James Patterson - 11th hour

Chandler said, “Wow, are you stupid.”

The actor shoved the reporter toward the edge again, still holding on to the front of his shirt.

“Don’t do it, Mr. Chandler. My camera. It cost me two thousand dollars.”

Chandler snatched the camera off Blayney’s neck, then pushed the reporter into the water.

The water was shocking, but Blayney was loving this encounter. He spat water, then started laughing. He popped his shoulder back in, then swam to one of the davits and wrapped both arms around it. A life preserver splashed into the water and Blayney grabbed it.

He was still laughing when he called out, “I like how you express yourself, Mr. Chandler. Illegal actions are better than a quote.”

Blayney found a rung of a rope ladder and hauled himself out of the bay, thinking, Oh man, how great is this? Harry Chandler had assaulted him.

He would have given a year’s salary for a picture or a witness. But anyway, the entire incident confirmed the monster quotient of this story.

He picked his camera up off the dock, snapped off some shots of Harry Chandler’s back. Life was good.

Bec Rollins, a PR biggie from the mayor’s office, was waiting for me when I got back to the Hall. She was sitting in Conklin’s chair.

Bec was intense, fierce, and she didn’t waste time.

“Hi, Bec, what the hell is wrong? And don’t say everything, because that’s my line.”

She gave me a fleeting grin, said, “Sit down, Lindsay. I think you want to see this.”

She showed me her iPad, and I saw a picture of me on the dock walking away from the camera.

“Wait. Where did that come from? This was taken today.”

Rollins scrolled down, showed me the headline on Jason Blayney’s article: “Heads Unearthed at Harry Chandler’s Pad; Boxer Investigates.”

I said, “What?” and began to read. My case was all over the Web. “Bec, Blayney knows what I know. Heads unearthed. Chandler’s house. Chandler’s boat. Someone leaked. But it wasn’t me.”

“I know, I know,” Rollins said. She took back her gizmo, said, “Here’s the thing, Lindsay. Blayney is a juvenile viper. He’s got a license to harass and nothing to lose. I don’t need to tell you how he can spin this story, poison any potential jury pool. He can make things hard for sources to come forward.”

“I’m not cooperating with him, Bec. I didn’t see him.”

“Gotcha. But be aware of him. Here’s what he looks like.”

She showed me the picture of a man in his twenties, dark hair, narrow eyes, a lot of teeth. He looked like a wolverine.

“He’s going to confront you, count on it. When he does, you’ve got to be wise and cool and act as if you’re approachable — but don’t tell him anything unless Brady says okay first.”

“Brady has talked to Blayney. Did you know that?”

“Yes. I knew. Let Brady do the talking for you on both of your cases. And here’s the other thing. Your friend Cindy.”

At the mention of Cindy’s name, my partner left the break room and came toward our desks. Bec Rollins leaned in and finished what she was saying.

“Cindy Thomas is an investigative reporter.”

“Don’t you think I know that?”

“Inevitably she’s going to want an inside track on this story.”

“For God’s sake. Are we done?”

“Lindsay, please keep in mind that whatever the press writes is worldwide and forever. Oh, hi, Rich,” Bec said to Conklin. “I’ll call you,” she said to me.

Conklin sat down and said, “What’s this about? Don’t tell Cindy anything?”

“Something like that,” I said.

Cindy Thomas is an honest, dedicated, and talented writer, and she has helped me solve crimes. That’s how good she is. The kind of bureaucratic bull Bec Rollins had brought into the squad room like a lame pony is exactly why I’d eventually said “No, thanks” to the corner office.

I’d committed to being a career homicide detective. I had to be better than good. I had to be excellent.

Conklin and I sat in the observation room, our hands cupped around containers of cold coffee, as Lieutenant Lawrence Meile and Captain Jonah Penny, from Vice and Narcotics, respectively, interviewed each of the three Narcotics cops whose names we’d tagged four hours before.

It was uncomfortable, yeah, and painful to see men I’d known for years being grilled about their whereabouts at the time Chaz Smith had been shot. In fact, no one was happy in that interrogation room, not the men asking the questions and especially not Sergeant Roddy Jenkins.

Jenkins kept his voice even, but I thought he was a picture of contained fury as Meile asked him to produce an alibi for Chaz Smith’s time of death — and he didn’t have one.

“I was just driving around. That’s what I like to do when I’m off duty.”

Meile said, “Come on, Roddy. It was two days ago. Where were you in the afternoon?”

“I was screwing your wife, Meile. Ask her. It was pretty good.”

Meile boiled out of his chair and went for him. Penny pulled Meile off Jenkins, and Conklin got into the room in time to stop Jenkins from throwing a punch.

“Roddy. Roddy. Settle down.”

Jenkins acted like Conklin wasn’t there. He shouted at Meile, “I said I was driving around. What? Are you fuckin’ kidding me? You accusing me of taking out that douche bag? I’m not saying another fuckin’ word until my fuckin’ lawyer is sitting next to me.”

Roddy’s name was still on the short list when he threw down his badge and gun and stormed out of the interview room shouting, “Fuck you. Fuck all a’ you.”

Conklin returned to the observation room, said, “That could’ve gone better.”

I said, “I don’t mind seeing his temper. He’s organized. He’s got a lot of years on the force. He’s smart enough to have waited in the bathroom for Smith, and if he was mad, I don’t doubt he would have pulled the trigger. And get two shots dead center too.”

“He’s worked in the department long enough to get a hate-on for dealers.”

“Yeah.”

I crumpled my coffee container, dunked it into the trash, answered my ringing phone.

I hoped the call was from Joe; it wasn’t, but it was almost as good. Claire was calling.

“Got a couple of minutes for me, girlfriend?”

I said to Conklin, “Claire wants to see me. If she had nothing on the heads, she would’ve said so on the phone, right?”

“We’ve got an interview in a few minutes, Linds.”

“I’ll be right back.”

I jogged down the stairs to the lobby, stiff-armed the back door, and trotted along the breezeway to the ME’s office.

I found my BFF in the chill of the morgue. Her lab coat with the butterfly applique on the breast pocket was buttoned up to her neck and she was wearing sweatpants under that.

“Summertime” was playing loudly on the radio, the San Francisco Symphony’s version. Claire’s husband, Edmund, plays cello in the orchestra.

“Dr. Perlmutter just sent me a status report,” Claire shouted. She turned down the volume.

“Uh-huh, uh-huh, what’d she say?”

“Here’s what you want to know,” Claire said. “None of those skulls belonged to Cecily Chandler.”

“Not that I’m doubting you, but what did she say exactly?”

“Cecily Chandler had A-one perfect teeth,” Claire told me. “And not all of them were homegrown. Her dental records do not match the dentistry in any of the skulls.”

I felt let down.

I hadn’t been as certain as the supermarket tabloids were that Harry Chandler murdered his wife, but if Cecily Chandler’s head had been discovered in Chandler’s garden, I would have been more convinced that he was our killer.