Yamura tilted her head toward a client chair and Marvia Plum settled into it without particularly relaxing. Yamura was wearing a tan tweed jacket over a pink button-down shirt. A pair of reading glasses shaped liked twin teacups sat on her nose. They were attached to a polished chain that ran behind Yamura’s neck. She looked like a stern librarian. Before Marvia said a word, Yamura asked how well she was settling back into routine.
Marvia slid lower in the chair. She hesitated, then replied, “Just great, Lieutenant.”
Yamura lowered her head and peered at Marvia over the top of her glasses. “You’re a lousy liar, you know that?”
“No, really.”
Yamura waited.
“Well,” Marvia conceded, “glass half full, glass half empty. You know.”
Yamura flipped the pages on her desk calendar. “You want to talk about it, off duty, after hours, off the reservation?”
Again, Marvia considered. “Off the record, too?”
“Woman to woman and friend to friend. I’ll buy you dinner. How about—let me check my calendar—how about Saturday night? I’ll pick you up at your house.”
Marvia nodded.
Yamura scribbled on her calendar and dropped her glasses so they hung on her chest by their chain. When she removed the glasses she shifted gears. “Guess who called me this morning, demanding action on this death over at KRED.”
Marvia didn’t have to guess. “City councilmember Hanson.”
Yamura made a pistol out of her hand, pointed it at Marvia and dropped the hammer. She made a popping sound with her tongue. “First try. Bull’s eye. Now, for double or nothing, What did she have to say?”
Marvia dipped her head and said, “What’s wrong with the BPD, can’t we protect a vital community asset like KRED, Bob Bjorner was a pillar of the community and of civic thought, and if this was one of those right-wing rant-stations in San Francisco they would have the case wrapped up by now.”
With a thin smile, Yamura said, “If you had a crystal ball you could set up shop and make a fortune. You know that Hanson is getting restless at City Hall. She has her eye on Sacramento. Or maybe, I don’t know, Washington. She’s looking for a good club to pound the tub with.” She leaned her elbows on her desk and folded one hand over the other. “What do you have?”
When Yamura leaned forward in her chair, Marvia leaned back in hers. “I’m waiting for the lab reports. I talked to Silver at Bisonte’s office and to Laura Kern at the forensics lab out in San Leandro and all I know for sure is Bjorner’s dead. Heck, I knew that yesterday. I want to know what killed him.”
“What about that warning fax? Any progress on tracking down the sender?”
“Nothing.” You never said “No luck” to Dorothy Yamura. She didn’t like coincidences, and she didn’t believe in luck at all. Intelligence, application, and plain good police work led to success; deficiency in any of those characteristics led to the failure of an investigation. That was her philosophy and if you worked for her, no matter how well you got along together, that was the standard you were expected to meet.
Yamura looked at Marvia, obviously waiting for information.
“I have to study the reports from the people we had at the station. Check the canvass. And I want to interview the next of kin.”
Yamura nodded. “Who’s that?”
“Bjorner had a brother, Herb. I already talked with him at the station last night. He seems cooperative. Upset but fairly coherent. The receptionist at the station says he brought Bob to the studio every afternoon and took him home after his show. Did you know that Bob Bjorner was almost totally blind?”
Yamura sat up straight. “No.” It was a long, drawn-out no. “What do you think that means? Is it relevant?”
Marvia shook her head. “No idea. Maybe it’s got nothing to do with his death. But he used a Braille script. I want it turned into typescript. I want to know what he was going to say in his last broadcast. Going to call UC and get somebody there to read it back for me. And I want to get an air-check from KRED and see if there’s anything there.”
Yamura said, “Sounds good, Marvia. I want to move fast on this, and it looks like you’re a step ahead of the game.”
Marvia stood up. “I’ll be happier when I see the reports from the coroner and chem lab.”
“Who’s handling it?”
“Gemma Silver says Bisonte’s doing the PM himself. And Laura Kern is doing the chem checks at the forensics lab.”
Yamura said, “Keep me posted.” She swung around in her chair and pulled a file folder from a wire basket.
* * * *
Marvia Plum headed back to her own desk. She scanned the reports from Holloway, Rosetti and Gutierrez. It looked as if they’d all done their jobs and it looked as if none of them had learned anything useful.
She padded into the squad room moving silently in her sneakers. She poured herself a cup of coffee and scanned the morning papers. There was an Oakland Trib under the creamer and there were copies of both of the San Francisco morning papers, the long-running Chronicle and the brash upstart Mirror.
The Trib gave the Bjorner case a tease above the logo on the main news section and a story on page one of the local news section. They had a photo of the body bag on the gurney being loaded into the coroner’s ambulance in the KRED parking lot.
The Chron actually put the story on its front page but used no photo.
The Mirror—oh, lordy. Forget about the current Balkan war and latest Pacific storm. KRED KILLER, the main headline read. And the subhead, Radical ’Caster Croaks into Mike—Was Radio Red’s Final Message Cry for Help? And, would you believe it, they had a photo of the cadaver slumped across the broadcaster’s desk in Studio B. They ran it the width of the front page.
How the hell did they get that?
There was a credit line on the photo but it just said, Staff. The story itself started on page three with another juicy headline and a shot similar to the Oakland Trib’s and another—how in bloody blue blazing hell did they get this one?—of Marvia Plum conversing with Herb Bjorner.
You could see Herb Bjorner clearly. He was standing in front of the KRED building. You could see the station call letters on the marquee, and there was a uniformed police officer with her back to the camera, talking with Bjorner. You couldn’t see her face but there was no question it was Marvia Plum. Her sergeant’s stripes were even visible.
The story itself was headlined simply, KRED KILLING. It was bylined, Special to the San Francisco Mirror, by Maude Markham. Marvia thought she knew most of the local media, by face or by byline if not in person. She’d only been gone for a matter of weeks. But she didn’t know Maude Markham. Maybe a new reporter. Maybe a college kid interning at the Mirror, who had just got very, very lucky.
She heard a page over the loudspeaker. “Sergeant Plum, pick up your phone.” The page
