I drove back to the Hall on autopilot, using a soft touch on the gas, watching the lights and signs, but my mind was on Claire.
When I’d left her private room, she’d been covered in a light cotton blanket, wearing headphones, listening to the San Francisco Symphony, featuring Edmund Washburn on percussion. From the serene look on her face, it appeared that she was in a high-quality, low-stress zone. I suspected there might be some sedative in her IV bag.
I said to her long-devoted husband, “Edmund, you’ll call me when Claire is out of surgery?”
“You’re number one, Lindsay. First call goes to you.”
I leaned down, kissed Claire’s cheek, said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tell the girls,” she whispered, but didn’t open her eyes.
Edmund got to his feet and hugged me tightly. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said, all of it cheerleading with stark fear lying just beneath our words. I kissed Edmund’s cheek, too, and after he released me, he squeezed my hand, hard.
I told him that I’d speak with him soon and fled before emotion took me over.
The stoplight at Seventh Street was red. When it turned, I parked at the next empty spot on Bryant and fast-walked to the Hall, where I badged security and took the elevator to four. Instead of turning left to the Homicide squad room, I turned right and headed back to the corner-office war room.
I hit the light switch, got my computer bag out of the desk drawer, and was stuffing the charger into the outside pocket when there was a knock.
“Boxer. Got a sec?”
It was Brady.
I said, “Sure. What’s happening?”
“Do you remember Bud Moskowitz?”
“He was with SWAT. He retired. Wait, Brady. You don’t think Moskowitz had anything to do with the shootings?”
“No.” He laughed. “Bud saw that news clip this morning with the crime scene photos. He has an idea.”
“Great. Give me his phone number.”
“He’s in my office. I’ll send him back.”