Кроха - Dedication

Lined up with the fragmented pictures lay whole, untorn photographs taken at various crime scenes. The shoe patterns matched in both sets of pictures—but manufacturers turned out thousands of each model, Molena Point shops probably sold hundreds. Had Ben taken these shots because he thought Tekla might be the mugger, following a guess, laying out a possible scenario to see where it led?

But now, though the pictures could be a great breakthrough, the department still didn’t have the shoes to match them. Even what looked like Tekla’s shoe next to what looked like the remodel property was in fact circumstantial.

They needed the shoes themselves. Shoes might give them fingerprints and maybe DNA, evidence far more conclusive than a photograph. And still the officers were ahead of Joe. They knew which San Francisco trial was involved, they knew who had been convicted and with what sentence and would be looking for connections. But now suddenly, as Joe pretended to nap on the shelf, watching the chief shift a pile of papers and pull out his yellow notepad, there it was.

The answer. The missing piece of information for which he had hurried out of the house this morning after gulping breakfast, scorching away over the foggy roofs, never pausing at Dulcie’s cottage, making straight for the station. There on the yellow pad was the answer, neatly set down in Max’s angular handwriting, the information Joe had missed when he arrived at Celeste Reece’s house too late to hear all the facts.

12 November, San Francisco County Court: Trial of Herbert Gardner. Rape and murder of a minor. Guilty, all counts. Death penalty. Incarcerated San Quentin awaiting execution.

A list of the twelve jurors followed. Bonnie Rivers’s name was at the top. Max’s notation indicated that Bonnie’s husband, Gresham, had died when their car was forced off the road and down a cliff north of the Golden Gate, that Bonnie had been hospitalized with severe leg injuries.

The second name was a Jimmie Delgado. Joe scanned the attached newspaper clipping. Delgado was killed riding his bicycle at night on a slick San Francisco street during a heavy rain. The time was just past midnight. Delgado worked as a waiter. The bike was his only transportation. The driver was never found, there were no witnesses, no clue to the make or model of the car that caused his death. Rain washed away any skid marks. Dark blue paint streaks were found on the bike. The car, if it was ever found, might yield more evidence. Or not, Joe thought, aware of San Francisco PD’s heavy workload. If they’d found no viable suspect yet, they might soon file the case away among hundreds of others that remained unsolved. He read the list trying not to stretch up and peer over Max’s shoulder. What he wanted to do was drop down to the desk beside the chief where he could see clearly Max’s jotted notes.

The next two jurors were the Molena Point victims who had died, James Allen and Ogden Welder. Max noted that Merle Rodin had died but had not been a member of the jury, that Rodin had not been in San Francisco during the trial, and according to his wife, knew only what they saw on the news, to which Merle had paid little attention. The next juror, the third Molena Point murder victim, was Ben Stonewell.

Of the last seven jurors, three were still in the city. Citizens, Max had noted, too well known, of sufficient standing that the killer might have backed off, might be reluctant to attack them. Four jurors had moved away, two to the East Coast, one to Mexico, the other an uncertain destination. The moves had all occurred after the two “accidental” San Francisco deaths. Below the jury list were the names of Molina Point’s other four victims, who were not jury members, with a note:“Shills?” Attacks that had been set up to put MPPD off the trail? Most of them were elderly—was that choice meant to further mislead the purpose of the assaults?

Joe eased back on the shelf. Now they knew the why of the killings, to vindicate the convicted rapist. The murder victims had all been jurors, all but Merle Rodin. Maybe the guy hadn’t meant to kill Rodin, maybe Rodin did simply fall on that brick when he was attacked, a minor slip in the killer’s plan.

But Ben’s murder was no accident. Now the department had the motive for the killings, and the list of further possible victims. But did they have any suspect who might want vindication? Anyone connected to murderer Herbert Gardner?

“Gardner had no family,” Max said, startling Joe, answering almost as if Joe had asked. “No siblings, not one relative that the investigating officers found, not even a close friend. No one he ran with, no drinking buddy. No women he dated, which is strange. Except the young woman he killed,” Max added. “And nothing in the presentence report, either.”

But how good were those investigations? Joe wondered. How thorough was that particular assistant district attorney, how good are these new, young probation officers? He’d heard too many stories of sloppy work by young, newly hired government employees. How dedicated wasthe PO who did the presentence? Had he just jumped through the usual hoops and gone no further, had he not really cared?

Settling more comfortably on the bookshelf, tucking his paws under his chest, Joe thought about someone out there, still on the loose, eaten up with rage over the conviction of Herbert Gardner, someone who loved Gardner well. A girlfriend whom investigators had missed, a sibling or parent that the law hadn’t found? Sure as hell Gardner hadn’t committed those murders himself, locked up in Quentin waiting to die.

When Max’s private line buzzed, he ignored it as he and the two detectives laid out plans for a deeper investigation into Gardner’s background, a more thorough search than SFPD, the CBI, or the parole office had made—but a search to be conducted in cooperation with those departments. When the line buzzed again, again Max ignored it. He had finished giving the two detectives instructions when a faint sound beyond the closed door brought Joe alert.

No one else heard the brush of a soft sole on the hard linoleum. Joe stood up rigid, listening. Max was saying, “ . . . send Mike Flannery up to the city as soon as he gets home from Alaska, he can do some of the legwork, he’s a hell of a better investigator than . . .”

The sound came again, the presence had not moved away: someone was standing close against the door, listening. Silently Joe dropped from the bookshelf to the desk and down to the rug. He approached the closed door, ears back, his walk stiff, his growl rising. Behind him he could feel Max and the detectives watching him. Silently Dallas rose, his hand relaxed beside his holstered weapon; he jerked the door open.

Evijean Simpson stumbled and nearly fell. She caught herself against the doorjamb, her right fist lifted as if she’d been ready to knock. “There’s an urgent call from Detective Ray. Chief, can you pick up?”

Max glanced at the phone he’d ignored, nodded to her, and turned to answer. Evijean left, heading back to the front desk. Joe Grey leaped innocently onto Max’s desk and curled down yawning beside him, his head on the notepad as close to the phone as he could get. But Kathleen’s voice was too low; without the speaker on, he couldn’t hear much.

“He did?” Max was saying. “Where? I’ll be damned. Yes, get on over and pick him up.”

There was a murmur from Kathleen. Joe wanted to reach out a paw and turn on the speaker. Max said, “Retrieve what pictures you can, print them, too, then get both items to the lab. Ask them to move on it. As soon as you’re done, let’s see what you have.” He listened, then, “You bet,” he said, grinning. Hanging up, Max looked across at the detectives.

“The cell phone and notebook the snitch called about? Billy found them, near where Ben died.”