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“Drop it, Lindsay,” Jacobi said. “I know that that’s not what you want to hear, but listen to yourself. Levant is going to call this politics, and it will sure look like it.”
“Are you kidding, Jacobi? You think I’m political?
Me?”
“No. I said how it’s going to look.”
I couldn’t stop myself now. “So you’re saying I should drop this and mind my own business?”
Jacobi said, “I’m sorry to come down on you like this, but we’re your friends. Think what Levant is going to say and do.”
Then he stood up and said to Brady, “This is Lindsay when she gets her stubborn on.” He turned to me. “Not to pile on, Boxer, but you look pale. Are you okay?”
I glared at him. “I feel fucking wonderful. Can’t you tell?” I took a deep breath. “I’m going to file a report with Internal Affairs.”
Brenda Fregosi, our squad’s assistant, was outside Brady’s door, either to see what the hell was going on or to bring news to Brady. Either way I was blocking Jacobi’s exit. I left the office. Nobody tried to stop me.
CHAPTER 51
HOURS AFTER MY dustup with Brady and Jacobi, Conklin and I huddled with Millie Cushing inside Interview 2. She was our only key to the murders of three people. Conklin was meeting her for the first time, and he made the right impression. He found a blueberry donut in the break room, fixed her coffee the way she liked it, and adjusted the thermostat to her preferred temperature.
Millie beamed at him, enjoying the attention, then she answered his questions.
“I have two grown-up kids. My life didn’t turn out exactly as planned, but I have no complaints. I help out at some of the shelters, and they help me out, too. I met Lou at the Columbus Avenue shelter.”
Millie looked good. Her blondish-grayish hair was fluffed, and her turtleneck and sweater and trousers all looked laundered.
I told our CI that this meeting was being taped for the record, and that Conklin and I were fighting to insert ourselves into a case that was out of our jurisdiction.
Conklin said, “It would help if we knew more about Lou, like what her movements were the night she was killed. First thing we’ve got to know is if someone had a beef against her or if she witnessed a crime.”
“You know I want to help. But if I start asking too many questions …”
She didn’t have to finish the sentence.
“Got it,” said Conklin. “We don’t want you to put yourself in danger.”
I was thinking that if this were our case, we would take Lou’s picture to homeless shelters, ask around, do the job of detective work.
I bit down on a sigh, then said, “Millie, I took pictures of the crowd of onlookers on Geary last night. They’re pretty grainy, and the light was terrible. But will you take a look at the printouts and see if anyone seems familiar?”
I put the envelope on the table. Millie dug into her bag and pulled out her reading glasses. Then she moved the photos to her and began a close examination of the crowd. While she was absorbed, I scrutinized my informant.
I had searched her name on the internet and our own databases and had found nothing on her, not a driver’s license or an address or a warrant for her arrest. I supposed that without a computer or a car or a house or a criminal history, there was little record of a life. She’d told Richie that she had grown kids, but not where they lived. Cushing wasn’t a common name, but it wasn’t one of a kind, either.
It was possible that Millie Cushing wasn’t even her name.
“I don’t recognize anyone in this photo,” she said, shuffling it to the bottom of the stack. I watched her look over the second photo, and it seemed to me that her eyes snagged on one of the faces in the crowd.
“You know someone in that picture?” I asked.
“No. I thought I did for a second, but no.”
“You’re sure?”
“Yep. Sure as can be.”
Millie looked through the remainder of the enlargements and returned them to me, saying, “I don’t see many street people in that crowd. Everyone’s wearing nice clothes, umbrellas, hats. They look like solid citizens. Every one of them.”
