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I said, “I’m ten minutes out,” and clicked off before I could bark back at him out of pure hurt-feelings reflex.
Of course my feelings were hurt.
Five years ago, when Jacobi and I were partners, we were both shot down in a dark alley in the Mission and almost died. I called in the “officers down” with what I thought would be my next-to-last breath. After that, Jacobi and I were bonded for life.
Yesterday, in a completely unrelated event, I’d interrogated a serial killer, which had been a lot like walking barefoot on the edge of a knife. I’d gotten the confession on video. All corners had been squared. Our solved cases rate shot up. Big day for the SFPD!
Today, I was late for a meeting with three men I trusted with my life, who trusted me with theirs. And Jacobi had chewed me out for being late.
I heard my dead father saying, Toughen up, Princess.
I have little love for my father, but this was right.
I had to toughen up. I applied the brakes about twelve inches before I rear-ended a minivan full of kids and dogs at the red light up ahead. I took a breath. A few of them.
I sat there and got my brains together, and when the light changed, I didn’t flip on the siren. I proceeded toward the Hall within the speed limit. I got to 850 Bryant at 8:46.
I parked in the all-day lot, tossed the keys to Carl, and crossed the street against the light. I badged secu
rity and took an elevator to the fifth floor.
When I walked into Jacobi’s office, three grim-faced men were sitting in “antiqued” leather furniture around a glass coffee table. The framed photos on the wall were of Jacobi with various politicos, and there was a shot of the two of us in our dress blues, receiving commendations from our former chief.
I stepped around Brady’s legs and took the seat next to Conklin. I felt better now. I was surrounded by friends, and I had myself back.
I said, “Sorry I’m late.”
Conklin passed me a container of coffee, no longer hot, but I knew he’d stirred in three sugars.
Brady said, “Chief, you want to tell her?”
I was saying, “Tell me what?” when Conklin said to me, “Robertson is dead.”
“Robertson?”
For a moment I didn’t know who the hell he was talking about, and then I got it. Kyle Robertson, Tom Calhoun’s partner, the fifty-something former beat cop looking for an early retirement as soon as possible.
“How did he die?” I asked the room.
Jacobi said, “He left his dog tied to the neighbor’s fence and stuck a note between the chain links. He put his badge on the dining table and then he sat down and ate his gun.”
“Aw, shit. What did the note say?” I asked.
“The note said, ‘I’m sorry. Please take care of Bruno. He’s a good boy.’ There was a check for the neighbor, a thousand bucks. Robertson signed and dated the note midnight last night. The neighbor called it in a couple hours ago.”
“What now?” I asked.
Jacobi said, “Deciding that is the job at hand.”
CHAPTER 92
WHEN JACOBI SAID, “Deciding that is the job at hand,” he meant it was our job, the four of us, to connect the sketchy evidence and bring the bad cops down.
Brady is a list maker. He had a yellow pad, and he wrote names down on the left-hand side of the page with a red Sharpie.
Calhoun’s name was first on the list, and Robertson’s name followed. The two had been partners; now both were dead.
Brady said, “For the sake of argument, let’s say that Robertson killed himself because whatever had closed in on Calhoun was knocking on his door.”
