Unlucky 13 (Women's Murder Club 13)

Cindy’s pitch had to be both comprehensive and concise, and she had probably two minutes to sell Tyler on her idea.

She took a seat across from his desk and said, “I’m fine, Henry, thanks. Listen, I’ve kept an open file on Mackie Morales. You remember her—”

“Sure. She was attached to the SFPD—and to Randy Fish. His love interest, right? She shot three people dead.”

Cindy nodded and said, “Morales is a pretty spectacular killer, Henry. She’s beautiful and cold. Killed three people that we know about—and she’s only twenty-six. Her relationship with Fish was symbiotic. I think he was her mentor and she inspired him. But there was love and sex involved, highly unusual for a sexual sadist like Fish to love someone who fit his victimology. And they have a child.”

“Huh,” said Tyler. “Interesting. So you want to do some kind of Sunday-magazine piece on this killer couple?”

“I want to get an interview with Morales.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Well, I saved the kicker. I’ve got a hot lead, an authenticated sighting of Morales that I’d like to follow up. I connected that lead to a location—and I think I’m the first and only person to have done so.

“If I’m right, and I find Morales, I’ll turn the cops onto her, provided I’m in at the takedown. I’ll negotiate with them for access beforehand. And then, as long as that falls into place…”

“A lot of big ifs.”

Cindy laughed.

“You know I love to turn big ifs and cold maybes into ‘git ’er done.’”

Henry treated her to a generous smile.

“Keep going,” he said. “I’m enjoying this.”

“Morales has never been interviewed,” Cindy went on. “Even the SFPD didn’t get to interrogate her before she escaped. I know a ton about Morales. I know people she knows. I think I can flatter her into a tell-all about her love affair of the century with Randolph Fish.”

“You’re saying you’re that good.”

Cindy grinned. “Exactly.”

Tyler said, “Do I need to remind you that on a danger scale of one to ten, ten being psychopathic killer—”

“She’s a fifteen. I know, Henry. I’m just scared enough to be smart about this.”

Tyler nodded thoughtfully.

“Don’t get me wrong. You had me at ‘Morales.’ I’m just saying I don’t want to be delivering your eulogy, you understand, Cindy?”

Cindy smiled. “This will make you feel better. I have a carry permit. I have a gun.”

Clearly impressed, Tyler said, “You’re a surprise a minute, Cindy. And you’ve been practicing?”

“You bet. Target practice every weekend for two years. I was living with a cop, you know.”

Tyler pushed his chair away from the desk, swiveled it, and looked out the window.

“How long do you need?”

“I’ll keep you posted on that.”

At nine, Cindy went to Human Resources, signed a release, and arranged for a cash advance. Her overnight bag was in her office and her small but efficient gun was in its case in an inside pocket.

Three hours later, Cindy flew out of SFO—destination, the city of Cleveland, Wisconsin.

CHAPTER 11