11th hour

Chapter 76

The fog frizzed my hair as Conklin, Cindy, and I huddled together on Ellsworth Place. The street was short and narrow, kind of romantic, and unusual in that it met up with Pierce at one end, Green on the other, forming a right triangle.

The west side of Ellsworth was lined with newer houses in various styles. The houses across the street, the ones that were part of the Ellsworth compound, were all no-frills brick, built as servants’ quarters in the late 1890s at the same time the main house was constructed. I could almost hear the sound of horses pulling buggies up the street.

While I gazed around, Conklin tightened the straps on Cindy’s Kevlar vest, helped her into an SFPD windbreaker.

I waited until Cindy was cinched up, then gave her a summary of Harry Chandler’s minor houses.

“Nicole Worley, the caretakers’ daughter, lives in number two. She’s in her midtwenties, works in animal rescue. Stays here to keep an eye on her folks. Harry’s driver, T. Lawrence Oliver, lives in number four, rent free. It’s an employment perk. Numbers six and eight had tenants at one time but are empty now.”

Conklin added, “Three of these houses don’t have any windows facing the garden in back; one of them has a single window facing it. Number six. When I was in the garden the first time, I noticed that window. Nicole Worley told me that the building was boarded up. If someone is squatting there, he could be our perp.”

As we talked, the fine mist turned to rain.

We discussed who was going to do what. Conklin asked Cindy to get back into the car until we could clear the scene. She reluctantly agreed, then Conklin and I went up the steps to the front door.

I knocked, Conklin called out, and then I rapped on the door with the tarnished brass knocker. When no one answered, Conklin tried turning the knob, but it was frozen solid, the door possibly bolted from the inside.

After a few words with Cindy through the car window, we headed for the backyard and bushwhacked through the waist-high weeds and thistles that had grown thickly between numbers 4 and 6.

The rear aspect of the brick houses was forbidding. Each blind, windowless wall had a back door and a set of steps descending from it, and only a few feet in front of those steps was the looming ten-foot-high brick wall that blocked the view of the garden.

The back doors of 6 and 8 were boarded up, but as I neared number 6, I noticed that weeds had been pulled from around the steps and thrown off to the side. I poked around a little more, saw that the sheet of plywood at the door wasn’t nailed to the frame. It was simply leaning against it.

“Someone’s been in and out of here recently,” I said.

Conklin went up the steps and pulled the plywood away from the door, then banged on the door with his fist.

“Police. Open up,” Conklin said. “Or we’re coming in.”