The Trial (4 page)

Joe and I were
dancing together close and slow. He had his hand at the small of my back, and the hem of my low-cut slinky red gown swished around my ankles. I couldn't even feel my feet because I was dancing on cotton candy clouds. I felt so good in Joe's arms—loved, protected, and excited, too. I didn't want this dance to ever end.

“I miss you so much,” he said into my ear.

I pulled back so I could look into his handsome face, his blue eyes. “I miss you—”

I never got out the last word.

My phone was singing with Brady's ring tone, a bugle call.

I grabbed for the phone, but it slipped out of my hand. Still half under the covers, I reached for it again, and by that time Martha was snuffling my face.

God!

“Boxer,” I croaked.

Brady's voice was taut.

“A juror was found dead in the street. Gunned down.”

I said, “No.”

He said, “'Fraid so.”

He told me to get on it, and I called Richie.

It was Saturday. Mrs. Rose was off, but I called her anyway. She sounded both half asleep and resigned but said, “I'll be right there.”

She crossed the hall in her robe and slippers and asked if I wouldn't mind taking Martha out before I took off.

After a three-minute successful dog walk I guzzled coffee, put down a PowerBar, and drove to Chestnut Street, the main drag through the Marina District. This area was densely lined with restaurants and boutiques, normally swarming with young professionals, parents with strollers, and twentysomethings in yoga pants.

All that free-spirited weekend-morning traffic had come to a dead halt. A crowd of onlookers had formed a deep circle at the barrier tape enclosing a section of street and the victim's body.

I held up my badge and elbowed my way through to where Conklin was talking to the first officer, Sam Rocco.

Rocco said, “Sergeant, I was telling Conklin, a 911 caller reported that one of the grand jurors in the Sierra jury had been ‘put down like a dog.'

“The operator said the caller sounded threatening. She got the street and cross street before the caller hung up,” Rocco continued. “Feldman and I were here inside of five minutes. I opened the victim's wallet and got her particulars. Sarah Brenner. Lives two blocks over on Greenwich Street. From the coffee container in the gutter, looks like she was just coming back from Peet's on Chestnut.”

“Anyone see the shooting?” I asked.

“None that will admit to it,” said Officer Rocco.

“Cash and cards in the wallet?”

“Yep, and she's wearing a gold necklace and a watch.”

Not a robbery. I thanked Rocco and edged around the dead body of a young woman who was lying facedown between two parked cars. She wore jeans and a green down jacket with down puffing out of its bullet holes, and nearby lay the slip-on mules that had been blown off her socked feet by the impact or the fall. Shell casings were scattered on the asphalt around the body, and some glinted from underneath the parked cars.

I lifted a strand of Sarah Brenner's long brown hair away from her face so that I could see her features. She looked sweet. And too young. I touched her neck to be sure she was really gone.
Goddamnit.

Putting Sarah Brenner “down like a dog” was a crude term for a professional hit meant to scare everyone connected with Sierra's trial. Inciting fear. Payback. Revenge.

It was just Kingfisher's style.

I thought he might get away with killing this young woman as he had done so many times before. He would hit and run again.

Monday morning Rich and
I reported to Brady what we had learned that weekend.

Rich said, “Sarah was twenty-five, took violin lessons at night, did paperwork for a dentist during the day. She had no boyfriend, no recent ex, and lived with two other young women and an African gray parrot. She had a thousand and twenty dollars in the bank and a fifty-dollar credit card balance for a green down jacket. No enemies, only friends, none known to have a motive for her killing.”

“Your thoughts?” Brady asked me.

“Maybe the King would like to brag.”

Brady gave me a rare grin. “Knock yourself out,” he said.

I took the stairs from our floor, four, to maximum security on seven. I checked in at the desk and was escorted to Sierra's brightly lit, windowless cell.

I stood a good five feet from the bars of the King's cage.

He looked like someone had roughed him up, and the orange jumpsuit did nothing for his coloring. He didn't look like the king of anything.

He stood up when he saw me, saying, “Well, hello, Officer Lindsay. You're not wearing lipstick. You didn't want to look nice for me?”

I ignored the taunt.

“How's it going?” I asked him.

I was hoping he had some complaints, that he wanted a window or a blanket—anything that I could use to barter for answers to questions that could lead to evidence against him.

