“Didn’t the car alarm go off?” Navarro said.

The garage door opened. Hamlin came running out. He stared at the broken glass, then his head swiveled as he surveyed the street for someone running away. He started in the direction the homeless man had gone, then stopped and turned back and ran the other way.

“Something must have caught his attention,” Donnally said. “Maybe the guy had a crime partner, a decoy to lead Hamlin in the wrong direction.”

Donnally realized he hadn’t seen a laptop or tablet in Hamlin’s car, apartment, or office. This burglary must be the reason. He stopped the recorder, skimmed back to where the burglar was facing the camera, then walked to the front counter and returned with the owner.

“You recognize that guy?” Donnally asked.

The owner squinted at the figure, then said in a heavy Indian accent, “I am thinking he is coming by here often. A very smelly man.” He pointed north. “He is always going to the recycling center with cans and bottles.”

“You know his name?”

“No idea.” The owner then straightened up and returned to the front counter.

Donnally started the video again. A minute later Hamlin reappeared. He opened the passenger door and pulled out his briefcase, apparently to keep someone else from stealing it. He glanced over as two motorcycles passed by, the riders wearing black leather vests and Nazi-like helmets, then went back into the garage. He left again a half hour later.

Two patrol cars arrived thirty minutes after Hamlin drove away. Burger opened the door and spoke with the officers. The officers gestured him outside, patted him down and handcuffed him, and then one of the two officers walked inside.

“Galen was right so far,” Donnally said. He turned to Navarro. “Can you confirm real quick that Hamlin didn’t report the car burglary?”

Navarro called the Oakland Police Department records section and asked whether a Mark Hamlin had ever reported his car burglarized in the city.

“Galen was right about that, too,” Navarro said, after he disconnected. “He didn’t report the break-in.”

Donnally thought for a moment.

“The victim’s family may have seen something in the condition of the garage that led them to believe Hamlin helped stage the scene to make it look like self-defense. Hamlin and Burger could’ve moved things around—chairs, tables, maybe even the lathe—to make sure all the blood spatter was in the right places. Who knows what else they could’ve done.”

“And when they couldn’t get to Burger in the county jail,” Navarro said, “they went after Hamlin.”

Navarro’s cell phone rang. He listened for a few seconds, then said to Donnally, “You were right about putting a tail on Galen. He just let himself into Hamlin’s place through the back door.”

Chapter 22

Galen was sitting on the living room couch handcuffed and guarded by uniformed officers when Donnally and Navarro walked into Hamlin’s apartment forty minutes later. They passed by without speaking to him on their way to the stairs to the second floor bedroom, where he’d been captured by the surveillance team. One of the undercover officers stood next to the bed, now propped against the wall, and pointed down at a large screwdriver lying next to a pried-up floorboard.

“This is how it was when I walked in,” the officer said. “Good thing he didn’t try to shoot his way out.”

Donnally kneeled down and peered into the opening in the floor. A .38 Special revolver lay on top of a stuffed lunch-sized paper bag. He looked up at the officer. “Was he putting these in or taking them out?”

“I don’t know whether he was stealing or planting and I didn’t know enough about where things stand legally with him to read him his rights and start asking him questions. I searched him. He didn’t have anything on him he shouldn’t have had. Keys and wallet and change.”

Donnally rose and said to Navarro, “Let’s see what he has to say before we monkey with this stuff.”

They returned downstairs, and Navarro sent the uniformed officer to the front landing. Donnally and Navarro pulled chairs up to the couch and faced Galen, perched on the front edge of the cushion, hands still cuffed behind him.

“Aren’t you supposed to be protesting the handcuffs?” Donnally said. “You had a key to this place. That alone suggests that Hamlin gave you permission to be here, so it’s probably not trespassing or burglary.” He glanced at Navarro. “Malicious mischief for damaging the floor?”

Navarro made a show of considering the possibility by closing one eye and staring up at the ceiling, then he looked down, shaking his head. “That would probably require Hamlin’s testimony saying that he didn’t okay it, and Hamlin is remaining silent.”

Donnally snapped his fingers. “I’ve got it. Destroying evidence.”

Galen swallowed.

“But evidence of what?” Navarro asked Donnally, but his target was Galen. “Something this guy did or something Hamlin did?”

“I wasn’t destroying evidence,” Galen said. “Or at least that wasn’t the point of it.” He swallowed again. “I just wanted to get my money back before I lost my license to practice. I’ve got a mortgage and car payments.”

“How did you know it would be there?”

“Because I brought ten grand to Mark here three days ago. He took the money and walked upstairs and came back down without it. I knew about his hiding place. I guessed it was in there.”

“So basically,” Navarro said, “it’s evidence of two crimes. You stealing from your trust account and Hamlin extorting from you.”

Galen stared down at his feet.

“What about the gun?” Donnally asked. “That evidence, too?”

“I’ve never seen that one before. He had a 9mm semiautomatic in a drawer next to his bed.”

Donnally looked over at Navarro, his raised eyebrows asking whether one had been discovered during the search of the apartment on the morning Hamlin’s body was discovered.

“We didn’t find it,” Navarro said.

Donnally rose. “Time to go look in the bag.”

He didn’t want to put himself in the chain of evidence and risk complicating the case later, so he asked the surveillance officer to handle it.

The officer slipped on latex gloves and removed the revolver, then the paper bag, setting both on Hamlin’s dresser. He separated the top of the bag, and gripping the edges, pulled out four stacks of twenty-dollar bills, and lined them up. It looked to Donnally like a total of about forty thousand dollars. He took a photo of the bills with his cell phone and checked the nightstand and confirmed the gun was missing. He returned downstairs.

“In what denominations was the money you gave Mark?” Donnally asked, remembering that Galen’s fingerprints had been on a hundred-dollar bill.

“Hundreds. All hundreds.”

Donnally showed the photo to Navarro, and then to Galen. “What’s wrong with this picture?”

Galen’s eyes widened at the sight of the twenties, then he looked at Donnally, “Maybe he . . .”

“Went to the bank and traded them in?” Donnally gave him a stern, parental stare. “You don’t believe that.”

Galen shrugged.

“Where do you think this money came from?”

“I don’t have a clue.”

Donnally pointed toward Galen’s back, and Navarro removed the handcuffs. There was nothing they could charge him with, yet.

Galen didn’t make a move to rise, acknowledging they weren’t done with him.

“You’re back to zero,” Donnally said. “You got credit for giving us the lead to the Sanders homicide, but lost it by coming in here.”

“I’ll try to do better,” Galen said. “Next time . . .” He ended the sentence with a sigh.

Donnally heard an echo in the trailing phrase, “Next time . . .”