And he was carrying a rifle.
A rifle that was pointed directly at Cindy’s chest.
He barked, “What do you want?”
She put up her hands with her palms facing out and said, “Hold on, okay? I’m with the Chronicle. Joan knows me. I’m just gathering some background material on a story about the murder. Look. I have identification.”
The guy looked crazy. She had opened her bag and started searching for her press pass when she heard the crack of a gunshot. Pieces of marble flew from the last stone steps in the pathway, and then with another crack, a sphere exploded at the top of a post.
Fear spiked through Cindy. She knew that words weren’t going to help with this guy. He wasn’t hearing her. He didn’t care that she was unarmed and no threat to him. Keeping an eye on the bare-chested gunman, Cindy backed away, careful not to lose her footing on the steps below her.
But then he raised his gun and fired twice more.
Holy shit. This could not be happening. He was going to kill her, or at least give it his ver
y best try.
Cindy knew from her experiences shooting a gun that it’s a lot harder to hit a moving target than it seems on TV or in the movies. But that didn’t mean that she wouldn’t get shot.
As she ducked into a crouch and kept backing down the steps, her ankle turned—hard. She reached for something, anything, but she lost her balance. She made a last wild grab for another stone post, but it was too late.
Gravity was winning. She fell backward and wasn’t able to break her fall with her hands. Her head slammed against a step and her body kept rolling down, hitting stone tread after tread.
And as she completely lost consciousness before she stopped rolling on the ground, the shadow of the crazy man loomed over her.
Chapter 24
When Claire answered the phone early that morning at the morgue, she immediately recognized the voice on the other end of the line. She asked, “Where are you, Joan?”
“About three minutes from your office, depending on the rush hour traffic. I stayed at the Intercontinental for a night. I just needed to be alone with my thoughts. Claire, I have an idea. Actually, can we talk about this in person? I’d like to invite you to breakfast at my house.”
Claire genuinely liked Joan and loved to hear her laugh. She was curious about how her recovery was progressing. Not only that, but Joan was offering Claire an oceanside meal prepared by a gourmet chef plus a round-trip ride in the Bentley—and well, who could turn that down?
A few minutes later, Joan picked Claire up. As she drove them along Fell Street, she told Claire that she loved Robert.
Claire couldn’t help thinking that there was going to be a but somewhere in Joan’s story.
“I was smitten at first sight,” said Joan. “He was bartending at the Redwood Room on Geary when I came in with a girlfriend from the library board. We were organizing a literary lecture series for kids. When Robert asked me to pick my poison, I told him to surprise me.
“He made me a drink, Claire, and called it a Robertini.” Joan laughed and took a turn onto Stanyan Street. “I still don’t know what was in it. It was layered in many colors and smelled like a garden in the rain. That’s what it tasted like, too, but it had a secret punch at the end.”
Claire was enjoying the romantic meet-cute story, but she was still waiting for the but.
“We started dating. He was very demonstrative and funny. He could do impressions, you know. His George W. Bush was hilarious, and his impression of me—my God.” Joan laughed long and hard. “Maybe he’ll do it for you. You won’t believe how spot-on it is.
“But most important, I could tell Robbie anything and everything. I felt completely comfortable around him. I told him about my first marriage to Jared, and how the man I loved had turned out to be gay. That’s when Robert said, ‘I got news for you, Joanie. I play for that team, too.’”
Claire exhaled. So that was the but. She said, “And the two of you decided to get married anyway?”
“It worked for Judy Garland.” Joan laughed. “Look, I love Robbie. He is handsome, don’t you think?”
“Very.”
“He’s very talented, too. He can sing and dance. And he can act like that guy on NCIS. Mark Harmon.”
“Impressive,” said Claire.
Joan nodded and pulled the large silver Bentley up to the gates to her home. She held the remote out the window with her good arm, pressed the button on it, and the gates swung in. She drove up to the beautiful house and parked next to a Mercedes sedan.