Neither Brady nor Jacobi had tried to stop me, and now I was flying blind on my own.
I sat in the reception area and flipped through a left-behind copy of the Chronicle while getting my fractured thoughts in order. I had a realization. Ever since Jacobi had told me that I looked like crap, I’d been feeling that way, too. According to my loose waistband, I’d lost weight; my holster was at the tightest setting and still felt uncomfortably loose. And the headache I’d had this morning was back and had brought its younger brother.
Was I putting myself under too much pressure? Was I becoming a nervous wreck?
Before I could follow this thought, a gray-haired man of about fifty entered the room and spoke my name.
I stood up, saying, “That’s me.”
“I’m Johnny Hon,” he said.
We shook hands. I followed the IAD lieutenant to his office and sat in the chair across from his desk. The room was devoid of personality: white walls, plain wooden desk, some framed certificates on the wall. No photos or personal items.
The lieutenant was all business.
He said, “I got a call from Chief Jacobi. He speaks very highly of you, Sergeant.”
“We’ve been through the wars together.”
“So he said. He was vague about why you wanted to see IAD. Why don’t you lay out the issue for me?”
I told him that I had come to register a complaint about two homicide investigators from Central Station, giving an almost verbatim recitation of what I’d told Jacobi and Brady this morning. A tipster had called my attention to killings of homeless people that had not been solved by Central Station’s Sergeant Stevens and Inspector Moran, who appeared to be working the cases with an utter lack of urgency.
I told Hon what I knew about the dead poet at Walton Square, and about my own experience with Stevens and Moran at the Pier 45 and Geary Street murder scenes.
I said, “I accessed whatever information I could find, Lieutenant. I have Stevens’s report on the three crimes, all in progress. And I’ve also gathered up the reports I filed and an autopsy report on Laura Russell, the Pier 45 victim, from the ME.”
I reached across the desk and handed him a folder.
“So, what are you saying exactly, Sergeant? You think Stevens and Moran are goldbricking?”
“Something like that. Maybe they’re padding their over-time. I don’t know. But I do know that they don’t seem too eager to nail a serial killer who may be executing vagrants and planning to continue his spree.”
Hon nodded, said, “Do you have any evidence that Stevens and Moran are dragging their feet or scamming the system or committing a crime?”
“Lieutenant, what could be a legitimate motive for letting these homicides slide?”
“So, what I’m hearing is that you have nothing but unsubstantiated theory. They could be working feverishly behind the scenes and may even be following a suspect or a lead, and you wouldn’t know that, would you?”
I said, “They keep telling me to bug off. Why? I may have seen something. I may have a theory.”
“Could they suspect a political motive? That 850 Bryant is trying to put Central out of the homicide business?”
“Maybe,” I said. “But they’d be wrong. I care about the unworked homicides. I care about a killer who hasn’t been caught.”
“Okay. I’ll accept that. And how would you have reacted if Stevens and Moran had shown up at your crime scene?”
I thought about that. I didn’t like the image.
Hon said, “Sergeant Boxer, you’re taking this case to heart. I know a little about you, and what I know tells me that you’re a very good cop. So let’s just keep this quiet. Let it play out a little longer,” said the lieutenant. “I’ll keep my ear to the ground. If I decide to launch an investigation, I’ll let your lieutenant know. If you learn something I should know, call me.
“Now I have another meeting,” he said, getting to his feet. “I’ll show you out.”
Feeling awkwardly dismissed, again, I thanked Hon, shook his hand, and took the fire stairs down to Homicide.
Conklin had left for the day.
I left, too, got into my car, and drove home.
I was still obsessing, having conversations in my head with Hon, Jacobi, and Brady, all at once and one at a time.
As in real life, the talking was getting me nowhere.
CHAPTER 54
YUKI HADN’T SPOKEN with Marc Christopher since Giftos’s scathing cross-examination of Paul Yates, and she was worried. How would Marc stand up under Giftos’s scorched-earth style?
She had called Marc and suggested that they meet once more before his upcoming testimony. He’d said, “Let me take you out to dinner. You deserve it, and I would rather have this chat over osso buco.”
Now she was waiting for him at Mancini’s, a popular after-work Italian restaurant in the Financial District. She hadn’t been here before and now took in the pleasant ambiance of the place, with its clean lines, brick walls, and cove lighting.
Marc had called to say that he was running late in traffic. Yuki sipped ice water and answered e-mail, and when she looked up, the ma?tre d’ was leading Marc to the table. He apologized for his lateness, bent to kiss her cheek, and sat down beside her.
Marc had always appeared boyish, but he looked younger still this evening. He wore a baby-blue sweater under his blazer. His hair had recently been cut, and his long lashes and dimples completed the look of youthful innocence.
Over drinks and fritto misto Marc said, “I can’t quite believe this trial is for real. It’s like I’m watching a movie about someone else’s life. Online, on TV, everywhere, people are talking about me, what happened, what I said and did. This very personal thing that happened to me is both virtual and hyperreal.”
Yuki understood Marc’s inside and outside perspective. His future turned on a verdict by strangers. He would be vindicated. Or, if the jury went with the defense, Marc would be branded a liar for the rest of his life.
She said to Marc, “You read the transcript. What are your thoughts on Paul’s testimony and Giftos’s cross?”
“I found Paul completely credible,” Marc said. “I could see exactly how it happened. He was scared. He ran. I commend him for slapping the gun out of Briana’s hand. If I’d done that …”
“What about Giftos’s cross-examination?”
“Well, as I read it, it was pure hell for Paul. His testimony was honest, but when it came to the gun identification, he choked. I don’t know if I could identify her gun, either.”
Yuki said, “It was a smooth move by the defense. Not probative, and yet Giftos got it in.”
Marc shook his head. Then he said defiantly, “Giftos can’t shake me. I know what happened.”
It was brave talk. Did he mean it? Or was he talking tough to himself? Yuki had never seen him looking so vulnerable. She felt for him, and she wondered again what was wrong with Briana. Was she a predator who had never been called out before? Or had she, like untold numbers of men in top jobs, taken her executive position at the agency as license to be sexually abusive?
After a long pause Marc asked, “Do you think Briana is going to testify?”
Yuki said, “It’s generally not a good idea to put the defendant on the stand. But in this case I think she has to speak to the jury. If she does, I’ll be ready for her.”
There was no point telling Marc what she was thinking: After Marc gave his testimony, Giftos was going to do his damnedest to gut him.
CHAPTER 55
MARC WENT SILENT and stared at his wineglass.
Yuki wondered if he was worried about what Briana would say on the stand. More likely, he was worried about his own performance. He looked scared.
She reached over and patted his hand.
“You did a perfect job when you testified to the grand jury. You can do this,” she said.
Marc’s trance was broken and he gave her a direct, confident gaze.
“I know. We can do this.”