Meanwhile, it was very early on a Tuesday morning. Judges were sleeping. We didn’t have search or arrest warrants, and it would take until Monday at the earliest to get them.
I said, “Tony, you’re familiar with police procedure, so I’m going to skip the small talk. You help us, we help you.”
“What do you want? What do you give?”
“We want Susan Jones and Anna Sotovina.”
Joe leaned in. “Before you say you don’t know them, we know that you do. Susan worked at your club. You and Anna have history in Djoba.”
“I don’t have these women.”
Liar.
I said, “Well, we have a few things of yours. For one, we have your car.”
“Where’s the warrant?” he asked me in a tone as smooth as the single malt my father used to hoard for private celebrations.
I said, “We don’t need a warrant if you leave it in a public space. Which you did. Now it’s at our lab. We’re liable for any damage, but don’t worry. We’re treating your car with latex gloves. You could say we’re going to detail it.”
Petrović cracked a smile.
He said, “How do you say it? Knock yourself out.”
I smiled back.
“Oh, we will. You left a water bottle in your car’s cup holder. We’ll collect your DNA from that, and if we find as much as a hair belonging to Carly Myers or Adele Saran, we’re going to charge you with murder.”
The killer yawned. It didn’t seem fake. Slobodan Petrović had beat life imprisonment before. But he might be overconfident now.
He said, “I’ve heard the part where I help you. Where’s the part where you help me?”
I said, “We’ll get there. First I want to set the table. Joe. You have that photo? The one taken in Djoba.”
“As a matter of fact, I do.”
Joe produced his phone, tapped an app, swiped some photos, then showed the screen to Petrović.
Petrović said, “What am I looking at?”
Joe showed Petrović the photo of him in the forest, people strung up in the woodland behind him, a throwing star in his hand. Joe read the caption—in Bosnian. I remembered the gist of the translation.
Colonel Slobodan Petrović and men after taking the Bosnian town of Djoba. Petrović is proficient in the use of shuriken, throwing stars.
Petrović said, “I hate to tell you, but that’s not me. Slobodan is my cousin from my mother’s side. Even so, this is such an old story. My cousin was exonerated, you know.”
Conklin said, “Carly had wounds from a weapon like this. Adele had a throwing star in her back. I’m still new at this, but I think that’s enough probable cause for an indictment.”
“Ah, you are amateurs, you know. You’ve got nothing on me.”
What he was saying was just true enough.
We had nothing on him in San Francisco, USA. Nothing. I pushed past the faint but creeping doubt and said, “There is evidence against you. You can count on it.”
“You can count on this,” Petrović said. He looked puffed up and happy as he sat back in his chair.
“I’m working with your federal government. I have immunity.”
CHAPTER 107
I didn’t believe Petrović’s claim that he had made a deal with the Feds.
I said, “Yeah. Right.”
And that’s when Jacobi pushed the door open and came into the room with a man I didn’t know. But I knew the type. He was fortysomething, tailored, hair combed back, looking like he’d told his driver to wait.
Jacobi was holding a piece of paper with a government letterhead, and he looked disgusted. He said, “Petrović, your lawyer is here.”
The lawyer introduced himself as Richard Constable. He said to Petrović, “Tony, I’m here to take you home. Lieutenant, please say the magic words.”
Jacobi put his hands on the table, leaned down, and said to Petrović, “You’re free to go.” He stood up and said, “Inspector Conklin, please help Mr. Petrović check out.”
When Conklin had walked Petrović and his attorney out of the room, Jacobi said to me and Joe, “Look. I’m as rocked by this as you are. Joe, a special FBI task force out of DC delivered this letter in person.”
Jacobi slapped the paper down on the table so that we could read it. It was one paragraph long and stated that Slobodan Petrović, a.k.a. Tony Branko, was under protection of the FBI. It was signed by the director himself in a bold, unequivocal hand.
Jacobi said, “I’d guessed that Petrović was given protection in exchange for some deal he made with the ICC. It’s clean-record dependent. His deal is good if he doesn’t commit a crime.
“We know,” said Jacobi, “all of us know, that we can’t connect Petrović to any of those dead or missing women. We’re not going to get him deported on brandishing a weapon.”
“Wait a minute, Warren,” Joe cut in. “We have those two dopes we picked up in Vladic’s house today. They work for Tony. They have to know everything about him.”
Jacobi said, “I’ve left a voice mail for the DA. Until we have search warrants for Petrović’s house and business, and same for Vladic’s house, this case is suspended.
“Go home,” he said kindly. “And in case I haven’t been clear, Boxer, no off-duty surveillance. Joe, Steinmetz has the same instructions for you. Stay away from this guy. We’ve been given our orders. Let’s not screw up.”
He stared at our shocked faces for a second, then said, “Good job, everyone. Sorry about this.”
I was in a rage. I stood up fast, knocking over my chair, saying, “We can’t just drop this like it never happened, Jacobi. Susan and Anna—”
“Trust me, Boxer, it’s not over, but our hands are tied right now. Go home. Get some sleep. Tell Conklin the same.”
He had to be kidding.
Were those two women bound and gagged inside the trunk of a car? Were they going to get the night off?
Jacobi shook his finger at me, emphasizing, I mean it. Then he walked out of the room.
CHAPTER 108
Joe and I took Martha for a nice long walk at dawn, both of us fuming and swearing for a good half hour.
Back home, we cooled off with a pint of ice cream, followed by chilled California Pinot. After that, our clothes came off and we leaned on each other under a hot shower. The sun was fully up when we dove into bed, and speaking for myself, I slept like I was in a coma.
Sometime later Joe gently shook my arm until I woke up. He was holding my phone. “Jacobi,” he said.
I grunted “Hey” into the speaker holes, and Jacobi said, “I’ve got news for both of you. I’m downstairs. I brought coffee cake.”
Joe filled the coffeepot. I put on jeans and a T-shirt and was ready for Jacobi when the doorbell rang.
Back then, I’d known Jacobi for ten years. Some of that time I worked for him. Some of that time he worked for me. But most of those years we were partners and spent untold hours patrolling the Southern district in our squad car. We talked about everything, investigating crimes that were unforgettable and searing and educational. Working with Jacobi made me the cop I am today.