“How long is this going to take?” I asked.
“Trust me. You’ll like this. Get up, Boxer.”
I threw a big sigh, gulped down half my coffee, pulled on my jacket, and said, “What’re we waiting for?”
We took the stairs down to the lobby, left by the rear door, and speed-walked along the breezeway to Harriet Street, where a standard gray Chevy squad car was parked under the overpass. Conklin took the wheel, and we headed out toward the Mission District.
Over the crackle of the police radio, my partner started to fill me in.
“I spent Friday afternoon at Millie’s favorite homeless shelter.”
“I take it you learned something useful?” I turned up the heat, turned down the radio.
“I did,” Conklin said. “Millie’s maiden name was Renee Millicent Cushing. Thirty years ago she married an accountant by the name of Ronald Dunn.”
“She’s married?” I said. “Jeez. Did anyone notify her husband?”
“He died fifteen years ago of a heart attack. She told us that she has two adult kids—we didn’t ask their names. But I have an address.”
“For?”
“You shall see,” he told me.
We cruised through the gritty commercial section of the Mission, which broke out into the residential community of Eureka Valley. This is an upscale area, lined with the lovely Victorian homes our town is known for.
I was sightseeing as we drove up hilly Collingwood Street—when Conklin pulled the car up to a gray wood-frame house. It was nice, plain, well kept, and it looked like it had been built in the midsixties. There was a green Kia in the driveway with a Berkeley sticker in the rear window.
I said, “Who lives here?”
“Used to be Millie Cushing Dunn’s house. Yeah. I know what you’re going to say. ‘She owned a house?’”
“And it’s a nice house, too.”
“Her husband left it to her with a bunch of money, amount unspecified, but enough that she had plenty to spare,” said Conklin.
I was impressed. “Nice work, partner.”
“Here’s the rest of it. According to the administrator at the shelter, Millie was a social worker. She often posed as a homeless person to gain trust, lived on the street three or four days a week, then stepped it up to 24/7.”
“Odd way to go about gaining trust, huh?”
“I’d say. Ready, Boxer?”
We got out of the car and walked up to the front door. Conklin rang the bell.
CHAPTER 82
A WOMAN IN her midtwenties opened the door about a foot, enough for us to see that she was barefoot, wearing yoga pants and a loose top. I thought that she looked a little like Millie.
“May I help you?” she asked.
Conklin badged her, introduced us, and asked, “Do you know Millie Cushing?”
The woman said, “I’m her daughter. Sophie Dunn. What’s wrong? What happened to my mother?”
Conklin said, “I’m sorry to tell you, but she was shot last week on Mission Street, and unfortunately, she died. It took us this long to find her address. We’re very sorry.”
“She’s dead?”