actually she was protecting her entire family.
“According to Nicole, that was the only time she involved her mother.”
“Meanwhile, Harry went on trial for Cecily’s murder,” Yuki said.
“Right,” I said, “and with the spotlight on him and her own involvement in this crime Harry didn’t commit, Nicole fixated on Harry.
“Janet and Nigel stayed on as caretakers and lived in the main house ‘so the place wouldn’t go cold,’ as Janet said, and Nicole eventually took up residence in number two.
“By then, she had a degree in biology, a driver’s license, unrequited love for Harry, and recurring fantasies about killing again.”
Cindy told me to hang on a minute, which I did, and then she said, “So, the victims come from many parts of the world. They were all on a house tour, maybe self-guided tours.”
“Exactly. Every now and then a tourist, a Harry Chandler fan, presented Nicole with an opportunity to relive her first murder,” I said. “She knew which ones were unlikely to be reported missing right away, and Nicole told us that she liked petite dark-haired women who reminded her of Cecily.”
Claire said, “What she’d do is take them down to the basement on a pretext of showing them some of Harry’s personal trophies, and they were easy enough to kill. A zap with a stun gun from behind, then a knife across the throat.”
Yuki said, “She got the disposal part down to near perfection. Then, thank God, she got lazy.”
“Lazy, but not crazy,” I said. “Nicole knows right from wrong. You know what she said to me when I took her to jail? ‘Tell my mom to be happy for me. I retired at the top of my game.’”
Chapter 115
The Women’s Murder Club was going for a ride in my Explorer on our way to a long overdue reckoning. I was behind the wheel and Cindy was behind me, leaning over the seat divider, breathing down my neck.
We headed up Seventh at a good clip, crossed Market, passed the Civic Center BART, then turned left on McAllister.
I slowed the car and stopped at the light. There was a pack of unmarked cars parked in front of the Asian Art Museum, across the street from the Abby Hotel. Just as promised.
The Abby Hotel was a peach-colored six-story Victorian building with white trim, a brown awning over the entrance, and a fire escape zigzagging up the front of the building.
It stood in all its shabby elegance across the street from the Asian Art Museum, two blocks from City Hall. The homeless roamed this part of McAllister freely, but it was also the hub of government and legal activity.
Now, at noon, the streets and sidewalks were filled with suited men and women from the courts carrying briefcases or pulling luggage trolleys, their heads bent to their iPhones.
I parked in front of the hotel, and the girls and I got out of my car. I showed my badge to the doorman, a gnarled-looking boozer somewhere between his late fifties and early seventies. It looked to me as though the last time he’d had his uniform cleaned was — never.
Then I bent at the window of an unmarked car to talk to Lieutenant Meile from Vice. He was working off his guilty conscience by giving us a tip and following up by providing all hands on deck.
He gave me a room number, said, “History tells us he’ll be in there for another twenty minutes.”
Two cops from Vice, Billy Fried and Johnny Rizzo, got out of the unmarked and joined me and the girls on the sidewalk.
The six of us entered the Abby’s scruffy, mildewed lobby; we passed on the rickety metal elevator car and instead took the fire stairs to the third floor.
Vice took the lead. Fried rapped on the door while Rizzo took a stance on the other side of the doorway, holding his gun in a two-fisted grip.
Fried said, “Open the door. This is the SFPD.”
There was a scuffle inside, two alarmed voices, and then the sound of something crashing.
Fried turned the knob, saw the chain, and applied the force of his foot to break in the door. He stepped in and said, “Hands up, Blayney. Everyone, freeze.”
I headed into the room and saw Jason Blayney raise his hands, dropping the stained sheet he’d been holding in front of his privates. Jewel Bling, a low-rent call girl, was still in the bed. She drew a ratty blanket up to her chest. A lamp had been shattered during Blayney’s overheated rush to get dressed and lay on the carpet of this beyond horrific maroon-and-gray-appointed room.
“I’m researching a story on prostitution,” Blayney yelled. A bulb hanging from a cord above him swayed, casting a harsh, unflattering light on his blanched face and naked body.
“Research?” The hooker hooted. “What kind of research? How many times you can get your pipes cleaned for thirty dollars?”
Cindy stepped forward with her camera and shot a lot of pictures of Blayney trying to cover himself with his hands.
“I want to make a deal,” said Jewel Bling. “Shut up!” Blayney bellowed.
He grabbed the sheet off the floor and turned a pitiful face to Cindy. His eyes were squinched up, and he cried out, “Cindy, please. Let this go and I promise I’ll make it up to you.”
I was stunned.
This was the bastard who wrote lies and leaked information for the pure glory of getting his name on the front page. Now he was begging for mercy.
“My wife will leave me if she sees those pictures,” he said.
“She’ll take the kids. They’re all still young. I won’t be able to explain this to them.”
I couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re a hypocrite, Blayney. This is part of the SFPD’s crackdown on crime. He’s your collar, Billy.”
Billy Fried walked to Blayney, dragged the reporter’s hands behind his back, and cuffed him.
“You’re under arrest for pandering, buddy. Don’t worry. The penalty is just going to be a fine.”
Cindy fired off a few more shots with her Nikon, then said, “I think I’ve got your best angle, Jason. And don’t worry. I will spell your name right. You don’t have to worry about that.”
Chapter 116
Rich Conklin was dragged away from a deep place of no pain.
He’d been sleeping when Cindy squeezed his good shoulder, called his name. He opened his eyes and saw the tops of her breasts showing in the neckline of her loose pink top.
“If you don’t get up, you won’t be able to sleep tonight,” she said.
He loved looking at her sweet face. Her rhinestone clip sparkled in her blond curls. Rhinestones looked like diamonds on Cindy. Still, he wanted to get her actual diamonds someday.
“Come to bed,” he said. He took her hand, tugged on it. She frowned, said, “No. You have to get up. Come on.” She left the room.
“What’s wrong, Cin?”
“You said you wanted to talk,” she called.
“I said that? Oh, last week? When you were steaming toward a deadline and said you couldn’t be disturbed?”
Rich heard her choking on a laugh in the next room.
He swung his legs over the side of the bed, looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost six. Jeez. He’d been sleeping all day.
He shuffled into the living room in his T-shirt, sling, boxers.
The table was set and champagne was open, standing in a flowerpot full of ice. Cindy bent over the table and
