The 8th Confession (9 page)

C
ONKLIN AND I spent seven full hours interviewing Isa and Ethan Bailey's friends, family, and the short list of their non-live-in personal employees: Isa's secretary; the dog walker, who was also a gal Friday; and the children's tutor.

Nothing popped. We filled our notebooks and moved on.

While the rest of my team went back to the neighborhood canvass, Conklin and I went to see Yancey and Rita Booth, Isa's indescribably wealthy parents, who tearfully invited us into their magnificent Nob Hill home.

We spent hours with the Booths, mostly listening and taking notes. The Booths were in their sixties, devastated by Isa's death, and needed to talk their way through the shock by telling us about the Booth and Bailey family histories.

According to Yancey Booth, there was a hundred-year-old dispute between the Booths and the Baileys, ongoing to this day, that had started with a plot of land with ambiguous boundary lines.

We learned that Ethan Bailey had three brothers, none of them successful, and that little fact opened a door to a new branch of the investigation.

We looked at the Booth family photos going back to the gold-rush days, and we met the grandkids, or rather
they
met
us,
demanding to be let in to see the police.

At five in the afternoon we turned down an offer to stay for dinner. We left our cards and assurances that Isa Booth Bailey was our number one priority—and then we got the hell out of there.

As we walked down the front steps, I grumbled to Conklin, "We're going to be working this case until we retire."

We got into the car and sat there, talking over what we knew about the lives of Isa and Ethan, wondering if this case would ever come together.

I said to Conklin, "Her parents are never going to get over this."

"They sure loved her," he said.

"When Mrs. Booth broke down—"

"Heartbreaking. I mean, I think she could really die of this."

"And those little boys."

"Just old enough to understand. When the smaller one, Peter, said, 'Please tell me why anyone would do this to Mommy and Daddy…' " Conklin sighed. "See? Isa and Ethan couldn't have done it. I don't see one killing the other. Not with kids like that."

"I know."

I told Conklin about my sister's kids, Brigid and Meredith, who are about the same age as the Bailey boys. "I'm going to call my sister tonight. I just want to hear the little girls' happy voices."

"Good idea," Conklin said.

"We were supposed to visit them. Me and Joe. He had to go on a business trip."

"That's too bad. But you can see Cat when he gets back."

"That's what he said."

"You like kids, Lindsay," Conklin said after a moment. "You should have some."

I turned away, looked out the window as all those forbidden thoughts tumbled over one another, how close Rich and I had become, the taboo words and deeds, the smell of his hair, what it had felt like to kiss him, the part of me that regretted saying no because now I would never know how we would have fit together.

"Lindsay? You okay?"

I turned to him, said, "I'm just thinking," and when I looked into his eyes, there was that hit, that arc of electricity going from me to him to me.

A phone rang in the distance.

On the third ring, I grabbed my cell off my belt, feeling mad, sad, and glad—in that order. It was Jacobi calling, but I wouldn't have cared if it had been a wrong number.

I'd been saved by the bell.

Because in another moment, I might have suggested doing with Conklin what I was thinking—and all that would accomplish would be to make me feel
worse.

C
LAIRE STOOD IN the center of the squad room again, but this time she looked weird, like she'd taken a punch.

"For those of you who haven't heard my lecture, there are two types of cases—one type is circumstance-dependent and the other is autopsy-dependent."

She was pacing now, talking as much to herself as she was to the ten of us, who were waiting to hear about the second tox run.

"That homeless guy, you know the one, Bagman Jesus. He had trauma all over him, six gunshot wounds to the head and neck, plus a postmortem beat-down. His body was found in a neighborhood frequented by drug dealers—but I don't even
need
to know the circumstances.

"Six gunshot wounds. That's a homicide.

"Now we've got two dead people found in their beds. Got a completely negative autopsy, completely negative environment…"

She stopped speaking. Swallowed.

"The tox run for the weird, the strange, and the
bizarre,
" I said, trying to give her a little push.

