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“I’m sorry, Joe. I missed it.”
“I’m coming back tomorrow night. I’m investigating Chaz Smith’s death for the DEA.”
“But why?”
“Because Chaz Smith wasn’t just a narc. He was a federal agent.”
Book Three
FRIENDS AND LOVERS
Chapter 60
IT WAS 7:00 P.M., forty degrees outside the gray Crown Vic where Conklin and I sat parked across the street from Restaurant LuLu, Warren Jacobi’s favorite eatery. LuLu’s was a homey place with a wood-fire oven, a sunken dining room, a five-star wine list, and a memorable menu of Provençal dishes.
The last time we all ate at LuLu’s, Jacobi picked up the tab because Conklin and I had brought down a long-sought psycho killer — except I was sure we had nailed the wrong man.
Now Conklin gave me a poke in the ribs and said, “What are you thinking?”
“About that time Jacobi took us here.”
“You were wearing a dress, as I remember. One of the few times in your life.”
“That’s what you remember?”
“I had the roasted mussels. Oh. And Jacobi told you to lighten up. Give yourself a break for an hour, something like that.”
We both grinned at the memory, but tonight we weren’t celebrating. In fact, we were on a surveillance detail; we had followed Jacobi from his house on Ivy Street in Hayes Valley to LuLu’s, where my old friend was dining alone. He did that a lot. Even at the best of times, Jacobi’s life seemed almost unbearably lonely and sad, which made my neglecting our friendship all the more inexcusable.
I said, “I might as well get this over with.”
I took my phone out of my pocket, punched in Jacobi’s number. He picked up.
“It’s Lindsay,” I said.
“Hey. How are things going, Boxer?”
“Not so great. I’m working a couple of cases that are driving me crazy.”
“I’ve been following your exploits in my morning e-mail. Seen a couple of hot stories on the news too.”
“Yeah. Well then, you know. I’ve got twisted, bloody murders on the one hand, mysterious decapitated heads on the other. I’d love to kick this stuff around with you.”
“What are you doing now?” he asked me.
“Just sitting around,” I said. It was true. More or less.
“I’m at LuLu’s,” Jacobi said. “Just got here. You hungry?”
I told Jacobi I could be there in about ten minutes. Then I hung up, said to Conklin, “I’d say I feel like a dog but most dogs are pretty straightforward.”
“Lindsay, you want to exclude him as a suspect, right?”
“Yes, I do.”
“So talk to him. If you don’t like what he tells you, if you get suspicious, we’ll figure out how to handle it.”
“Okay, Richie.”
