The 6th Target (Women's Murder Club 6)

I sighed as Jacobi moved his coffee, his Egg McMuffin, his newspaper, lifted a pile of manila folders. He sorted through those, found the one he was looking for, flapped it open.

“Gilda Gray. Here’s her number.”

“Thanks, Lieu,” I said, reaching for the folder. I felt a pang, as if I’d made a slip of the tongue. I’d never called Jacobi “Lieu” before. I hoped he’d missed it, but no. Jacobi beamed at me.

I smiled at him over my shoulder, walked back to the face-to-face desk arrangement I have with Conklin. Dialed Gilda Gray’s number and got her on the phone.

“I can’t come in now. I’ve got a presentation with a client at nine thirty,” she protested.

“A child is missing, Ms. Gray.”

“Look, I can tell you everything in about ten seconds over the phone. I was walking our dog on Divisadero. I was following her, getting the newspaper into position, when the little girl and her nanny crossed the street.”

“Then what happened?”

“My attention was on Schotzie. I was looking down, lining up that newspaper, you know? I thought I heard a child call out — but when I looked up, all I saw was someone in a gray coat sliding open a door to a black minivan. And I saw the back of the nanny’s coat as she got inside.”

“Someone in a gray coat. Gotcha. Did you see the person at the wheel?”

“Nope. I put the newspaper in the trash, and I heard the van turn the corner. Then, like I’ve said, I heard a loud pop and saw what looked like blood splattering against the back window. It was horrible . . .”

“Anything you can tell me about the man in the gray coat?”

“I’m pretty sure he was white.”

“Tall, short, distinguishing features?”

“I didn’t pay any attention. I’m sorry.”

I asked Ms. Gray when she could come in and look at mug shots, and she said, “You’ve got mug shots of the backs of people’s heads?”

I said, “Thanks anyway,” and hung up.

I looked into Conklin’s light-brown eyes. Got lost there for half a second.

“So we’re still on perv patrol?” he asked.

“Yeah, we are, Rich. Bring your coffee.”

Chapter 52

KENNETH KLASSEN WAS WASHING his silver Jaguar when we parked on the uphill slope outside his home on Vallejo.

He was a white male, forty-eight, five ten, your average-to-good-looking porno auteur with artificially enhanced features: good hair weave, quality nose job, aquamarine contact lenses, dental veneers — the works.

According to his sheet, Klassen had been caught in an online chat-room sting setting up a date with someone he thought was a twelve-year-old girl — turned out to be a forty-year-old cop.

Klassen had cut a deal with the DA. In exchange for ratting out a child pornographer, he got a lengthy probation and a hefty fine. He was still making adult porn, which was completely legal, even in the upscale neighborhood of Pacific Heights.

A look of delight brightened Klassen’s face as Conklin and I left our Crown Vic on the curb and came toward him.

“Well, well, well,” he said, shutting off the hose, looking from me to Conklin and back to me. Sizing us up.

Then his smile hardened as he made us as cops.

“Kenneth Klassen,” I said, flashing my badge, “I’m Sergeant Boxer. And this is Inspector Conklin. We have some questions for you. Mind if we come inside?”

“Come wherever you like, Sergeant.” Klassen smirked, holding the hose gun in front of himself as if it were cocked and ready to go.