"Negative. Completely negative, so thanks, girlfriend, I almost forgot what I was saying. But now I remember: the Bailey case is circumstance-dependent.

"And a circumstance-dependent case means we need police work. You all know what I'm getting at. What were their finances like? Anyone having an affair here? Anyone leading a double life? You gotta help me out, give me a direction, because I'm twisting in the wind."

So that was it. Claire was
stumped.
I wasn't sure I'd ever seen her stumped before. Ever.

"This is the press release I've got to give in the morning," Claire said. She took a piece of paper out of the pocket of her scrubs and began to read from it.

"The Bailey case is under active investigation by the medical examiner's office. Since these deaths are suspicious, we are treating them as homicides. I'm not going to comment because I don't want to undermine the overall investigation."

Claire stopped reading and looked up.

"And then the press is going to beat the hell out of me."

"You're not saying you're finished, are you?" Jacobi said.

I felt worried for Claire. She looked pained and scared.

"I'm gonna get a consult. I've got calls in to two very knowledgeable board-certified forensic pathologists, asking them to come in and take a look," said Claire. "You have to tell the families, Jacobi. Tell them that they can't have their children's bodies yet, because we're not done."

Y
UKI WAS STARING into his blue-gray eyes again, this time across a small table in the hospital cafeteria, Dr. John Chesney working on his vegetarian chili, saying, "Finally having lunch, fourteen hours into my day."

Yuki thought he was
adorable,
felt giddy just looking at him, knowing full well that adorability didn't mean he was good or honest or
anything.
She even flashed back on a couple of handsome
rats
she'd dated in her life, not to mention more than a few gorgeous
killers
she'd faced in court—but never mind!

Not only was John Chesney adorable but he was damned
nice,
too.

She could almost feel her mother's breath on the back of her neck, her mom whispering, "Yuki-eh, this doctah John, he good man for hus-band."

Mom, we know
nothing
about him.

Chesney sipped his Coke, said, "I'm not sure I've
met
San Francisco yet. I've been here for four months and my schedule is get off work, jog home, fall asleep in the shower."

Yuki laughed. Imagined him naked, ash-blond hair plastered to his head, water sluicing down his compact, muscular body…

"When I wake up, I'm here again. It's like
Groundhog Day
in a war zone, but I'm not complaining. This is the job I've always wanted. What about you? You're a lawyer, right?"

"Yep. I am."

Yuki told John that she was currently waiting for a verdict on a pretty high-profile case, maybe he'd heard about it.

"Former beauty queen kills her father with a crowbar, tries to do the same to her mother—"

"That's
your
case? We've all talked about the mother surviving five solid blows to her head. Jeez, a caved-in cranial vault, broken orbital socket, and smashed jaw. Man, she wanted to
live.
"

"Yeah. It was a real kick in the pants when she recanted what we call her 'dying declaration'…" Yuki started thinking about Rose Glenn, ran her hand over her new buzz cut, looked up to see Chesney smiling, turning those eyes on her approvingly.

"That's a great look on you, Yuki."

"Ya think?"

"You know I had to do it, don't you?"

"Well, good intentions are no defense, Doctor. You started this with your clippers, did you not? Used them like a lawn mower. Gave me the worst haircut I've ever had in my life, isn't that so, Doctor?"

Chesney laughed, said, "Guilty of inciting a bad haircut. But I gave you very neat stitches."

Yuki laughed with him, then said, "John, I called because I want to apologize. I'm sorry I was such a crazy bitch when I was here."

"Ha! You were the best mad patient I've ever had."

"Come on!" She laughed again.

"Really. You didn't threaten me, didn't hit me or stick me with a needle. I've got a guy in the ER right now with three broken ribs and a concussion, and he won't give up his cell phone. 'I'm
working,
' he says. Took three of us to wrench his phone out of his hand."

And just then, Chesney's beeper went off. He looked at it, said, "Damn. I've got to get back. Um, Yuki, would you want to do this again sometime?"

"Sure," said Yuki. "I'm only a taxi ride away."

