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“I call it Boxer’s idea of a good time.”
“I’ll have a typed report for you on Friday.”
“Good job, Lindsay. Keep going.”
Before he shooed me out, I said, “There’s more.”
His look said,Not possible.
I took out the sealed bags holding two .38 shell casings and a paper napkin. I showed him the note on one side. “Let Marty RIP. Or yr next.”
“Where did these come from?”
“Gunshots into my tires at about 3 a.m. and the note was stuck under my windshield wipers. Whoever shot Marty knows I’ve been on the case, knows where I live, and is trying to intimidate me. Gotta tell you, Brady. This scares me.”
“Scares me, too. Will you listen to me, Boxer? Take time off. Go out of town with your family. You lookin’ to die with your boots on?”
“Brady, you know what I’m going to say. This is my case. I’ve got to see it through. I want to. I have to.”
He shook his head like “What’s the point?” and signed off on a 24/7 patrol unit for my family’s protection. Then he filled out a voucher for a car to use while my Explorer was being given a complete workup at the lab.
Back at my desk, with Conklin to my left, Alvarez to my right, my back to the wall, the local news was coming over the TV hanging overhead.FORMER SFPD COP MURDERED NEAR THE HALL OF JUSTICEwas the headline. I picked up the remote and muted the sound. I ignored complaints from the bullpen. I had coffee, keys to a loaner car from the repo depot, and a partial plan.
I said, “Sonia, please keep working the files we took from Marty’s office. Make a copy of this paper-napkin note for us and send the original to the lab with these shell casings. They’re number one priority. Rich, let’s saddle up.”
We took an unmarked Chevy and made good time. The house where Marty had lived with Darla and her son, Austin, was on Arch Street in Ingleside Heights. Arch was a steep road running down from north to south, near Garfield. A family neighborhood, it was populated with a double row of 1940s bungalows, each with peaked, red-tiled roofs and round, gated entranceways mostly unchanged since World War II. Marty’s house was in the middle of the block.
I pulled up to the small stucco house and blocked the driveway so that the car parked there was hemmed in. I had a feeling that Darla Boxer was going to resist coming in for questioning.
I said to Conklin, “You give her the flowers and I’ll slam her against a wall, cuff her, and call her names until she tells us what we want to know. Okay?”
Conklin laughed as we marched up the walk together.
“I’m happy to be your front man,” he said.
“We’ll see. Meanwhile, take the back door.”
I rang the doorbell and a moment later, I heard a door slam from inside the house. Damn it. I sighed and met Conklin coming around the side yard with Darla. She was late thirties, dressed in black, streaked hair neatly brushed, minimal makeup. Rich had a good grip on her arm.
“Let go of me,” she said. “You have no right.”
Conklin said, “Please be nice, Mrs. Boxer. We’re all on the same side here.”
“I’ve heard abouther,” she said, shooting sharp looks at me.
“You might want to consider the source,” said Conklin.
“What does that mean?”
I stepped closer and said, “I’m sorry for what happened to Marty. We didn’t get along, as you know, but it was a family matter and I have never wished him any harm. I’m the primary investigator on Marty’s case and my team is going to work hard to find out who killed him.”
Darla relaxed a little, dropped her gaze, and Conklin unhanded her.
I said, “Inspector Conklin here is a great investigator and we’re totally committed to bringing in Marty’s killer.”
“How would you like to be called?” Rich asked her.
“Mrs. Boxer.”
