“Oh, my God.”
“But.”
“But what?” I asked him.
“I turned it down.”
“Really?”
“I didn’t even have to think about it. I couldn’t leave my sweeties, my party girls.”
Chapter 109
CINDY THOMAS HAD been obsessed by the Faye Farmer mystery since Farmer’s body disappeared from the morgue and she’d been assigned one of the best stories of her career.
Fact: Faye Farmer had been murdered.
Fact: Farmer’s fiancé, 49ers star Jeff Kennedy, was the only suspect and at the same time a dead end. There was no evidence against him.
Fact: Forensic evidence that might have nailed Farmer’s killer had disappeared with her body, probably forever.
Other facts: The police were nowhere on the case, but the public and the press still wanted to know the identity of the killer.
Cindy had used every waking moment to chase rumors, interview Faye Farmer’s friends and enemies, and in so doing had become the Chronicle’s featured headliner in print and on the Web.
This opportunity was priceless, but in the dark and lonely night, Cindy was not at peace. She replayed her conversations with Richie over and over again, and when she stopped rationalizing, she knew that Richie was right and that she had blown it.
She had neglected him, had put her work first, and even now was using work to cover up the pain of losing the very excellent man she loved.
Cindy had expected him to call her, and when it was clear that he wasn’t going to do it, she’d called him.
And now here she was.
Richie was staying at the Marina Motel, a cluster of old, two-story, Mediterranean-style structures with red tile roofs and iron railings around the balconies. At 8:15 p.m., Cindy pulled into the motel’s parking lot, nosed her car into a spot between a pickup truck and a station wagon, and turned off the ignition.
She looked up at the second floor, picked out the room, saw Richie’s silhouette against the curtains. She got out of her car and walked up the outdoor steps, her heart hammering as she walked along the pathway to room 208 and knocked on the door.
Richie call
ed out, “Hey,” came to the door, and opened it. He had a towel around his waist and his hair was wet. He was backlit by the yellow light coming from the bathroom.
He looked good.
He said, “Come in, come in.”
He pointed the remote control at the TV, switched off the sound.
“Hi, Rich,” she said.
She thought he might kiss her hello, but he said, “Have a seat. Give me a second, okay?”
Cindy looked around at the plain, clean furnishings and at Richie’s familiar clothes draped over the desk chair. He pulled his clothes off the chair, disappeared into the bathroom, and closed the door. That reminded Cindy of the many days, weeks, and months they’d lived together, dressed and undressed in front of each other, feeling neither modest nor inhibited.
Now all that had changed.
Cindy swept the remote off the table and boosted the volume, watched the rehash of the crash outside the ballpark, then muted the volume again when Richie came back into the room. He was dressed, barefoot.
He sat down on the end of the bed. She thought she saw tenderness in his face. She knew that he must miss her as much as she missed him. They’d had the real thing. And she knew that it wasn’t over.