“Others may come forward. When the ME does her post on the body, when CSU finishes processing the alley, we’re going to find physical evidence. You can count on that.”

“Knock yourself out, Sergeant. I’m not worried.”

Conklin took his turn.

“Sergeant. Will. I don’t have to remind you, now is the time to tell us the truth. We’re going to be sympathetic. We’re going to go out of our way to help you. Your victims are criminals. You’ve got friends in high places.”

“I didn’t do it.”

I sighed, said, “Any idea who the shooter might be?”

“No idea in the world, but I admire the work he’s doing. He’s cutting through the red tape and putting the scumbags down.”

Randall looked at me as though daring me to confuse his attitude with an actual confession.

He said, “I’ve got nothing for you, Sergeant. My kids are scared. My wife is going crazy. Lock me up or let me go.”

We kept at it for another hour, Conklin and I taking turns, drilling down on his activities of the week before, going back over the same ground, but never tripping him up. Randall was smart and had as much interrogation experience as I had.

We’d done a good job and so had Randall. He hadn’t given us a crumb and I couldn’t think of anything else to ask him.

“You’re free to go,” I said. “Thanks for your cooperation.”

Randall stood up and put on his nylon windbreaker.

“I need a lift.”

Then, as an afterthought, he said, “You should be careful, Sergeant Boxer. You don’t want to take chances with your baby.”

I took it as a sincere remark.

Conklin walked Randall out, and when he came back, I was still in the interrogation room. I hadn’t moved.

“Did he do it?” I asked.

“I can’t tell.”

“You know what, Rich? I kind of like the son of a bitch.”

“He’s a hard-ass,” Conklin said. “Kind of reminds me of you.”

Chapter 92

Chapter 92

I BROUGHT MARTHA with me to breakfast at a great neighborhood bistro out in Cole Valley called Zazie. Zazie had scrumptious food and a patio garden out back. We came through the front door and the hostess told me she was sorry, but dogs weren’t allowed.

“Martha is a police dog,” I said.

“Is she really?”

The hostess held on tight to her menus, looked down at my small, shaggy border collie, and showed by her dubious expression that she couldn’t believe Martha was in the K-9 Corps.

I’ve got to hand it to Martha. She looked up, made direct eye contact with the hostess, and conveyed professionalism and sharp canine wisdom with her deep brown eyes.

I backed her up.

“See?” I said, holding up my badge. “I’m a cop. She’s my deputy dog.”