Chapter 97
I SAT IN the passenger seat of Cindy’s car and pretty much handled issues on the phone nonstop during the hour-long drive back into San Francisco.
This was far and away my best use of time in the last week.
Even if it was my own time, since I was still on suspension.
That didn’t keep me from calling Jackson Brady and explaining to him everything that had happened.
A lot of bosses would’ve started yelling at me.
They’d be asking why I was doing police work while I was suspended.
They’d be asking me little details, like did I drive my city car while suspended, did I carry my duty weapon while suspended?
What those questions usually amounted to was ammo for some serious discipline.
Brady didn’t ask any questions. He listened to what had happened. He took a few moments to make some notes. When I was finished, he simply said, “Sounds like good work. Come on into the office. I’ll get us some help.”
Once we arrived at the Hall of Justice, I dragged Cindy with me up to our office.
Normally, cops would be apprehensive with a reporter in their squad room.
Not on our squad. They’d all read her articles and never shut up about how accurate and evenhanded she was.
Everyone here knew Cindy. Everyone loved her. Hey, Conklin even married her.
Almost as soon as we walked in the door, Brady looked at me and said matter-of-factly, “Suspension’s over.”
“How is that possible?”
Brady shrugged. “Easy. Just a phone call.”
That answer perplexed me. “Why didn’t you make that call yesterday?”
Now Brady turned and faced me head-on. His broad shoulders blocked my view of the rest of the squad.
“Because you needed a break. You were on the edge. If I’d sent you home on my own, you would’ve resented it and me for the next decade.
I thought this was an efficient way to give you a few days to unwind.
Obviously, I was wrong. I should’ve known better. ”
Cindy joined the group already gathering in the conference room. Most of the squad fit in there. The conference room had some real space to it. About twenty matching wooden chairs lined the walls. The wood veneer conference table had six chairs on either side and one at each end.
An analyst came over and handed me a file. She shook her head and said, “I don’t think we’ve found your Kyle Anderson yet. He might be using an alias. There are a few guys named Kyle Anderson in the city, but two of the ones we’ve found are in their eighties, and one is a young Black guy.”
“So, what’s in the file?”
“Everything I could find on the address in Pacific Heights. We have the information ready for a search warrant. We just need to add your narrative.”
Brady got everyone’s attention. It wasn’t hard when you were his size.
After I brought everyone up to speed, we brainstormed about how to enter the house.
Brady said, “Our number-one concern is the safety of any girls who might be there. We can’t just rush up the driveway with a battering ram.”
That’s when Rich Conklin, sitting next to Cindy, sat up and said, “I know how we can do it.”