Chapter Nineteen
I continued to be impressed with the tremendous discipline and hard work of Jamilla Hughes. What drove her? Something buried in her past? Something more obvious in the present? The fact that she was one of two women homicide inspectors in the San Francisco Police Department? Maybe all of the above? Jamilla had already told me that she hadn't taken a day of comp time in almost two years. That sounded kind of familiar.
A couple of times during the next day at the Hall of Justice I mentioned her incredible work ethic, but she shrugged it off. She was well respected by the other homicide inspectors. She was a regular person. No false airs. No bullshit about her. I found out that she had a nickname. It suited her - Jam.
I spent a couple of hours in the afternoon finding out what I could about tigers. Area zoos and shelters were being canvassed in an attempt to locate every single tiger in California. The murderous cat was our best lead so far.
I was keeping my own list of facts, different things that struck me.
Someone had been able to command and control the tiger before and after it had attacked and bitten Davis O'Hara in Golden Gate Park. An animal trainer? A vet?
The jaw of a tiger was so strong that it could crush bone, and then pulverize it. And yet, someone had been able to call the tiger off its prey.
All tiger species were considered endangered. Their existence was being challenged by both loss of habitat and poaching. Could the killers also be environmentalists ?
Tigers were being poached for their suspected healing powers. Almost every part of the cat was considered valuable, and in some cases, sacred.
Tigers had magical significance in some cultures, especially in parts of Asia. Could that be important to the case?
I had lost track of the time, and when I looked up from my note-taking it was already getting dark outside. Jamilla was striding down the corridor in my direction.
She had on a long black leather jacket, and looked ready to leave. She'd put on lipstick. Maybe she had a date. She looked terrific. 'Tyger, Tyger, burning bright,' she recited a line from Blake's poem.
I answered with the only other line I could remember. 'Did He who made the Lamb make thee?'
She looked pensive, then she smiled. 'What a team. The poet detectives. Let's get a beer.'
'I'm pretty beat and I have a few more files to check. I think I'm still jet-lagged.'Even as I was saying the words, I wasn't sure why the hell I was saying them.
She put up her hand.'All right already. You could have just said no, you're not my type. Jeez, man. I'll see you in the morning. But thanks for all your help. I mean that.' I saw her smile as she turned, then walked away, down the long hall to the elevators. But then I saw her shake her head.
After she was gone, I sat at the desk overlooking the streets of San Francisco. I sighed, and then I shook my head. I could feel a familiar weariness settling in. I was alone again and I had no one to blame. Why had I turned Jamilla down for a couple of beers? I liked her company. I didn't have any other plans; and I wasn't that jet-lagged.
But I thought I knew the reason. It wasn't too complicated. I had gotten close to my last two partners on homicide cases. Both Patsy and Betsey were women I liked. Both had died.
The Mastermind was still out there.
Could he be in San Francisco right now?
Was Jamilla Hughes safe in her own city?