First Commandment Page 2

  “Me too.”

  A small protest, maybe fifty citizens, slowed traffic as we approached the police station on Mission Street. Wednesday morning protests didn’t attract many people. The few pedestrians who hurried from their distant parking space to one of the nearby county buildings seemed uninterested. A dozen scattered security police looked bored. One officer stood next to a patrol car recording the incident with a shoulder-held video camera. The protesters milled about with signs advocating gun control: Protect Children—Not Guns; Kill the NRA—Not Our Kids, First Commandment—Never Again.

  One bearded thirty-something with a ponytail, however, was distinctively engaged. He stood in the bed of a rusted Chevy pickup with a bullhorn trying to re-excite the apathetic crowd about the First Commandment shooting. His magnified voice boomed above the tiny crowd.

  “Seven babies were murdered and the police don’t have a clue about the killer. Are they stupid or just don’t give a damn?” He looked around for an agreeable response.

  “Right on, brother,” one black protester shouted, pumping his fist in the air.

  “It will happen again, I promise you,” Ponytail said, pointing at the officer with the camera. He turned and looked directly at me watching from the passenger window. “And sooner than you expect.”

  He delivered his prophetic words with passion, but I questioned what he expected to accomplish. Maybe he had also lost a loved child at First Commandment like Mr. Horowitz?

  The shooting had outraged the community at first. Local and state politicians laid flowers on the school’s steps and gave high-minded speeches when TV cameras arrived. They proposed a plethora of legislation, from arming teachers, to fenced-in schoolyards with metal detectors, to the outright confiscation of all guns. Within a few months, however, their stately plans faded into obscurity as media producers refocused on the next “breaking news.”

  “What’s your feeling on gun control?” I asked Bubba as we pulled into a parking place in front of the police administration building. “We’ve never discussed it before.”

  “I believe citizens should control their guns,” he said without hesitation. “They should also control their violence and hatred.”

  “Hmmm. Well said.”

  “Hi, Miranda,” I said into the hole of the Plexiglas window in the lobby of the waiting room. Miranda’s short-cropped white hair and circular horn-rimmed glasses always reminded me of a wise old owl. The wise part of the picture stemmed from her eagerness to tell historic SJPD stories, most funny, some tragic, but all with teachable moments.

  “Well, I’ll be,” she replied. “Hunter Quinn. Haven’t seen you in a coon’s age. How are you, dear?”

  “I’m good. And you?”

  “You know—same old, same old. What brings you downtown?”

  “Bubba and I need to see Braklin. Is he in?”

  She tapped her mouse and glanced at the computer screen. “Yup. Want me to give him a call?”

  “No. I’d like to surprise him.”

  She grinned. “He’s married now, you know.”

  “So I heard. What’s the latest?”

  She glanced around me at the line forming. “Can’t talk, dear, but I’ll be taking a break in about an hour. I’ll come up to the third floor if you’re still around.”

  “Great. Can you buzz us in?”

  “Sorry, dear, but I’ll get you an escort.”

  We waited with another dozen people in the small dreary waiting room. While they sat on the bolted-down plastic chairs staring at their cell phones, I wondered what brought these young and middle-aged citizens to seek police help. None were smiling. Were they here to report a crime, get a permit, maybe start a career?

  “Ms. Quinn?” a young officer standing in the open doorway next to the Plexiglas window said loudly. He couldn’t have been long out of high school.

  “Right here,” I answered.

  The officer held out his hand. “I’m Art . . . uh . . . Officer Margolis.”

  “I’m Hunter, this is Bubba.”

  We exchanged handshakes as Officer Margolis looked up at Bubba. “The Forty Niners could sure use you,” he said.

  “Maybe,” Bubba replied, “but I wouldn’t get to hang out with Ms. Quinn here.”

  I punched him on the shoulder. He didn’t flinch.

