“Shit,” Jacobi sighed theatrically, “there goes the afternoon.”
Chapter 11
“LIEUTENANT,” someone called from across the room, “Chief Tracchio on the phone.”
“Told ya,” Cappy said, grinning.
I picked up, waiting to be reamed out for leaving the crime scene early. Tracchio was a glorified bean counter. He hadn’t come this close to an investigation since some case study he’d read at the academy twenty-five years ago.
“Lindsay, it’s Cindy.” I’d been expecting to hear the Chief; her voice surprised me. “Don’t get cranky. It was the only way I could get through.”
“Not exactly a good time,” I said. “I thought you were that asshole Tracchio, about to nail me to the wall.”
“Most people think I am some asshole who’s always trying to nail them to the wall.”
“This one signs my checks,” I said, taking a semi-relaxed breath for the first time all day.
Cindy Thomas was part of my inner circle, along with Claire and Jill. She also happened to work for the Chronicle and was one of the top crime reporters in the city.
“Jesus, Linds, I just heard. I’m in an all-day yoga clinic. In the middle of a ‘downward dog’ when my phone rings. What, I sneak out for a couple of hours and you decide now’s the time to be a hero? You all right?”
“Other than my lungs feeling like they’ve been lit with lighter fluid… No, I’m okay,” I said. “There’s not much I can tell you on this now.”
“I’m not calling about the crime scene, Lindsay. I was calling about you.”
“I’m okay,” I said again. I didn’t know if I was telling the truth. I noticed that my hands were still trembling. And my mouth tasted the bitter smoke of the blast.
“You want me to meet you?”
“You wouldn’t get within two blocks. Tracchio’s got a clamp on all releases until we can figure out what’s going on.”
“Is that a challenge?” Cindy snickered.
That made me laugh. When I first met her, Cindy had sneaked her way into a Grand Hyatt penthouse suite, the most guarded murder scene in memory. Her whole career sprang from that scoop.
“No, it’s not a challenge, Cindy. But I’m okay. I swear.”
“Okay, so if all this tender concern is being wasted, what about the crime scene? We are talking a crime scene, aren’t we, Lindsay?”
“If you mean, did the backyard grill flare up at nine on a Sunday morning? Yeah, I guess you could quote me on that. I thought you were out of touch on this, Cindy.” It always amazed me how quickly she got herself up to speed.
“I’m on it now,” she said. “And while I’m at it, word is that you saved a kid today. You should go home. You’ve done enough for one day.”
“Can’t. We got a few leads. Wish I could talk about them, but I can’t.”
“I heard there was a baby stolen out of the house. Some sort of twisted kidnapping?”
“If it is,” I said with a shrug, “they have a new way of handling the potential ransom payers.”
Cappy Thomas stuck his head in. “Lieutenant, M.E. wants to see you. In the morgue. Now.”
Chapter 12
LEAVE IT TO CLAIRE, San Francisco’s chief medical officer, my best friend of a dozen years, to say the one thing in the midst of this madness that would make me cry. “Charlotte Lightower was pregnant.”
Claire was looking drawn and helpless in her orange surgical scrubs. “Two months. Poor woman probably didn’t even know herself.”
I don’t know why I found that so sad, but I did. Maybe it made the Lightowers seem like more of a family to me, humanized them.