The 24th Hour, page 18
Schneider returned to the meeting, took his seat, and a few minutes later, Susan brought Officer Wells and Cates into the judge’s chambers. Cates looked defiant. Even the last few hours in a cell hadn’t softened him. Still cuffed, he took the chair beside his stern and florid attorney. Wells sat on a window ledge behind Cates so that he could reach him instantly if needed.
Yuki and Gaines sat opposite Cates and Schneider. Red Dog Parisi sat in the side chair beside the judge’s desk. The table was set.
Tyler Cates was on the menu.
Judge St. John said, “Mr. Cates. You’ve had time to reflect on your actions. Do you have anything to tell the court?”
“Like what?”
“Like, do you take responsibility for your actions against Ms. Hayes?”
“I have nothing to say that I didn’t already tell everyone in court and probably on national news. Were you listening?”
“Yes I was, Mr. Cates. Mr. Wells, will you please take Mr. Cates back to his cell.”
The attorneys remained in place and when the door was closed, His Honor addressed the room.
“Court will resume Monday at nine.”
CHAPTER 91
I’D HOPED THAT by going to Jamie’s funeral, his killer or a lead to that person would reveal himself, but the opposite had happened. I’d cleared no one, while adding additional potential suspects: Marly, Rae, and Christophe, to name three, and possibly Rafe, to add another.
I thought about Arthur: his attachment to Jamie, his twenty years of loyal service, his access to all things Jamie, and not least, his inheritance of more money from Jamie Fricke’s estate than he would earn in three lifetimes as house manager.
I was so absorbed in reviewing the funeral attendees that the fifteen-minute drive home felt like it had only taken a minute. Lake Street was just ahead. I parked around the corner on Eleventh and entered our building, hoping that Joe was awake, his feet on the ground, watching World News Today.
Inside our place, I locked my piece in the gun case in the foyer and by then Martha had found me and greeted me with wagging and slobbering and shoving me backward by planting her front feet on my waist. I told her she was a good girl and called out to Joe.
“Help!”
Julie shouted back. “Mom! I’m giving Dad combat training. We need to concentrate.”
Meaning, Don’t interrupt us, okay?
Okay.
CHAPTER 92
INSIDE OUR BEDROOM, I stepped out of my black silky everything and changed into jeans and an SFPD T-shirt. Back in the living room, I dropped into my Mom chair. I wanted to talk to Joe and knew he wanted to talk to me. But this was Dad and Julie time, and Julie wasn’t giving that up without a fight.
“Daddyyyyyy. This is important. No talking.”
I saw what was happening and stifled a laugh. Julie is one of the funniest people I know, but she takes herself very seriously. When it came to combat training, Julie Ann Molinari, clothed in lavender unicorn pj’s, was in charge.
She called out her moves.
“Daddy. This is called ‘kicking and punching.’”
Joe covered his eyes and our little combat trainer kicked him in the shin with one bare little foot, then socked him in the biceps with the opposite fist.
“Ooo. Oww, Julie,” Joe called out in mock pain.
“Now,” she said, “this is what I call ‘dodging.’”
She leapt from side to side making, I guess, war cries. “Yah. Pow. Powee. Yahoo.” Joe played his part as victim until a laugh escaped him.
“Don’t laugh, Daddy. These moves could save your life! Now, this one is ‘karate chopping.’”
“No, no more, Julie,” Joe said, falling over sideways. “You’ve killed me.”
“Okay. Last one today,” Julie announced. “This is advanced training. It’s ‘using weapons.’”
Julie picked up her plush stuffed cow she’d named Mrs. Mooey Milkington and swung it around her head singing out, “Whoop, whoop, whoop,” then slapping those few ounces of fluff and foam rubber against Joe’s forearm.
“Julie, I can’t take any more. Pleeease stop.”
“We’re done,” Julie crowed. “I promote myself to combat trainer level two,” she said, and jumped into his arms. Joe hugged her until she squeaked, “Daddddddyyyyy, you winnnn.”
