The 8th Confession (3 page)

Jacobi was touchy because San Francisco's homicide-solution rate was hovering at the bottom, somewhere below Detroit's.

"I'll tell him," I said to Conklin.

I put my feet up against the front edge of Jacobi's desk and said, "Time got away from us, Warren. This crime has a few odd angles, and the victim's death is going to be written up in great big type in the
Chronicle
tomorrow. I thought we should get out in front of the story."

"Keep talking," said Jacobi, as if I were a suspect and he had me in the box.

I filled him in on the reported good works and the varying theories: that Bagman Jesus was a missionary or a philanthropist, that the baby on his crucifix was a pro-life statement or that it symbolized how we'd all once been innocent and pure—like Baby Jesus.

"The guy had a way with people," I concluded. "Very charismatic, some kind of homeless person's saint."

Jacobi drummed his fingers. "You don't know this saint's name, do you, Boxer?"

"No."

"And you have no clue as to who killed him or what the motive was?"

"Not a
hint
of a clue."

"That's it, then," Jacobi said, slapping the desk. "It's over. Finished. Unless someone walks in and confesses, you're done wasting department time. Get me?"

"Yes, sir," said Conklin.

"Boxer?"

"I hear you, Lieutenant."

We cleared out of Jacobi's office and punched out for the day. I said to Conklin, "You understood that, right?"

"What's not to understand about 'finished'?"

"Rich, Jacobi was clear as
day.
He told us to work Bagman Jesus
on our own time.
I'm going down to see Claire. You coming?"

C
LAIRE WAS WEARING a surgical gown with a butterfly pin at the neckline, apron stretched across her girth, flowered shower cap covering her hair. On the stainless autopsy table in front of her lay a naked Bagman Jesus, his terrible bashed-in features facing up at the lights.

A Y incision ran from clavicles to pubis and had been sewn up in baseball stitches with coarse white thread. He had bruises all over his body and overlapping lacerations and contusions.

Bagman Jesus had been worked over with a vengeance.

"I got back the X-rays," Claire said. As she talked, I looked over at where they were pinned to the light box on the wall.

"Broken right hand, probably took a swing at his attacker or it was stomped on when he was down. He's got a lot of fractures involving his facial bones, as well as multiple skull fractures. Broken ribs, of course, three of them.

"All this multiple blunt-force trauma might have killed him, but by the time someone took a bat to him, he was already dead."

"Cause of death? Give it to me, Butterfly. I'm ready."

"Jeez," she said. "Working as fast as I can and still not up to Lindsay time."

"Please?" I said.

Resigned, Claire reached behind her, held up a bunch of small glassine bags with what looked like distorted slugs inside.

"Those are twenty-twos?" Conklin asked her.

"Right you are, Rich. Four of the shots to the head did the old internal ricochet. Went in here, here, right here, and back here, whizzed around under the scalp, and laid there like bugs under a rug.

"But I suppose there's an outside chance Mr. Jesus could've survived
those
four slugs."

"And so?" I asked. "What killed him?"

"Soooo, baby girl, the shooter plugged Mr. Jesus through the temple, and that was likely your murder round. Shot him again at the back of his neck for good measure."

"And
then
his killer beat his face in? Broke his ribs?" I asked, incredulous. "Talk about crime of
passion.
"

"Oh, someone hated him, all right," Claire told us. She called out to her assistant. "Put Mr. Jesus away for me, will you, Bunny? Get Joey to help you. And write 'John Doe number twenty-seven' and the date on his toe tag."

Conklin and I followed Claire to her office.

"Got something else to show you," Claire told us. She tore off her shower cap and peeled off her surgical gown. Underneath, Claire wore blue scrubs and her favorite T-shirt, the one with the famous quote on the front: "I may be fat and I may be forty, but here I is."

That line cracked Claire up, but since she's now forty-five, I was thinking she might be getting a
new
favorite T-shirt one of these days.

Meanwhile, she offered us seats, sat down behind her desk, and unlocked the top drawer. She took out another glassine evidence bag, put it on the desk, and bent her gooseneck lamp down to throw light directly on it.

