The 8th Confession (Women's Murder Club 8)
I nodded. She was talking about Chris, my former partner and boyfriend who’d been gunned down on the job.
Yuki reached out, took my hand.
“Lindsay, it’s okay to have chemistry with Rich. You can’t help that. It’s fun, maybe, and cool to have someone with you all the time who has a big crush on you. You’ve already decided he’s not for you, but he’s your back door, your escape hatch, because you’re afraid to get married. Do I have that right?”
Tears were coming now. Yuki tightened her grip on my hand.
“Let him go,” she said. “Let yourself go.”
Yuki held out her arms and folded me in. She’s a tiny thing and I’m an Amazon, but somehow that awkward hug was just what I needed. I was crying in earnest and Yuki was stroking my hair.
“You know what I want with Doc?” she said. “Exactly what you have with Joe.”
Chapter 79
CINDY WAS AT her desk in the bull pen the next morning, scrolling through her notes in order to double-check her memory. Then she found it, the note she’d made of her impromptu interview with the girl who called herself Sammy, the strung out teen who’d mentioned that “people” had killed Rodney Booker, not one person but at least two.
Cindy had felt haunted by that word — “ people” — sorry that Sammy had bolted before she’d followed up on what might have been a significant lead to finding out who killed Rodney Booker.
Cindy called Lindsay again, this time leaving her a message thanking her for the sweetheart roses. Then she grabbed her handbag and left the Chronicle Building, taking the short walk to From the Heart.
A homeless guy about her age, name of Angel, flashed his gold-capped smile and opened the door to the soup kitchen while giving Cindy a sweeping bow.
“Hey there, Ms. Cindy Thomas. We named you the sweetheart of From the Heart. By popular vote.”
Cindy grinned, asked Angel if he knew a girl named Sammy, and Angel said, “Sure, I know Sammy. She’s inside now.”
Cindy searched the large room, finally seeing Sammy working behind the steam table, serving up lunch to the long line of street people. Sammy was wearing nice slacks, expensive layered tops in bright colors, her pale yellow hair neatly braided down her back.
And although Sammy’s pupils were large enough to see from across the room, the teenager was clearly a volunteer, not a client.
Cindy crossed to the steam table, said, “Hi, Sammy. Do you have any time for me?”
Sammy looked not just nervous but jumpy. “No,” she said. “I just can’t.”
“Please.”
“I can’t talk to you in here,” Sammy sputtered. “I’ll meet you at Moe’s in a half hour if you’ll leave now.”
Cindy waited for Sammy at Moe’s, and after an hour went by, she ordered a grilled cheese on rye. As soon as it came, Sammy dropped into the seat across from her.
“You’re too much, Cindy,” the girl said, shaking her head. “I warned you to watch out, but you just can’t leave things alone.”
“I can keep a secret,” Cindy said, “but I can’t just drop this story.”
“No? Well, my father has me under house arrest. He doesn’t want me talking to anyone, especially you.” The girl crunched Life Savers, ordered a Coke. “Classic,” she said to the waitress.
“Why not me?”
“Because you are looking to get yourself killed.”
Cindy stirred her coffee, said, “See, this has me confused, Sammy. Why am I in danger? What’s so special about Rodney Booker that makes writing about him life-threatening?”
“Because his killers aren’t street people, Cindy. His killers don’t want to be exposed, arrested, charged with murder.”
Cindy said, “I need your help.”
Sammy sat back in her seat, her eyes wide with fear. She said, “I need your help, too. I want to get away from here. Move out of town. But I have no money. I’ll make you a deal. Can you get me some kind of advance on that reward? Like ten grand?”