14th Deadly Sin

CHAPTER 101

RICH CONKLIN WAS waiting in a patrol car, parked in front of a row of three-story wood-frame buildings on Stockton Street in Chinatown. All the buildings were occupied by ground-floor retail businesses, while the top floors were mostly residential.

From where Conklin was parked, he had a full view of the downstairs deli-type greengrocer and the door next to it, which was the entrance to the lobby of the Sylvestrie Hotel, a rent-by-the-hour flophouse.

Conklin knew this place pretty well, having busted drug dealers and prostitutes there when he was a beat cop, before Lindsay got him moved up to Homicide.

What he remembered most about the Sylvestrie was that the rooms were pitifully furnished, with dirty sheets in the windows instead of curtains, and that the place vibrated nonstop from the air conditioning in the market downstairs.

This evening, Conklin had been on his way home when he’d gotten a tip from one K. J. Herkus, a CI and a small-time dope dealer. Herk lived and worked the streets in Chinatown, and he had recognized the narc with a short beard and John Lennon–type glasses who’d checked into the Sylvestrie.

Herk was hoping Conklin could hook him up with the narc with the glasses, that maybe he could make himself useful from time to time.

Conklin said, “Don’t approach him unless I say so, OK, Herk? He’s undercover. I’ll look for some work for you.”

Conklin had been watching the hotel for about two hours before Inspector Stan Whitney came out. Whitney went to the market, came out ten minutes later with a plastic bag of something, then reentered the hotel.

Conklin thought there was a good chance that Whitney had gotten take-out for dinner and wouldn’t be going out again. He thought about going into the hotel, getting Whitney’s room number, and knocking on the door.

But he quickly quashed the idea.

Whitney was likely desperate enough to introduce a loaded gun into the conversation. Conklin knew the best thing for him to do was continue to keep an eye on the door and be ready to tail the cop.

Conklin called Brady. He described Whitney’s denim shirt, jeans, and blue cap partially hiding his face, and asked for backup in an unmarked.

Brady took down the details and said, “Don’t lose him.”

Conklin resumed watching the door, and damn if Whitney didn’t walk out and take a right, then a tight left toward Vallejo.

Conklin let a car get in front of him, then pulled into traffic, in time for the light to turn red. When it changed to green, he could see Whitney, still proceeding south on Stockton through Chinatown, passing shops and bakeries, hands in his pockets, as if he had just gone out for a stroll.

Conklin tailed Whitney without incident, watched him take a left on Clay and another left on Kearny. He followed Whitney for another two blocks and was just behind him when the man in denim disappeared into Portsmouth Square Garage across from the Hilton.

Conklin parked in a no-parking zone with a view of the garage. A silver Chevy crawled past Conklin. The man in the driver’s seat was Officer Allen Benjamin, a cop Conklin knew. Conklin made radio contact with Brady, who said he was keeping a channel open and restricted to the three of them: Benjamin, Brady, and Conklin.

Benjamin drove ahead, parked his unmarked in front of a hydrant up the block, and waited there. At 8:15 p.m., ten minutes after entering the garage, a blue pickup with Texas plates rolled up out of the garage and took a right.

It was Whitney.

Conklin pulled ahead of Benjamin, and they took turns staying on the pickup’s tail. Whitney took a left on Washington, then another left on Stockton, the main drag through Chinatown, which was still congested with trucks making deliveries, as well as pedestrians and tourists in cabs taking in the evening lights.

Without warning, the truck Whitney was driving stopped at the intersection of Stockton and Bush just long enough for a thickly muscled guy to leave the sidewalk and get into the truck’s passenger seat.

Conklin recognized this passenger. It was Bill Brand, Whitney’s partner.

Neither Whitney nor Brand was in violation of the law, and stopping them would only tip them off. With two police cars shadowing it, the blue truck turned right on Sutter, went half a mile to Polk, and parked in an empty spot outside a nail salon.

When they got out of the truck, Whitney and Brand were wearing blue SFPD Windbreakers. They crossed the street to a gray stucco building with awnings and neon signs in the windows reading PAYDAY LOANS, CHECKS CHECKED, WESTERN UNION.

The check-cashing store was lit up inside and open for business. As Whitney and Brand reached the door, they removed masks from their pockets and pulled them on over their faces. The entry bell over the door jingled as the cops went inside.