Page 83

CHAPTER 81

I HAD BEEN anxious before, but when FBI section chief Craig Steinmetz said he didn’t know where Joe was, my fear struck like lightning. I tried to picture Joe. Was he hurt? Had he been captured? I didn’t know what to do.

All I could do was wait, and that was just not how I handled fear.

And now I was worried about Cindy. She was meeting a person of interest in a homicide, and she was alone. Cindy Thomas was smart and cagey enough to avoid trouble. At least most of the time. On the other hand, she sometimes forgot that she wasn’t a cop.

I texted Cindy to check in.

How’s it going?

She texted back: SOS

Ritz dining room.

I was five minutes away from the Ritz, and I wanted to be there with Cindy. I also wanted to see Palmer. Both excellent reasons to turn left on California, take another left on Stockton Street, both of which I did, and bang, there I was, pulling up to the Ritz-Carlton.

I left my ride with the valet and entered the five-star hotel. I followed my nose to the restaurant, told the ma?tre d’ that Cindy Thomas was expecting me. A waiter walked me over to the table where Cindy was eating breakfast with a fortysomething man in a suit.

I said, “Hi, Cindy. Sorry to interrupt. I heard that this was a great place to have breakfast and I’m starving.”

Cindy’s companion said, “You heard right.”

And my angelic-looking friend said, “Oh, great, Lindsay. Glad you made it.”

The waiter brought over another chair, and I asked for a coffee. Cindy told her breakfast companion, “Brett, meet my good friend Lindsay Boxer. She happens to be a cop, but don’t let that bother you. She’s off duty. Lindsay, this is Brett Palmer, just in from Portland. He’s in the import business, and he’s here to verify that the banana pancakes at the Ritz are awesome.”

I reached out and shook Brett’s hand. I couldn’t even remember if I’d brushed my hair or my teeth this morning, but I did remember to say, “Nice to meet you.”

Brett said, “Please sit down, Lindsay. What kind of cop are you?”

I thought of saying, Meter maid, then thought better of lying to a person of interest.

“I’m a homicide inspector.”

“Interesting,” Palmer said. “Now I understand why you and Cindy are friends.”

I said to Palmer, “Cindy and I met at a crime scene quite a long time ago. We bonded. I think Cindy solved that crime.”

Cindy put her fork down and grinned. She said, “You think?” She shook her head and laughed. Then, “Brett, tell Lindsay what you told me.”

“If you tell me why I agreed to have breakfast with you.”

“You know why, Brett. You like my writing.”

He rolled his eyes in a joking matter and said to me, “My first ex-wife, Roxanne, drowned over five years ago. There was an investigation, of course.” Palmer continued, “I wasn’t the guy they were looking for. And I have no clue why my second ex-wife, Angela, hanged herself. We hadn’t lived together or seen much of each other since our divorce, and I have a solid alibi for when she was killed.”

Palmer went on: “I read Cindy’s column, and I know there’ve been some recent murders in San Francisco, so I can see why Cindy may have linked them with Angela’s improbable death, because there were a few similarities. But in my opinion, they were not even close. And just so you know, I was nowhere near San Francisco when those other murders happened here. I’ve told Cindy that I can prove this, but not over breakfast. And I have another appointment. So, nice meeting you ladies. Fun, actually, but I’ve got to go.”

Good point, I thought—if there hadn’t been another “I said. You dead” murder just last night, with Brett in town and the victim tossed into a dumpster. I made a mental note to follow up on Palmer’s date of arrival in San Francisco while Cindy told Palmer that the Chronicle would pick up the breakfast tab.

Palmer said, “I wouldn’t dream of it. Lindsay, please order breakfast. It’s all on me.”

The mild-looking gent put a hand on Cindy’s shoulder after he rose from his chair and said, “Thanks for getting in touch, honey. So long.”

Cindy’s normally bright expression wilted once Palmer was out of sight, and she asked me for my thoughts.

I said, “On the surface, he seems credible. But serial killers, as you know, tend to be careful. They don’t leave prints or DNA, or accidentally confess to a cop. What do you think?”

“If he hadn’t spent years picking up women in this hotel, if he hadn’t called me ‘honey,’ I’d be more inclined to cross him off my list.”

“So, you still view him as a person of interest.”

“He hasn’t changed my mind. I’m going to have to pry into his life a little bit. Or a lot.”

“Virtually?”

“No. I’m going to hunt him to his lair.”

I nodded and slid Palmer’s fork off his plate and wrapped it gently in a cloth napkin.

Cindy gave me a smile, revealing her totally charming two front teeth that crossed over a teeny bit.

When the waiter came to the table, I went ahead and ordered myself the banana pancakes all the way.