And she felt a little scared. Who could blame her, with what was going on? But for the first time in her career, she also felt that she was really doing some good. And that’s what thrilled her. She sucked in a deep breath and faced the screen of her computer.
That wasn’t us in Portland, the message had said.
But why disclaim the killing? Why the five-word denial, nothing more?
To separate themselves. To distinguish their crusade from a copycat killer. That seemed obvious.
But the knot growing in her stomach told her that maybe there was something more.
Maybe she was pressing too hard. But what if—completely outside the box—what if what was coming through wasn’t a denial, but something else. A conscience.
No, that’s crazy, she thought. These people had blown up Morton Lightower’s town house with his wife and a child inside. They had shoved horrible poison down Bengosian’s throat. But they had spared little Caitlin.
There was something else…. She suspected that the person corresponding might be a woman. She had referred to “her sisters in bondage.” And she’d chosen to write to her. There were plenty of other reporters in the city. Why her?
Cindy was thinking that if there was any humanity in this person, maybe she could reach it. Maybe she could tap into it. Reveal something. A name, a place. Maybe it was the au pair writing, and maybe she did have a heart.
Cindy cracked her knuckles and leaned over the keyboard. Here goes…
She typed:
Tell me, why are you doing these things? I think you are a woman. Are you? There are better ways to achieve your goals than killing people who the world views as innocent. You can use me. I can get the message out. Please… I told you I was listening. I am…. Use me. Please… Don’t kill anymore.
She read it over. It was a long shot. Longer than a long shot.
And she felt, pausing over the message, that if she sent it, she really would enter the story, that her whole life would change.
“Sayonara,” she whispered to her old life—the one of passively watching and writing. She pressed SEND.
Chapter 60
IT WAS HARD working the rest of the day. I met with Tracchio for an hour and had Jacobi and Cappy retrace the bars around Berkeley with Hardaway’s photo. Every once in a while I felt my mind drifting and my heart beating a little faster when I thought about tonight. But as Joe Molinari had said, we gotta eat.
Later, in the shower at home, inhaling a fresh lavender smell as I rinsed myself clean from the day, a guilty smile spread over my face: Here I am, a glass of Sancerre on the ledge, my skin tingling like a girl on her first date.
I hurried around, straightening up a bit; arranged the bookshelf; checked the bird roasting in the oven; fed Martha; set the table overlooking the bay. Then I realized I still hadn’t heard from Jill. This was crazy. Still in my towel and wet hair, I placed another call to her. “This is getting ridiculous. C’mon, get back to me. I need to know how you are….”
I was about to call Claire to see if she had heard from Jill when the buzzer rang. The front door buzzer!
Shit, it’s only 7:45.
Molinari was early.
I threw another towel around my hair and frantically hopped around—dimming lights, taking out another wineglass. I finally went to the front door. “Who’s there?”
“Advance team for Homeland Security,” Molinari called.
“Yeah, well, you’re early, Homeland Security. Anyone ever tell you about buzzing up from the outside door?”
“We generally bypass those things.”
“Look, I’m gonna let you in, but you can’t look.” I couldn’t believe I was standing there in my towel. “I’m opening the door.”
“My eyes are closed.”
“They’d better be.” Martha came up beside me. “I’ve got a dog who’s very protective of me….”
I unlocked the door, opened it slowly.