11th hour

Chapter 16

I drove my husband to the airport through the maddening morning rush. Traffic was congested, gridlocked at the stoplights, and Joe’s flight would be leaving without him if we didn’t get clear roadway soon.

Still, I was glad for the drive time with Joe’s sharp, former-FBI-agent brain.

I buzzed up the car windows and beat the steering wheel for emphasis as I filled Joe in on the well-planned executions of four — yes, four — notorious drug dealers and told him that Narcotics was now asking Homicide for help.

Joe asked, “And why is Brady sure that Revenge is a cop?”

“The slugs that killed Chaz Smith match to a gun stolen from the property room, and all of the hits were so smoothly executed that the shooter had to know the dealers’ whereabouts. It’s like he had inside knowledge. Maybe it came from inside the Hall.”

I told Joe that all of the executed drug dealers were big-time and that Chaz Smith’s death had been a blow to the top floor of the SFPD.

“Smith’s real identity had been a very well-guarded secret, Joe. He headed up a large undercover operation that can’t be blown. Cops’ lives are on the line.”

Joe said, “Lindsay, this is a nasty case, and dangerous. Did your shooter know Smith was a cop? Maybe he did.”

It was a possibility, maybe a good one. I said, “Hang on,” then hit the departure ramp at fifty and pulled the car up to United Airlines’ curbside-check-in, no-waiting zone.

I shut off the engine, looked at my husband, and said, “Don’t go.”

“And you. Keep your head down. Don’t work more than one shift a day. Get some sleep tonight. Okay?”

We both grinned at the impossible demands, then got out of the car. I gave Joe a full-body hug and sprinkled tears on his neck.

We kissed, then Joe bent down and kissed my baby bump, making me giggle at the looks we got from two commuters and a luggage handler.

“Goofball,” I said, loving that Joe was my goofball.

“Don’t forget to eat. I already miss you.”

I kissed him, waved good-bye, watched him disappear into the terminal. Then I drove to the Hall.

Brady was waiting for me and Conklin inside his office. He closed the door, put the Post on his desk, and turned it so we could read Jason Blayney’s headline: “Revenge vs. the SFPD.”

Conklin hadn’t yet seen the story. He pushed his hair out of his eyes and began reading as I started talking.

“How does Blayney know so much about the Chaz Smith shooting?” I asked Brady. “Is a cop tipping him off?”

“Absolutely,” Brady said.

“Don’t look at me,” said Conklin. “My in-house crime reporter didn’t have either one of those stories. What does that tell you?”

“I’m the unnamed source on this one,” Brady said. “It was me.”

Conklin and I said, “What?” in unison.

“Blayney waylaid me. I told him that Chaz Smith’s killer was a pro. That’s all I gave him, but I like it. It puts this Revenge guy on notice. Gives him something to worry about.”