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I was fuming mad. We had a vicious killer out there but not a single clue as to what made him tick. Was it a hate crime or a killing spree? An organized group or a lone wolf? We knew the guy was fairly intelligent. His strikes had been well planned, and if irony was part of his MO, dumping the getaway car where he had was a real beaut.
Karen buzzed in, informing me that Ron Vandervellen was on the line. The Oakland cop came on chuckling. “Word
is you managed to subdue a dangerous threat to our society masquerading as a legal watchdog in the Anti-Defamation League.”
“I guess that makes our investigations about equal, Ron,” I retorted.
“Relax, Lindsay, I didn’t call to rub it in,” he said, shifting his tone. “Actually, I thought I would make your day.”
“I won’t argue, Ron. I could use anything about now. What do you have for us?”
“You knew Estelle Chipman was a widow, right?”
“I think you mentioned that.”
“Well, we were doing some standard background on her. We found a son in Chicago. He’s coming to claim the body. Given what’s been going on, I thought what he told us was too coincidental to ignore.”
“What, Ron?”
“Her husband died five years ago. Heart attack. Want to guess what the dude did for a living?”
I had the rising feeling Vandervellen was about to blow this thing wide open.
“Estelle Chipman’s husband was a San Francisco cop.”
Chapter 22
CINDY THOMAS parked her Mazda across from the La Salle Heights Church and let out a long sigh. The church’s white clapboard front had been defaced by a pattern of ugly chinks and bullet holes. A gaping hole where the beautiful stained-glass window had been was sealed with a black canvas tarp.
She remembered seeing it the day the window was first unveiled, on her old beat at the paper. The mayor, some local dignitaries, Aaron Winslow, all made speeches about how the beautiful scene had been paid for through community work. A symbol. She remembered interviewing Winslow and being impressed with his passion, and also his unexpected humbleness.
Cindy ducked under the yellow police tape and stepped closer to the bullet-ridden wall. On her job at the Chronicle, she’d been assigned to other stories where people had died. But this was the first one where she felt the human race had died a little, too.
She was startled by a voice. “You can stare for as long as you want, but it doesn’t get any prettier.”
Cindy spun and found herself facing a man with a smooth and very handsome face. Kind eyes. She knew him. She nodded. “I was here when the window was unveiled. It carried a lot of hope.”
“Still does,” Winslow said. “We didn’t lose our hope. Don’t worry about that.”
She smiled, staring into his deep brown eyes.
“I’m Aaron Winslow,” he said, shifting a stack of children’s textbooks to extend his hand.
“Cindy Thomas,” she replied. His grip was warm and gentle.
“Don’t tell me they’ve put our church as one of the scenic sights on the Forty-nine Mile Drive.” Winslow started to walk toward the rear of the church, and she followed along.
“I’m not a tourist,” Cindy said. “I just wanted to see this. Listen.” She swallowed. “I’d like to pretend I just came by to pay my respects… which I did. But I’m also with the Chronicle. On the crime desk.”
“A reporter.” Winslow exhaled. “It makes sense now. For years, everything that really goes on here—tutoring, literacy training, a nationally recognized choir—doesn’t crank up a story. But one madman acts, and now Night-line wants to do a town meeting. What do you want to know, Ms. Thomas? What does the Chronicle want?”
His words had stung her a little, but she kind of liked that. He was right.
“Actually, I did a story here once before, when that window was unveiled. It was a special day.”
He stopped walking. He focused his eyes on her, then smiled. “It was a special day. And actually, Ms. Thomas, I knew who you were when I walked up. I remember you. You interviewed me back then.”
Someone called Winslow’s name from inside the church, and a woman came out. She reminded him that he had an eleven o’clock meeting.
