good looks and kind manner had thrown me off my guard. Currently, he wasn’t on our radar at all.

I sat down across from Brady so I didn’t have to speak from the open doorway. “What about Swanson?”

“What are you saying? You think he’s in on this?”