Chapter 3
Cindy Thomas was walking down the long slope of Divisadero, with its crystal view over the rooftops all the way out to the dawn-lit bay. It was a fantastic sight that normally gave her a real rush to the heart, but Cindy wasn’t sightseeing. Wasn’t walking for the exercise either.
She was struggling with a conflict, a big one, and she hoped that by airing out her brain, she would get some clarity.
Her fiance, Rich Conklin, had woken her at something like five thirty this morning when he’d gotten up to go to work. He’d been sitting on the side of the bed tying his shoelaces in the dark and he’d said, “We’ll get used to this kind of thing when we have kids.”
This was Rich’s third comment about having kids in the past couple of weeks.
She’d said to him, “Hey, mister. What’s the rush?”
“It’s better to do it while we can still keep up with little ones, ya know?”
He’d pulled the covers over her shoulders, kissed her, said, “Go back to sleep,” and she’d tried, but she’d failed, absolutely.
At six thirty she’d dressed and gone out for what she’d thought would be a short walk. She had now been walking for over an hour and was no closer to an answer than she’d been when she’d gone out the door.
An investigative reporter with the Chronicle, Cindy had been working the crime desk for six years. She’d earned a seat at editorial meetings and a lot of respect for her talent and her tenacity. She was well positioned for top management and a big, big future. But this job that she loved was always at risk. If she had children, she wouldn’t be able to work the kind of hours she needed to; she’d never be able to compete.
Richie was handsome, sweet, and she loved him. A few months ago, he’d surprised her with his mother’s diamond ring, dropped to one knee in front of the altar in Grace Cathedral, and proposed to her — like they say, in front of God and everyone.
Seriously, what more could a girl want?
As it turned out, she wanted a lot.
If she told Richie how she felt, maybe he would change his mind about her. Maybe she’d break his beautiful heart.
When Cindy got to the stop sign at the corner of Divisadero and Vallejo, she glanced at her watch and realized that if she didn’t get a cab, she’d be late to work.
She got out her cell phone, and, as if taking out the phone had caused it, a rush of unmarked police cars and cruisers blew past her and turned onto Vallejo.
She looked down Vallejo at the impressive row of mega-mansions on each side of the magnolia-lined street and saw that the cop cars had stopped a few blocks away, right in front of the infamous Ellsworth compound.
Something had happened at that house. And if there really was a reason for everything, then she’d walked four miles this morning so that she would be the first reporter on the scene.
Cindy broke into a run.
Chapter 4
The Ellsworth Compound was an immense and fanciful brick mansion built in the late 1800s, considered one of the most spectacular homes in Pacific Heights. A vine-covered wall fronted the house, and four attached buildings, built as servants’ quarters, wrapped around the corner of Vallejo and went halfway down Ellsworth Place.
The compound had a colorful history of political intrigue and sex scandals going back over a hundred and twenty years.
But as Cindy ran along Vallejo toward the scrum of squad cars bunched in front of the mansion, she was thinking about the recent history of the house.
Ten years earlier, the Oscar-winning actor and legendary womanizer Harry Chandler had bought the Ellsworth compound and moved in with his glamorous wife, fashion designer to the stars Cecily Broad Chandler.
A year later, Cece Chandler simply disappeared.
Cindy had been an editorial assistant at the paper at the time, but she followed this gripping story over the next eighteen months as Harry Chandler was investigated, then tried for his wife’s murder.
Chandler had pleaded not guilty, and because his wife’s body was never found, the prosecution couldn’t prove its case.
No body, no crime.
Harry Chandler was exonerated.
He had kept the Ellsworth compound as an investment while he lived on a yacht at a country club marina a few miles away.
Cindy had seen Chandler a couple of times at big social events and benefits. Looking at a man who had made so many famous films, you couldn’t know if he was a killer or if he just played one on the big screen.
Now, blowing hard from her run, Cindy walked the last hundred yards to the front entrance of the Ellsworth compound, saw that it had already been cordoned off by uniformed officers.
There was a crowd in front of the gate, tourists who had clearly come off a red bus marked STAR HOME TOURS.
Cindy went up to a cop she knew, Joe Sorbera, and asked him what was going on.
“You don’t want to get me in trouble, Cindy. Do you? Because you know I can’t tell you anything.”
A young man wearing a Boston University sweatshirt came up next to Cindy and said, “Chandler thought he’d get away with it again.”
Cindy introduced herself to the BU guy, said that she was a reporter, and asked the tourist to speak into her camera phone.
“The case of Cecily Chandler is a perfect example of how privileged people get over on the system,” the young man said. “Harry Chandler had a famous defense attorney for a lawyer, a slick talker who probably played tennis with the judge.”
Cindy shut off her phone, said, “Thanks,” then muttered to herself, “for less than nothing.”
A Channel Two news truck was turning onto Vallejo as two uniformed cops put out wooden barricades to block it.
Walking backward, Cindy tried again to get information from Sorbera.
“Can’t you give me something, Joe, anything? I can quote you or keep you off the record, whatever you want. Please. Any detail will do.”
“Stand back, Cindy. Thatta girl. Thank you.”
Officer Sorbera stretched out his arms and corralled the crowd behind a barricade, letting the unmarked car Richie was driving go through.
Chapter 5
I was at my desk when the 911 call came in at 7:20 and was relayed to the squad room by dispatcher May Hess, our self-anointed Queen of the Batphone.
Hess told me, “A woman of few words called and reported two people dead at the Ellsworth compound.
“She sounded for real,” Hess continued. “She said there were no intruders in the house and she was in no danger. Just ‘Two people are dead.’ Then she hung up. I called back twice but got an answering machine both times. I put out a call.”
I listened to the 911 tape. The caller had a British accent and sounded scared. In fact, the fear in her voice
