Page 24 of The 24th Hour

“He was,” I said. “By two inspector sergeants.”

“And apparently, sometime after that, he was arraigned and pleaded not guilty.”

“Correct.”

“Do you see him in court today?”

“Yes. Mr. Cates is wearing a blue jacket and is sitting at the defense table.”

Yuki had no further questions and defense counsel had none, reserving the right to call me at some other time. I was dismissed and left the courtroom.

I found Claire sitting on a bench in the corridor, her ankles crossed, wearing a blazer over her scrubs, reading her phone.

I said, “Hey, girlfriend.”

“How’d it go, Linds?”

“Regular,” I said. “Just the facts, ma’am.”

The guard said to Claire, “Dr. Washburn? You’ve been called.”

Claire has some arthritis in her right knee. She stuck out her arm, asking me, “Mind giving me a hand up?”

I braced and pulled Claire to her feet. Then we hugged, kissed cheeks, and I headed for the fire stairs.

The Fricke task force was waiting for me.

CHAPTER 27

IT ONLY TOOK two minutes for me to take the stairs to the Homicide squad room. I checked in with Bobby Nussbaum, our gatekeeper and squad assistant. He used hand signals to indicate that one of my shirt buttons was open while handing over a short stack of junk mail addressed to me.

I re-buttoned my shirt, then said, “Thanks, Bob,” putting a little barb in it. He laughed. Bobby loves his job. I crossed in front of his desk, then walked four paces to the three-desk pod I share with Inspectors Rich Conklin and Sonia Alvarez.

Alvarez is the most recent addition to our Homicide squad. She was previously with Las Vegas Metro’s Vice squad, where she’d starred in undercover work. Then she’d been handpicked for the SFPD by our chief, Charles Clapper.

Not long after joining us, she’d proven her tough-cop chops when she and I faced off against a mass murderer in the basement of the Bellagio Resort and Casino. She was all that; good with a gun, as well as being upbeat, fearless, a sharpinterviewer, and she can carry a tune. In short, Sonia Alvarez is a pleasure to work with.

I asked her if the task force meeting had started.

“Not yet, but Cappy, Chi, and Conklin are all in Swanson’s old office. But that’s not all.” She pointed to Brady’s glass-walled office at the far end of the bullpen. I looked down the center aisle and saw Brady was meeting with two other men, all three standing and filling most of the usable space in that glass bread box. I made out DA Len “Red Dog” Parisi by the color of his tweeds. Chief Clapper filled in the rest of the eight-by-seven room.

Parisi rarely comes upstairs to our bullpen, but no doubt he was here to meet with Clapper and Brady about James Fricke’s murder.

I squeezed in behind Alvarez’s chair to reach my own so I could check my mail. I couldn’t help but notice that Alvarez had her hand inside a bag of potato chips, specialty type, baked in truffle oil. This was her weakness and she’d gotten me hooked, too.

“Please take these,” she said shoving the large foil bag over to my desk.

“Hey,” I said, “pushing truffle chips is a felony.”

She laughed, saying, “I never make youeatthem.”

“Okay. Pushing truffle chips is a misdemeanor in the first degree,” I said, pulling open the bag. While feeding my new habit, I peered over Alvarez’s shoulder and saw the dazzling image on her computer.

“Fricke Cottage,” I commented as the immense mansion in Pacific Heights filled the screen.

“Fricke’s man Bevaqua called for you,” said Alvarez, referring to Jamie Fricke’s house manager, Arthur Bevaqua. “How about taking me along for the ride?”

“Have you heard the expression ‘Never volunteer’? Well, too bad for you, Sonia. I’m putting you on the Fricke task force. Dust the chips off your shirt and come with me to the meeting.”

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