I took the call.
Brady gave me very bad news. I told him I was on my way and clicked off. I repeated the shocking bulletin to Cindy and Yuki. We hugged wordlessly.
Then I bolted for my car.
Chapter 17
From the look of it, the Scheins lived in a classic American dream home, a lovely Cape Cod on Pachecho Street in Golden Gate Heights with a princely view, two late-model cars, a grassy yard, and a tree with a swing.
Today, Pacheco Street was taped off. Cruisers with cherry flashers marked the perimeter, and halogen lights illuminated an evidence tent and three thousand square feet of pavement.
The first officer, Donnie Lewis, lifted the tape and let me onto the scene.
Normally cool, the flustered CSI director, Clapper, came toward me, saying, “Jesus, Boxer, brace yourself. This is brutal.”
My skin prickled and my stomach heaved as Clapper walked me to the Scheins’ driveway, which sloped down from the street to the attached garage. Barry’s body was lying faceup, eyes open, keys in his hand, the door to his silver-blue Honda Civic wide open.
I lost my place in time. The pavement shifted underfoot and the whole world went cold. I covered my face with my hands, felt Clapper’s arm around my shoulders. “I’m here, Lindsay. I’m here.”
I took my hands down and said to Clapper, “I just spoke with him yesterday. He was ready to go to trial. He was ready, Charlie.”
“I know. I know. It never makes sense.”
I stared down at Barry’s body. There were too many holes punched in his jacket for me to count. Blood had outlined his body and was running in rivulets down toward the garage.
I dropped enough f-bombs to be seen on the moon.
And then I asked Clapper to fill me in.
“The little boy was running down the steps right there to greet his father. Daddy was calling to the kid, then he turned back toward the street. Must have heard the shooter’s car pull up, or maybe his name was called. He turned to see—and was gunned down.”
“How old is the child?”
“Four. His name is Stevie.”
“Could he describe what he saw?” I asked Clapper.
“He told Officer Lewis that he saw a car stop about here on the road at the top of the driveway. He heard the shots, saw his father drop. He turned and ran back up the steps and inside. Then, according to Lewis, Barry’s wife, Melanie, she came out. She tried to resuscitate her husband. Their daughter, Carol, age six, ran away to the house next door. Her best friend lives there.
“Melanie and Stevie are in the house until we can get all of them out of here.”
“What’s your take?” I asked Clapper.
“Either the driver tailed the victim, or he parked nearby, saw Schein’s car drive past, and followed him. When Barry got out of the car, the passenger emptied his load. Barry never had a chance.”
We stepped away from the body, and CSIs deployed in full. Cameras clicked, video rolled, and a sketch artist laid out the details of the crime scene from a bird’s-eye point of view. Techs searched for and located shell casings, put markers down, took more pictures, brought shell casings to the tent.
Conklin said, “Oh, my God.”
I hadn’t heard him arrive but I was so glad to see him. We hugged, hung on for a minute. Then we stood together in the sharp white light, looking down at Barry’s body lying at our feet. We couldn’t look away.
Rich said, “Barry told me that when this was over, he was taking the kids to Myrtle Beach. There’s family there.”
I said, “He told me he’d waited his whole career for a case like this. He told me he was going to wear his lucky tiepin. Belonged to his grandfather.”
My partner said, “Kingfisher put out the hit. Had to be. I wish I could ask Barry if he saw the shooter.”
I answered with a nod.