14th Deadly Sin

CHAPTER 91

I CALLED JACOBI from my car and told him I was on the way. He barked, “Damn it, Boxer. Get your ass moving. We’re holding the meeting for you.”

He wasn’t kidding.

I said, “I’m ten minutes out,” and clicked off before I could bark back at him out of pure hurt-feelings reflex.

Of course my feelings were hurt.

Five years ago, when Jacobi and I were partners, we were both shot down in a dark alley in the Mission and almost died. I called in the “officers down” with what I thought would be my next-to-last breath. After that, Jacobi and I were bonded for life.

Yesterday, in a completely unrelated event, I’d interrogated a serial killer, which had been a lot like walking barefoot on the edge of a knife. I’d gotten the confession on video. All corners had been squared. Our solved cases rate shot up. Big day for the SFPD!

Today, I was late for a meeting with three men I trusted with my life, who trusted me with theirs. And Jacobi had chewed me out for being late.

I heard my dead father saying, Toughen up, Princess.

I have little love for my father, but this was right.

I had to toughen up. I applied the brakes about twelve inches before I rear-ended a minivan full of kids and dogs at the red light up ahead. I took a breath. A few of them.

I sat there and got my brains together, and when the light changed, I didn’t flip on the siren. I proceeded toward the Hall within the speed limit. I got to 850 Bryant at 8:46.

I parked in the all-day lot, tossed the keys to Carl, and crossed the street against the light. I badged security and took an elevator to the fifth floor.

When I walked into Jacobi’s office, three grim-faced men were sitting in “antiqued” leather furniture around a glass coffee table. The framed photos on the wall were of Jacobi with various politicos, and there was a shot of the two of us in our dress blues, receiving commendations from our former chief.

I stepped around Brady’s legs and took the seat next to Conklin. I felt better now. I was surrounded by friends, and I had myself back.

I said, “Sorry I’m late.”

Conklin passed me a container of coffee, no longer hot, but I knew he’d stirred in three sugars.

Brady said, “Chief, you want to tell her?”

I was saying, “Tell me what?” when Conklin said to me, “Robertson is dead.”

“Robertson?”

For a moment I didn’t know who the hell he was talking about, and then I got it. Kyle Robertson, Tom Calhoun’s partner, the fifty-something former beat cop looking for an early retirement as soon as possible.

“How did he die?” I asked the room.

Jacobi said, “He left his dog tied to the neighbor’s fence and stuck a note between the chain links. He put his badge on the dining table and then he sat down and ate his gun.”

“Aw, shit. What did the note say?” I asked.

“The note said, ‘I’m sorry. Please take care of Bruno. He’s a good boy.’ There was a check for the neighbor, a thousand bucks. Robertson signed and dated the note midnight last night. The neighbor called it in a couple hours ago.”

“What now?” I asked.

Jacobi said, “Deciding that is the job at hand.”