Tanaka, though, had assured him that they were working around the clock on Charity’s murder. Rivers knew firsthand how the SFPD handled homicide cases. They were efficient, but it would take time.
He wondered how Charity Spritz’s homicide connected to Megan Travers’s disappearance. There had to be a link.
He heard Mendoza’s footsteps before she appeared at his desk. With one glance at the computer screen, she stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh, jeez. Brutal.”
He agreed. No matter how many violent attacks and murders he’d witnessed, he’d never become inured to the savagery or the viciousness of what one human could do to another.
“What was Charity Spritz doing in San Francisco?”
“I’m hoping someone at the Clarion might have some insight. I’ve got a call in to Earl Ray Dansen, but he hasn’t gotten back to me yet.”
“Don’t newspaper people get in early, like hours before dawn?”
“Apparently not Earl Ray.”
“Maybe he’s just busy.”
They locked eyes, and he said, “Hey, we’re talking about the Clarion. Remember? You and I are working on the biggest story to come their way since Barton Scruggs stole Hugh Lambert’s prize bull a couple of years ago.”
She smiled faintly. “Okay. You’re right. He’ll be calling. But in the meantime, take a look at this.” She handed him her cell phone, where a text message read I NEED TO TALK TO YOU. IT’S IMPORTANT.
“Who’s this from? What’s it about?”
“I don’t know what she wants, but it’s from Andie Jeffries.”
“The LPN who worked with Megan Travers at the clinic?”
“One and the same. I called the number back immediately. Set up an appointment, and if we don’t get going, we’ll be late. Thought you might want to tag along.”
He was already pushing his chair back. “You thought right.” He grabbed the jacket he’d slung over the back of his chair and slipped into it as they walked outside.
“And by the way,” Mendoza said as they reached his SUV, “don’t make the mistake of calling her Andrea. It’s Andie. She let me know that.”
“Got it. But what’s it about?”
“Don’t know. Wouldn’t say on the phone, and I have no idea why. Probably didn’t want someone to overhear her or something. Maybe we’ll find out. Whatever the reason, she wants a face-to-face, so we’re obliging. And it won’t take long. She’s due at work at nine, and she didn’t want to meet at the clinic for some reason, so we agreed on Lucy’s Diner.”
“Andie didn’t want to be seen talking to the cops?”
“My guess is she doesn’t want anyone at her work to know or have the press find out. That’s probably the same reason she didn’t want to come into the station.” She slid into the car and buckled up as Rivers settled behind the wheel.
“Lots of people are skittish or scared or weird around cops,” Mendoza said, stating the obvious. “They seem to think we’re the bad guys.”
“And yet they call us when they’re in a jam.”
“Um-hmm.”
“Let’s see what she has to say.”
Snow was falling again, lazy flakes drifting from a steel-gray sky as they drove the mile out of town to Lucy’s Diner. He cut the engine, and they headed inside, where they were met with a wall of heat. The scents of frying bacon and brewing coffee filled the air, while clicking glasses and buzzing conversation muffled the piped-in music, which seemed to be in the form of oldies from the sixties.
Mendoza led the way to where Andie Jeffries had tucked herself into a corner booth. Her long fingers were busy shredding the paper from the straw that was stuck into a tall glass of what appeared to be cola. Her gaze was fixed on the glass, as if she were studying the bubbles rising between small ice cubes. So lost in thought was she that she nearly jumped out of her skin when they approached.
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” she said as they slid into the booth opposite her.
“Doing what?”
“Risking everything . . . I mean . . . it’s . . . it’s probably nothing anyway.” Dressed in faded blue scrubs beneath a navy jacket, she was a pale, impossibly thin woman, not yet thirty, her eyes a light brown, her dishwater-blond hair secured at her nape by a leather thong. And she was nervous as hell, still tearing the tiny strips of white paper.
A waitress swung by with a pot of coffee and filled two of the four cups waiting on the table. She asked brightly if they wanted to see a menu, but they declined.
“Okay. Sure. Sugar and cream are on the table,” the waitress said, nodding, red curls bouncing. “Let me know if you need anything else.” And she was off, coffee pot in hand, swinging toward a booth closer to the door, where three men in heavy jackets had settled.
“So what’s so important?” Mendoza asked, her iPad and phone already on the table, ready to record.
Andie blinked as if she were going to cry, then looked through the plate glass of the window. “It’s Megan. I mean, I should have called you earlier, but I was so scared, and I didn’t believe anything had happened to her, and—” She hiccupped, placed the back of her hand to her mouth, and tried to steady herself. “Bruce would kill me if he knew I was here, talking to the cops.”
“You know where she is?” Rivers asked, thinking this might finally be their break.
“No.” She was shaking her head and sniffing, looking scared.
Rivers felt his pulse tick up.
“Who’s Bruce?” Mendoza asked.
“My boyfriend . . . Bruce Porter . . . he . . . um, he had a little trouble. Drugs. But it’s all over now. He’s been through rehab, and he’s clean. Has been for six, no,