  We followed Margolis into one of the bright, almost sterile, off-white labyrinthine halls of the SJPD. I felt a strong tug of nostalgia as we passed by the two-by-three-foot black-and-white photos of those who died in the line of duty. I’d never forget the comradery of my fellow officers, the smart-aleck comments, the pranks—both the ones that succeeded and those that failed miserably. I’d also never forget going outside in a cold January rain for a smoke—twenty-five feet from the outside door per house rules.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Ms. Quinn,” Margolis said.

  “Probably nothing good.” I wondered if anyone ever replied, “Oh yeah? Who said what?”

  “Quite the contrary. Only good things.”

  I knew he lied, but appreciated his tact.

  “You partnered with Detective Braklin?” he continued.

  “I did.”

  “He’s recently married, you know.”

  That gave it away. I didn’t know how to respond, so I said nothing.

  We scurried up the stairs to the second floor and down another long hallway of gleaming floors. The walls were covered with wooden placards listing officers decorated for bravery and outstanding service. The halls were near empty, unlike the bustle I remembered. Was this the result of rumored over-zealous political budget cuts, or was everyone out chasing bad guys? On the third floor, we passed by the huge 911 call center and the briefing room that could seat a hundred officers on backless benches. The disaster control center was empty.

  I couldn’t see Braklin when we entered the detective squad room. Unless he’d moved, his desk was behind a six-foot cork wall of thumbtacked pictures, bulletins, calendars, etc. I stopped for a moment to take in the place I called home for three years. The waist-high cubicles, computer screens, printers, and copiers all looked new, but the boxes of files, the plastic flowers that needed no maintenance, and the American flag on a central pillar above everything were the same.

  Margolis led us around to Braklin’s cubicle.

  His back was to the door. He needed a haircut. I watched him for a moment and surveyed his office. Messy as usual. A photograph of a knockout blonde on his desk. His new wife? He had good taste.

  Bubba pulled me aside and whispered, “I’ll leave you to seduce him.” He winked. “For information, that is. Margolis will take me to see an old buddy I need to catch up with.”

  They left.

  I rapped lightly on the wall of Braklin’s space. “Morning, detective.”

  He spun around, tipping over a metal wastebasket. “Well I’ll be. Hunter Quinn . . . in the flesh.”

  “You wish.”

  We stared at each other for several moments, both grinning, both remembering some obscure moment from our past. I thought of the first time I saw him naked with the not-so-pretty scar on his stomach. Why that? And I’d have given a thousand bucks to know what he was thinking?

  “What brings you to our hallowed halls of justice?”

  “Can I sit down?” I nodded at the stack of files on the lone chair beside his desk.

  “Of course.” He pushed them onto the floor.

  “Got a client with a connection to one of your cases.” I didn’t want my visit to appear personal, so got right to the point.

  “Which one?”

  “The First Commandment School shooting.”

  “What’s the connection?”

  “His granddaughter was one of the victims. Horowitz.”

  He pursed his lips and shook his head slowly. “Yeah. I talked with grandpa. He’s taking it pretty hard.” He frowned. “Why’s he hired you?”

  “Officially, I haven’t taken the case, but he wants me to find the killer.”
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  “He thinks you can do a better job than us?”

  “I told him you were better qualified, but said I’d get an update. Kinda felt sorry for him. What can you tell me?”

  He leaned back in his chair and laced his hands behind his head.

  “Not a lot to tell. We still got no clue as to the shooter’s identity. It’s weird. The guy’s there for one minute, gone the next.”

  “The media thinks you’re holding back. Not being transparent.”

  “You part of the media now?”

  “No, but I’d like to give Horowitz something that shows you’re doing your job.”

  Braklin eyed me. “Come on, Hunt. You know we don’t publicize all the details. The media twists minutia to promote their own agenda-du-jour.”

  I didn’t reply and waited. The rumble of the squad room surrounded us—telephone rings, cell ringtones, a heated discussion in one corner, a random shout to “Pick up line 2.”

  “Off the record?” he said.

  “Just me and Horowitz . . . and Bubba.”