"That's Bagman's
crucifix,
" I said, staring at a piece of tramp art that had the patina of an ancient and valuable artifact.

It was in fact as described: two bolts, copper wire, a toy baby lashed to the cross.

"Could be some prints on the plastic baby," I said. "Where did you find this?"

"In Bagman's gullet," Claire told me, taking a swig of water. "Someone tried to ram it down his throat."

I
WAS EAGER to hear Joe's thoughts on Bagman Jesus.

We were having dinner that night at Foreign Cinema. Although it is located on a crappy block in the city's dodgiest neighborhood, surrounded by bodegas and dollar stores, Foreign Cinema's marquis and fine design make it look as though a UFO picked it up in L.A. and dropped it down in the Mission by mistake.

But apart from the way it looks, what makes Foreign Cinema a real treat are the picnic tables in the back garden, where old films are projected on the blank wall of a neighboring building.

The sky was clear that early May night, the evening made even cozier by the heat lamps all around the yard. Sean Penn was at one of the tables with some of his pals, but the big draw for me was having a dinner date with Joe without either of us having to book a flight to do it.

After so many gut-wrenching speed bumps, the roller-coaster ride of our formerly long-distance relationship had smoothed out when Joe moved to San Francisco to be with me. Now we were finally living together.

Finally giving ourselves a real chance.

As
The Umbrellas of Cherbourg,
an old French film, flickered without sound against the wall, Joe listened intently as I told him about my astounding day: how Conklin and I had walked our feet off trying to find out who had murdered Bagman Jesus.

"Claire took five slugs out of his head, four of them just under the scalp," I told Joe. "The fifth shot was to the temple and was likely the money shot. Then Bagman took another slug to the back of the neck, postmortem. Kind of a personal act of violence, don't you think?"

"Those slugs. They were twenty-fives or twenty-twos?"

" Twenty-twos," I said.

"Figures. They had to be soft or they all would have gone through his skull. Were there any shell casings at the scene?"

"Not a one. Shooter probably used a revolver."

"Or he used a semiautomatic, picked up those casings. That kind of guy was evidence-conscious. Thinking ahead."

"So, okay, that's a good point." I turned Joe's thought around in my mind. "So maybe it was premeditated, you're saying?"

"It's not hopeless, Linds. That soft lead could have striations. See what the lab says. Too bad you won't be getting prints off the casings."

"There might be some prints on that plastic baby."

Joe nodded, but I could tell he didn't agree.

"No?" I asked him.

"If the shooter picked up the casings, maybe he was a pro. A contract killer or a military guy. Or a cop. Or a con. If he was a pro—"

"Then there won't be any prints on the crucifix either," I said. "But why would a pro kill a street dweller so viciously?"

"It's only
day one,
Linds. Give yourself some time."

I told him, "Sure," but Jacobi had already pulled the plug on this case. I put my head in my hands as Joe called the waiter over and ordered wine. Then he turned a big, unreadable smile on me.

I sat back and analyzed that smile, getting only that Joe looked like a kid with a secret.

I asked him what was going on, waited for him to sample the wine. Then, when he'd made me wait plenty long enough, he leaned across the table and took my hands in his.

"Well, Blondie, guess who got a call from the Pentagon today?"

O
H MY GOD," I blurted. "
Don't
tell me."

I couldn't help myself. My first thought was that Joe was being recruited back to Washington—and I just couldn't stand even the
idea
of that.

"Lindsay, take it easy. The call was about an
assignment.
Could be the beginning of other assignments, all lucrative, a great boost for my consulting business."

When I met Joe while working a case, his business card read,
DEPUTY DIRECTOR, HOMELAND SECURITY.
He was the best antiterrorism guy in Washington. And that was the job he'd given up when he'd moved out to the left coast to be with me.

His credentials and his reputation were first-rate, but the opportunities hadn't come to him in San Francisco as quickly as we'd expected.

I blamed that on the current administration being PO'ed that super-well-liked Joseph Molinari had walked off the job in an election year. Apparently they were getting over their pique.

