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“That’s me,” said Quintana, pointing to a younger version of himself slouched in an orange armchair. Even then, he had layered his clothing.
“And see this guy sitting on the window seat?”
I peered at the picture. The boy was thin, had long hair and an attempt at a beard. His face was in profile. It could be the shooter. It could be anyone.
“See how he’s pulling at the hairs on his arm?” Quintana said.
I nodded.
“That’s why I think it could be him. He used to do that for hours. I loved that guy. Called him Fred-a-lito-lindo. After a song he used to sing.”
“What’s his real name?” I asked.
“He was very depressed,” Quintana said. “That’s why he checked into Napa. Committed, you know. There was an accident. His little sister died. Something with a sailboat, I think.”
Quintana turned off the stove, walked away. I had a fleeting thought: What miracle has prevented this building from burning to the ground?
“Mr. Quintana, don’t make us ask you again, okay?” Jacobi growled. “What’s the man’s name?”
Quintana returned to the table with his chipped coffee cup in hand, wearing his hoarder’s garb and the confidence of a rich man to the manor born.
“His name is Fred. Alfred Brinkley. But I really don’t see how he could have killed those people,” Quintana said. “Fred is the sweetest guy in the world.”
Chapter 16
I CALLED RICH CONKLIN from the car, gave him Brinkley’s name to run through NCIC as Jacobi drove back to Bryant Street.
Chi and McNeil were waiting for us inside MacBain’s Beers O’ the World Pub, a dark saloon sandwiched between two bail-bond shacks across from the Hall.
Jacobi and I joined them and ordered Foster’s on tap, and I asked Chi and McNeil for an update.
“We interviewed a guy at the Smoke Shop on Polk at Vallejo,” said Chi, getting right into it. “Old geezer who owns the place says, ‘Yeah, I sell Turkish Specials. About two packs a month to a regular customer.’ He takes the carton off the shelf to show us — it’s down two packs.”
Conklin came in, took a seat, and ordered a Dos Equis and an Angus burger, rare.
Looked like he had something on his mind.
“My partner gets excited,” said Cappy, “by a carton of cigarettes.”
“So who’s the fool?” Chi asked McNeil.
“Get to it, okay?” Jacobi grumbled.
The beer came, and Jacobi, Conklin, and I lifted our glasses to Don MacBain, the bar’s owner, a maverick former SFPD captain whose portrait hung in a frame over the bar.
Chi continued, “So the geezer says this customer is a Greek guy, about eighty years old — but ‘hold on a minute,’ he says. ‘Let me see that picture again.’ ”
Cappy picked up where Chi left off. “So I push the photo of the shooter up to his snoot, and he says, ‘This guy? I used to see this guy every morning when he bought his paper. He’s the guy who did the shootings?’ ”
Jacobi called the waitress over again, said, “Syd, I’ll have a burger, too, medium rare with fries.”
Chi talked over him.
“So the Smoke Shop geezer says he doesn’t know our suspect’s name but thinks he used to live across the street, 1513 Vallejo.”
“So we go over there —” Cappy said.
“Please put me out of my misery,” Jacobi said. His elbows were on the table, and he was pressing his palms into his eye sockets, waiting for this story to pay out or be over.
