The “contact” she’d made, a person who had called her the night before and suggested they meet near Pier 39, hadn’t shown last night, either. She’d been wary, of course, but the caller, whose phone number had been blocked, insisted that he or she—Charity hadn’t been able to tell which—had “dirt” on James Cahill, including why he was considered the black sheep of his family, and what stood in his way of inheriting.
Music to Charity’s ears. As she’d gone to the meeting spot, she’d had dozens of questions for the informant. Had James Cahill had some previous charge of violence against a woman? Had something happened when he was a teenager, and had the court records been sealed? Had a victim been bought off with some of the Cahill fortune? A dozen questions about Cahill came to mind.
And what had Charity learned tonight?
Nada!
It was so damn frustrating. She’d felt in her gut that something in Cahill’s past, along with the ties to old San Francisco money, had contributed to the mystery surrounding Megan Travers. Something deeper, something darker. But was that true? Or had it just been what it appeared? Out-and-out jealousy that another woman had turned his head, forcing Megan to take off? Was it that simple?
As Charity walked through the cold San Francisco night, she toyed with the idea that Megan, known for her mercurial temper and penchant for drama, might have staged her own disappearance. If she had, why hadn’t she reappeared? Did James know more than he was saying? If so, what?
And then there were the sisters, Rebecca and Megan Travers, both betrayed. Charity had just scratched the surface about them, but she’d made a mental note to dig a little deeper, discover more about them and their involvement with James. And they too had ties to this city.
So all was not lost.
And there was that information she’d received from Cissy Cahill, related to James and nearly fifteen years his senior. Boy, had that woman had stories to tell!
Enough for one book, and maybe two.
So, really, all was not lost. Even if this jerk-wad had set her up only to bail.
Charity just had to do a little more digging on Marla Cahill’s daughter—the other daughter, the real whack job of a totally messed-up family. So perfect for a true crime book, or even a screenplay . . .
So, screw everyone who thought she couldn’t make it to the big time.
As she stared out at the dark water of the bay and the thin stream of traffic crossing the San Francisco–Oakland Bay Bridge, Charity imagined her future, how she would show everyone, including those imbeciles she worked with at the Clarion, what she was made of. Blustering Earl Ray and his creep of a son would see.
Wrap that around your man bun, Gerry.
She imagined a book contract or a movie deal. Wouldn’t that be great? Wouldn’t that old has-been Seamus O’Day be surprised? They all would. Everyone at that two-bit rag!
But first things first, she reminded herself.
The story.
She gave the guy five more minutes, then gave up. Though it was late, after midnight, there were still some people about. Not many, but a few, some teetering out of bars, others climbing into parked vehicles or waiting on street corners in the filmy lamplight.
But no informant ready to spill his or her guts about the Cahills.
Luckily, all was not lost, considering the information she’d dug up through Cissy and the nurse, but what they’d told her was just the tip of the iceberg, she could feel it.
She’d never been particularly patient, so the magic that was supposed to be found in San Francisco was lost on her. It was cold and misting, the wind whipping across the bay, rippling the dark water into frothy whitecaps, the haunting cries of sea lions chasing after her.
And there was still Megan’s mother to interview, one way or another.
Though she’d been thwarted so far, Charity knew the old bag was scheduled for a fitness session with her trainer and a massage at the club after the workout tomorrow—Lenora Travers’s usual midweek routine. Charity planned to be waiting when Lenora stepped out of the door of Club Fit and made her way to her car. Then she would spring. Lenora, surprised, would either make a scene or, Charity was betting, rather than risk an embarrassing spectacle in front of friends she worked out with, would agree to a sit-down. Good. Then maybe she would get somewhere. Maybe Lenora would give up some gem of information about Megan or her sister—the woman James had dumped in favor of Megan—as well as come up with a list of contacts, friends and acquaintances, who would help Charity find out what made the missing woman tick. All under the guise of hoping to locate Megan, of course. Which, really, she would be doing as well, Charity rationalized.
And then there was Cahill House. She hadn’t been able to see the records yet, but after she’d visited the place yesterday afternoon and was turned away, she’d received an anonymous tip from a woman who claimed to have been a nurse there years before. She’d refused to give her name, and her phone number had been blocked, but she’d claimed she’d heard from a friend who still worked at Cahill House that Charity had been there nosing around. Then she’d hinted that the Cahills were more involved than just funding the place, that someone in the family might have used the private home for pregnant women to their secret advantage. The nurse hadn’t given up much else. Just that tantalizing hint.
“Unwanted babies,” Charity had guessed when the woman would say no more.
“I didn’t say that. You didn’t hear it from me.”
“I don’t even know who you are. Or if your story is legit.”
“It is. Trust me.”
“I’d like to, but I need specifics,” Charity had said.
“Just know that you’re on the