"Maybe we could go somewhere
else.
Maybe you could show me the city."

Yuki gave him a coy smile, said, "So I guess I'm forgiven."

John put his hand over hers. "I'll let you know."

She laughed and so did he, and their eyes locked until he took his hand away—and then he was gone.

Yuki was already waiting for his call.

C
INDY TOOK A right turn out of her apartment building, cell phone pressed to her ear, listening to Lindsay say, "I wish I could do something, but we're
drowning
in the Bailey case.
Drowning.
"

"My editor is holding page one of the Metro section for my story. I've got a
deadline.
You're saying you've got nothing at all?"

"You want the truth? Conklin and I were kicked off Bagman Jesus on day one. We tried to work it on our own time—"

"Thanks anyway, Linds. No, really," Cindy said, snapping her phone closed. Enough said.
No one was working the case.

Cindy walked up Townsend Street to the corridor between her apartment and the spot where Bagman Jesus had been murdered. She stopped at the humble shrine outside the train yard, blood still staining the sidewalk, newly wilted flowers and handwritten notes woven into the chain-link fence.

She stood for a while reading the messages from friends telling Bagman Jesus that he'd be missed and remembered. These notes were heartbreaking. A good man had been killed, and the police were too busy to find his killer. So who was fighting in Bagman's corner?

She was.

Cindy moved on, keeping pace with pedestrians exiting the train station. She turned onto Fifth Street and made her way toward the brick building in the middle of the block that housed the soup kitchen called From the Heart.

On one side of the soup kitchen was a hole-in-the-wall liquor store. On the other side was a fast-food Chinese restaurant that looked really low, like it served tree squirrel sautéed with brown sauce and peanuts.

In between the restaurant and the soup kitchen was a black door. Cindy had a date behind that door. She hoisted her computer bag higher up on her shoulder, turned the knob, and gave the door a shove with her hip. It opened at the foot of a dark and sour-smelling stairway.

Cindy began the steep climb, the stairs wrapping around a small landing, rising again to a floor with three doors, the signage identifying them as a nail salon, a massage parlor, and, toward the front of the building, PINCUS AND PINCUS, ATTORNEYS-AT-LAW.

Cindy pressed the intercom button on the panel beside the door, gave her name, and was buzzed in. She took a seat in the reception area, an alcove filled wall-to-wall with a cracked leather sofa and a coffee table. She leafed through an old copy of
Us Weekly,
looking up as someone called her name.

The man introduced himself as Neil Pincus. He was dressed in gray slacks, a white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up, no tie. He had a receding hairline and a pleasant, unremarkable face, and he was wearing a gold wedding band. He put out his right hand and so did she.

"Nice to meet you, Mr. Pincus."

"Neil. Come on in the back. I can give you only a few minutes, but they're all yours."

C
INDY SAT ACROSS from the attorney's desk, her back to the dirty window. She glanced at a grouping of framed photos on the credenza to her right: the Pincus brothers with their good-looking wives and teenage daughters. Neil Pincus stabbed a button on his telephone console, said to his brother, "Al, please take my calls. I'll be just a few minutes."

Then he said to Cindy, "How can I help you?"

"You've got a heck of a reputation in this neighborhood."

"Thanks. We do what we can," Pincus said. "People get arrested and either get a public defender or they ask us."

"Nice of you to do this work for free."

"It's pretty rewarding, actually, and we're not alone. We work with a group of businesspeople around here who kick in money for legal costs and special needs. We have a needle-exchange program. We run a literacy program—"

The phone rang. Neil Pincus peered at the caller ID, turned his eyes back to Cindy, and talked over the ring tone. "I'm sorry. But I think you should tell me why you're here before the phone drives us both crazy."

"I'm doing a five-part piece about Bagman Jesus, the homeless man recently found dead."

"I read your story."

"Okay. Good. So this is it," Cindy said. "I can't get the police interested in his death. They don't think his murder is solvable."

Pincus sighed, said, "Well, that's typical."