Page 89

CHAPTER 87

THERE WAS A nine-by-twelve-inch manila envelope in the pile of mail on Steinmetz’s desk. He pulled it out of the stack and opened it, extracted the contents, and reviewed it all again. Then he buzzed his assistant.

“Rogers? I need you.”

“Yes, Chief.”

Brooks Rogers, a tidy forty-year-old man in shirtsleeves, had been assistant to the section chief for the last five years. He entered Steinmetz’s office and asked, “What can I do for you, sir?”

“I want you to phone Lieutenant Jackson Brady at the SFPD, Southern Division. Identify yourself to whoever answers his phone. Your name and mine and that this call is urgent. If there’s any kind of bull crap, stress that it’s a matter of life and death and they’re to get Brady on the phone.”

“Yes, sir. Or die trying.”

“Exactly, Rogers.”

Steinmetz smiled at his assistant, who smiled back.

“Anything else?”

“Yes. After I speak to Brady, I need you to deliver a package to him and get a signed receipt.”

“Got it, sir. I’m calling him now.”

A minute later, the chief’s desk phone rang.