Parisi himself had had a massive heart attack a few years ago. Yuki had been with him when it happened and had gotten medical assistance for him, PDQ. Later, he’d said she’d saved his life. It wasn’t true, but she knew he felt that way.
He certainly regarded her as a close friend. Which was why having to tell him she was quitting was going to royally suck.
“So what’s on your mind?” he asked her. “Something wrong, Yuki?”
Yuki gripped the edge of his desk and said, “Len, I got a job opportunity that I want to take.”
There was dense, soundproof silence. Yuki could hear her words echoing in her head. She’d been honest, respectful, and direct. What was Len going to do now?
Would he hug her? Or tell her to go fuck herself?
He rocked back in his chair, then leaned forward, put his forearms on the desktop, and clasped his hands, looking directly into her eyes. He said, “Oh, man, what terrible timing. You know I’m going away tonight for a week. There’s just not enough time for me to get you a counteroffer today, but I will put it in motion. Give me some ammo. What kind of job? How much are they offering?”
“That’s so nice of you, Len, but I don’t want a counteroffer. I don’t want to leave, either.”
“Well, don’t. Problem solved.”
She smiled. “But I need to do it. It’s the Defense League, and there’s an urgent case that I feel drawn to. I think I’ll regret it if I turn this opportunity down.”
“The Defense League. Really? You’d rather go into a nonprofit than stay here? I thought we had the same goals for this office. You’ve been working the best cases. I mean, not just Brinkley, I gave you Herman, too. I had to fight off piranhas to do that. Every ADA in the office wanted a piece of that guy.”
“I know. I know, Len, and I don’t want you to think I’m not grateful.”
“Yuki, speaking from personal experience, let me just say that a near-death event changes a person. I know that’s what happened to you. You’re still processing that you could have died, and for someone your age, that’s heavy. You will feel differently in six months, I promise. Turn down the offer. Let me work on making this a dream job—”
“Len, I got hooked by a dead teenager,” Yuki said. “He was wrongly arrested and killed while awaiting trial. His family is devastated, rightfully so. The Defense League—”
Parisi already knew where she was going with this. She felt thunderheads gathering.
“You’re going to sue the City? The SFPD? You’re coming after us?”
“It’s the right thing to do.”
“I hear you,” Parisi said, “but I don’t understand you.” There was a look of outrage on her friend’s face that Yuki had seen before, just not directed at her.
Parisi’s chair spun noisily as he got out of it. He crossed the room and opened his door wide.
He said to her, “Human Resources will bring you some empty boxes and walk you out. You’ll surrender your card, your laptop, and your keys, immediately. I’ll have Payroll cut your check.”
“Len, I’m indebted to you. I know how much—”
“Save it,” he said. “I’ll see you in court. And I do mean me. Personally.”
He returned to his desk chair and picked up the phone. He punched in some numbers, then swiveled around so that his back was to her. He said, “Michelle, it’s Parisi.”
Michelle Forrest was head of Human Resources. Yuki left Len’s office and, dazed, walked to her own.
She hadn’t intended to tear up her life. She wanted a different job. And now her husband was pissed at her. Len was threatening to destroy her in court. And she hadn’t even told Zac Jordan that she was accepting the position.
Well, she was taking the job, and she was going to win compensation for the Kordell family for the wrongful death of Aaron-Rey.
There was no turning back now.
CHAPTER 16
I WAS OBSESSING about Tina Strichler as I drove to work that morning. Yesterday, Strichler had been ripped up her midsection with a long, sharp blade, a vicious murder that felt personal. I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was a connection between her and the other women who had each been killed with knives on May twelfth, now three years in a row.
Brady has a keen investigative mind, and I really wanted his thoughts on this.
I walked through the gate to the squad room and saw that Brady was in his small, glass-walled cubicle at the back of the bullpen. He was behind his desk, his blue shirt stretched across his chest and his bulging biceps. His white-blond hair was pulled back into a short pony, revealing where a part of his left ear had been shot off during a fierce gunfight in which he had acted heroically and saved a lot of lives.
Right now, however, he was fixated on his laptop.
I said “Hey” to Brenda, waved at a few of the day-shift guys who looked up as I strode past, then rapped my knuckles on Brady’s door. He waved me in and I took a seat across from him.
I said, “About that homicide yesterday on Balmy Alley—”
“Yep. Michaels and Wang are working it.”
“I know. What I’m thinking is that there’s something familiar about this killing—”
“Tell Michaels. Jacobi’s calling me three times a day about the Windbreaker cop robberies. I’m worried about Jacobi. I know he doesn’t want to retire with the stink of these douche bags all over him. Or all over us. And now the press has sniffed it out. I’ve got questions from I don’t know how many papers and TV reporters, and, of course, a ton of e-mail from the concerned citizens.”
He waved his hand at the laptop.
“I understand, Lieutenant,” I said. “We’re on it.”
“OK,” he said, fixing his ice-blue eyes on me. “Bring me up to date.”
I summarized the footage of the first Windbreaker cop holdup in the mercado, saying that the quality was worse than the footage of the one at the check-cashing store. But still, we were able to see three men in SFPD jackets, carrying guns.
“The job took about five minutes from A to Z,” I said. “They scored about twenty grand. Sergeant Pikelny interviewed the store owner, who said the men in the SFPD Windbreakers locked them in the back room and then shot up the cash drawer. Hardly any words were spoken. No one was hurt.”
“Did they leave any evidence?”
“Nothing. They picked up the shell casings. They wore gloves. Conklin and I are going to look at the scene of last night’s check-cashing robbery, where the owner was killed. And we’re doing a follow-up interview with the survivor.”
“OK. Come back with something, will you?”
Brady was done. I left him hunched over his computer and met Conklin in the all-day parking lot on Bryant.
We were both impatient to interview Ben Viera, the young man who’d been working at the check-cashing store when his boss had been shot to death.
Luckily, the kid had lived to talk about it.
CHAPTER 17
BEN VIERA, THE surviving witness to the robbery-homicide at the check-cashing store, cracked open his door about four inches, which was the length of the chain lock. He demanded to see our badges, and we held them up. He asked our names, and after we told him, he closed the door in our faces.
I heard his voice on the telephone; he spoke and listened for a couple of minutes.
The door opened again, this time wide enough to let us in. Viera was of medium height and build, wearing green-striped boxers and a Giants T-shirt. He was saying, “I called the police station. To make sure you are who you say you are.”
“OK. I get that,” Conklin said.
The one-room apartment on Poplar Street was dark, and messy with pizza boxes and soda cans, dishes in the sink, and laundry on the floor. Viera folded his futon bed into a sofalike object, offered us seats, then got into a reclining chair and leaned back.
“I’m on Xanax. Prescribed for me. Just so you know.”
“OK,” said Conklin.
“I already talked to the police the night of the … thing,” Viera said to the ceiling.