He said, “Pretty good. Thank you for getting me a single room. I will be reasonably comfortable here. Not so much everyone else. That includes you, your baby girl, even your runaround husband, Joseph. Do you know who Joseph is sleeping with now? I do. Do you want to see the pictures? I can have them e-mailed to you.”

It was a direct shot to the heart and caught me off guard. I struggled to keep my composure.

“How are you going to do that?” I asked.

Sierra had an unpleasant, high-pitched laugh.

I'd misjudged him. He had taken control of this meeting and I would learn nothing from him about Sarah Brenner—or about anyone else. The flush rising from under my collar let both of us know that he'd won the round.

I left Jorge Sierra, that disgusting load of rat dung, and jogged down the stairs to the squad room, muttering, promising myself that the next point would be mine.

Conklin and I sat near the front of the room. We'd pushed our desks together so that we faced each other, and I saw that Cindy was sitting in my chair and Conklin was in his own. There were open Chinese food cartons between them.

I said hello to Cindy. Conklin dragged up a chair for her and I dropped into mine.

“Nice of you to bring lunch,” I said, looking at the containers. I had no appetite whatsoever. Definitely not for shrimp with lobster sauce. Not even for tea.

“I've brought you something even nicer,” she said, holding up a little black SIM card, like from a mobile phone.

“What's that?”

“This is a ray of golden sunshine breaking through the bleak skies overhead.”

“Make me a believer,” I said.

“A witness dropped this off at the
Chron
for me this morning,” Cindy said. “It's a video of the shooting at the Vault's bar. You can see the gun in the King's hand. You can see the muzzle aimed at Lucy Stone's chest. You can see the flare after he pulled the trigger.”

“This is evidence of Sierra shooting Stone on film?”

She gave me a Cheshire cat smile.

“The person who shot this video has a name?”

“Name, number, and is willing to testify.”

“I love you, Cindy.”

“I know.”

“I mean I
really
love you.”

Cindy and Rich burst out laughing, and after a stunned beat I laughed, too. We looked at the video together. It was good. We had direct evidence and a witness. Jorge Sierra was cooked.

No matter what kind
of crappy day life dealt out, it was almost impossible to sustain a bad mood at Susie's Café.

I parked my car on Jackson Street, buttoned my coat, and lowered my head against the cold April wind as I trudged toward the brightly lit Caribbean-style eatery frequented by the Women's Murder Club.

My feet knew the way, which was good, because my mind was elsewhere. Kingfisher's trial was starting tomorrow.

The media's interest in him had been revived, and news outlets of all kinds had gone on high alert. Traffic on Bryant and all around the Hall had been jammed all week with satellite vans. None of my phones had stopped ringing: office, home, or mobile.

I felt brittle and edgy as I went through the front door of Susie's. I was first to arrive and claimed “our” booth in the back room. I signaled to Lorraine and she brought me a tall, icy brewski, and pretty soon that golden anesthetic had smoothed down my edges.

Just about then I heard Yuki and Cindy bantering together and saw the two of them heading toward our table. There were kiss-kisses all around, then two of my blood sisters slid onto the banquette across from me.

Cindy ordered a beer and Yuki ordered a Grasshopper, a frothy green drink that would send her to the moon, and she always enjoyed the flight. So did the rest of us.

Cindy told me that Claire had phoned to say she would be late, and once Cindy had downed some of my beer, she said, “I've got news.”

Cindy, like every other reporter in the world, was covering the Sierra trial. But she was a crime pro and the story was happening on her beat. Other papers were running her stories under her byline. That was good for Cindy, and I could see from the bloom in her cheeks that she was on an adrenaline high.

She leaned in and spoke only loud enough to be heard over the steel drums in the front room and the laughter at the tables around ours.

She said, “I got an anonymous e-mail saying that ‘something dramatic' is going to happen if the charges against Sierra aren't dismissed.”

“Dramatic how?” I asked.

“Don't know,” Cindy said. “But I could find out. Apparently, the King wants me to interview him.”

Cindy's book about a pair of serial killers had swept to the top of the bestseller lists last year. Sierra could have heard about her. He might be a fan.

I reached across the table and clasped Cindy's hands.

“Cindy, do not even think about it. You don't want this man to know anything about you. I oughta know.”

