11th Hour (Women's Murder Club 11)

Randall stood up and put on his nylon windbreaker.

“I need a lift.”

Then, as an afterthought, he said, “You should be careful, Sergeant Boxer. You don’t want to take chances with your baby.”

I took it as a sincere remark.

Conklin walked Randall out, and when he came back, I was still in the interrogation room. I hadn’t moved.

“Did he do it?” I asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“You know what, Rich? I kind of like the son of a bitch.”

“He’s a hard-ass,” Conklin said. “Kind of reminds me of you.”

Chapter 92

I BROUGHT MARTHA with me to breakfast at a great neighborhood bistro out in Cole Valley called Zazie. Zazie had scrumptious food and a patio garden out back. We came through the front door and the hostess told me she was sorry, but dogs weren’t allowed.

“Martha is a police dog,” I said.

“Is she really?”

The hostess held on tight to her menus, looked down at my small, shaggy border collie, and showed by her dubious expression that she couldn’t believe Martha was in the K-9 Corps.

I’ve got to hand it to Martha. She looked up, made direct eye contact with the hostess, and conveyed professionalism and sharp canine wisdom with her deep brown eyes.

I backed her up.

“See?” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m a cop. She’s my deputy dog.”

“Okay. She’s a drug sniffer, I guess. I shouldn’t touch her, right? Kinda cute, isn’t she? Should I bring her some water? Sparkling or flat?”

I had my first grin of the week, then had another when I saw Claire waiting for me at a table at the back of the long, narrow garden enclosed by ivy-covered walls.

I hugged her. She hugged me. I just couldn’t get enough of that hug. When we finally broke apart, Claire bent and kissed Martha on the nose, making my little pal all waggle-tailed and squirmy. Martha really hearts Claire.

We sat at the nice long table in the corner of the patio, and Claire moved her newspapers out of the way — but not quick enough.

“Hey, let me see those.”

I read the headlines.

The Post: “Another revenge killing at Zeus,” by Jason Blayney. The Chronicle: “Suspect held in House of Heads mystery,” by Cindy Thomas.

“It’s true: you can run but you can’t hide.” I handed the papers back to Claire, who said, “So what’s the latest with you and Joe?”

“You go first, butterfly. I can’t talk until after I’ve had hot chocolate and gingerbread pancakes.”

“I haven’t been to bed,” Claire said. “Can you tell?” Now that she mentioned it, I realized that she was wearing scrubs.

I said, “Tell me what’s going on.”

“Where should I start? Yesterday, seven p.m. We’ve got a full house, of course. Among my other patients, I’ve got a seventeen-year-old boy on the table. Contact muzzle stamp on his temple and soot in the entrance wound. It’s a clear suicide, but his parents aren’t accepting it. Everything I say, they come back with ‘No, Davey would never do that.’”

“The doors show any signs of a break-in?”