I clutched at the railing, stopping my fall, and I sat down on the staircase. What was going on?
Was it the hot shower and rushing to dress compounded by an empty stomach?
I put my head between my knees until the feeling passed, then got to my feet. I walked down the last flight of stairs, steady as she goes. I was okay. I thought I was okay. Out on the street I got into my vehicle and switched on the ignition. I did a personal systems check, too. I was fine. Much better now.
I warmed up the engine, then called Richie to say that I was on the way.
CHAPTER 24
AT EIGHT THIRTY that night I drove to Fisherman’s Wharf, a neighborhood best known for Pier 39, attracting tourists with its rambunctious sea lions and tours of the bay. Within walking distance were Ghirardelli Square and the cable car turnaround at Hyde Street, which took visitors across Nob Hill to Union Square on the other side.
I made a turn off the Embarcadero and onto Pier 45, busy with foot traffic. The restaurants were open, street vendors sold Dungeness crab from their steaming cauldrons, and tourists mingled happily in the seaside-resort atmosphere.
I also noted the shadow population of street people who had set up their carts and sleeping bags in gaps between buildings, begged from tourists, and searched trash bins for food.
Millie Cushing had told me that the murder had taken place next to the Musée Mécanique, a museum of antique penny arcade games and musical instruments.
I saw the museum up ahead.
It was closed for the night, but still, red lights winked inside the arcade. I turned onto the road to the parking area at the side of the museum but didn’t get far before I was stopped by two uniformed officers standing beside a police cruiser that partially blocked the entrance to the pier.
I buzzed down my window and badged the patrolmen, explaining that I’d gotten a citizen call about a homicide, and asked to be pointed to the first officers on the scene. I was told that Officers Baskin and Casey were just inside the perimeter.
I drove into the desolate parking area, bounded on both sides by the rear walls of buildings, open to the Embarcadero on one end and to San Francisco Bay at the other. Panhandlers were known to use this area after hours to gather and sleep.
I expected my headlights to illuminate a scrum of law enforcement vehicles around the crime scene. Instead I saw one other solitary cruiser. Two uniformed cops had taken up positions near a taped-off area enclosing an inert, lumpy form on the ground. A small gaggle of homeless people loitered in the vicinity, some of them taunting the cops.
A horn honked behind me. It was Conklin in his ancient Bronco. We parked and greeted each other, the cold wind coming off the bay blowing the words out of our mouths.
My partner looked around the gray, dimly lit scene. “Where is everyone?” he said.
“My question exactly.”
We approached the beat cops and the small, restive crowd and exchanged introductions with officers Roger Peet and Donald Baskin from Central Station. Casey looked seasoned and unaffected, while Baskin looked green and anxious.
Casey said, “We just got here. We taped off the area as best we could but haven’t had a chance to secure any witnesses.”
I said, “I got a call more than a half hour ago. What took you so long to get here?”
Casey said, “Who are you again?”
I told him that I was from Homicide, and he understood that for the moment I outranked them. I asked, “Have your investigators given you their ETA?”
“We’re waiting for them. They’re on another case.”
“Did you call CSI?”
“For this?” Casey asked incredulously. “A hit on a vagrant?”
I snapped, “Call them. Do it now.” The two cops didn’t report to me, but that didn’t mean I’d stand by and watch them not do their jobs.
I walked over to the body of a woman who was splayed out faceup on the asphalt. She was wearing a hippy-style multicolored cloth coat over a long blue sweater and leggings with holes in them. Her hair was dark, and blood had puddled around her upper torso. It looked to me like she’d taken a couple of shots to the chest. So she’d seen the shooter. Had she known the person?
I turned back to Casey and asked, “What about bystanders? Did anyone see something? Say something?”
Baskin found his voice. “I talked to one guy who said he saw the doer. Described him as a tall white man wearing a nice coat.”
“You didn’t want to bring him in and get a statement?”