Horns blared. Someone screamed, “Watch out!”
Its brakes squealing, a northbound car hit the young woman in stride, flinging her high and onto the hood of a car parked across the street. The sound of the impact was horrifying. But it wasn’t over. Cars were out of control and crashing, piling up.
I ran out to our cruiser, got my hands on the radio, and shouted the address to dispatch.
“I need paramedics now at my location. And send backup.”
By then Conklin had reached Lucy, and as I tried to cross the street to join him, I heard him saying her name, comforting her. I was relieved when I saw her try to sit up.
But the chaos continued. The driver of the car that hit Lucy was frantic, and her children were screaming.
The bus arrived and paramedics climbed out. Cruisers rolled up and blocked off the street. I filled in the patrol officers on the three-car collision, then retrieved Lucy’s handbag from Martinez and handed it to one of the paramedics.
Conklin and I were standing together in front of the taqueria when Lucy’s stretcher was loaded into the ambulance.
“You know what she told me?” said Conklin.
“No idea.”
“‘I know Denny. He was a good man and he took care of me. Living without him isn’t worth it.’”
CHAPTER 95
Jake Tuohy was in Interview 2 under protest.
We’d brought him in so he could give us a statement as to what he knew about the death of Dennis L. Lopez and the discovery of his body. He let us know that he’d pretty much had enough of all of us, civic duty be damned.
“We’re not going to extract your fingernails, Jake. We just need a statement for the record,” Conklin told him. “Tell us what you saw, did, and said. You’re being recorded. This is as good as being under oath.”
“I wasn’t planning on lying to you, Officer Con Job.”
“Inspector,” said Conklin, “not Officer.” He smiled. Unruffled as always.
Tuohy ran his fingers through his horseshoe-shaped fringe of hair and stared up at the ceiling.
“I’m asleep in the recliner in my office,” he said. “The bell rings. I say, ‘Aww, shit.’ I say it to myself, for the record. I was alone.”
“Then what?” I asked.
Tuohy had a way of making everything around him feel dirty. Even this plain, no-frills little interview room that got scrubbed every night felt greasy and covered in germs.
“Then,” he said, “because no one said, ‘Go back to sleep. I’ll get it,’ I got up and went out to the office. This whore was outside ringing the bell. I’ve seen her around with Denny. She goes by the name of Daisy Cakes or something. I don’t ask women of her persuasion for ID.”
“Go on,” Conklin said. “The bell rings. Daisy’s at the door.”
“She looks worse than usual,” Tuohy said. “She’s been crying. She tells me that Denny is dead. She insists I come with her to see, and I go and there’s his body.
“I figure, if she killed him, she’s not bringing me to see the evidence, okay? So I tell her I’m calling the police and go wait in my office. She says okay. I go look at the loser pimp’s body and call 911 and tell the operator to call you. Officer Boxer. And don’t bother to ask me did I kill the guy. I had no reason to, and besides, I was asleep.”
“Did Daisy offer any explanation for what happened to Lopez?” I asked him.
“Just what I already told 911 and what I told you. She was finished with her date. She calls Denny’s cell. He’s supposed to be waiting for her in the taco truck. He doesn’t answer. She gets dressed, waits near the van. Then she calls him again and hears his phone ringing. Goes to the vending area, finds his body. She runs to the office and there’s your full circle. She tells me all of that. I call and ask for you. And now here I am.”
Conklin said, “Any idea who might have wanted to kill Lopez?”
“No.”
“Did you see anyone suspicious-looking hanging around?”
“All of them. Everyone in or around the place. But nobody’s going to have Jake Tuohy to kick around anymore. I quit my job. I’m moving to Ireland. I got people there. Letting you know officially, so you don’t get bent out of shape. I can’t stand this job, never liked it, but it’s getting to be too many bodies and trips to this place.”
Conklin asked for Tuohy’s forwarding address.
“Somewhere in Dublin. I’ll send you an email.” With that, he stood up from the aluminum chair, said “Good-bye and good luck,” and made for the door.
Conklin said, “Just one thing, Tuohy. And this is important. You’re not going to Ireland. Not until we say so.”
“Oh, I’m a suspect now? Is that what you’re saying?”
“I’m saying don’t quit your day job. Night job, either.”
Tuohy snorted and walked out.
I said, “Good one, Richie. Love to hear you explain that to his lawyer. Or anyone.”
My partner laughed. “I liked the way it sounded.”
I liked it, too.
CHAPTER 96
When Conklin and I returned to the squad room, Jacobi was waiting for us with a woman he introduced as Susan Jones’s sister Ronnie Hooks.
“Ms. Hooks,” he said, “Sergeant Boxer’s the primary investigator on this case. She’s the best.”
I shook the woman’s hand, then introduced Conklin, and the three of us walked back to Interview 2.
Ronnie Hooks looked to be in her early forties. She was perfectly manicured and coiffed and smartly dressed in a crisp red suit, with some bling around her neck and a wedding ring.
Conklin pulled out a chair for her, and when we were all seated, he asked her how she was doing.
“No good,” she said. “No good at all.”
“Talk to us,” I said.
She said, “Susan and I are like twins. I’m ten years older. She’s my little sister. But we talk every day. Except last week—Marty and I just got back from Peru. It was a long trip, two weeks, in a remote area. Normally, I talk to Susie every day. I got back to an area with Wi-Fi, and I find out the worst news imaginable. How could she be missing?”
Her crazy eyes were switching from me to Conklin to the mirrored window to her folded hands on the table. I had a thought that she might be on the verge of some kind of breakdown.
I also had a good idea why she’d come in on her own and where this was going. She was going to ask why we hadn’t found Susan. She’d want to know if Susan was dead or if she should post a reward. She might get mad and threaten to go to the media with a heartbreaking story about her sister and SFPD’s incompetence.
Instead, Ms. Hooks threw us a curve ball.
“Susan was a good teacher, but she didn’t make enough money to pay her rent and own a car and have enough left over to get herself a decent haircut.”
I said only, “Uh-huh.”
“She did some freelance work,” said Hooks.
“Like tutoring and such?” Conklin asked her. “She’s a piano teacher, right?”
Hooks looked down at the table and spoke to her folded hands. “She’s also an exotic dancer.”