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She said, “Fish’s Girl is the true story of two killers who were bound together by love and serial murder. If that makes you think of Bonnie and Clyde, this pair was nothing like them, but just as crazy. Crazier, actually. And deadlier.
“Randy Fish and MacKenzie Morales killed separately, almost as if they were inside each other’s minds.”
Cindy held up the book so her audience could see the grainy cover photo of her subjects walking hand in hand, the only known picture of Fish and Morales together. And then she told her small audience that as a crime reporter for the Chronicle, she had begun covering Randy Fish after he’d been convicted of killing five women in and around San Francisco.
“Fish had a preferred victim type,” Cindy said. “His victims were slim, dark-haired college girls, and MacKenzie Morales was exactly the kind of woman Fish liked to torture and kill.
“But for some reason, Fish didn’t kill Morales.
“In fact, he loved her and spoke her name with his last breath. And she loved him, too.”
Cindy went on to say that after Fish’s death, she began to investigate MacKenzie Morales, who was the prime suspect in three murders, but that she had escaped police custody. While on the run, Morales was suspected in the murders of several women of the type Randy Fish had once targeted for torture and death.
Cindy said, “I had met Morales once, and I had inside information as to her possible whereabouts. I thought if I could create a safe place for her to talk, I could appeal to her ego. I hoped she would tell me why Randy Fish had become her mentor, her lover, and the father of her son.
“Sounds risky, right? Or maybe it sounds totally nuts for a reporter to chase a psychopathic killer in order to write a newspaper story.
“But I was hooked, and I thought the Fish-Morales story could be the crime saga of a lifetime. While researching the book, I came to understand that you don’t always get the answers you’re looking for. But the answers you get often tell it all.
“The whole story is in this book.”
She’d done it—whipped up her audience, who clapped enthusiastically, asked questions, and then lined up at the table so Cindy could sign their books.
I couldn’t stop beaming. I was so damned proud of her.
I stood off to the side of the table, but I heard Conklin saying to Cindy, “Sign this one to me. Don’t spare the Xs and Os. And sign this one to my mom.”
Cindy laughed and said, “You betcha. Whatever you like, handsome.”
Cindy and Conklin had been having a hot off-and-on relationship for years, and right now, they were on. I hoped that this time they were on for good. Cindy signed books for her man and maybe her future mother-in-law. When Conklin stepped aside, I asked the lady in line behind him if she could do a favor and take a photo.
“You bet,” she said.
I handed her my phone and grabbed my partner and my good friend. We put Cindy in the middle, linked arms around her, and said “Cheese,” and then we said it again.
Cindy said, “Let me see.” We all gathered around that little piece of tech that had caught all three of us, looking good—how often does that happen? A banner had been strung behind the podium. It was centered right over our heads: AUTHOR CINDY THOMAS, TODAY.
“Wow, this is totally great,” Cindy said, doing a little dance in place. “A perfect photo of a perfect day.”
CHAPTER 19
THE MAN WHO called himself One was in the backseat of the four-door sedan, directly behind the driver. The two other guys in his crew were numbered Two and Three to prevent the accidental blurting out of an actual name.
One knew that human stupidity was the only thing that could screw up this job. Everything else was easy. There were no security guards. No camera. There was plenty of cash in the drawer and there was only one person in the store.
Unlike bank jobs, where security was tight and the average take was about four Gs, check-cashing stores ordinarily had fifty to a hundred thousand in the drawer. And while mercados had less, this one had an impressive stash on the premises from its Western Union franchise.
One and his crew were quiet as they watched the light foot and car traffic on this commercial block of South Van Ness Avenue. When he was ready, One used a burner phone to call the cops.
He said urgently, “Nine-one-one? The liquor store at Sixteenth and Julian Avenue is being robbed. I just heard shots. Lots of them. Send the cops. Right away.”
He clicked off as the operator asked his name, but he knew she would put out the radio call. This diversion would draw any random cruisers patrolling the neighborhood and send them to a location a half mile away.
Across the street, the girl in the brightly lit Spanish market was behind the counter, taking cash from a customer, an old man. One thought the girl looked to be in her midtwenties. She was wearing a long tan cardigan over a shapeless brown dress. When she’d put the groceries into the customer’s striped fabric bag, she came from behind the counter and walked him to the front door, saying a few words to him in Spanish as they stood on the sidewalk.
Then she went back inside the shop, closed the glass door, and flipped the sign inside the door to CLOSED. One watched her walk to the back of the long, narrow store.
When she was out of sight, Two said, “She’s alone, One. Did you want me to stay in the car? Save some time?”
