All of the SFPD had known Swanson as a great cop. We had liked him. Respected him. So when my partner and I exposed him as a psychopath with a badge, we were stunned and outraged.
During Swanson’s lethal crime spree, he had stolen over five million in drugs and money from Kingfisher, and this drug boss with a murderous reputation up and down the West Coast hadn’t taken this loss as the cost of doing business.
After the shootout, while Swanson lay comatose in the ICU, Kingfisher figured that his best chance of getting his property back was to turn his death threats on the lead investigator on the case.
That investigator was me.
His phone calls were irrational, untraceable, and absolutely terrifying.
Then, about the time Swanson was released from the hospital and indicted on multiple charges of drug trafficking and murder, Kingfisher’s phone calls stopped. A week later, Mexican authorities turned up the King’s body in a shallow grave in Baja. Was it really over?
Sometimes terrifying events leave aftershocks when you realize how bad things could have become. Kingfisher’s threats had embedded themselves inside me on a visceral level, and now that I was free of them, something inside me unclenched.
On the other hand, events that seem innocuous at the time can flip you right over the edge into the dark side.
And that was the case with Swanson.
A dirty cop shakes up everything: friendships, public trust, and belief in your own ability to read people. I thought I had done a good job testifying against Swanson today. I hoped so. Richie had been terrific, for sure, and now the decision as to Swanson’s guilt or innocence was up to his jury.
My partner said, “We’re done with this, Lindsay. Time to move on.”
I was checking out of the Hall of Justice at just after six when my husband texted me to say that he would be home late, and that there was a roasted chicken in the fridge.
Damn.
I was disappointed not to see Joe, but as I stepped outside the gray granite building into a luminous summer evening, I formulated a new plan. Rather than chicken for three, I would have a quiet dinner with my baby daughter, followed by Dreamland in about three hours, tops.
I fired up my old Explorer and had just cleared the rush-hour snarl on Bryant when the boss called me.
Against my better judgment, I picked up.
“Boxer,” Brady said, “a bad scene just went down at the Four Seasons. I need you there.”
The only scene I wanted to see was my little girl in clean onesies, and me with a glass of Chardonnay in my hand. But Homicide was understaffed, my partner and I had a fresh gap in our caseload, and Brady was a good lieutenant.
I said, “Were you able to catch Conklin?”
“He’s on the way,” said Brady.
I made a U-turn on Geary, and twenty minutes later, I met up with my partner in the sumptuous lobby of the Four Seasons Hotel. Conklin was as tired as I was, but it looked good on him.
“Overtime pay, Lindsay.”
“Yahoo,” I said with an appropriate lack of enthusiasm. “What did Brady tell you?”
“To be smart, thorough, and quick.”
“Instead of what? Stupid, sloppy, and slow?”
Richie laughed. “He said the Four Seasons wants their hotel back.”
We took the elevator to the fourteenth floor, and when the doors opened, we saw that the hallway was cordoned off and law enforcement personnel were standing at the exit doors, leaning against walls, waiting for us.
Conklin and I ducked under the tape and nodded to uniforms we knew, finally pulling up to the open door marked 1420.
The cop at the door signed us into the log, and I asked him, “Who called it in?”
“Hotel’s head of security. He responded to complaints of gunshots.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad enough,” he said.
“Let’s see,” I said.
CHAPTER 4
THE FIRST OFFICER stepped aside, revealing a naked male body lying faceup, about fifteen feet inside the deluxe hotel suite. He had been shot once in the forehead, once through the right eye, and had taken another bullet to his chest for good measure.
I said to Conklin, “What do you think? Midthirties? Asian?”
Conklin nodded and said, “That’s an expensive watch. He’s wearing a wedding ring. We’re probably not looking at a robbery.”
Someone called my name.
Charlie Clapper, director of San Francisco’s forensic unit, came around a corner in the suite. “Boxer,” Clapper said. “Conklin. Welcome to the Four Seasons. How can we make your stay here more enjoyable?”
I said, “Tell me you’ve ID’d the victim and have the shooter in custody. And that by the way, the shooter confessed.”
Clapper is a former homicide cop, a pro who knows what he’s doing and never has to prove it. He laughed and said, “I guess miracles happen—but not here. Not today.”
I peered behind Clapper. Lights had been set up and CSIs were processing the expensively furnished suite, which had soundproof windows and a high city view. There was a lot of blood around and under the victim, but the room behind him looked spotless.
I took in the silvery-blue carpeting and upholstery, the lightly rumpled bed, bedspread still in place. I saw no wine bottles or remains of a room service meal, and the TV was off.
It looked like room 1420 had only been used for a short time before what happened here went down.
Conklin asked Clapper to run what he knew so far.
Clapper said, “To start with, it looks like our victim had company. We found fresh lipstick and a few long blonde hairs on a pillowcase. There’s no wallet, no suitcase, no papers, no clothes, no shoes.”
“Perfect score,” said Conklin.
Clapper went on. “This gentleman checked in under the name Gregory Wang. He used a credit card with that name and the charge went through, but there is no Gregory Wang at the address on the card or anywhere.
“Also notable, the room has been thoroughly wiped down. No prints old or new. Entry was by a key card that was traced to a Maria Silva in housekeeping. Ms. Silva is now off duty, not answering her phone. A patrol car has gone to her address.”
“What about his prints?” Conklin asked, indicating the victim.
“We ran the victim’s prints and came up with nothing. He’s not in the system, has never been in the military, or taught grade school, or been arrested. And wait. There’s more,” said Clapper. “There’s a whole other crime scene right next door. Can’t be a coincidence, but right now, I don’t see the connection.”
CHAPTER 5
DR. CLAIRE WASHBURN, chief medical examiner and my best friend, was waiting for the three of us in the room next door to the murder room. She held up her bloody gloves to show me why she wasn’t going to give me a hug.
“Take a good fast look,” she said. “I’m ready to remove these bodies.”
Bodies? Multiple?
This room was smaller but looked in every other way identical to the one we’d just left. Same color scheme, same made-up bed, and same view of the city.
But twice the number of victims.
There were two bodies lying on the pale blue carpet, a young black man and a young white woman; both looked to be in their twenties.
Both were clothed in what you might call middle-of-the-road casual. Girl wearing a pastel plaid cotton shirt and jeans, her red hair fanned out around her head, a look of surprise on her face. Boy wearing black cords and a T-shirt under a blue V-neck sweater. Running shoes.
It looked to me like the male victim had been sitting at the desk, the female in a chair near a coffee table. From the way their bodies had fallen, I thought they’d jumped up when they heard an intruder and had been gunned down, all the shots going into the trunks of their bodies and the chairs they’d been sitting in.