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Chapter 89
I TOUCHED THE HANDLE of my handgun for luck; then Conklin, Jacobi, and I entered the Keystone Apartments at the Hyde Street entrance. The seven-story all-brick building was near the cable line, a short, straight shot to Nordstrom Square.
The ancient black man who opened the front door told us that Louie’s roommate was at home.
“She’s a artist. She always home daytimes.”
We took the small creaking elevator, found apartment 7F at the front of the building.
I pressed the doorbell, rapped on the door.
“Open up. SFPD.”
I heard scurrying inside, but no one came to the door. I knocked again, this time with the butt of my gun. The sound reverberated down the long, tiled hallway, but still, no one answered.
I tried the door, but it didn’t budge.
“Break it down,” I said, standing aside.
Conklin threw his weight against the thin panel door until the locks splintered the door frame.
Jacobi went in first, and I was behind him, taking in the small front room, the brown leather sofa, a row of framed pencil drawings above it—pinup girls in classic cars.
I saw an envelope pinned to the drawing board by the window. It was addressed to Louie.
“Police,” I called out. “Come out with your hands in the air.”
I pocketed our search warrant, crossed the small, dark living room, clasping my weapon in front of me. I smelled it a second before Jacobi muttered, “Swamp magnolia.”
Behind us, Conklin switched on the lights.
The bedroom was at the end of a short hallway. I gripped the old-fashioned pressed-glass doorknob. It turned, rattling in my hand.
I opened the door, gave it a gentle shove, letting it swing slowly inside.
My eyes flicked across the clothes-strewn, rumpled bed to the open window.
I did a double take—that’s how hard it was to absorb what I saw.
A beautiful Asian woman of indeterminate age was crouched inside the window frame.
Her flimsy white peignoir was backlit by dim sunlight. Her sleeves and the fringed layers of her short black hair fluttered in the breeze.
I was entranced by her open, childlike expression, especially given the dingy surroundings of the room.
“I’m Lieutenant Boxer,” I said softly, lowering my gun, feeling Jacobi and Conklin at my back, praying that they’d take my lead.
“What’s your name?” I said. “Come inside so we can talk.”
The woman’s eyes glittered, some inner thought making her smile. I was looking at her bright, lipsticked mouth when she pursed her lips, almost as if she were blowing kisses.
“Vroom, vroom,” she said.
It happened so fast.
I sprung forward—but I was too late. She went out the window.
For a long second afterward, I still saw that glowing figure inside the window frame. Then the figure seemed to fly. Her image was burned into the back of my brain.
