The 8th Confession (Women's Murder Club 8)

“Then there won’t be any prints on the crucifix either,” I said. “But why would a pro kill a street dweller so viciously?”

“It’s only day one, Linds. Give yourself some time.”

I told him, “Sure,” but Jacobi had already pulled the plug on this case. I put my head in my hands as Joe called the waiter over and ordered wine. Then he turned a big, unreadable smile on me.

I sat back and analyzed that smile, getting only that Joe looked like a kid with a secret.

I asked him what was going on, waited for him to sample the wine. Then, when he’d made me wait plenty long enough, he leaned across the table and took my hands in his.

“Well, Blondie, guess who got a call from the Pentagon today?”

Chapter 9

“OH MY GOD,” I blurted. “Don’t tell me.”

I couldn’t help myself. My first thought was that Joe was being recruited back to Washington — and I just couldn’t stand even the idea of that.

“Lindsay, take it easy. The call was about an assignment. Could be the beginning of other assignments, all lucrative, a great boost for my consulting business.”

When I met Joe while working a case, his business card read, DEPUTY DIRECTOR, HOMELAND SECURITY. He was the best antiterrorism guy in Washington. And that was the job he’d given up when he’d moved out to the left coast to be with me.

His credentials and his reputation were first-rate, but the opportunities hadn’t come to him in San Francisco as quickly as we’d expected.

I blamed that on the current administration being PO’ed that super-well- liked Joseph Molinari had walked off the job in an election year. Apparently they were getting over their pique.

That was good.

I relaxed. I smiled. I said, “Whew. Scared me, Joe.” And I started to get excited for him.

“So tell me about the assignment,” I said.

“Sure, but let’s order first.”

I don’t remember what I picked from the menu because when the food came, Joe told me that he was leaving for a conference in the Middle East — in the morning.

And that he might be in Jordan for three weeks or more.

Joe put down his fork, said, “What’s wrong, Lindsay? What’s troubling you?”

He asked nicely. He really wanted to know, but my blood pressure had rocketed and I couldn’t tell him nicely why.

“It’s your birthday tomorrow, Joe. We were going to Cat’s house for the weekend, remember?”

Catherine is my sister, six years younger than me, lives in the pretty coastal town of Half Moon Bay with her two girls. It was supposed to be a family weekend, quality time, kind of a big deal for me, bringing Joe home to pretty much the only family I have.

“We can stay with Cat some other time, hon. I have to go to this conference. Besides, Lindsay, all I want for my birthday is tonight and you.”

“I can’t talk to you right now,” I said, tossing my napkin down on the table, standing up in front of the movie playing against the wall, hearing people shout at me to sit down.

I walked through the restaurant and out the thirty-foot-long corridor lined on each side with a waist-high niche of votive candles, pulled my cell phone out of my pocket, and called for a taxi before I got to the street.

I waited out there on Mission, smack in the middle of Dodge City, feeling outraged, then stupid, then really, really mad at myself.

I’d behaved like the dumb-blonde stereotype that I’d always despised.

Chapter 10

I SAID TO MYSELF, You frickin’ bimbo. I leaned down, gave the cabbie a five, and waved him off.