The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(61)

“Protection from whom? My husband?”

“Consider this. Say he gets in here to visit you. We tell him to come out with his hands up. He resists arrest. There’s shooting. You both die.”

Randi shrugged. “We knew that could happen from the beginning. We have a pact with death. Don’t you?”

She paused to watch my face. I pictured my young daughter. My getting shot was always a painful possibility.

Randi read my expression and sneered, “Yeah, I thought so.”

She went into the kitchen and opened the fridge. From where I stood, I could see that it was empty.

I said, “There’s a cruiser outside. Officer Pat Hudson is your contact. Here’s her number.”

I used a fridge magnet to attach the note to the door. “She’ll get you what you reasonably need,” I said. “Meaning, groceries. Keep the shades down and stay off the phone. Hudson or her alternate can take you and your dog to the park once a day.”

“When can I get out of here?”

“Look, Randi. If you prefer, I can put you in jail and hold you as a material witness.”

That was true, but only for forty-eight hours. Cops are allowed to lie, and I don’t think my nose grew even half an inch.

“I’m gonna need tampons,” she said.

“I’ll tell Officer Hudson on my way out. There’s a drugstore about a block from here.”

Randi joined her dog on the sofa, put her feet on the coffee table, and clicked on the TV.

“You got HBO here?”

“Make yourself comfortable, Randi. Keep your phone charged in case we need to make contact.”

“And ice cream,” she said. “Double chocolate chip.”

Would Leonard Barkley try to find her at their actual home on Thornton? Had he followed us as we moved her to this swell safe house? What were his plans?

Randi would never tell me.

She was playing with her dog’s ears and watching the first season of The Sopranos when I let myself out.





CHAPTER 89





CINDY WAS IN her office writing a victim account of a carjacking, while tuning in to her police scanner at the same time.

She was on deadline and deep into her writing when someone knocked. It was Henry Tyler, saying, “Returning your call.”

Cindy invited him in and told him she’d have the story for him shortly.

“I only need a teaser on the front page,” she said, “then maybe half a page anywhere in the B section.”

“I’m leaving tonight at six. On the dot.”

“You’ll have it before then.”

Cindy went back to her draft of the story, checking the quotes against her interview transcripts—when the police scanner went crazy. She dialed it up. Something was happening and it sounded big. This was why she kept her scanner with her at home and work and in between like it was her flesh and blood.

First thing she heard clearly was a call for backup, followed by dispatch saying that backup was on the way. Then there was a string of four-codes: officer needs emergency help, send ambulance, requested assistance responding, and send ambulance again.

Officer needs emergency help was like an electric shock to her spine.

She speed-dialed Rich, pressed the phone to her ear, and listened for him to pick up. No answer.

Cindy looked through her glass wall. McGowan was not at his desk. She sent him a text message saying, Hold the fort. I’ll be back in an hour.

She wanted to call Rich again but throttled the impulse. If he was at his desk, he’d call her. If he was out, he was busy. A new voice came over the radio, an officer asking dispatch to repeat the location.

The dispatcher answered: “The Sleep Well Motel, 2701 San Bruno Avenue.”

Cindy couldn’t tell what was happening, but her instincts were on high alert. She felt a big story coming to life in Portola. If she got clear road, she could be at the Sleep Well in fifteen minutes max.

Cindy slipped her phone into her handbag, zipped up her baseball jacket, and slung the bag over her shoulder. Last, she tucked her radio under her arm and exited the office. Her curiosity and imagination caught fire. She overrode her throttled impulse and called Rich again. This time she left a message.

“Call me, Rich. Let me know that you’re okay.”

She unlocked her blue Honda, plugged the radio into the lighter jack, connected her phone to the Bluetooth app, and buckled in. It was normally a ten-to fifteen-minute drive from the Chronicle to Portola, but that didn’t count traffic jams.

Paying almost full attention to the road, Cindy took every shortcut, ran every yellow light, and when she finally arrived at the crime scene, there was nothing to see but tattered yellow tape.

Something had happened here, but what?

Cops were taking down the tape. Motel guests were pulling out of the parking lot.

She headed to the motel manager’s office.





CHAPTER 90





CINDY READ THE nameplate on the counter.

MR. JAKE TUOHY, MANAGER.

Tuohy was broad and balding, and his body language spoke loudly, conveying What now? and Who cares? But Cindy thought she could turn him to her side. She unzipped her jacket, tossed her hair, and introduced herself.

“I’m Cindy Thomas from the San Francisco Chronicle, and I wonder if you could—”