Rick Mofina - If Angels Fall

NUNN Paul and Nancy are thrilled to welcome their second bundle ofjoy, a little sister for Alexander. Gabrielle Michelle was born 4:12 p.m.,April 12, weighing 6lbs, 9oz. Thanks to Dr. Cook and the nurses at MetroHospital.

Gabrielle and the month were circled in red.

Gabrielle. Gabriel.

Gabriel. God’s ambassador to the world. The Angel whoheralded Christ’s birth.

He had found Gabriel. He turned the page to a recentcolor photograph of Gabriel Nunn smiling. Soaring on a park swing near herhome. He smiled back, then flipped to a picture of Gabrielle hugging her dog,Jackson. Opposite, was Jackson’s missing-reward poster. Keller reached down toJackson sitting at his feet, patted his head, and sighed ad he flipped throughpages of documents, detailed information, notes, and photographs of the Nunnsand Gabrielle. She was going to turn six very soon. Alisha was six. Born inJune.

It was time. It was time.

Keller closed the binder

Long into the night he rocked with Danner Beckersleeping on his lap. Drifting to sleep himself, he recalled the lines of DorisWhite’s long-forgotten poem, “My Angel.” “Their coffins were opened and allwere set free, behold my Angel with the jeweled key.”

Sunrise. Fog shrouded the city.

Inspector Linda Turgeon came out of her neat house onupper Market and deposited herself into Sydowski’s unmarked Caprice Classic.

“Good morning.” She yawned, accepting the steaming7-Eleven coffee cup he handed her. “Thanks.”

“Sleep well?”

“Not a wink.” She placed her copy of Perry WilliamKindhart’s file with his on the seat between them.

Traffic was light on Market, which would take themdirectly to SoMa, Kindhart’s most recent address.

“What’s your take on Kindhart?” Sydowski said.

“He’s our best potential connection to Donner. Amolester who did time with Wallace in Virginia. We know Wallace did not actalone and that Kindhart was in San Francisco during the time of Donner’sabduction and death.

“But in the picture, the hooded guy holding Donner hasa tattoo. Kindhart doesn’t.”

“Mr. Tattoo is the only guy we know of, right now.Maybe others are involved. Maybe Kindhart has nothing to do with it, but he mayknow something. Like who the tattoo is. I think we’d be remiss if we didn’tgive Kindhart a good shake to see what falls out.”

Sydowski nodded approvingly.

Turgeon was pleased. They were on the same frequency.Partners.

The fog was lifting when they glided into downtown. Atthe edge of the Tenderlion, the streets were strewn with used condoms andhypodermic needles. A few hookers were still working. One hiked her shirt,squatted, then urinated on the sidewalk at Market and Larkin.

“Will you look at that.” Sydowski shook his head.“Somebody otta call a cop.”

Turgeon burst out laughing. “So you do have a sense ofhumor,” she said.

“Damn right. I’m a fun guy. Ask anybody.”

“I did.”

“Did a little background checking, did you?”

“Mm-mmm.”

“What’d you come up with?”

“You live alone in Parkside. You raise birds. You’vecleared more files than anyone else in the detail’s history. You’ve refusedpromotions because the job’s in your blood. The Donner case haunts you and youprobably won’t retire until you close it.”

“Anything else.”

“People tell me you’re an arrogant Polack hard-ass.”

“I should put that on a T-shirt.”

“They also say that after Brooks, you’re the finestHomicide dick at Golden State’s ever seen.”

“I should put that on a T-shirt, to remind Leo.”

“But there’s a disturbing side to you I am curiousabout.”

“I may take the Fifth, here.”

“Is it true you killed a guy, shot him?”

Sydowski grew pensive. “It was during the war. I was akid.”

“What happened?”

He gazed out the driver’s window. “I’ll tell youanother time?”

“Sure.”

“What about you? I don’t see a ring-you married?”

Turgeon peered into her coffee cup. “Came close.”

“Yeah”

“An architect.”

“An architect?”

“Met him after his house in Marina was burglarized.”

“Thank God for criminals.”

“We lived together for a year, talked about kids, thefuture. Everything was rosy. We set a date. You know the tune.”

“This were the violins come in?”

“Wanted me to leave the job. It was too dangerous forhim. He wanted me to quit the force, stay at home, look after the cats. He wasasking too much. To quit would be denying what I am.”

“And what’s that, Linda?”

She looked at him. “A cop. I’m a cop like you,Walter.”

“Like your old man. You mean.”

“Yeah. I mean, my biological clock is ticking down andI still want to get married, have kids. But it’s just that when my dad wasmurdered, I vowed to be a cop and now I am one. I can’t give it up.”

They left it at that as they rolled into SoMa, Southof Market.

“They used to call this ‘south of the slot’ for thecable car line that ran through here.” Sydowski said.

“You’re betraying your age, Walt.”

“Used to be a helluva neighborhood.”

SoMa was now the realm of machine shops, warehouses,Vietnamese restaurants, and gay bars. Latinos who fled Central America’sbloodbaths made their home here in decaying tenement houses, which were thequarry of visionary developers who bitched over cell phones about SanFrancisco’s sunshine codes and zoning laws. Red tape kept SoMa on life support.They wanted to pronounce last rites.

Kindhart’s building had risen from the rubble of the1906 quake and fire, a small hotel that evolved into a bordello, a shootinggallery, then a fleabag apartment complex. All it offered now was a view of theJames Lick Skyway, Interstate 80, the Bay Bridge, and Oakland.

Sydowski and Turgeon climbed the creaking stairs tothe creaking stairs to the third floor and pounded on Kindhart’s door. It was5:45 a.m. No answer. Sydowski pounded again, harder.

“Mr. Kindhart?” he called loudly.

Sydowski continued pounding. Down the hall a dooropened, and a one-armed man stepped from his apartment.

“Knock off that shit,” he growled.

Sydowski flashed his shield. “Mind your own business.”

“Fucking pigs.” The man’s door slammed.

Sydowski resumed pounding.

“Who the fuck is it?” a deep voice snarled fromKindhart’s unit.

“Police, Mr. Kindhart, we’d like to talk to you.”

“Fuck off. I won’t talk to you.”

“We’re investigating a case. Won’t look good if yourefuse to cooperate, Mr. Kindhart.”

There came a string of unintelligible cursing, amattress squeaked, empty bottles clinked, then more cursing, locks wererattled, and the door opened. Shirtless, unshaven, torn Levi’s yielding to hispot belly. He held the door defensively, reeking of alcohol, assessingSydowski, then Turgeon.

“May we come in?” Sydowski said. “We’d like to talk toyou.”

“What about?” One of Kindhart’s lower front teeth wasmissing, the survivors were rotting.

“Franklin Wallace,” Turgeon said.

“Franklin Wallace?” Kindhart scratch his whiskers.“Franklin Wallace?”

“Prison. Virginia. Think hard,” Sydowski said.

Lying was futile. Kinhart surrendered his door, wentto the kitchen of his studio apartment, put on a kettle for coffee, sat at histiny kitchen table, and lit a Lucky Strike.

“Hurry it up, I gotta go to work.” He exhaled, rubbinghis eyes.

Turgeon looked around. Sydowski joined Kindhart at thetable.

“What kind of job you have, Perry?”

“You know the fucking answer to that. So why are youhere?”