  “Hey. How is Bubba? It’s been a while.”

  “He’s around here somewhere,” I replied with a hint of contempt. “Come on, Dick. Give.”

  “Okay. We did have one suspect that didn’t pan out.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “One of the teachers said she saw a blue Mini Cooper speed out of the school’s parking lot immediately after the shooting.”

  “Video?”

  “Video wasn’t working, but it didn’t take long to track down the owner. Not many blue Minis around. Young woman had stopped in the parking lot to talk on her cell. She heard the shooting, got scared, and took off.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “About what?”

  “When was the last time you saw a woman pull over to talk on her phone?”

  “It’s possible, I suppose. Besides, we checked her out thoroughly. Upstanding citizen. Waitress, I think.”

  “Can I have her name?”

  He thought for a moment, then selected a file from the stack on the floor.

  “Can’t hurt, I guess.” He scribbled on the back of one of his cards.

  “Anything else?”

  He avoided my eyes, picked up the stack of files, and put them on his desk, straightening them. “Nothing jumps out for me.”

  “Did you forget about the message written on the newspaper?”

  “You know about that?”

  “Horowitz, remember?”

  “Okay. We’re keeping that under wraps. We don’t want every investigative reporter offering some cockamamie theory on the five o’clock news.”

  “Is it possible the mass shooting’s a cover up for one targeted individual?”

  “Don’t think so, but we’re following through with the other victims.”

  “What else?”

  “We think the shooter’s local and has some connection with the Horowitz family. No physical evidence on the newspaper.”

  “You’ve quizzed Jacob Horowitz, Jenny’s father, I assume.”

  “Yeah. He’s no help. According to him and his wife, they have no enemies and all their acquaintances are as chummy as family.”

  “Doesn’t he manage his old man’s construction company?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So all his employees are upstanding legal citizens of good moral character?”

  Braklin shrugged.

  “I plan to talk with him.”

  “Sounds like you’re gonna take grandpa’s case.”

  “Yup. Just decided.”

  W aiting for Bubba in the parking lot, I followed the stares of two guys walking by who likely had never seen a woman smoke a cigarillo. I bet I could make a few bucks if I let my hair down and hiked my skirt. I was tempted to wink and say, “Hi, sailor.”

  “There you are,” Miranda said, coming down the stairs from the lobby. “I looked for you at Braklin’s, but he said he’d just escorted you out.”

  “I needed a smoke.”

  “Those things are gonna kill you, you know?”

  “Hell, I’ll die of starvation first if our damn politicians keep adding taxes to these things.”

  She stood upwind from me, waving invisible smoke away with her hand. “Braklin said you looked terrific.”

  “Really?”

  “He even used the word ‘sexy’. Said you seemed taller than he remembered.”

  “It’s the stiletto boots.” I held up my foot. “I feel sexy in these. I never dress like this unless a job calls for it.”

  “How’d your meeting go?”

  “Fine. I’ve got a client with a connection to one of Braklin’s cases.”

  “Which one?”

  “First Commandment School.”

  “That’s a bad one. Lots of pressure from higher up.” She waved her hand again.

  I turned my head and exhaled downwind.

  “So we may see you again?”

  “Probably.”

  She sighed. Our eyes met. I knew what she was thinking but ignoring.

  “Come on, Miranda. I’m not gonna jump his bones.”

  “Guys are weak, Hunt. Braklin’s no exception, and you do look terrific.”

  “I saw the picture on his desk. I couldn’t distract him if I tried.”

  She smirked. “So there’s another reason you’re dressed like an undercover Santana Row hooker?”

  She had me. I wondered if Braklin also thought I was trolling for a hookup.

  “I just wanted to look like a successful business woman,” I lied.

  “Don’t fret, dear. I’m confident he got the message that you were ready to do business.” She chuckled and looked at her watch. “Gotta go. Give me a head’s up next time you come downtown so we can spend some quality time together.”

  We hugged, and she turned to leave.