“Thank you, Julie. I can take on anyone now: kung fu fighters, even Superman,” said the actual G-man in the family.
I said, “Julie—”
“Mom! You want combat training?”
“Not now, sweetie. I need to talk to Dad. It’s confidential police business. How about we set you up with a movie in your room so Dad and I can catch up?”
“Okay. This time. What movie, Mom?”
She ran across the floor, climbed into my lap, and threw her arms around my neck.
I said, “You tell me.”
“House of Cats,” she told me.
Done.
CHAPTER 93
I SET JULIE up in her bed with Martha, a glass of milk, and the extended two-hour version of a cartoon musical filling her TV screen. When she was calling out advice to multicolored dancing cats, Joe and I went to our bedroom and got into bed.
We hugged and rolled around, and I got up to check that the door was locked. Then I got back to bed. Joe was quiet for a full minute. I thought he may have gone to sleep. I shook his arm and he said, “Steinmetz offered me a job.”
“Again?”
“This time in writing. And it’s a great offer.”
“Oh, my God. What did you say?”
“That I wanted to talk to you.”
“And here I am. Listening…”
“Well. There’d be a very decent raise, other perks. It’s a full-time job. Which doesn’t mean nine-to-five. You remember.”
“Vividly.”
I remembered, too, gunfights, touch-and-go nights in the ER, the “Chinese wall” between us, meaning talking about our cases was forbidden, Joe’s absence for days at a time, and the worst, still animated in my mind—the evening when a museum made of glass and steel had exploded with Joe inside.
He said, “I could turn down the job again, and keep doing what I’ve been doing for a few more years. There’s a lot to be said for that.”
“Like what?”
“I’m the boss. No-brainer work. Afternoon naps. Long walks with Martha. High-fat, salty snacks in the kitchen. Drop off and pick up our little girl at the school bus. But that’s not all. Did I mention afternoon naps?”
His delivery was priceless and I laughed out loud.
“No screaming,” he said, then tipped my face to his and kissed me long and hard. I kissed him back and then his hands were under my clothes and I was tugging at his.
“Hey. I love you,” he said.
“I love you, too.”
We made sweet love, panting but not screaming, aware of the little girl in the next room watching a movie that would soon be over.
We dressed reluctantly but stayed in bed and made a circumstances-permitting date for tomorrow night: dinner out, home again, same place, and with some screaming allowed.
I rolled onto my back. It would be good for Joe to go back to work, but we both knew that everything would change.
Joe spoke. “Steinmetz wants a decision next week.”
“That stinks. How about we talk again about this a few more times? I have to get used to the idea of it, but the decision is yours.”
“Ours.”
I squeezed his hand. I rubbed his head and traced the scar from the Sci-Tron explosion that had parted his hair.
It was a rare pleasure to be in sync like this. In the same circadian rhythm with my husband. Even tired, our minds racing from the other’s touch, from anticipation, from knowing, loving, trusting each other. Joe and I just had a great, memorable night together.
The best in a long time.
SATURDAY
CHAPTER 94
JOE HELD THE front door for me and I felt transported back to a more elegant time, at least as it was portrayed in black-and-white movies.
The jazz was hot, the patrons looked cool, and Joe and I held hands as we took the grand staircase to the mezzanine floor. To my eye, Joe looked a little bit like Clark Gable without the mustache, and I’d swept up my hair, worn my red, scoop-necked cocktail dress, giving me a glam Ginger Rogers look.
Bix had been named for Jazz Age musician Bix Beiderbecke, and the restaurant in a brick building in an alley off Gold Street felt like a 1930s supper club or speakeasy. The waiters wore white jackets, and ours, a young man named Randall, said, “Welcome back to Bix.” He showed us to a table with a view of the ground floor dining room and handed us the menus. In fact, we ordered from memory and Joe and I were alone again.
Over a light white wine, I updated my combat-trained husband on the recent high points of the Fricke case.
I said, “We got an unbelievable break, Joe. Maybe.”
“Let me have it. I’m braced.”
