Kain listed the women guests, including Linda Banks, the “extra woman” whose flirting had detonated the Faye Farmer explosion. Banks, too, corroborated that Farmer had left in a huff.
“Did Faye have any enemies?” I asked. “Did anyone want to kill her?”
“Both Farmer and Kennedy had haters,” said Kain. “They each had thousands of followers on Facebook and Twitter. Also, there was a rumor that Faye might have been seeing some guy in the movie business. He’s a mystery man, if he even exists. I couldn’t find out his name.”
I said, “So maybe Faye had an unknown admirer and she and Kennedy had at least a billion virtual fans. This just keeps getting better.”
Claire spoke up. “What about Tracey Pendleton? Find out anything on my former security guard?”
Dedrick said, “Pendleton has vanished. She has not used her credit card. She has not taken out any of the hundred and forty-five dollars she has in her checking account, and she has not used her phone. There’s no sign of her car, either.”
Claire said, “Is she afraid to call in because she let the body snatcher into the morgue? Or is she drinking off a big paycheck for letting someone steal Faye Farmer’s body?”
I was pretty sure that Tracey Pendleton knew who killed Faye Farmer because she opened the door and let someone in. That someone was either the killer, or a fixer who’d come to clean up for the killer.
I was saying, “Tracey was likely collateral damage,” when the door behind me opened and FBI honcho Ron Parker poked his head in.
“‘Scuse me, Lindsay. May I have a word?”
Ah, nuts. What did he want now?
Chapter 63
I EXCUSED MYSELF, went out of the room, and asked Ron Parker what was up.
He said, “There’s been a development.”
Parker was wearing his weekend clothes—chinos, pink polo shirt, sunglasses hanging on the placket. He was looking at me as though he were about to open a trapdoor under my feet.
I said, “You bring good news, I’m sure.”
“It could be good.”
I didn’t believe it for a second. I said, “Please don’t ask me to see Fish again.”
“You’ve cast some kind of spell on him, Lindsay. He loves you, or maybe that beat-down you gave him turned him on. He says he’s willing to help us—meaning you—locate the bodies in this neck of the woods. Those are his words.”
“I already went to see him, Ron. He got over on us, and now I’m done with Randolph Fish.”
“He says he’ll give up names of girls we didn’t know we were missing. This is important. It’s an opportunity to close out some ugly cold cases. I don’t see how we can turn him down.”
“Ron, c’mon. He’s jerking us around.” “I don’t think so.”
“Really?”
“I told him that if he fucked us over, I’d have him transferred to the Q.”
San Quentin is the oldest prison in California, with a death row that is the most decrepit, overpopulated hellhole imaginable. Originally built to hold forty-five prisoners, it now has a population of 725 convicted killers and more condemned dirtbags on the way every week.
Fish wouldn’t like it there. No one ever did.
“So the Q is the stick,” I said.
“Yup. And here’s the carrot. If he helps, he gets one of those electronic book readers. Depending on how many of his victims he leads us to, we’ll talk about taking the needle off the table.”
“I still say he’s conning us.”
“You could be right. Still a good bet that Fish may have had an attack of conscience.”
I said, “Fish has the conscience of a fish.”
Ron laughed.
We made a plan.
Then I drove to the hospital to see my baby girl.
Chapter 64
I KNEW HOW to get to the neonatal ICU by heart. My baby was there. I could have found her in a blackout. Without a flashlight. With both hands cuffed behind my back.
I took the first elevator in the bank and rode it to the fourth floor, a place that had been furnished in vanilla and soft lights, designed for the newly opened eyes of the preemies who were housed there most often.
When the elevator opened, I stopped at the desk, exchanged pleasantries with the receptionist as I signed in, then I headed toward the waiting room. The walls, carpeting, and the furnishings throughout followed a vanilla color scheme.
I found Joe slumped in a pale armchair, newspapers falling off his lap, his eyes closed. I called out to him.
He smiled, said, “Hey, sweetie.” He stood and I went into his arms.
“How is she?” I asked.
“She’s sleeping quietly.”
“Any news?”
“I don’t think we’ll hear anything today—”
The woman in the seat next to me was in her early twenties, wearing a red tracksuit and running shoes.
She said, “I made this for Scotty. Want to see?”
I said that I did and she took out a little knitted outfit, blue and white, with a pom-pom on the top of the hat. Her husband was sitting next to her. He said that he was going outside to use the phone.
Just then, pandemonium cut loose.
There was a loud beeping, like a truck’s backing-up alert, and simultaneously a voice came over the intercom: “Code blue in NICU. Code blue.”
I screamed, “Oh, God.” I bolted out of my chair and pitched myself toward the NICU’s swinging double doors. Joe ran along with me as I rounded the bend and headed to the windowed room at the end of the hall. I pulled up short, saw only the infant incubators lined up in four rows of four—when a nurse closed curtains across the window.
I hadn’t been able to pick out my baby. I hadn’t been able to see Julie.
Three doctors pushing a crash cart blew through the doorway. I tried to see around them, but the door closed in my face.
I clutched at Joe and said, “It’s Julie, I just feel it, Joe.”
He shushed me and held me and walked me back to the waiting room, where we sat with three other sets of parents who were nearly paralyzed with fear.
We were all strangers to each other, yet drawn together like people in a lifeboat, watching as the ocean liner goes down.
And then a doctor left the NICU and came toward us.
He stood in the alcove, pulled down his mask, and looked around. I didn’t know him.
But still, his eyes locked on mine.
Chapter 65
THE ICU DOCTOR was looking straight at me when he said, “Are Scott Riley’s parents here?”
The young woman sitting next to me, the mom who had knitted the outfit for her son, stood up and said, “I’m
