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Why not? Life was good. And he didn’t owe anyone a damned thing.
CHAPTER 67
CONKLIN AND I were in Jacobi’s corner office on the fifth floor. Traffic was flowing, and the sun was bright.
I took in my old friend’s office, which had been furnished for him in wide, comfy couches and chairs, an expansive desk, and a pretty nice-looking Persian carpet—all of which he deserved after his hard years in Homicide and recompense for his shot-up hip and other permanent injuries he’d taken on the Job.
The three of us were grumbling about the lack of progress on the FinStar. As we waited for the new mayor to arrive, Jacobi was saying that Yuki, who weighed barely a hundred pounds, could be broken like a twig.
“But she’s got a quick mind,” I said. “She’s thought her way around killers a few dozen times, you know.”
At that the mayor came through the doorway.
His Honor Robert Worley was a serious man of thirty-six, a lawyer and former car-dealership owner, married and the father of four, a pillar of the community. He was charismatic and handsome, and he was building his public service career with no ceiling on his ambitions.
I knew he didn’t want to make any mistakes.
He shook hands all around, put his coat over the back of the couch, and took a seat, saying, “Sorry. The traffic was against me. I mean, it fought me like hell.”
Jacobi got up and closed the door and gave the mayor a bottle of spring water from the fridge. Then we all took seats in the soft leather furniture. Jacobi led the discussion by saying that he’d been partnered with Conklin and me and added, “These two are the best of the best, Your Honor. None better. Boxer, tell the mayor what we have on the belly bomber.”
The mayor leaned forward, clasped his hands between his taupe pinstriped knees, and said, “I’ve been thinking about this case since I saw those bodies in the Jeep. One of the worst things I’ve ever seen.”
I brought him up to date on the failed stakeout on San Leandro Street and the note the bomber had left behind after he emptied the cash from the briefcase.
When I’d answered the mayor’s questions, I ran through the ticktock on the day’s events. I told him that I’d called in the FBI and that we’d lost the belly bomber a nanosecond after he made his demand.
“Mr. Mayor, the bomber threatened multiple bombs,” I said. “Chuck’s may not pay the ransom, and even if they do, this psycho is enjoying himself. I’ll bet he wants to kill people more than he wants a payoff. He likes the game too damned much.”
The mayor asked me, “What do you suggest?”
“We should shut down Chuck’s Primes in San Francisco, which will at least stop people from eating Chuck’s burgers immediately. And I think we should ask the governor to close down every Chuck’s in California while we and the FBI work on the case.”
The mayor, being a lawyer, didn’t agree.
“As I understand it, all you have that links Chuck’s to the explosive material in the original incident is a lab report of the bomb ingredients. You can’t actually place those burger bombs in the actual restaurant, correct?”
I couldn’t believe what the mayor was saying.
We had two dead people with Chuck’s hamburger wrappings in the backseat of their car. We had explosive material in high-quality chopped steak consistent with Chuck’s Prime. We had the bomber holding up Chuck’s CEO for ransom to stop further bombings. Surely that was enough to connect the bomber to Chuck’s. Come on.
The mayor kept talking.
“This anonymous guy who’s making the threats could have planted the bombs in that hamburger without being a Chuck’s employee, couldn’t he?”
I didn’t see how.
The mayor went on.
“Or maybe the bombs weren’t in the hamburgers, but the kids ate them and something else, and the product was in their systems.”
He paused, but I didn’t know what to say. The guy didn’t want to close Chuck’s down, and he didn’t want me to contradict him.
“Look, Sergeant. I understand you. I don’t want more people to die either,” Morley said. “But, I can’t padlock a company without direct evidence,” he said.
The mayor shook hands with us again, told us to keep working—even harder—and to get in touch with him immediately if we had a breakthrough in the case.
He exited Jacobi’s office leaving us with absolutely nothing but bomb threats in the wind.
