11th hour

Chapter 51

By the time I got back to my desk, Cindy’s featured story about the press conference was the front page of the Chronicle online.

Cindy’s headline:

ONE ELLSWORTH VICTIM IDENTIFIED; SFPD STILL SCRAMBLING.

I scanned the article.

Cindy’s lede was about Marilyn Varick, her background, her triumphs. The second paragraph detailed her more recent decline. There was a picture of Marilyn coming out of the ocean with her surfboard, and then Marilyn Varick was left behind as the article steamed ahead.

Although Marilyn Varick has been identified, six victims remain unnamed. Sergeant Lindsay Boxer of Homicide admitted this morning that the SFPD still has no suspects and no leads to solving the crimes committed at the Ellsworth compound.

I finished reading Cindy’s irritating story and wondered if I was paranoid.

I said to Conklin, “I’m starting to pick up a bash-Boxer trend in the media. Do I look like a pinata to you?”

He glanced up, said, “A little bit. Your bangs, maybe. Why do you ask?”

He laughed. I stuck out my tongue and said, “Well then, I’m going to be the best pinata I can be.”

Just then, Brady’s door opened. He stood there and stared across the bullpen, then called the two of us into his office.

Brady looked like he’d been sleeping facedown on his desk. His skin was ashen and he had swollen bags under his eyes. Whatever was on his mind, I could tell it was bad.

Brady said, “I just got a heads-up that Chaz Smith’s society wife is going public. Big-time. Prime time. Her interview with Katie Couric is going to air tonight.”

I grabbed the one side chair and Conklin leaned his tail-bone against the credenza. He asked, “What’s the gist of the story?”

“Mrs. Smith says that her husband was an undercover cop. That the SFPD screwed up, of course. Narcotics is going to take the heat for Smith, but his murder is going to get connected to the ones last night in the hood, and therefore, Homicide will also take a beating.”

I looked at the stacks of personnel folders on his desk. Brady saw me looking and went on. “I asked for a rundown of all police personnel who have been suspended or canned. Or who have had some sort of major meltdown due to either a one-off incident or the cumulative wear and tear of being a cop.

“I went over every cop’s file in every department.”

He dragged his chair out from behind his desk and dropped into it. He sighed, then looked at me and Conklin. “It makes me sick to have to say it, but the person on the top of my list is your old partner, Boxer. Yours too, Conklin. Warren Jacobi.”

I almost had a meltdown myself.

Spots blinked on and off in front of my eyes and I thought for a minute that I was going to faint.

Jacobi was on medical leave. He hadn’t punched a time clock in months. He was tough, but he was not a vigilante. I refused to believe otherwise.

I finally managed to say, “Boss, that’s not possible. With all due respect, you don’t know Warren Jacobi. At all.”