Brady stiff-armed the door and burst into the war room, saying, “Barkley was just seen entering the Sleep Well in Portola.”
I knew the place. The Sleep Well Motel was pinkish in color with a traditional motel design: a square-U-shaped building enclosing a parking area, which faced San Bruno Avenue.
Brady snapped out his orders. “Take Lemke and Samuels. I can’t raise Nardone. Boxer, you’re first officer. SWAT’s on the way.”
I followed Brady down the center aisle with Conklin right behind me. Lemke and Samuels were at their desks. Lemke’s jutting lower jaw made him look like an old pit bull. Samuels was round shouldered with glasses and could pass for an accountant. People underestimated him. They were wrong to do so. They were both good cops, inseparable, and now Lemke had a halo because one of his snapshots at the Barons’ funeral had turned out to be Barkley.
Conklin conveyed Brady’s orders.
Samuels forwarded their phones to Brenda, and the two of them grabbed their jackets. We were all hoping for another crack at Barkley. I wanted him alive and in the box because he was all we had—and he might be a key to the whole Moving Targets operation.
The four of us jogged down the fire stairs to Bryant and signed out a couple of squad cars. Conklin took the wheel of ours and we went to Code 3, switching on our sirens and flashers, Conklin stepping on the gas.
I reported in, requesting a dedicated channel, and signed off. A minute later four-codes streamed over the speaker. Officer needs emergency help. Send ambulance. Requested assistance responding. A second request, send ambulance.
Traffic parted ahead of us, and within ten minutes we were on the main road through Portola, a working-class neighborhood on the edge of the city. We flew past the small businesses—shoe repair shop, bakeries, grocery store, a couple of restaurants—and then I saw the blinking neon sign up ahead.
SLEEP WELL MOTEL. VACANCIES. FREE WI-FI.
By the time we arrived, the motel’s parking lot was filled with law enforcement vehicles and cops on foot who were attempting to clear the area of bystanders.
My job as primary responder was to stabilize the scene, secure it for CSI, and determine what had happened for the record and for the lead investigator, who, please God, wouldn’t be me. I reached out to Clapper and filled him in. “We need prints right away.”
“In a motel room. Wish us luck.”
“All the luck in the world.”
I looked past the cruisers, ambulances, and guest vehicles, trying to get a fix on what the hell had gone down. Where was Nardone? Brady had said Barkley had been seen. Given time spent relaying orders and driving through noon traffic, it was a fair bet that Barkley was long gone.
I was out of the car before Conklin fully braked. I hobbled on my twisted ankle to the ambulance that was taking on a patient. The paramedic wouldn’t let me inside.
“He’s got a head injury. Please. Get out of our way.”
“What’s his name? What’s his name?”
“Glenn Healy. Officer Healy.”
“Where are you taking him?”
“Zuckerberg San Francisco General.”
The rear doors closed, sirens shrieked, and the bus moved onto the main road. Someone called out to me.
“Sergeant Boxer. Over here.”
Sergeant Robert Nardone was sitting on the third step of a staircase running from the parking area to the second floor. Cleaning supplies and toiletries were heaped around Nardone’s feet as if Mr. Clean and Bed Bath & Beyond had purged their trucks, haphazardly flinging samples across the area.
My eyes were drawn to an overturned housekeeper’s cart that had crashed into a vintage Buick some twenty feet from the foot of the stairs. That explained the toiletries.
But I still couldn’t picture what had happened here.
Nardone would have to tell me.
I asked him, “Bob, are you all right?”
“We lost him, Boxer. Bastard stole our car and booked.”