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

“Cindy scrolled to the top of her computer screen. “Noise Machine. Miss Patty. Salzamander. Razor, Twink T, Little Bit —”

“Let me stop you there, honey. You see, your problem is also your answer. Street people use their aliases. You know. ‘Also known as.’ Some of them got records. Or don’t want their families to find them. They want to be lost. That could be why Bagman Jesus doesn’t have a real name.”

Cindy sighed, thinking how she’d been hustled all morning by the nameless, homeless, and hopeless, feeling remorse for snapping at Lindsay, who was right to till more fertile ground.

Mentally kissing her deadline good-bye, Cindy thanked Luvie, packed up her computer, and walked toward Mission, thinking that Bagman Jesus had disconnected from his past by his own design. His death was the end of his story.

Or was it?

An idea bloomed.

Cindy phoned her editor, said, “Therese, can you give me some time in about five minutes? I want to run something by you. Something with legs.”

Chapter 39

AFTERNOON SUN FILTERED through the skylight and haloed Sara Needleman’s head as she gave Pet Girl holy hell.

“What were you thinking when you left the Baileys’ place cards on the table?”

“I wasn’t in charge of the place cards, Sara.”

“You were. I specifically asked you to check the place cards against the guest list. Are Isa and Ethan on the guest list?”

“No, of course not.”

“I could kill you, I really could. Those two empty seats at table four. Everyone is thinking about the Baileys as it is.”

“I’m sorry, Sara,” Pet Girl said, but she was decidedly not sorry. In fact, elation was rising in her like champagne bubbles. She had to stifle a laugh.

Place cards! Like place cards were important!

Pet Girl and two other gal Fridays sat behind the reception table in the magnificent Loggia of the Asian Art Museum, welcoming the guests to an engagement dinner for Sara Needleman’s niece, Frieda.

The guests were the cream of San Francisco society: senators and doctors of medicine and science, publishers and movie stars. They came up the grand staircase in their tuxedos and custom-made gowns, found their seat assignments at the reception table, and were directed to Samsung Hall.

From there, they could enter the galleries to view the priceless works of art from Japan and China and Korea before sitting down to a table dressed with raw silk and calla lilies. Then they’d be served a seven-course dinner prepared by the eminent chef Yoji Futomato.

But that would be later. Right now Sara Needleman wound up her tirade with a final flourish. “You can leave now,” she snapped. “Only a few people have yet to arrive.”

“Thanks, Sara.” Pet Girl smiled. “Still want me to walk the dogs in the morning?”

“Yes, yes, please do. I’ll be sleeping in.”

“Don’t worry,” Pet Girl said. “I won’t wake you.”

Pet Girl said good-bye to the other gals. She took her annotated copy of the guest list and stashed it in her handbag, already mulling over the two hundred people she’d greeted this evening — who had acknowledged her, who had not, how many points each had scored.

And she thought ahead to her evening alone.

She’d make a little pasta. Drink a little wine. Spend a couple of pleasant hours going over the guest list.

Sort out her notes.

Make some plans.

Chapter 40

CLAIRE HAD PLANTED her hands on her hips and said, “We need police work” — and we’d done it. Conklin and I had strip-searched the Baileys’ house for the fourth time that week, looking for God only knew what.