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I said, “Yo,” to our PA, Brenda, and then made my way around the desks in the bullpen. I found Brady in his hundred-square-foot glass cubicle at the far end.
He looked just like always—delts and biceps pulling the fabric of his blue shirt, white-blond hair pulled back and banded in a short pony, head bent over his computer.
I’d had a few issues with Brady since he’d taken over my old job as squad boss. From the first, I bucked at Brady’s impersonal management style. But lately, I hate to admit, I’ve become a fan. He’s impartial. He’s decisive. And he has a track record as a really good cop.
I knocked on Brady’s glass door. He said, “Come in, Boxer.”
I did and kept coming, all four steps to his desk. Then I grabbed his shoulders and kissed him.
“Congrats, boss.”
The look on Brady’s face was priceless.
“Thanks.”
I was grinning my face off as I crossed the squad room to my desk and Conklin’s. My partner looked up from his computer and said to me, “I saw you kissing up to the boss.”
“He and Yuki are getting married. Swear to God. And we’ve got a hot lead. So, let’s get to work.”
CHAPTER 5
I SWUNG DOWN into my desk chair and said to my partner, “The explosive material in the belly bomb is a magnesium compound and the victims ingested it.”
“They ate it? And it exploded? That’s not possible.”
“I’m quoting Claire, who got that from the FBI lab. They found a trace of the compound in the stomach contents. Seems that stomach acid activates the explosion.”
“Damn,” Conklin said, rocking back in his chair. “Do the Feds have any theories as to who put this stuff into the food?”
“Not yet. I’m way open to anything you come up with.”
I pulled up the scene pictures again, this time focusing on the hamburger bag and waxed-paper wrappers among the pile of litter on the floor. The hamburger bag had come from Chuck’s Prime, a chain of fast-food restaurants that had made a name for themselves for hamburgers of superior grass-fed, made-in-America beef.
I turned my computer so Conklin could see the photo and said, “Look here. I think Trimble and Katz had a couple of Chuckburgers—and sometime not long after that, they blew up.”
Conklin said, “There’s a Chuck’s in Hayes Valley, about fifteen minutes south of the bridge.”
We signed out a squad car and Conklin drove. I listened to the car radio with half an ear while Conklin said, “I should tell you, Linds. I eat at Chuck’s twice a week. Maybe more.”
“I’ve had a Chuck’s bacon burger a few times and have to say, they’re pretty tasty.”
“Yeah,” Conklin said. “Might be time for a change.”
Twenty minutes later, we parked at the corner of Hayes and Octavia near the park known as Patricia’s Green and in the heart of the Hayes Valley commercial district, a strip with trendy shops, boutiques, restaurants, and cafés.
In the middle of the block was a big parking lot, and beside the lot, like a sunny seaside trattoria, was Chuck’s.
The outside tables were shaded by market umbrellas, and inside, a counter wrapped around two walls, and square wooden tabletops formed neat lines. Few people were eating burgers at this time of morning, but the serving folks were ready for the lunch crowd, smartly dressed as they were in aqua cowboy shirts with pearl buttons and tight white jeans.
I badged the girl at the cash register and asked to speak to the manager. Mr. Kent Sacco was paged and about thirty seconds later, a pudgy man in his early thirties came from an office at the back and greeted us with a sweaty handshake and a business card.
We took a table by the front windows and I told Mr. Sacco that the victims on the bridge last week may have eaten their last meal at Chuck’s.
I said, “We need to see your security tapes.”
“Sure. Whatever I can do for you.”
“We need contact information for your kitchen and serving staff.”
