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“Not now, Arturo. Can you please tell us the events that took place in the crack house when the dealers were killed?”
Arturo Mendez told the story exactly as he had told it to Yuki the day before. He’d been in the house when three men wearing SFPD Windbreakers came in and ordered the dope dealers to “grab the wall.”
Mendez was hiding, but he watched those men frisk the dealers and take their money and guns and drugs. Then they turned the dealers back around. That was when he heard one of the “cops” make a comment: “Put yourself in my shoes.”
Arturo Mendez told the people in the judge’s office that that was the man who shot all three of the drug dealers, after which “the whole crew of guys wearing the Windbreakers left by the stairs.”
Mendez said further that he waited until they were gone, then was making to leave when Aaron-Rey Kordell came up the stairs, excited because he’d found a gun in the stairwell.
Mendez said A-Rey hadn’t seen the shootings and that he, Mendez, had told A-Rey to run.
Yuki said, “Can you describe the shooters?”
“Yes, sorta. They was wearing masks.”
“What kind of masks?”
“Rubberlike, the kind that almost look like real faces, and like I said, they wore the blue SFPD Windbreakers and caps, you know. And cop shoes.”
“Anything else you think we should know, Mr. Mendez?”
“One of those men, he had a tattoo on his neck, right about here.” Mendez indicated a spot under his left ear, just above the collar line. Yuki saw Parisi’s eyes widen.
“Could you identify that tattoo?” Yuki asked.
Tears spontaneously sprang from Mendez’s eyes.
He said, “You gotta move me to another state, no lie. When I was coming into the building just now, I think I see that cop with a tattoo on his neck. He mighta seen me, too.”
CHAPTER 84
WHEN JOE WASN’T telling himself he was an asshole, he tried to figure out how he was going to get out of this crypt alive. He sat in the lower bunk of the double-decker bed, his cuffed hands hanging loosely between his knees, the chain trailing under the bed. Off to his left, and way out of range, Clement Hubbell tapped the keys on his laptop.
Hubbell said, “There’s a whole lot of Joe Hogans in San Fran. Some’s retired. One of them has a deli and one is in auto parts. Here’s one who works in an insurance company. He’s closest to your age. Several Joe Hogans are dead. Which one are you?”
“Clem. May I call you Clem?”
“That’s my name,” said Hubbell. He closed out the search engine and scooted his wheeled chair so that he was opposite Joe. A stale smell of sweat and garlic came off him.
“Clem,” Joe said. “What’s going on here?”
On the wall behind Hubbell was a map of San Francisco. Five points had been starred on the map with a marking pen. Were these the locations of the five dead women, including the latest, Tina Strichler?
“What’s going on? This is what I call my life. Imagine how surprised I was to find you coming into my cell,” Hubbell said. “This is the first time that’s ever happened, and you know what? It’s kind of an invasion of privacy.”
“Open the cuffs and I’ll get out of here. I’ll pretend I never met you,” Joe said.
“Where’s the fun in that?” Hubbell said. “I haven’t had a chance to get to know you. And you know, I’d really like to.”
Hubbell opened and closed his Buck knife as he swiveled in his chair. The hunting knife had a bone handle and a six-inch blade. From where Joe sat, the blade looked as sharp as a razor.
Joe said, “You said you felt like you were waiting for me. What did you mean?”
“I like solitary. But every now and then, a man likes to have someone to talk to.”
As Hubbell bent his head to his knife, Joe saw the tattoo on the top of his head, just visible under a quarter-inch carpet of hair. It was a vulture with its bill open, talons outstretched.
Joe said, “What do you want to tell me?”
