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“So am I,” Cindy said. “Look, you haven’t given me anything on this story. It’s mine. It’s been mine from the beginning. And it’s not right for you to come down on me for doing my job.”
A static, gray silence followed, Cindy feeling the seconds mount up, thinking a lot of things she didn’t want to say. But it all came down to this: Lindsay was leaning on her because of their friendship—and she was out of line, way out of line.
“Dozens of reporters are on this story, Lindsay! Whether I break the story or someone else does, Garza’s going to get press.”
Lindsay sighed in her ear, said, “I hoped I’d have more time.”
“Well, you were dreaming.”
Cool good-byes followed.
Cindy hung up the phone and looked down at her notepad. She read the words she’d just scribbled: guilty of more than malpractice.
Chapter 99
MY ALL-NIGHTER at Municipal Hospital had left me bone weary and frustrated beyond belief. I tossed the morning paper into the trash can under my desk, pretty sure that Cindy’s next story would be about how people were being murdered at Municipal—and how the SFPD was doing nothing about it.
The time had come to abandon my off-the-books investigation and make “the brass button case” official before a very large sinkhole opened under the Hall of Justice.
I picked up the phone and called the chief, said, “Tony, I have to see you. It’s urgent.”
The Flower Market Cafe on Brannan and Sixth is near the onramp to 280 south and a few blocks from the Hall. Any other day I would have appreciated the cozy ambience of the eatery, its pretty tiled floor, dark wainscoting, and view of the flower-market stalls down the alley.
But not today.
Tracchio and I took one of the small, round tables and ordered sandwiches.
“Start talking, Boxer,” he said.
I found that I was relieved to tell him every bit of it—about Yuki’s mom, the buttoned-up eyes of thirty-three dead patients, the rumors, the statistics, and the malpractice trial against Municipal Hospital to date.
I also told him about Garza’s stinking track record at various hospitals around the country, concluding with a report of Jacobi’s surveillance and our off-duty interrogations last night after a patient had died.
“Ruffio’s body was in the ICU waiting to be moved to the hospital morgue,” I said, “when someone put brass buttons on his eyes.”
“Humph,” the chief grunted.
“Garza left the hospital at six p.m. The patient died at just after eight,” I told him, “but I can’t say for sure that Garza wasn’t involved.”
“If Garza wasn’t there, how do you figure he had anything to do with it?”
“He has access to any place in the hospital. Maybe he overdosed the patient before he quit work for the day and it took a few hours for the medication to work.
“Maybe he has an accomplice, or maybe he’s not our guy at all,” I admitted. “But, Christ, Tony, Garza could be a world-class monster! I think he probably is. At the very least, we’ve got to play ‘beat the press.’ The Chronicle put him on page three this morning.”
The chief pushed his plate aside, ordered another round of coffee.
“Yuki filed charges?” he asked.
“Yes, but Claire’s autopsy of Yuki’s mom only shows that she was overmedicated. No evidence that she was murdered. I’m expecting pretty much the same report on Ruffio.”
“So, bottom line, you’ve got a mixed bag of nuts and bolts that don’t add up to anything.”
“It adds up to a real bad feeling, Tony. The worst. And it won’t go away.”
“So, what do you want to do?”
Thanks to closing the Car Girl murders, my stock had never been higher than it was today.
