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“What, Cindy? What?”
“Listen to me, Lindsay,” she said. “The days of you telling me what I can and cannot do are officially over.”
“Don’t give me that.”
“I am giving it to you, and if you can’t take it, we can’t be friends.”
I was so stunned by her indignation and her anger, I really had no comeback.
She said, “First, I tried to talk to you, twice. On the street, remember? And then I called and left a message. You didn’t get back. More to the point, I’m not a cub reporter anymore. And I’m not your little sister. You know how many crimes I’ve solved with you and with Rich? Many. Remember? I shot a killer who had a gun pointed at you. I killed someone. I got shot.”
“I remember,” I said. My tone had dropped a little. I wasn’t sure she heard me.
“I play by the rules,” said Cindy. “I didn’t know about the sux until Claire said so, but I didn’t use her name, and by the way, I had this story by the balls before dinner last night. Claire put it out herself to every ME and pathologist in the state.
“If I hadn’t broken it, someone else would have. I did my job. That’s all I have to say, Lindsay. I’m done justifying my integrity and my work to you.”
I couldn’t speak. I was still mad, but shame was starting to heat the back of my neck and direct my eyes to the floor. And then the phone went dead.
I cleaned up my little girl and got ready for work. I tried to ignore my panged conscience, but I couldn’t let myself get away with it. I picked up my phone and called Cindy.
She didn’t answer.
I left a message.
“Cin, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m wrong. I’ll call you later, but I need to apologize now. Don’t stay mad. We can work this out. Call me.”
CHAPTER 69
NEDDIE FOUND THE newspaper in the basement trash room lying next to the mountain of garbage bags. The headline came at him fast and hard, like a sucker punch.
Stealth Killer Stalks Our City
Was that him?
He snatched up the paper and read the story fast. The victim was Sarah Nugent, the woman he’d stuck outside the hotel. There was a photo of her and her husband and quotes from the doorman, and—No-no-no-no-no—law enforcement had found the vial of sux. He must have fumbled it when he tried to put it back into his pocket.
The paper shook and rattled in Neddie’s hands as he skimmed the second page of the article. Had there been a witness? Had he been seen? He found nothing but the two words describing what he’d done: Stealth Killer.
He liked the name. It sounded epic. It sounded like a movie title. William H. Macy would play him, Edward Lamborghini. Oh, man. But as thrilling as the thought was, he was also afraid. Over all this time and so many kills, he’d wished for recognition. Now he might get it.
Was he ready to pay?
“Cool it, Neddie,” he said to himself. “Cool your jets.”
He put the newspaper back precisely where he’d found it. He thought of the two cops questioning him at the Embarcadero. That was the first warning, and now with this newspaper story, that was warning number two.
Should he stay or should he go?
If he played it safe, if he didn’t overreact, he could have a beautiful night flight.
He unlocked and opened the metal door to the alley, leaned against it, and considered his options.
Over the past thirty years he had mapped a threedimensional schematic of San Francisco in his mind. He had walked the five square miles centering on the Loony Bin above- and belowground. He knew every rusted lock and basement door, every alley and poorly lit path—and then he knew where he would go.
He saw the place in his mind, Washington Square, with its uplifting views of Saints Peter and Paul Church, the roaming homeless and other ragtag people on the grounds. No one ever looked at him in the park. He was invisible there. He was free.
The night was a pleasant sixty-two degrees.
