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CHAPTER 6

WHEN I REACHED the Hall of Justice, I took the stairs three flights up from the lobby to the Homicide squad room. I yanked open the wood-framed glass outer door, bumped the hinged gate with my hip, and entered our small bullpen, a study in its many shades of gray. The day shift was filling the room with the crackle and buzz of conversation. Telephones rang at every desk.

Our front desk guard dog, Robert Nussbaum, was at his station.

I asked, “Is Brady in?”

“And good morning to you, Sarge.”

“Too late for that, Bob. But thanks.”

He pointed down the center aisle to the glass-walled office at the far end of the squad room. Jackson Brady was visible, leaning back in his chair with his phone to his ear. I waved to Richie Conklin and Sonia Alvarez as I rounded the turn, then started down the aisle. I nodded to Wang and Michaels, narrowly missed bumping into Samuels, and kept going.

The glass door to Brady’s office was closed, but I could also see Assistant District Attorney Yuki Castellano, Brady’s wife and my dear friend, sitting inside on a side chair, wearing a smart, gray, grown-up pin-striped suit and three-inch heels.

“Hey,” I said to Brenda Fregosi, Brady’s assistant. “I like your hair.”

Two long blond braids hung down her back.

“Thanks, Lindsay. Can I do something for you?”

“I have to see the lieutenant. How long before he’s free?”

She shrugged. “I never know.”

That’s when Brady hung up his phone. Yuki got to her feet, spoke to him briefly, then leaned down and kissed him good-bye. Our paths met in the doorway, and she gripped my hand.

“Oh God, oh God,” said Yuki. “Brady just told me about Jacobi. I cannot believe it. Why would anyone kill him?”

“Not a clue,” I said. “Really. I never expected anything like this. He should have had another twenty-five years.”

“At least. Call me when you can,” Yuki said.

Brady keyed his intercom and asked Brenda to hold his calls.

Then he waved me into his office.