11th hour

Chapter 61

I opened the front door to our apartment on Lake Street and heard La Traviata, saw a leather jacket hanging on the coatrack in the hall. Joe called out to me, and Martha did her amazingly fast twenty-yard dash from the living room to the foyer, concluding with a four-point leap against my body. And then there was Joe, big, adorable, his arms open.

Tears jumped into my eyes.

I was so glad to see my husband that I was mad — you could say irrationally pissed off — that he had been away for so long when I wanted him at home.

Joe put his arms around me. I gave him a peck and struggled to get out of his embrace, but he wouldn’t let me escape.

“Hey, hey, it’s me, Linds. I’m here.”

“Damn it. My hormones are mad at you. And they’re mad at me too.”

“I know, I know.”

I gave in and hugged him so hard, Joe gasped dramatically, then laughed at me, said, “Air. I need air.”

He put an arm around my shoulder and walked me to the couch, sat down beside me, untied my shoes. He pulled my feet into his lap and began giving me a foot massage from heaven.

“Can I get you anything to eat?” he asked me.

“I had dinner.”

“How’s our kid?”

“We’re both just fabulous.”

“You were going to work less, sleep more.”

“Joe. I’m lead investigator on two black-hole cases. What do you expect me to do?”

“Talk to me.”

“When did you get home?”

“An hour ago. Talk to me, Linds.”

“I’m so frustrated I cannot express it.”

“Give it a shot.”

My husband gave me a gorgeous smile, and finally I gave it up. I told Joe about the cop killer, everything that had happened since Chaz Smith, undercover federal agent, had been killed in the men’s room of the music academy.

I told him about the three drug dealers and our working hypothesis that they had been pulled over by a cop-like man with wigwag lights and probably grille lights too who had almost certainly shot them and torched the car. That he’d used the gun that had killed Chaz Smith, which had been stolen from the property room at the Hall.

Hardly taking a breath, I filled Joe in on the shooting of Raoul Fernandez in the mall last night. “Four shots to the face in a nice tight pattern, like the guy’s mug was a target and the shooter was standing five feet away.”

I told my husband about Brady’s theory, that Jacobi was the killer.

“Jacobi? Our Jacobi? Warren Jacobi?”

“He says that Jacobi is still holding a grudge about those drugged-up kids shooting us on Larkin Street. That what he’s heard is that Jacobi has never been the same. Brady says, and I have to agree, that Jacobi could have gotten the weapons out of the property room without anyone noticing.

“And then Brady says that while Jacobi was on leave getting his hip replaced, he had the time and opportunity to take out about eight dealers — that we know about. Oh yeah, and Jacobi had a meltdown last year when some kids OD’d because of some bad horse.”

“He threw a chair, as I remember.”

“Right. Big deal. I’ve thrown chairs.”

“Have you thrown a chair at a person during an interrogation? Have you?”

I sighed. “No.”

“When was the last time you saw Jacobi?”

“About a half an hour ago. I just had dinner with him.”

Joe said, “If Brady is right — I said if — and Jacobi has gone off the rails, he could be dangerous if he thinks you’re onto him, Lindsay. Dangerous to you.”