I told him about Claire’s eagle eye, that the first shot at Jamie Fricke was a .40 fired at close range to his left shoulder. That Claire suspected he’d been adrenaline-charged enough to turn around and punch the shooter in the face.
“That’s plausible…” Joe mused.
“The next four rounds killed him but the DNA on Jamie’s knuckles told the tale on the shooter. He’s male and get this, Joe. He shares DNA with James Fricke.”
“Nice catch on Claire’s part,” said Joe. “I guess the lab was unable to ID anyone from the DNA comparisons?”
“Not yet.”
“Hunh. So if a suspect has no Fricke DNA, he’s out of the running. On the other hand, Jamie Fricke was such a hound with women…”
“I was thinking the same,” I said. “Who knows how many offspring he’s produced in the last thirty years…”
We paused as the waiter brought our entrées.
When he had left the table, I prompted Joe to tell all about his stress-packed save-the-hospital week. He told me about his partner, Bao Wong, whom he liked and admired.
“How much?”
“Hmmm?”
“How much do you like and admire her?”
Joe pinched my knee. “You goofball. She’s a high-tech agent, cyberterrorism director, actually. Lives in DC, but if I take the job, she may move here with her family to work with me and Craig. We make a good team.”
CHAPTER 95
OVER DUNGENESS CRAB and sautéed asparagus, Joe described the shoot-out at the blue house. And then described the thirtysomething coder with the green windbreaker who’d left his computer for the Feds, then helped save St. Vartan’s Hospital.
Joe said, “I really like that guy. I hope I’m right about him.” And then said nothing for a full minute. I shook his arm and then he gave me his straight-on, blue-eyed gaze and said, “So, I’m thinking I should take the job. Here are the whys and why nots…”
“Joe, it’ll be good for you.”
“Not so good for you, though.”
“Here’s how I see it. If it makes your life more interesting, challenging, and you don’t get killed, I’ll be happy enough. We’ll offer Mrs. Rose a full-time job.”
“Well. I’ll be getting a good raise, more than enough to cover Gloria’s salary and fun for the kiddo. As for the job, it’s full-time. Which doesn’t mean nine-to-five. You remember.”
“I sure do,” I said. “It was like living inside a sci-fi thriller and getting out of the theater is not guaranteed. That said, I think it’s now or never.”
Joe showed me his palms, first one, then the other. “On the one hand, assuming Gloria says yes, it could be the perfect life. On the other, early retirement, and I’m already bored with myself.”
“Go for it, Joe. With my full support. Tell him yes.”
We held hands under the table, kissed, spooned up criminally delicious chocolate mousse with our coffee, and kissed again. We made it home before Julie was in the sack. Mrs. Rose wanted to hang out for Julie’s review of Super Mario Bros.
“Four rotten tomatoes,” Julie said. “No. Four and a half!”
We thanked our good friend Mrs. Rose, tucked our little girl into her big girl’s bed with my old friend Martha. Then Joe and I went to the room next door. We dressed in pajamas and crawled under the covers in the dark and snuggled in for a long night’s love. It was Joe who screamed into the pillow. As for me, I held him tight and I prayed to God that we had made the right decision. That all of us would be safe.
I fell asleep remembering nights when Joe hadn’t come home. But we were together now. Amen.
MONDAY
CHAPTER 96
I SAT AT the head of the scarred oak conference table, Jackson Brady to my left, Claire Washburn to my right, eight Homicide inspectors filling the remaining chairs. The Frickes’ autopsy photos were taped to the far wall. There was also a list of suspects tacked to the adjacent corkboard.
Although our persons of interest list had dropped in number, the energy in our shabby war room was high. By process of elimination, we might be getting closer to Jamie’s killer. And maybe Holly’s.
Brady said, “Claire, why don’t you start us off.”
Dr. Washburn was ready. She opened the folder in front of her, then told the group about the Fricke DNA/knuckle connection.
