“He’s been out for three months,” Brady said to me now. “Jacobi was either off duty or on leave when the first three shootings occurred. He was off the radar when Chaz Smith was taken out and when those three shits were wasted on Schwerin.”

Brady talked over my objections. Told me to hear him out.

“Jacobi can use his radio two ways: to gather intel and to create a distraction. He has street sources. He could go into the property room at any time. He’s chief of police, Boxer. Who’s gonna suspect him? He can hide in plain sight the way only a fifty-five-year-old white guy with a limp can.”

“He’s not a killer.”

“Let’s say you’re wrong,” Brady said.

“He’s like family to me,” I said.

“I don’t buy it either,” Conklin said. “He’s a great cop. He just wouldn’t go off the deep end and become a vigilante.”

Brady waved our comments away.

“I need you both to work closely with me. We’re not going to say anything to Jacobi or to anyone else. We’re just going to watch him.”

My mind drifted.

I hadn’t been in touch with Jacobi in months. I’d gone to the hospital after his operation. I’d brought flowers, but I’d called him only a couple of times after that. It was embarrassing to think about it. I wondered now how was he doing.

Was he depressed?

Was he angry?

Did getting shot on Larkin Street by a drug user constitute motive to go on a killing spree?

According to Brady, it did.

“Are you listening to me, Boxer?”

“I’m sorry. No. What did you say?”

“I said, if anyone can talk him in, it’s the two of you. I’ll tell you where to be and when. That’s all.”

Chapter 53

Chapter 53

AT JUST AFTER 6:00 p.m. Revenge was standing at the counter at Peet’s waiting for take-out coffee for his drive home.

Someone had left the Post behind and he read the front-page story about the shooting outside the projects. Despite the overheated writing about the deaths of the three dirtbag drug dealers, it was clear that the cops had nothing on the shooter except the gun he’d tossed into the car, the gun that had been used to take out Chaz Smith.

There were no prints on that gun, and there was no way to link it or anything else to him.

The primary on the case was Lindsay Boxer. He had met Boxer a couple of times back in the day. She was a hands-on homicide cop, maybe gifted, and certainly tenacious. But smart and dogged could only help you so much when you didn’t have a clue.

Martina, the girl behind the counter, took cash from an old man with a limp, said, “Thank you. Come back soon.”