“You won’t forget.”

“You’ve got my word.”

I glimpsed my face in the mirror, scowling even as a smile played at the corners of my mouth.

“I love you, Lindsay.”

“You bet, sir. I’ll keep you posted.”

I clicked off the phone, shook off the effects of that divine twenty-second interlude, and pulled myself back to the present.

“How does it feel, Louie? You’re Mayor Hefferon’s number one priority.”

“It feels great.” He grinned.

Louie was right. We had nothing on him. And once he had a lawyer, we were going to be back to chasing our tails.

There was a knuckle rap on the glass. I stepped outside into the hallway, where Jacobi was waiting for me.

“Did you hear? Bergin lawyered up.”

“He needs a lawyer. A good one,” said Jacobi. “His prints match the one behind Lauren McKenna’s knee.” Jacobi smirked. “That’ll hold him for a while.”

It was like my whole body was smiling, that’s how good I felt. I grinned at Jacobi, high-fived him, low-fived him, bumped hips, did everything but kiss him on the lips.

I opened the door, called Conklin outside the box.

“Louie’s print is a match to the one we pulled from Show Girl’s body. It’s your collar, Richie. Why don’t you do the honors?”

I was standing with Inspector Conklin when he said, “Louis Bergin, we’re dropping the resisting charge. You’re under arrest for the murder of Lauren McKenna.”

Chapter 89

Chapter 89

I TOUCHED THE HANDLE of my handgun for luck; then Conklin, Jacobi, and I entered the Keystone Apartments at the Hyde Street entrance. The seven-story all-brick building was near the cable line, a short, straight shot to Nordstrom Square.

The ancient black man who opened the front door told us that Louie’s roommate was at home.

“She’s a artist. She always home daytimes.”

We took the small creaking elevator, found apartment 7F at the front of the building.

I pressed the doorbell, rapped on the door.

“Open up. SFPD.”

I heard scurrying inside, but no one came to the door. I knocked again, this time with the butt of my gun. The sound reverberated down the long, tiled hallway, but still, no one answered.

I tried the door, but it didn’t budge.

“Break it down,” I said, standing aside.

Conklin threw his weight against the thin panel door until the locks splintered the door frame.

Jacobi went in first, and I was behind him, taking in the small front room, the brown leather sofa, a row of framed pencil drawings above it—pinup girls in classic cars.

I saw an envelope pinned to the drawing board by the window. It was addressed to Louie.

“Police,” I called out. “Come out with your hands in the air.”