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“I’m sure you are, but this fucker’s dead. Back in June. He and a partner blew themselves up, in Oregon. Sonofabitch must’ve read somewhere you could turn cowshit into a bomb.”
Chapter 39
IN THE SMALL BLACKTOP parking lot adjacent to the La Salle Heights Church, Cindy Thomas climbed out of her Mazda. Her stomach growled, telling her that it didn’t quite know what she was doing here.
She took a breath and opened the large oak door into the main chapel. Just yesterday it had been filled with the choir’s resonating sound. Now it was eerily quiet, the pews empty. She walked through the chapel and into a connecting building.
A carpeted hallway led to a row of offices. A black woman, glancing up from a copy machine, asked, “Can I help you? What do you want?”
“I’m here to see Reverend Winslow.”
“He’s not seeing visitors now,” the woman said.
Winslow’s voice rang out from one of the offices. “It’s all right, Carol.”
Cindy was led to his office. It was small, crowded with books. He was wearing a black T-shirt and khakis, and didn’t look like any minister she’d ever known.
“So, we managed to get you back after all,” he said. Then finally, he smiled.
He had her take a seat on a small couch and he sat in a well-worn red leather chair. A pair of glasses was resting on a book nearby, and she instinctively sneaked a peek. A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius. Not what she would have expected.
“You mending?” she asked.
“Trying to. I read your story today. It was terrible about that policeman. It’s true? Tasha’s murder might be tied up with two others?”
“The police think so,” Cindy answered. “The M.E. believes she was deliberately shot.”
Winslow grimaced and then shook his head. “I don’t understand. Tasha was just a little girl. What possible connection could there be?”
“It wasn’t so much Tasha”—Cindy held eye contact with Aaron Winslow—“as what she represented. All the victims apparently have a link to San Francisco cops.”
Winslow’s eyes narrowed. “So tell me, what brings you back so soon? Your soul aching? Why are you here?”
Cindy lowered her eyes. “The service yesterday. It was moving. I felt chills. It’s been a long time for me. Actually, I think my soul has been aching. I just haven’t bothered to notice.”
Winslow’s look softened. She’d told him a small truth, and it had touched him. “Well, good. I’m glad to hear you were moved.”
Cindy smiled. Incredibly, he made her feel at ease. He seemed centered, genuine, and she’d heard nothing but good things about him. She wanted to do a story on him, and she knew it would be a good one, maybe a great story.
“I bet I know what you’re thinking,” Aaron Winslow said.
“Okay,” she said, “shoot.”
“You’re wondering… the man seems together enough, not completely weirded out. He doesn’t seem like a minister. So what is he doing making his living working like this?”
Cindy flashed an embarrassed smile. “I admit, something like that did cross my mind. I’d like to do a story about you and the Bay View neighborhood.”
He seemed to be thinking it over. But then he changed the subject on her.
“What is it you like to do, Cindy?”
“Do…?”
“In the big, bad world of San Francisco you cover out there. After you call in your story. What moves you besides your job at the Chronicle? What are your passions?”
She found herself smiling. “Hey, I ask the questions. I want to do a story on you. Not the other way around,” she said. “All right. I like yoga. I take a class twice a week on Chestnut Street. You ever do yoga?”
“No, but I meditate every day.”
