Unlucky 13 (Women's Murder Club 13)

I signaled to Richie to pick up on line four, and I told Frye that Conklin was on the line.

Frye coughed and wheezed, then got enough wind to say, “Jansing got a text from the extortionist saying he’s going to call today with a demand. I guess you want to be here.”

After Cindy and Conklin broke up, my partner lived in his car for a couple of weeks and used the office facilities until he found a new place to live. Now he opened his desk drawer and took out his toiletry kit, which still lived in his desk. He rooted around and pulled out a razor, then headed toward the men’s room.

“We’re on our way,” I said to Louis Frye.

CHAPTER 39

I COULD MAKE the drive to Chuck’s HQ in Emeryville while handcuffed, blindfolded, and in my sleep, but still, there was no getting there fast. We were handicapped by morning rush from the west end of the Bay Bridge, and after we cleared the tunnel at Treasure Island, a panicky driver up ahead braked into a turn and fishtailed across all lanes, forcing me to skin a guard rail. I regained the road on two wheels.

Conklin, to his credit, didn’t puke. When we got to the straightaway of 580 East, I shut down the sound and fury in case the bomber had eyes on the Emery Tech Building.

It was almost 10:30 when I nosed our car into a spot in Chuck’s executive lot. Therese Stanford, a pretty, bespectacled young woman from our crime lab’s electronic trace division, was waiting for us in a souped-up red Mustang, probably a recent confiscation by Narcotics. She got out of the car with a laptop case slung over her shoulder.

Lou Frye, Chuck’s Prime’s attorney, was smoking a cigarette just outside the back door. He stubbed his butt out against the brick wall, and once Conklin and I had feet on the ground, we introduced him to CSI Stanford and he let us into the building by the back way.

“No phone call, yet,” Frye said, pressing the elevator button. “Jansing is a wreck. I’ve never seen him this way before, but he’s got a big conflict. He wants to do the right thing, but he has to protect the company. He loves Chuck’s. He is Chuck’s.”

Michael Jansing was in his office, rocking his desk chair, staring out the window. He dropped the chair into its upright position when we walked in. He stood up, said hello to the three of us, shook our hands with his sweaty one, and offered us coffee.

As his assistant brought in a coffee tray, Stanford set up her laptop on Jansing’s desk.

“What if the bastard doesn’t call?” Jansing asked Stanford.

“If he wants his money, he will.”

“And what do I do?”

“Try to buy us some time to get a bead on him. Ask his name. Ask, ‘What’s your beef?’—no, no,” Stanford said, laughing nervously. “I didn’t mean that.”

Conklin took over. “Fumble a little, Mr. Jansing, but don’t overdo it. Get the time and address of the drop and Sergeant Boxer and I will take it from there.”

Everyone took seats and settled in for a wait. The silence was thick and then thicker. I can’t speak for what was going on in the minds of those around me, but I knew how much could go wrong.

If the guy called from his cell phone, we’d own him, but would he call? Would he direct us to the drop, or was he the kind of sadist who could race Jansing around from place to place until he was sure that his pigeon had flown alone. Then take the money and split.

And by the way, while Stanford had worded her question indelicately, she was on the right track. What was the killer’s beef? What did he have against Jansing? What did he have against Chuck’s Prime? Or was planting explosives in hamburger meat a crime of opportunity?

Jansing’s office was as quiet as a morgue during a blackout. We’d exhausted our Q and A the last two times we visited Jansing, and he was silent and tense and had no further questions of us. We drank coffee and watched Jansing rock in his executive chair for forty-seven excruciating minutes.

And then a phone rang. Jansing grabbed at his breast pocket. He took out his cell and showed the caller ID number to Stanford.

She tapped the number into a cell phone attached to her computer, and her tracking software almost instantly pinpointed the base station the bomber was calling from.

Stanford said, “He’s in Emeryville.”

She disconnected the line, then, redialing the caller’s number, nabbed the exact location. By then Jansing’s phone had rung four times.

“He’s going to hang up,” I said.

“Go ahead and answer it,” Stanford said to Jansing.

CHAPTER 40

JANSING PUT HIS phone on speaker and said his name.

The voice that came back over the phone was electronically modulated, giving the speaker a high-pitched robotic quality that was sick, chilling, and crazy.