11th hour

Chapter 39

At 8:00 A.M. we were in an unmarked Chevy Malibu, Conklin at the wheel.

“I slept on the couch again last night,” he told me. “If this keeps up, I’ve got to upgrade to a king-size couch. Or cut my feet off.”

“Cindy’s upset, you’re saying?”

“She said it was because I stunk and whatnot, but it wasn’t the smoke in my hair, Linds. She’s pissed.”

“I know. I know. What should we do? Tell her we’re looking for a cop who’s taking out drug dealers? Then she’ll get the scoop, and we’ll be whistling and wearing white gloves directing traffic.”

Conklin laughed. “That’s not funny.”

“She’ll get over this.”

“When?”

“Sorry I can’t do more to help your love life,” I said. “She’s mad at me too, you know.”

Conklin laughed again, said, “Yeah, but you’re sleeping in your bed, am I right?”

He made the turn onto the wide and beautiful stretch of Vallejo Street, now barricaded and three reporters deep on the sidewalks. I saw the local guys as well as some press displaying decals of various countries’ flags on their satellite vans.

There was nothing like severed heads at the home of a movie star who’d once been tried for murder to bring out inquiring minds from all nations.

I was recognized and a small mob stampeded toward our car even as a uniformed cop pivoted a sawhorse to let the car through.

“There’s your friend,” Conklin said to me, indicating the young guy at the front of the barricade who was taking pictures and looking very pleased with life. It seemed like Jason Blayney didn’t ever have bad days.

“Yeah. My friend.” I snorted. “Wants to have lunch with me.”

“You going to do it?”

“Be serious.”

We drove up to a space in front of the mansion, left the car under the protection of the men and women of the SFPD, then went through the gate.

Ricky Perez, Harry Chandler’s gardener, was sitting on the front steps of the Ellsworth house waiting for us. He was in his twenties, and his massive upper-body musculature showed under his sweatshirt and plaid flannel jacket.

He also had a great smile.

This kid was in charge of the trophy garden. He was too young to have been caretaking the Ellsworth garden when the heads were first buried there. But I hoped he could lead us to a killer with the sensibility of a department-store window dresser and the bloodlust of Jeffrey Dahmer.