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“It’s a very good store,” she said. “And I’m committed to this tour. Look, I understand your reasoning, but I’ve dealt with killers before, you know. I’ll have security—”
Conklin said, “Cindy, no. Our cops can’t protect you in Vegas.”
“The store has security,” she said, miffed.
“To be discussed,” said Richie. “In private.”
CHAPTER 36
SERGEANTS CAPPY O’NEIL and Paul Chi waited in an unmarked car outside a grubby apartment building on Page Street in the Lower Haight. Marvin Bender, senior sales rep at J&P Pharmaceuticals, appeared to be home. Lights were on inside his third-floor rental and his dusty Ford sedan was parked at the curb.
Chi and O’Neil had decided that if Bender didn’t leave home in five minutes, they would buzz up, identify themselves, and tell Bender they needed a few minutes of his time. They had no warrant, no probable cause to arrest the man, but Chi had called for backup in the event that they needed eyes on Bender’s car if he was uncooperative.
The front door opened and Bender, wearing brown trousers and a backpack over his unremarkable sport jacket, exited 231 Page Street and locked the door. He didn’t look around, just came down the front steps into a hazy morning in this gray neighborhood at the tail end of the morning rush.
O’Neil and Chi got out of their SFPD unmarked car andmet up with Bender as he reached his vehicle. Cappy had his jacket open, showing his Glock parked in his shoulder holster and his badge hanging to mid-tie from a chain around his neck.
Bender stopped at his car door with his key in his hand. Cappy introduced himself and his partner and said, “Mr. Bender, we’d like you to accompany us to the Hall of Justice. You’re not in any trouble, but you may be able to assist us in a homicide investigation.”
Bender said, “What? Me? You have the wrong guy. Wait, is Blauner complaining about my garbage cans again? I’ll deal with them later. I’m late for work.”
“We’re being polite, Mr. Bender,” Cappy said. “If you don’t cooperate, we’ll get a search warrant this afternoon. We’ll stop by your office and not just bring you to the Hall, we’ll search your premises, impound your car and your devices while we detain you as a material witness.”
“You’re nuts. I’m a salesman. I don’t know any criminals and no dead people, either.”
“Listen to me, Mr. Bender,” said Chi. “Your refusal to cooperate is going to turn a simple conversation to a probable arrest on suspicion of homicide.”
“No, you’ve got nothing and you’re bluffing. But thanks for the advice.”
Bender called Chi a few choice names, unloaded some expletives about cops in general, then pushed past the detectives and opened his driver’s side door. He shrugged out of his backpack and tossed it into the passenger seat, slid inside, slammed his door hard and put the car in drive. By the time the engine turned over, Chi had pulled the SFPD unmarkedcar around so that it was parked crosswise in front of Bender’s front end.
Bender showed little concern for his ride. He stepped on the gas and plowed hood first into the squad car, crushing the passenger-side door. Bender shifted into reverse as a backup cruiser responding to Chi’s radio call, blocked the gray sedan from behind, squeezing it hard against Chi’s car so that Bender couldn’t move his car at all.
Just to be sure, Cappy, who’d been watching this automotive cha-cha, pulled his Glock and shot out two of Bender’s tires. Then he leaned into Bender’s window.
“That’s it, Mr. Bender. You’re under arrest. The cops coming toward us on foot? They’re going to give you a free ride to the Hall.”
CHAPTER 37
CINDY HAD PROMISED Lindsay she’d work from the squad room, but she needed information she could only get from her office at theChronicle. Her desk faced a glass wall with its view of the bustling City Room but her eyes were on her computer. She’d sped through news feeds searching for recent unsolved homicides and found only one that sang out Murder by Blackout.
That one was the Pasadena victim, Beth Welky. The twenty-eight-year-old from Seattle had been killed during or after Cindy’s reading at Vroman’s Wednesday, two days ago, but no connection had been drawn from Welky’s death to the unsolved murders in San Francisco and Marin County.
There was a story here circling around her, but Cindy couldn’t spend more time on this right now. Her flight to Vegas was departing soon and she had to go. She emailed her editor and publisher, Henry Tyler, and repacked her devices and her scanner. She was headed out the door when she noticed a plain white envelope in the inbox used for interoffice memos.
Cindy plucked the envelope from the tray. Her name was typed in capital letters and there was no return address. Probably an anonymous tipster had dropped it off at reception. She slipped the envelope into her bag to read in the car, but the need to know won her over. She retrieved the envelope, slit it with a nail file, then dumped out the contents—a flimsy paper ribbon, a receipt from the San Quentin commissary for three cups of ramen noodles, a box of mac and cheese, and a six-pack of Coke. On the reverse side, penned in small block letters, was a note addressed to her.
Cindy skimmed it, then started over from the top.
Dear Cindy,
I heard you had a wall-to-wall crowd in Pasadena. Good for you. I wanted you to hear this first from me. You’ve only got half the story. I’m writing a book of my own.The Last Face You’ll See: The Life of Evan Burke.The book is loaded with surprises, things I’ve never told you and I really think you’ll be impressed. In particular, the book’s ending is a real killer—and you’re part of the ending.
Love, Evan
CHAPTER 38
CAPPY PHONED ME as he and Chi were leaving the Lower Haight.