“For the first time since I met you,” Cindy said, “I'm going to say you are right. I'm not asking to see him. I'm going to just walk away.”

I said, “Thank you, God.”

Lorraine brought Cindy her beer, and Yuki took the floor.

She said almost wistfully, “I know Barry Schein pretty well. Worked with him for a couple of years. If anyone can handle the King's drama, it's Barry. I admire him. He could get Red Dog's job one day.”

None of us would ever forget this very typical night at Susie's. Before we left the table, it would be permanently engraved in our collective memories. We were chowing down on Susie's Sunday-night special, fish fritters and rice, when my phone tootled. I had left it on only in case Claire called saying she wasn't going to make it. But it was Brady's ring tone that came through.

I took the call.

Brady gave me very bad news. I told him I was on my way and clicked off. I repeated the shocking bulletin to Cindy and Yuki. We hugged wordlessly.

Then I bolted for my car.

From the look of
it, the Scheins lived in a classic American dream home, a lovely Cape Cod on Pachecho Street in Golden Gate Heights with a princely view, two late-model cars, a grassy yard, and a tree with a swing.

Today, Pacheco Street was taped off. Cruisers with cherry flashers marked the perimeter, and halogen lights illuminated an evidence tent and three thousand square feet of pavement.

The first officer, Donnie Lewis, lifted the tape and let me onto the scene.

Normally cool, the flustered CSI director, Clapper, came toward me, saying, “Jesus, Boxer, brace yourself. This is brutal.”

My skin prickled and my stomach heaved as Clapper walked me to the Scheins' driveway, which sloped down from the street to the attached garage. Barry's body was lying faceup, eyes open, keys in his hand, the door to his silver-blue Honda Civic wide open.

I lost my place in time. The pavement shifted underfoot and the whole world went cold. I covered my face with my hands, felt Clapper's arm around my shoulders. “I'm here, Lindsay. I'm here.”

I took my hands down and said to Clapper, “I just spoke with him yesterday. He was ready to go to trial. He was ready, Charlie.”

“I know. I know. It never makes sense.”

I stared down at Barry's body. There were too many holes punched in his jacket for me to count. Blood had outlined his body and was running in rivulets down toward the garage.

I dropped enough f-bombs to be seen on the moon.

And then I asked Clapper to fill me in.

“The little boy was running down the steps right there to greet his father. Daddy was calling to the kid, then he turned back toward the street. Must have heard the shooter's car pull up, or maybe his name was called. He turned to see—and was gunned down.”

“How old is the child?”

“Four. His name is Stevie.”

“Could he describe what he saw?” I asked Clapper.

“He told Officer Lewis that he saw a car stop about here on the road at the top of the driveway. He heard the shots, saw his father drop. He turned and ran back up the steps and inside. Then, according to Lewis, Barry's wife, Melanie, she came out. She tried to resuscitate her husband. Their daughter, Carol, age six, ran away to the house next door. Her best friend lives there.

“Melanie and Stevie are in the house until we can get all of them out of here.”

“What's your take?” I asked Clapper.

“Either the driver tailed the victim, or he parked nearby, saw Schein's car drive past, and followed him. When Barry got out of the car, the passenger emptied his load. Barry never had a chance.”

We stepped away from the body, and CSIs deployed in full. Cameras clicked, video rolled, and a sketch artist laid out the details of the crime scene from a bird's-eye point of view. Techs searched for and located shell casings, put markers down, took more pictures, brought shell casings to the tent.

Conklin said, “Oh, my God.”

I hadn't heard him arrive but I was so glad to see him. We hugged, hung on for a minute. Then we stood together in the sharp white light, looking down at Barry's body lying at our feet. We couldn't look away.

Rich said, “Barry told me that when this was over, he was taking the kids to Myrtle Beach. There's family there.”

I said, “He told me he'd waited his whole career for a case like this. He told me he was going to wear his lucky tiepin. Belonged to his grandfather.”

My partner said, “Kingfisher put out the hit. Had to be. I wish I could ask Barry if he saw the shooter.”

I answered with a nod.

Together we mounted the brick front steps to the white clapboard house with black shutters, the remains of the Schein family's life as they had known it.

Now a couple of cops were going to talk to this family in the worst hour of their lives.