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Cindy smiled some more. She wasn’t even sure why. “I’m in a women’s book club. Two women’s clubs, actually. I like jazz.”
Winslow’s eyes lit. “What kind of jazz? I like jazz myself.”
Cindy laughed. “Okay, now we’re getting somewhere. What kind of jazz do you like?”
“Progressive. Interpretive. Anything from Pinetop Perkins to Coltrane.”
“You know the Blue Door? On Geary?” she asked.
“Of course I know the Blue Door. I go there Saturday nights, whenever Carlos Reyes is in town. Maybe we could go sometime. As part of your story. You don’t have to answer right now.”
“Then you agree to let me do a piece on you?” Cindy said.
“I agree… to let you do a piece on the neighborhood. I’ll help you with it.”
A half hour later, in her car, Cindy sat letting the engine run, almost too astonished to put it in gear. I don’t believe what I just did…. Lindsay would rap her in the head. Question whether her gadgets were properly working.
But they were working. They were humming a little, actually. The tiny hairs on her arms were standing straight up.
She had the beginnings of what she thought might be a good story, maybe a prizewinner.
She’d also just accepted a date from Tasha Catchings’s pastor, and she couldn’t wait to see him again.
Maybe my soul has been aching, Cindy thought as she finally drove away from the church.
Chapter 40
IT WAS CLOSE TO SEVEN on Saturday. The end of a long, insane, incredibly stressful week. Three people had died. My only good leads had come and gone.
I needed to talk to somebody, so I went up to eight, where the D.A.’s staff was located. Two doors down from the big man himself was Jill’s corner office.
The executive corner was dark, offices empty, staff scattered for the weekend. In a way, though I needed to vent, I was sort of hoping Jill—the new Jill—would be at home, maybe picking through swatch books for her baby’s room.
But as I approached, I heard the sound of classical music coming from within. Jill’s door was cracked half open.
I knocked gently and pushed it in. There was Jill, in her favorite easy chair, knees tucked to her chest and a yellow legal pad resting on them. Her desk was piled high with briefs.
“Why are you here?” I asked.
“Snagged.” She sighed, raising her hands in mock surrender. “It’s just this goddamn Perrone thing. Closing arguments Monday morning.” Jill was at the end of a high-profile case in which a derelict landlord was being charged with manslaughter after a faulty ceiling caved in on an eight-year-old child.
“You’re pregnant, Jill. It’s after seven o’clock.”
“So is Connie Sperling, for the defense. They’re calling it the Battle of the Bulge.”
“Whatever they’re calling it, so much for the shift of gears.”
Jill turned down the CD player and extended her long legs. “Anyway, Steve’s out of town. What else is new? I’d only be doing the same thing if I were at home.” She cocked her head and smiled. “You’re checking up on me.”
“No, but maybe someone should.”
“Good lord, Lindsay, I’m just preparing notes, not running a ten-k. I’m doing fine. Anyway”—she glanced at her watch—“since when did you turn into the poster girl for keeping everything in perspective?”
“I’m not pregnant, Jill. All right, all right—I’ll stop lecturing.”
I stepped inside her office—eyed her women’s final four soccer photo from Stanford, framed diplomas, and pictures of her and Steve rock climbing and running with their black Lab, Snake Eyes.
“I still have a beer in the fridge if you want to sit,” she said, tossing her legal pad on the desk. “Pull a Buckler out for me.”
