“Rich, it’s Cindy. Is Lindsay there?”
“She’s out, but I’ll tell her —”
“Wait, Rich. I’ve got a solid lead on Bagman Jesus. I think his name is Rodney Booker.”
“You doing police work now, Cindy?”
“Someone has to.”
“Okay, okay. Take it easy.”
“Take it easy? I just walked in on this unsuspecting old couple, told them their son was dead —”
“You did what?”
“I had his name, Rich, or thought I did, so I went to interview Bagman’s parents, logical if you think about it —”
“Oh man. How’d that go over?”
“Like a bomb, like a freaking bomb. Billy Booker, the father? He’s a Vietnam vet, former sergeant major in the marines. He’s saying the police are racist, that’s why they didn’t work the case.”
“Bagman Jesus was black?”
“Booker has Al Sharpton’s home number and he’s threatening to use it. What I’m saying is, I’ve got to get ahead of this story before I become the story. Before we become the story.”
“We, huh?”
“Yeah. The SFPD and me. And I’m the one who feels the moral obligation. Rich, listen. Rodney Booker has a house.”
“You’re losing me, Cindy. Wasn’t Bagman homeless?”
“Look him up. Please.”
“Entering ‘Rodney Booker.’ Here ya go. Huh. Cole Street. That’s off Haight. Nice neighborhood.”
It wasn’t.
It was the badlands, the turf of small-time drug dealers.
And that made sense.
If Bagman Jesus wasn’t lying when he told Flora Gold that his real name was Rodney Booker, and if Flora wasn’t lying to Cindy, then the house on Cole could turn out to be where Rodney Booker, aka Bagman Jesus, had hung his bag.
Cindy said to Conklin, “Can you check it out, Rich? Because if you won’t, I’ve got to.”
“Stand down, Cindy. My shift is over in twenty minutes. I’ll run over and take a look.”
“I’ll meet you there,” said Cindy. “Wait for me.”
“No, Cindy. I’m the cop. You wait for me.”
Chapter 47
THE HOUSE ON COLE was painted roadkill gray, one in a block of distressed Victorian homes, this particular residence having boarded-up bay windows, trash-littered front steps, and an air of melancholy that had not lifted since the end of the ’60s.
“It’s condemned,” Conklin said to Cindy, tilting his chin toward the notice nailed to the door.
“The lot alone is worth some dough. If this house belonged to Bagman, what made him homeless?”