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

“If you tell me something that the police can use to arrest Bagman’s killer, and if the killer goes to court and is found guilty, then you get the reward.”

Flora pulled at her tangled hair, thinking.

Cindy asked, “Do you know who killed him, Flora?”

The young woman shook her head no. “But I do know something. Maybe it’s worth a hundred dollars.”

“Tell me,” Cindy said. “I’ll be fair, I promise.”

“Bagman Jesus loved me. And I know his name.”

Flora handed Cindy a metal tag with a name stamped in raised letters. Cindy stared. Thinking about Flora Gold’s pseudonym and yesterday’s street-person hustle, she asked, “Is this true?”

“As the sky is blue.”

Cindy pulled her checkbook out of her handbag.

“I don’t have a bank account.”

“Oh. Okay. No problem.”

Cindy walked with Flora to the ATM on the corner, withdrew a hundred dollars, and gave fifty to Flora.

“You get the other fifty if this lead pans out.”

Cindy watched Flora count the bills, then roll them up and tuck them in the top of her boot.

Cindy said, “Give me a couple of days and then find me, okay? Like you

did today.”

Gold nodded, gave Cindy a tight smile, mouth open just enough for Cindy to see that her front teeth were gone. Then the reporter headed back to the Chronicle Building.

Editorial meeting forgotten, Cindy went directly to her office and wheeled her chair up close to her desk. She called up Google and typed, “Rodney Booker.”

Less than a second later, information rolled up on the screen. Cindy sat back in her chair, watching her story crack wide open. It was a miracle. A miracle she’d earned.

Bagman Jesus had been decoded.

He had a name. He had a past.

And he had a family living in Santa Rosa.

Chapter 45

CINDY SAT IN the comfortable sunroom of a million-dollar Craftsman-style house in Santa Rosa, feeling anything but comfortable. Had she been rash? Yes.

Intrusive? Absolutely.

Thoughtless? She ought to get an award for blinding insensitivity.

What had she been thinking? Of course, that was the problem. She’d been thinking about her story, not about real people, so she’d launched herself into the Bookers’ lives like a live hand grenade.

And the moment Lee-Ann Booker opened her front door, her sweet, momsy face shining with anticipation, Cindy realized it was too late to unpull the pin.

They were all in the sunroom now.

Lee-Ann Booker, a fair Clairol blonde in her midsixties, clutched a charm necklace of crosses and semiprecious stones and Mexican good-luck charms. She sat beside Cindy on the rattan sofa, sobbing into tissues, hiccuping and sobbing again.