That was good.

I relaxed. I smiled. I said, "Whew. Scared me, Joe." And I started to get excited for him.

"So tell me about the
assignment,
" I said.

"Sure, but let's order first."

I don't remember what I picked from the menu because when the food came, Joe told me that he was leaving for a conference in the Middle East—in the morning.

And that he might be in Jordan for three weeks or more.

Joe put down his fork, said, "What's wrong, Lindsay? What's troubling you?"

He asked nicely. He really wanted to know, but my blood pressure had rocketed and I couldn't tell him
nicely
why.

"It's your birthday tomorrow, Joe. We were going to Cat's house for the weekend, remember?"

Catherine is my sister, six years younger than me, lives in the pretty coastal town of Half Moon Bay with her two girls. It was supposed to be a family weekend, quality time, kind of a big deal for me, bringing Joe home to pretty much the only family I have.

"We can stay with Cat some other time, hon. I have to go to this conference. Besides, Lindsay, all I want for my birthday is tonight and you."

"I can't talk to you right now," I said, tossing my napkin down on the table, standing up in front of the movie playing against the wall, hearing people shout at me to sit down.

I walked through the restaurant and out the thirty-foot-long corridor lined on each side with a waist-high niche of votive candles, pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, and called for a taxi before I got to the street.

I waited out there on Mission, smack in the middle of Dodge City, feeling outraged, then stupid, then really, really mad at myself.

I'd behaved like the dumb-blonde stereotype that I'd always despised.

I
SAID TO MYSELF,
You frickin' bimbo.
I leaned down, gave the cabbie a five, and waved him off.

Then I made that romantic, candlelit march all by myself down the thirty-foot corridor, through the restaurant, and out to the back garden.

I got there as the waiter was taking the plates away.

"Down in front!" the person who'd yelled before yelled again. "You. Yes, you."

I sat down across from Joe, said, "That was stupid of me and I'm sorry."

Joe's expression told me that he was really wounded. He said, "I'm sorry, too. I shouldn't have sprung that on you, but I didn't imagine you'd react like that."

"No, don't apologize. You were right and I was a complete idiot, Joe. Will you please forgive me?"

"I've already forgiven you. But Lindsay, every time we fight, the elephant in our relationship does what it does."

"Trumpets?" I asked, trying to be helpful.

Joe smiled, but it was a sad smile.

"You're going on forty."

"I know that. Thank you."

"I'll be forty-seven, as you pointed out, tomorrow. Last year I asked you to marry me. The ring I gave you is still in a box in a drawer, not on your finger. What I want for my birthday? I want you to decide, Lindsay."

With the precisely inconvenient timing waiters around the world have perfected, a trio of young men grouped around our table, a small cake in hand, candles burning, and began singing "Happy Birthday" to Joe. Just as I had planned.

The song was picked up by other diners, and a lot of eyes turned on us. Joe smiled, blew out the candles.

Then he looked at me, love written all over his face. He said, "Don't beg, Blondie. I'm not going to say what I wished for."

Did I feel the fool for blighting our evening?

I did.

Did I know what to do about Joe's wish and that diamond ring in its black velvet box?

I did not.

But I was pretty sure my indecision had nothing to do with Joe.

W
E WOKE UP before dawn and made urgent love without speaking. Hair was pulled, lips were bitten, pillows were thrown on the floor.

The fierce lovemaking was true, heartfelt acknowledgment that we were stuck. That there was nothing either one of us could say that the other didn't already know.

Our skin glistening in the afterglow, we lay together side by side, our hands gripped tightly together. The high-tech clock on the nightstand projected the time and outside temperature on the ceiling in large red digits.

Five fifteen a.m.

Fifty-two degrees.

Joe said, "I had a good dream. Everything is going to be okay."

Was he assuring me? Or reassuring himself?

"What was the dream?"

"We were swimming together, naked, under a waterfall. Water. That's sex, right?"

He released my hand. The mattress shifted. He shook out the blanket and covered my body.