James Patterson - 11th hour

“What time is it?”

“Just after one thirty,” Conklin said. “Brady called. There’s been a shooting in the alley behind Zeus. A drug dealer took some shots to the head and chest.”

“Randall couldn’t have done it. Could he?”

Conklin repeated what Brady had told him: a busboy had seen two men pass through the kitchen. The one identified as the victim was known to the busboy as a dealer. The second man was six feet tall, dark-haired, and looked like the narc who’d busted the busboy’s cousin five years before.

“The busboy was shown a photo array,” Conklin told me, “and tentatively identified Randall. He couldn’t be a hundred percent sure.”

William Randall was dark-haired, six one, and had spent five years in Narcotics — but I was staring at his car. It hadn’t moved.

Randall must have left the house by the back door, taken some other vehicle to Zeus, and shot the dealer while I was taking a snooze. It was quite possible.

We had agreed not to use the radio, so I called Brady on his cell, told him I wanted to go into Randall’s house, see if our man was missing or if he was asleep in his bed.

Brady said, “If Randall is home, treat him with all due respect. He’s Meile’s pet.”

What if William Randall was home and had committed tonight’s shooting? That meant he had most likely committed all of the shootings we attributed to Revenge.

The Randall house was full of kids.

What if Randall took his children hostage?

What if he decided to make a stand?

If I had been wearing boots, I would have been shaking in them, thinking about all of the truly bad things that could happen if we went into Randall’s house. But I saw no choice. If he knew he was being watched, there was no telling what he would do. We had to get him away from his children.

“Screw Meile’s pet. Send backup,” I told Brady. “Send everything you’ve got. If I’m right, I don’t want to play patty-cake with this guy. If I’m wrong, I’ll apologize to him. Profusely.”

Two unmarked cars arrived within minutes. I told the officers to park on Golden Gate, then proceed to the back of the Randall house on foot and cover the exit. And I told them that the suspect was a cop.

“If you encounter him, he could be wearing a uniform or he could ID himself as a cop. Treat him as you would any suspect who is armed and dangerous.”

More cars streamed silently onto Elm, their sirens and headlights off. I briefed six more unis, told them that we had a murder suspect inside the house, that he was armed and dangerous, that there were five children and at least two other adults inside.

I sketched out a plan, and then Conklin and I went up the long flight of outdoor steps that led to the front door. Conklin stood back with his gun drawn.

I rang the bell and then knocked, calling out, “Sergeant Randall. This is the police.”

I prayed that we could reason with William Randall.

I prayed that bullets weren’t going to come flying through the door.

A hall light blazed inside the house, then the main floor lit up. Someone peeked through the fan light in the door. The door opened and a woman in a thin yellow robe, her face lined with sleep, asked, “Can I help you?”

I showed her my shield and introduced Conklin, who holstered his weapon. I asked the woman if she was Becky Randall and she said that she was. I told her in a few words that we were investigating a shooting that had taken place in the last hour.

“I don’t see how I can help,” she said, “but my husband is on the force. William Randall. He’s with Vice.”

“Where is your husband now, Mrs. Randall?” Conklin asked.

“He’s upstairs, sound asleep.”

“We have to talk to him.”

“Sure. Please stay here. Lots of sleeping kids and I want them to stay that way. I’ll go and wake Will up.”

More squad cars were streaming onto the block from both directions. Becky Randall understood suddenly that we weren’t conducting a routine canvass.

She said, “What’s going on?”

“Please come with me, Mrs. Randall,” I said. I took her arm and guided her firmly onto the outside landing, after which Conklin put his big foot between the woman and her front door.

I said, “An officer will stay with you until we’ve spoken with your husband.”

I walked the loudly protesting Becky Randall down the steps and turned her over to Officer Cora. I used the time to get myself together.

It didn’t matter how many people were going through Randall’s front door. We were all at risk: my baby, my partner, the Randall kids, and the guys who were taking orders from me.

I followed Conklin across the threshold with my gun in hand, switching on lights as we went through the house. I signaled to the uniforms to fan out on the second floor, and after the main floor was cleared and contained with a cop standing outside every bedroom door, Conklin and I proceeded upstairs to the attic.

As I had thought, there were two rooms on the attic floor. One of the bedroom doors was open. I could see the entire room from the hallway: there was a young man lying in a hospital bed, a mobile of mirrored stars gently swaying above him.

He turned his eyes to me, said, “Ahh.”

I threw on the lights, searched the room, then waggled my fingers at the boy and shut the door.

The door to the second room was closed.

Conklin and I flanked the door and then I knocked.

“Sergeant Randall? This is Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD. Don’t be alarmed. We just have some questions for you. Please come to the door and open it, slowly. Then step back and put your hands on your head.”

He said, “ Who is it?”

I repeated my name, heard floorboards creaking, and then the voice came through the door again.

“I’m not armed,” he said. “Don’t shoot.”

The door swung open, and standing a few feet inside the doorway was William Randall. He was wearing blue boxers and his hands were folded on top of his dark hair.

There was a tattoo on his chest, an eagle with wings spread and two-inch-high letters inked under that emblem. I knew the words, of course. It was the motto of the City of San Francisco,

and also of the SFPD.

Oro en paz. Fierro en guerra.

Gold in peace. Iron in war.

Apparently it was William Randall’s motto too.

It was a grim scene in the squad room that night.

Randall’s superiors, past and present, stamped their feet and yelled at Brady for the way Conklin and I had extracted Randall from his home.

Brady shouted back, “If he’s the doer, he’s killed six people this week. Do you get that?”

Brady defended us and said that we had done the job right.

But I was starting to wonder.

While we were walking Randall out of his house, the busboy had retracted his tentative ID, saying he wasn’t sure he’d picked the right guy out of the six-pack. So while the busboy’s memory was still fresh, Brady called for a lineup.

Conklin fit Randall’s general description so he was drafted to stand with Randall. Four random justice department workers filled in the ranks.

I stood behind the glass with the busboy as six men filed across the room and took their places at the height board. Each man stepped forward, turned left, turned right, and stepped back.

I held my breath as the busboy asked for Randall to step forward again. The busboy ID’d him — then when Meile said, “Are you absolutely sure?” the kid changed his mind and positively ID’d Morris Greene, an assistant DA who’d been pulling an all-nighter before we’d drafted him for the lineup.

What now?

Brady’s expression was resolute.