AT 7:45 THAT MORNING, I took off my jacket, hung it over the back of my chair, opened my coffee container, and sat down at my desk across from Conklin.
He died on purpose, that monster,” I said to my partner.
He’s dead, but this is not a dead end,” Conklin muttered.
Is that a promise
Yeah. Boy Scout’s honor.
I opened my desk drawer, took out two cello-wrapped pastries, not more than a week old. I lobbed one to Rich, who caught it on the fly.
Oooh. I love a woman who bakes.
I laughed, said, “Be glad for that coffee cake, mister. Who knows when we’ll see food again.
We were waiting for phone calls. A blurry photo of Hawk being wheeled out of the Campion house was running in the morning Chronicle. It was unlikely someone could ID him from that, but not impossible. At just after eight, my desk phone warbled. I grabbed the receiver and heard Charlie Clapper’s voice.
Lindsay,” he said, “there were a dozen prints on that bottle and the foil it was wrapped in.
Tell me something good.
I’d love to, my friend,” Clapper said. “But all we’ve got for sure is a match to Hawk’s prints, and he’s not in AFIS.
There’s a shock. So he’s still a John Doe and, I take it, so is Pidge.
Sorry, kiddo. The only other match I got was to Connor Campion.
I sighed, said, “Thanks anyway, Charlie,” and stabbed the blinking button of my second line.
Chuck Hanni’s voice sounded wound-up, excited.
Glad I got you,” Hanni said. “There’s been a fire.
I pressed the speaker button so Conklin could hear.
It just happened a few hours ago in Santa Rosa,” Chuck said. “Two fatalities. I’m on the way out there now.
It’s arson? You think it’s related to our case
The sheriff told me that one of the vics was found with a book in his lap.
I stared at Conklin, knowing he was thinking the same thing: that SOB Pidge hadn’t wasted any time.
We’ll meet you there,” I said to Hanni.
I wrote down the address and hung up the phone.
