21st Birthday (Women's Murder Club #21)(51)

“Inquisitive.”

“— and I know to lock my phone. Which I forgot to do.”

He went on to say, “If any of this Evan Burke story is true, you could be poking a serial killer, and if so, Cindy, you’re inviting very big trouble. You look like the kind of victim this killer likes best.”

“What kind is that?”

“Cute. Female. Small. With a nice-looking neck. Don’t quote me.”

“And what’s your type?”

“Same. Come here so I can bite you.”



*



Cindy was glad for Richie’s warning, and she wasn’t careless or stupid. If she could locate Evan Burke, she was sure he would talk to her.

Cindy was driving while casing the area. From the density of the woodland and the narrow bike trail to her right, she felt as if she was finally homing in on the location that she’d gathered from her quick peek at Richie’s phone. She signaled for a turn, pulled onto the verge off Morton Road, and took in her surroundings.

Cindy looked up the trail on her right, a wider rut than most of them. She put her Acura into third gear, and let the car do the work, the tires wobbling and righting themselves as the trail climbed. At one point, the road forked. Left or right? Eenie, meenie, miney, mo.

She took the right-hand road.

Samuels woke up.

“Where are we?”

“Damned if I know. This trail is unmarked.”

A half mile up, the road came to a clearing and in the center was a small, odd, asymmetrical house, without a window curtain or flowerpot or even a clothesline.

Her take? A man lived here alone.

Cindy braked, said to Samuels, “Please stay here, but keep your eyes on me. I’m not going in, but just in case.”

“I got you,” said Samuels. He rubbed his hands together, buzzed down the window.

Cindy got out of the car and crossed the dirt and gravel car park, then climbed the two narrow steps to the porch. She heard nothing. No dog. No music. No car or bike in the drive or around the house. She was pretty sure no one was home.

Still, she knocked and waited.

She knocked, again and called out, “Hello? Anyone home?”

When her tapping went unanswered, she slipped her business card into the crack between the door and doorframe and hoped that whoever lived there would call her.

Back in her car, she drove down the rutted trail, taking the left-hand turn this time, and a few minutes later, arrived at a very different kind of woodland house.

Also hemmed in by forest trees, this house was cedar shingled and had a proper flower garden in front, a wheelbarrow planter, and a shiny late-model SUV in the driveway.

These homeowners were a definite possibility for an interview. They might want to help her.

Cindy heard jazz coming from inside the house. A red tabby cat sat on the back of a sofa watching her through the living room window.

A neat-looking woman with silver-blond hair came to the door and opened it.

She smiled. “Hello. May I help you?”

“Hi, I’m Cindy Thomas from the Chronicle. I’m writing a story about the killings in San Francisco and a resident of this community was one of the victims —”

The woman in the doorway said, “Fuck off” and slammed the door in Cindy’s face.

Cindy yelled, “Hey!”

Samuels was getting out of the car. Cindy waved him back and knocked on the door again.

Inside, the music was turned up loud. The cat continued to watch Cindy until she left the doorway, got into her car, and started the engine.

“Nasty,” said Samuels, when Cindy told him what had happened. “Want me to punch some holes in her tires?”

“Jonny, don’t you know that journalism is a glamour job?”

He laughed. “Absolutely. Where to, now?”

“Down the mountain, over the bridge, and back to work. We live to fight another day.”





CHAPTER 68





IT WAS STILL THE DARK before dawn and Joe and I were in bed, awake, and talking.

He said, “No, yeah, wear it. I love the red.”

I had to laugh. I still looked hot in my red floor-length silk gown, even after my pregnancy. In the ten years since I’d bought that dress, I’d worn it maybe four times.

Today wasn’t going to be the fifth.

The individual known as Berney was in San Francisco. He had some information for Joe, but it had to be strictly confidential, untraceable. When they talked over the phone last night about where to meet, I’d been sitting next to Joe on the couch with my ear close enough to hear Berney’s voice.

I’d said, “I want to meet him.”

Joe shook his head no.

I’d nodded emphatically yes, and Joe said to the magician of the dark side, “Lindsay wants to meet you.”

To our surprise, Berney said, “I can come to your place.”

Joe said, “Excellent. Six thirty tomorrow morning?”

Now, Joe’s projection clock flashed five fifteen on the ceiling.

“Do you want to shower first, or me?”

“Me,” I said. “I’m quicker.”

After my shower, I opened Julie’s door and brought Martha into her room, to keep the elderly dog out of our way. Julie’s eyelids flew open.