Finally she said, “I don’t know if this is worth a dime, but last month, there was an offer to buy Chuck’s. Space Dogs. You know of them?”
Sure I did. Space Dogs was a hot dog chain based in the Northeast somewhere, Philadelphia maybe, or Scranton.
“Space Dogs wants to get into hamburgers?”
“More like they wanted to take over our real estate—our stores and our plants—and also to cherry-pick our personnel. They’d be expanding the Space Dogs franchise into the West Coast in one very big move,” said Timko.
“And did Chuck’s management want to sell?”
“Stan Weaver, our chairman, was all for it. He had golden parachutes ready for key executives ready to go in exchange for supporting the sale.”
“How did Michael Jansing feel about selling out?” Conklin asked.
“He’s as loyal to Chuck’s brand and culture as I am, but there was a lot of money involved. In the end, Jansing voted in favor of the buyout. But listen. Whether the company is sold or not, I want to help you catch the maniac who is killing our customers. That’s just so wrong.”
I said, “There isn’t much time. If the bomber isn’t arrested in the next day or so, the governor is going to have to close Chuck’s down, maybe permanently.”
Timko’s eyes watered, and then, after a moment, she said, “I don’t know anyone who would want to sabotage this company. Most of us just feel damned grateful to work here.”
Conklin and I left Timko to her job and went out to the car, talking about this corporate buyout wrinkle as we walked.
If Chuck’s was associated with food-related fatalities, the value of the company would tank, making it a cheaper buy for Space Dogs. On the other hand, there had to be plenty of Chuck’s employees who wouldn’t profit from a buyout.
Conklin said, “People get fired when companies are bought out, right? Someone at Chuck’s might want the deal to fall through.”
I said, “Too many twisting roads. Too little time. I don’t know about you, Richie, but I hear the ticking of the next belly bomb about to explode.”
CHAPTER 53
CINDY WAS HUNCHED over her laptop at the Chron, crunching toward her four o’clock deadline, which was ten minutes from now, a piece about a hit-and-run that had turned into a nightmare on Fillmore Street.
Cindy checked the spelling of the victims’ names, did a last polish, then forwarded the piece to her editor.
Before jumpi
ng back into her Morales obsession, Cindy checked her e-mail and was cleaning out her spam filter when a subject heading made her heart lurch to a stop.
I MADE YOU CINDY.
Cindy stared at the heading. The meaning was ambiguous, but the words radiated malevolence. She didn’t recognize the sender’s screen name, but her own e-mail address was posted at the end of her column every day and anyone in the whole wide world could write to her here. She had been about to delete it without opening, but those four words stopped her.
I MADE YOU CINDY.
You made me what?
Cindy sucked in a breath and tapped on the envelope icon. The capitalized text was aimed at her like a shotgun muzzle.
I SAW YOU WATCHING FOR ME, CINDY.
MAYBE YOU’RE STILL PISSED OFF BECAUSE RICH FELL FOR ME. HE IS SO HOT, ISN’T HE? I COULD TEACH YOU HOW TO CATCH AND LAND A MAN. BUT, AND DON’T TAKE THIS THE WRONG WAY, IT WOULD BE A WASTE OF TIME. YOU DON’T HAVE WHAT IT TAKES. SO HERE’S MY ADVICE. GO FUCK YOURSELF. AND STAY OUT OF MY WAY. MM
Cindy felt numb, absolutely frozen stiff, but her mind was flashing like a Fourth of July sparkler.
MM was Mackie Morales.
Mackie had made her. In cop jargon, it meant that she’d been seen and identified. Cindy flashed on the other night. While she was parked outside Mackie’s mother’s house, a dark sedan had driven toward her. It had slowed, hesitated, then sped up and kept going.
That had been Mackie.