“So far, it’s just a good idea,” she said. “Which it will be if we have a viable suspect with Fricke DNA. The samples I took from Jamie’s hand are now at Quantico. The FBI’s database might spit out a name.”
It looked to me like Claire’s explanation hit Sergeant Paul Chi like a shot of adrenaline, straight to his brain.
“I want to be in on this, Doctor,” he said. “Let me know how I can help.”
Then Cappy, wearing his undercover leather jacket, denim cap, and jeans, reported that Holly’s Bentley had been discovered, sold to a dealer in Acapulco; Jamie’s Jag had also been found, demolished. He took off his cap, placed it over his heart, and said: “Every window was broken, the upholstery slashed with a carpet knife. The electronics were gutted, the VIN numbers had been burned off, but one was legible enough to identify it as Jamie Fricke’s vehicle. The hundred-thousand-dollar sports car was deliberately run into a brick wall and totaled. Looked personal to me. I’d call it a hit. By proxy. Or to make sure it was really dead.”
Chi added, “The perp was wearing gloves. There were no, none, zero prints in the remains of the car.”
Conklin then spoke for a couple of colorful minutes about Fricke’s funeral, and when he paused for a sip of coffee, I stood, apologized, and said that I had to dash off for what might become an important interview.
I said, “I’m having lunch with Christophe Picard. Like Arthur Bevaqua, he’s been entwined with the Fricke family for over twenty years—through his former marriage to Rae Bergen, their son, and his friendship with the Fricke clan. Plus. He wants to talk.”
“Free food, Sarge?”
That was Cappy, being a wise guy.
I said, “I hope. I skipped breakfast this morning. I get the sense that Christophe likes to talk. So, he’s either going to give me a lot of bull or steak frites.”
Folks laughed, wished me luck, and soon I was in my car headed northwest on Seventh Street toward Christophe Picard’s trendy, four-star-rated Chez Bonhomie.
At a stoplight, I opened a text from Claire: “FYI. Three new homicides came in this week. Unrelated to Fricke, but still murders.”
Feeling time slipping away, I burned some rubber when the light turned green. Inevitably new homicides would drag us away from Jamie Fricke just as had happened with Holly. New cases had come in with an urgency that had turned Holly’s case cold. A week in, Jamie’s case was still fresh. But every day that passed would lower the odds of finding his killer.
That much was clear.
CHAPTER 97
CINDY WAS IN her protected seat inside the doorway of Courtroom 8G. The placement of furniture and people, the time court was due to go into session was all normal, but at the same time it didn’t seem normal at all.
The room was packed and the tension in the air gave Cindy goose bumps. Something was about to happen.
Yuki was at the prosecution table just beyond the bar with Gaines and Mary Elena Hayes in the seat between them. Red Dog entered the room, and a split second later, Bailiff Riley Boone called court to order.
The door behind the bench opened and Judge St. John entered his court as Boone called out, “All rise.” The hundred-plus people in the gallery and the lawyers came noisily to their feet. The judge took his place at the bench, looked across the oak-paneled room, and asked the gallery to be seated. The bailiff ushered in the jury, all twelve of whom looked somewhat dazed, as if they’d been sleeping in a closet or under their beds.
Cindy focused her eyes on Mary Elena Hayes, but her face was turned toward the front of the room. Cindy typed a silent note on her tablet that the victim in this case seemed at ease. Mary Elena had information about what was to come while court was in session that Cindy could only guess at, so she typed a line of question marks across the midline of her electronic page.
Judge St. John asked for quiet. It took several long moments and a bang of the gavel to get it. The jury had already been sworn in. The assemblage now sat quietly. No one coughed or dropped a handbag or a phone charger.
When he was ready, the judge addressed the jury, saying, “The court wishes to thank the jury for their time and diligence in hearing the case regarding the defendant, Mr. Tyler Cates. The time you’ve spent on this has not gone to waste. There will be further proceedings forthwith and the jurors are invited to leave or to remain in their jury seats and observe these proceedings. The press will be admitted. If you are neither a juror nor the press, regrettably, I must ask you to exit the courtroom.”
