James Patterson - 11th hour

I dressed a little above my pay grade, buffed my shoes, and even put on lipstick. I kissed my dog good-bye and when I got into my car, I called Cindy and told her to meet me outside City Hall.

I drove to Van Ness, parked in an underground lot on McAllister, then walked across Civic Center Plaza. I knew I was putting myself at risk. But I owed Cindy a break.

I saw her standing under a linden tree thumbing on her BlackBerry. I called out to her and she put her phone away and came toward me, her blue eyes frisking my expression for clues.

I gave her a hug and she hugged me back.

We walked together through the park toward the formidable and impressive beaux arts building where the mayor’s office was located and where much of the city’s business was conducted.

“Here’s the deal. I’m an anonymous source,” I said. “Seven heads were disinterred from the Ellsworth garden. All were female, buried at different times over approximately a ten-year span. Those numbers that were written on index cards — ”

“One hundred and four and six thirteen. I can say that?”

“Yes.”

“What about the identity of that Jane Doe whose picture we ran yesterday?”

“Her name was Marilyn Varick, age thirty-three, unemployed, former surfing champion. Good enough?”

“Excellent. Thank you, Linds.”

We went up the steps to the imposing entrance to City Hall. I squeezed Cindy’s arm, then stepped away from her and headed into the rotunda.

The press conference was about to start.

Room 200 at City Hall is arranged like a courtroom. There’s the dais and the built-in wooden chairs, then a railing that sets the audience apart from the main action. The walls are painted cream, and there are video screens so that even those in the back of the room can see you sweat.

I stood on the dais and watched the gallery fill with press. Cindy took a seat in the third row and immediately bent her head over her laptop.

When the rear doors closed, the mayor stepped forward, adjusted the mike, greeted the press. Then he filled them in on an OIS, an officer involved in a shooting, that had happened last night in the Mission.

He played a 911 tape, then showed a dash-cam video of a man running at the cops with a sword, refusing to back away until he was finally, fatally, gunned down.

There was a brief silence in room 200, then hands shot up. The mayor fielded questions about the shooting, then took questions about the SFPD, specifically about the crime rate and why so many crimes were unsolved.

When the mayor had had enough, he introduced Lieutenant Jackson Brady and left the stage.

Brady advanced to the podium with his crib sheet and, holding it rigidly in front of him, began his prepared remarks.

“Three known drug dealers were shot last night on Schwerin Street and their car was set on fire. The men were dead when the fire started and the blaze pretty much obliterated all forensic evidence.”

Brady listed the victims’ names and said that the police were looking for the shooter; he said that the preliminary ballistics tests of the slugs found in the dead men’s bodies showed they were a match to the ones removed from the body of drug dealer Chaz Smith.

“We still have no leads to the shooter’s identity, but he does have a pattern. His victims are all drug dealers. The investigation is on the front burner. And that’s all I have for you now.”

Hands went up like an acre of beans sprouting in time-lapse photography, but Brady ignored them and said, “Sergeant Boxer will brief you on the case involving the remains at the Ellsworth place. Sergeant?”

And then he took a place to my right and all I could do was step forward.

I can give a speech when I have to, but I’d rather be on slops for a week than face the media in a formal setting. Fifty or sixty pairs of eyes focused on me as I took the microphone.

I said, “Good morning,” then got into it.

“Monday morning, two skulls were discovered at the back door of the main house in the Ellsworth compound. These skulls were unearthed by a person or persons unknown who dug them out of the back garden and may have gotten onto the property by breaking the lock on the front gate. Along with the two skulls were two index cards with the hand-printed numbers one hundred and four and six thirteen.”

Someone shouted, “That’s for the number of heads that were buried, right?”

“No,” I said. “We have no reason to believe that there are hundreds of heads. CSU has disinterred seven heads from the Ellsworth compound, all female, all unidentified, but we are working with forensics on attaching names to these victims and should have news later this week.”

“What about the identity of the Jane Doe whose picture ran in the Chronicle?”

“We’re withholding her name until we have a positive ID. We expect to have that information for you shortly.”

“What about Harry Chandler? Is he a suspect?”

“Mr. Chandler is cooperating fully with the police and he is not charged with any crimes.”

I felt like I was in a batting cage facing an automated pitching machine set on kill. Sweat beaded at my hairline. My voice caught in my throat as overlapping comments and questions came flying at me.

“But the heads were buried in Chandler’s backyard.”

“Where are the bodies?”

“Is it true that you have witnesses?”

“What happened to the bodies?”

“How were the victims killed?”

I avoided a few more inside fastballs, then Brady came to my rescue. He waved his hands and said, “Thank you, that’s all for today.”

I left the room through the back door. I went along the hallway, took the stairs down, then exited into the astonishingly beautiful rotunda.

I was glad to get into the sunshine, and the farther I got from room 200 the better. I was heading toward the garage when my phone buzzed. I looked to see — it was a text from Cindy.

You did good.

I smiled and put my phone back in my jacket pocket, then heard a man’s voice call my name.

Naturally, Jason Blayney had followed me. I should have made a bet, because I would have won money on it.

“No comment,” I said to Blayney. “I’m done commenting for the day.”

“Have lunch with me,” he said. “Please.”

I wanted to straighten Blayney out, on or off the record — and I wanted to know why he was on my case.

He saw me hesitate and set the hook. “How about St. Francis Fountain? They have a fabulous breakfast menu.”

He was talking about a classic old-timey eatery on the corner of Twenty-Fourth and York, built almost a hundred years ago.

I said, “Okay, okay, okay.”

I followed Blayney to the Fountain, parked my car where I’d be able to see it through the plate-glass window, and went inside.

The diner had a soda fountain on one side of the room, straight-backed wooden booths on the other side, and tables and chairs in the window apse. Blayney called out to me from the window table and I slid into a chair across from him.

The waitress came with the laminated menus listing your standard diner fare: burgers, club sandwiches, malts, and shakes.

I ordered decaf and toast. Blayney went for the big man’s breakfast: pancakes, chorizo hash, fried potatoes, high-octane java.

While we waited for the food, Blayney told me all about himself: his education, his job with the Times, his opportunity at the Post, and his determination to rule crime journalism.

The food came, and he talked while he ate, kept talking until there was nothing on his plate but a smear of syrup.

Then he placed his utensils on the upper right rim of the plate and told me that he believed in supporting the police department. And that he also believed that people have a right to know how the police department does its job.