“How old are you?”
“Nineteen. I’m going to be nineteen. Maybe.”
“Do you want to be a nineteen-year-old who helped put down a stinking paramilitary platoon of fucking crazy killers?”
“I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
Brady grinned.
“You’re going to like it better than you think.”
PART FOUR
WHERE’S THE BEEF?
CHAPTER 80
CONKLIN AND I were in Michael Jansing’s office with his dogged assistant, Caroline, who was plumbing Jansing’s computer for Chuck’s Prime’s personnel records. After a global search, the computer flagged a Walter Brenner, thirty-nine, truck driver, living in El Cerrito, just north of West Berkeley and Albany.
He’d been working at Chuck’s for about three years. He had gotten a two-dollar raise each year. There were no comments in the spaces provided for them, just check marks to show that he’d had satisfactory performance evaluations.
“Is there anything you can tell us about him?” I asked Caroline. “Anything at all?”
She shrugged. “I’m still pretty new here.” She printed out Brenner’s contact info, including his address, and also sent the file to my phone.
I thanked Caroline and bid her a fond adieu, and Conklin and I left the building. We boarded my antique Explorer and, setting out at warp speed, arrived at Belmont Avenue, a quiet street at the foot of Albany Hill Park, at just about 7:45 p.m.
The 1920s Craftsman-style homes in this residential street were garnished with a fringe of trees out front and had good-size backyards with gardens and swing sets and occasional shade trees. Although the homes were cute and folksy, the freeway provided a persistent industrial undertone.
Walt Brenner lived in a small, yellow house trimmed in white and squarely placed on a corner of the block. It had a slab-porch entry, a fruit tree in the front yard, and a stockade fence shielding the backyard from the roadway.
We didn’t stop at the house, but instead rounded the corner and stopped a block away. Stepping out and opening the hatch, I took out two vests and handed one to Conklin. I put mine on and zipped my Windbreaker over it.
We got back into the vehicle, crawled along Belmont Avenue, and returned to Brenner’s tidy little home.
Conklin pulled the Explorer into the driveway next to a newish black SUV, which seemed a little above a truck driver’s pay grade.
Conklin said, “I’m thinking softball approach. Walter makes a weekly drop-off to all the Chuck’s in this area. We ask him what are your thoughts on anyone who might be angry at the bosses, blah-blah-blah.”
I said, “I like it.”
I raised my fist to knock. But my knuckles never touched wood. The door opened, and to my utter amazement, Donna Timko was standing right there.
It was Donna, all right. She was wearing a flowered tent dress and slippers and had a quizzical look on her face.
I wondered what kind of expression she saw on mine.
Donna said, “Sergeant Boxer and, uh, Inspector Conklin. This is a surprise.”
Conklin said, “We didn’t realize you live here, Donna. This is Walter Brenner’s address, right?”
She nodded. Conklin went on.
“He lives here? And you’re expecting him home?”
Donna nodded, again, looking from my partner’s face to mine, then back to his.
Conklin said, “Well, if you have a couple of minutes, maybe we could come in and talk while we wait for Walter.”
“Certainly. Come in. Go right on through to the dining room,” she said.
I had a lot of questions for Donna, starting with “Who are you to our belly bomb suspect?”
But that could wait until I was looking into her big brown eyes.
CHAPTER 81
WALTER BRENNER’S HOUSE smelled like a bakery.
“My new recipe for Baby Cakes,” Timko said, as Conklin and I preceded her into a small white-painted living room furnished with country upholstery and bookshelves bracketing a fireplace. Half-folded laundry was in a pile on the furniture. Stairs to the second floor were in a hallway to our right.
We continued on through an arched pass-through to the dining room. Donna said, “Have a seat at the table. I was just making coffee.”
I looked at Conklin, shrugged, and he shrugged back.
Then we pulled out a couple of ladder-back chairs at the round, four-person dining table and sat down. The dining room was small, maybe a hundred fifty square feet, with a view of the kitchen just ahead and, through the windows to our left, the charming houses across the street.
In a couple of minutes, Donna Timko returned with a tray of coffee cups and individual-size cakes and some details about the recipe.
I was watching Donna’s expression as she busied herself at the table. She was talkative but definitely preoccupied.