  “Is he happy, Miranda?”

  She shrugged and walked away.

  Miranda was right on both accounts—I wanted to look good for Braklin and I should quit smoking. The chewing gum approach didn’t work. Maybe I should try a hypnotist.

  I finished my smoke just as Bubba showed up. He got in and lowered his window.

  “You okay with Horowitz as a client?” I asked as we pulled out of the parking lot.

  “Sure, but it’s not going to be fast. Horowitz needs to know that it’s gonna take time and be expensive.”

  “Ring him up.”

  Bubba touched a number on his cell. The second ring from the dashboard speaker was cut short.

  “Hello,” Horowitz said.

  “Hunter Quinn, Aaron. Just talked with Detective Braklin. We’ve some more information.”

  “What?”

  “The police had one suspect they thought was fleeing the incident, but it didn’t lead anywhere.”

  “You’re taking my case then?”

  “We are, but it’s not straightforward. Will take some time.”

  “Just find the bastard so I can look him in the face.” His tone dripped with contempt. I pictured a sneer, eyes squinting, veins in his neck pulsating.

  “It may be expensive. I need to explain our rates.”

  “I read them in your brochure. I’ll send a check for the retainer and two weeks’ effort immediately.”

  Bubba raised his eyebrows and nodded.

  “If it goes longer than that, we can negotiate longer-term rates.” I looked at Bubba. We had never discussed that item. He gave me a thumb’s up.

  “That’s kind of you.”

  “One last thing, Aaron. We want to talk with your son. Any problem with that?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Anything we should know? Is he as distraught as you about his daughter’s death?”

  “In the beginning, yes, but we haven’t talked lately. He’s also having marital problems that I’m trying to stay away from.”

  “A lot of money involved?”

  He hesitated a long time. “Not yet.”

  Those were the kind
of problems that paid my car loan, but I couldn’t imagine they were pertinent to this case.

  “Okay. Thanks for the heads up. We’ll be in touch later.”

  Jacob Horowitz’s phone was busy. Bubba redialed three more times before a soft-spoken feminine voice answered.

  “Horowitz residence.”

  “My name is Hunter Quinn, ma’am. I’d like to talk with Jacob Horowitz if he’s available.”

  “Just a moment.”

  “Ms. Quinn,” the male voice said. “My father said you might call.”

  “What?” Bubba mouthed.

  “Did he just call?” I asked. “I just talked with him, and your phone was busy.”

  “He did.”

  I looked at Bubba and shrugged. “Mr. Horowitz, I’d like to stop by and talk with you about the newspaper you received after the First Commandment shooting.”

  “Certainly. I understand, but today is quite busy.”

  “Tomorrow, then. It’s important, and should only require a few minutes.”

  “Uhhh . . . very well. We’re having a festive barbeque tomorrow afternoon. Why don’t you join us?”

  “What’s the occasion?”

  “It’s a celebration for our friend, State Senator Blake Evans, who was reelected last week. Casual dress.”

  I didn’t vote for Stevens. He ran a single-issue campaign on gun control for an easy win in California. I thought he was a generic political airhead and a puppet for national anti-gun lobbyists.

  “Sounds fine, but I’d like to make a simple request.”

  “Of course.”

  “I’d prefer not to be identified as a private investigator. People always pester me about my most-exciting cases. Since they’re all boring, it’s embarrassing.”

  “I understand.”

  “So introduce me as Sara Ward, a recently hired consultant for your construction business.”

  “No problem. Kinda fun, in fact.”

  “Right. And my date’s name is Bubba—just Bubba. No one will be interested in his last name when they meet him.” I smiled at Bubba, and he flipped me the bird.

  I never knew what “casual dress” meant, but was certain that my idea of casual—Daisy Duke’s and a tank top—was inappropriate for a senatorial barbeque. The day was cloudless but chilly, so blue slacks and a black lamb’s wool turtleneck seemed an accountant’s attire. I shunned the nose-bleeding stiletto heels for normal heights.