11th hour

Chapter 89

A hall light blazed inside the house, then the main floor lit up. Someone peeked through the fan light in the door. The door opened and a woman in a thin yellow robe, her face lined with sleep, asked, “Can I help you?”

I showed her my shield and introduced Conklin, who holstered his weapon. I asked the woman if she was Becky Randall and she said that she was. I told her in a few words that we were investigating a shooting that had taken place in the last hour.

“I don’t see how I can help,” she said, “but my husband is on the force. William Randall. He’s with Vice.”

“Where is your husband now, Mrs. Randall?” Conklin asked.

“He’s upstairs, sound asleep.”

“We have to talk to him.”

“Sure. Please stay here. Lots of sleeping kids and I want them to stay that way. I’ll go and wake Will up.”

More squad cars were streaming onto the block from both directions. Becky Randall understood suddenly that we weren’t conducting a routine canvass.

She said, “What’s going on?”

“Please come with me, Mrs. Randall,” I said. I took her arm and guided her firmly onto the outside landing, after which Conklin put his big foot between the woman and her front door.

I said, “An officer will stay with you until we’ve spoken with your husband.”

I walked the loudly protesting Becky Randall down the steps and turned her over to Officer Cora. I used the time to get myself together.

It didn’t matter how many people were going through Randall’s front door. We were all at risk: my baby, my partner, the Randall kids, and the guys who were taking orders from me.

I followed Conklin across the threshold with my gun in hand, switching on lights as we went through the house. I signaled to the uniforms to fan out on the second floor, and after the main floor was cleared and contained with a cop standing outside every bedroom door, Conklin and I proceeded upstairs to the attic.

As I had thought, there were two rooms on the attic floor. One of the bedroom doors was open. I could see the entire room from the hallway: there was a young man lying in a hospital bed, a mobile of mirrored stars gently swaying above him.

He turned his eyes to me, said, “Ahh.”

I threw on the lights, searched the room, then waggled my fingers at the boy and shut the door.

The door to the second room was closed.

Conklin and I flanked the door and then I knocked.

“Sergeant Randall? This is Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD. Don’t be alarmed. We just have some questions for you. Please come to the door and open it, slowly. Then step back and put your hands on your head.”

He said, “ Who is it?”

I repeated my name, heard floorboards creaking, and then the voice came through the door again.

“I’m not armed,” he said. “Don’t shoot.”

The door swung open, and standing a few feet inside the doorway was William Randall. He was wearing blue boxers and his hands were folded on top of his dark hair.

There was a tattoo on his chest, an eagle with wings spread and two-inch-high letters inked under that emblem. I knew the words, of course. It was the motto of the City of San Francisco,

and also of the SFPD.

Oro en paz. Fierro en guerra.

Gold in peace. Iron in war.

Apparently it was William Randall’s motto too.