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“City Hall, room two hundred,” his voice told me. “Don’t be late.”
I dressed a little above my pay grade, buffed my shoes, and even put on lipstick. I kissed my dog good-bye and when I got into my car, I called Cindy and told her to meet me outside City Hall.
I drove to Van Ness, parked in an underground lot on McAllister, then walked across Civic Center Plaza. I knew I was putting myself at risk. But I owed Cindy a break.
I saw her standing under a linden tree thumbing on her BlackBerry. I called out to her and she put her phone away and came toward me, her blue eyes frisking my expression for clues.
I gave her a hug and she hugged me back.
We walked together through the park toward the formidable and impressive beaux arts building where the mayor’s office was located and where much of the city’s business was conducted.
“Here’s the deal. I’m an anonymous source,” I said. “Seven heads were disinterred from the Ellsworth garden. All were female, buried at different times over approximately a ten-year span. Those numbers that were written on index cards —”
“One hundred and four and six thirteen. I can say that?”
“Yes.”
“What about the identity of that Jane Doe whose picture we ran yesterday?”
“Her name was Marilyn Varick, age thirty-three, unemployed, former surfing champion. Good enough?”
“Excellent. Thank you, Linds.”
We went up the steps to the imposing entrance to City Hall. I squeezed Cindy’s arm, then stepped away from her and headed into the rotunda.
The press conference was about to start.
Chapter 48
ROOM 200 AT City Hall is arranged like a courtroom. There’s the dais and the built-in wooden chairs, then a railing that sets the audience apart from the main action. The walls are painted cream, and there are video screens so that even those in the back of the room can see you sweat.
I stood on the dais and watched the gallery fill with press. Cindy took a seat in the third row and immediately bent her head over her laptop.
When the rear doors closed, the mayor stepped forward, adjusted the mike, greeted the press. Then he filled them in on an OIS, an officer involved in a shooting, that had happened last night in the Mission.
He played a 911 tape, then showed a dash-cam video of a man running at the cops with a sword, refusing to back away until he was finally, fatally, gunned down.
There was a brief silence in room 200, then hands shot up. The mayor fielded questions about the shooting, then took questions about the SFPD, specifically about the crime rate and why so many crimes were unsolved.
When the mayor had had enough, he introduced Lieutenant Jackson Brady and left the stage.
Brady advanced to the podium with his crib sheet and, holding it rigidly in front of him, began his prepared remarks.
“Three known drug dealers were shot last night on Schwerin Street and their car was set on fire. The men were dead when the fire started and the blaze pretty much obliterated all forensic evidence.”
Brady listed the victims’ names and said that the police were looking for the shooter; he said that the preliminary ballistics tests of the slugs found in the dead men’s bodies showed they were a match to the ones removed from the body of drug dealer Chaz Smith.
“We still have no leads to the shooter’s identity, but he does have a pattern. His victims are all drug dealers. The investigation is on the front burner. And that’s all I have for you now.”
Hands went up like an acre of beans sprouting in time-lapse photography, but Brady ignored them and said, “Sergeant Boxer will brief you on the case involving the remains at the Ellsworth place. Sergeant?”
And then he took a place to my right and all I could do was step forward.
Chapter 49
I CAN GIVE a speech when I have to, but I’d rather be on slops for a week than face the media in a formal setting. Fifty or sixty pairs of eyes focused on me as I took the microphone.
I said, “Good morning,” then got into it.
