The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club 17)

“I’ll come, too,” said Conklin.

I said, “You should probably stay here and man the lifeboat.”

“Watch yourself,” said Conklin.

I knew full well that if Brady got involved in Central’s string of unsolved homicides, there could be an interdepartmental squabble that would be unpleasant for him.

I hated to put pressure on Brady, but I had to do something about a very bad situation that was getting worse. I’d already crossed Central’s line in the sand and had dragged my partner over it, too. With good reason.

A spree killer was executing people unimpeded, and no one seemed eager, willing, or able to stop him from killing again.

How did an interdepartmental squabble stack up to that?

I walked down the bull pen’s center aisle and knocked on Brady’s glass door. I didn’t wait for an invitation. Jacobi stood up when I entered the small office, saying, “Hey, Boxer. How ya doing? I’m just leaving.”

“Please stay,” I said. “I want to talk with you both.”

Jacobi sat back down. I was washed over with love for him, for all the years on stakeouts together, the night when we’d both almost died of gunshot wounds in an alley, the days when he’d reported to me and we’d exchanged offices and I’d reported to him. I remembered a perfectly beachy day when he’d stood in for my father and given me away to Joe.

My feelings for Brady were also strong. We’d stood shoulder to shoulder under fire, and I’d witnessed his remarkable bravery and strong leadership many times. When we weren’t on duty, he was Yuki’s husband and my good friend.

But in this situation that I’d created there was a chain of command. And between the three of us, I was the lowest link.

I took the chair closest to the door and said, “Sorry to crash your meeting, but there was another homeless killing last night.”

“That woman on Geary,” said Jacobi. “What do you know about it?”

Brady sighed, leaned back in his chair.

“Go ahead, Boxer. Tell him.”

I said, “Let me back up a little ways, Jacobi. Chief.”

I started with Millie Cushing, the woman who had tagged me outside the Hall a few weeks ago to tell me about the murder of a homeless man near Walton Square. I followed that up with a brief rundown of the shooting of another vagrant on Pier 45.

“It took Central’s investigators, Stevens and Moran, nearly two hours to arrive. During that time the scene was corrupted by passersby and witnesses evaporated. I’ve checked. There are no suspects on either the Walton Square or the Pier 45 killing. My CI believes that there is a serial killer putting down the homeless. I agree with her.”

Jacobi said, “She’s homeless, too?”

I said, “That’s right,” and went on.

“Conklin and I went to the Geary Street scene, and as before we had to take charge.

“It’s a pattern, Chief. This is the third homeless killing that we know about, and my CI says there are more. She says that cops stroll in after the scene degrades, and witnesses and suspects have taken off without a trace. I say it looks like this killer is on a roll.”

I took a breath. Jacobi was looking at me fondly, but Brady was annoyed and he showed it.

“Boxer. Are you done?”

“That was the short version,” I said.

“I’m not going to Lieutenant Levant to complain that it took his guys two hours to arrive at a crime scene,” Brady said. “No good will come of it, I promise you that.”

Jacobi said, “Is that what you want to do, Boxer, go to Levant? How about if Levant complains to Brady that you’re interfering in his crime scenes? How would that play out?”

“We have to do something,” I said, louder than I intended.

Brady said, “Jesus Christ.”