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Moon’s confession? It went great,” Yuki told us. “Since Junie had been Mirandized when she confessed, the judge says it’s admissible.” “Excellent,” I said, letting out my breath. “A break for the good guys.” “Yuki, you’re trying her for a murder and you don’t have a body?” Claire asked. “It’s a circumstantial case, but circumstantial cases are won all the time,” Yuki said. “Look, I’d be happier with physical evidence. I’d be happier if Ricky Malcolm made any kind of a corroborating statement. “But the powers that be are piling on the pressure. Plus, we can win.” Yuki stopped to gulp down some beer, then carried on. “The jury is going to believe Junie’s confession. They’re going to believe her, and they’re going to hold her responsible for Michael Campion’s death.”
    Chapter 16

    I WAS AT MY DESK in the squad room the next day when Rich came in after lunch smelling of garbage. “Tough morning in Jackson?” “Yeah, but I think the sheriff’s digging for his fifteen minutes of fame before the Feds take over the search. He’s got it under control.” I pinched my nose as Rich pulled out his chair, folded his long legs under his side of the desk, and opened his container of coffee. “Phone records show that yes, Junie did call Malcolm at 11:21 on the night Michael went missing. And she called him every night at about that time.” “Girl stays in touch with her boyfriend.” “And Clapper called,” I told my partner. “The prints on the knife are Malcolm’s.” “Yeah? That’s excellent!” “But the blood is bovine,” I said. “It’s a steak knife. He ate a steak.” “Yep. It gets worse.” “Hang on.” Rich dumped a couple of sugars into his coffee, stirred, slugged it down. “Okay. Hit me.” “There’s no blood or tissue in the bathtub, and the hair we sent out came back with no match. Furthermore, there’s no sign that anyone tried to cover up the blood. No bleach.” “Great,” my partner said, scowling. “What is this? The perfect crime?” “There’s more and worse. There’s no trace of blood in or on Malcolm’s vehicle, no hairs consistent with Michael’s.” “So I was wrong about the truck. You should have bet me, Lindsay. We’d be having dinner tonight - on me.” I grinned and said, “You would have showered first, I suppose.” But my mood could hardly be lower. I was going to have to call the Campions and tell them that we still had no physical evidence, and that Junie Moon had recanted her confession and we’d had to kick Ricky Malcolm. “You want to call Malcolm and tell him he can have his truck back?” Rich picked up his phone, called Malcolm, got no answer. We took a drive out to the crime lab at Hunter’s Point Naval Yard, opened all the car windows on the way, and let the wind air out my partner’s clothes. At the lab, I signed a release for the truck, and after three more unanswered calls to Ricky Malcolm, we drove to his apartment. Rich yelled, “Police,” and knocked loudly on Malcolm’s door until a small Chinese man came out from the restaurant downstairs. He shouted up to us, “Mr. Malcolm gone. He paid his rent and leave on motorcycle. You want to see mess upstairs?” “We’ve seen it, thanks.” “He’s gone, all right,” I muttered to Conklin as we got into the squad car. “Ricky Malcolm. Sleaze. Slob. Easy rider. Criminal freakin’ mastermind. Coming soon to a town near you.”
    Chapter 17

    I WAS RIPPED out of a dream and my lover’s arms by Jacobi’s voice on the phone saying, “Get dressed, Boxer. Conklin is five blocks away. He’s picking you up at your door.” Jacobi clicked off before giving me details, but this much I knew: someone had died. It was just after midnight when Conklin nosed our squad car onto the lawn of a smoldering house in the 3800 block of Clay Street in Presidio Heights. Four fire rigs and an equal number of patrol cars were already parked in front of the Greek