Page 88

CHAPTER 86

CINDY WAS WORKING at her usual spot at the dining table in her apartment with only one thing in mind. She was going to find out whatever there was to know about Brett Palmer. However long it took.

She had access to criminal databases; the Portland, Oregon, police database; and Oregon DMV records. And she had access to numerous newspapers archived on the internet. She had made notes of some intriguing leads. For one, she had the address of the home Brett Palmer had owned and shared with his second ex-wife, Angela Kinney Palmer, who had died by hanging. The main thing that tipped this hanging from suicide to homicide was the writing on the soles of the victim’s shoes.

Cindy thought that if the “I said. You dead” killer had written this catchphrase, he was either very arrogant or very cagey. Both traits were characteristics of sociopathic killers. Too bad block letters matched a hundred handwriting samples in any forensics database.

But Cindy had found more useful data: Brett Palmer’s parents lived in Portland. So did the parents of Brett’s first wife, Roxanne Sands Palmer, who’d suspiciously drowned in the bathtub. But Palmer’s second wife, Angela Kinney Palmer, had parents living in Vallejo, California.

Vallejo was about a half hour drive from San Francisco.

The Kinneys’ phone number was listed online, and Cindy was feeling lucky. She punched the number into her phone, turned on her call recorder, and listened to the phone ring.

Two rings. Three rings. Cindy was gearing up to leave a message that would actually encourage the Kinneys to return her call when a woman picked up the line.

“Yesss?”

“Hello, is this Mrs. Kinney?”

“Who is this and what are you selling?”

“Hi, Mrs. Kinney. This is Cindy Thomas from the San Francisco Chronicle . I’m a reporter.”

“Oh? Do you write your own stories? Or do you gather information and pass them on to a writer?”

Cindy laughed. “Wow. Are you a reporter?”

“Was. A long time ago. So, what can I do for you?”

“I’d like to talk to you about your daughter Angela’s ex-husband, Brett Palmer.”

“Hold on, Cindy. I’m looking you up. Hmmm. Okay. Okay. You’re a crime writer, and you want to know about Brett and Angela?”

“That’s right, Mrs. Kinney. Can you help me?”

“Are you going after Brett?”

“I want to find out what happened to your daughter. With your help, maybe I can get a handle on why she died and what Brett may have done or didn’t do to cause her death.”

“Where are you?”

“San Francisco.”

“If you’ll come here, I’ll talk to you. Lord knows, I’m not doing this over the phone.”

“I can be there in an hour or so, traffic depending.”

“My name is Joann, by the way. You need my address?”

Cindy confirmed the address she’d found online.

“Well then, giddyap,” said Joann Kinney.

“See you soon,” Cindy said.

She washed her face, fluffed her hair, put on a baby-blue cardigan over a white turtleneck and khakis. She called Richie and left him a message. Then she gathered her things, locked up the apartment, and went out to her car. She turned on the ignition and put the Kinney family’s address into her GPS.

Then she put the car in gear and headed north.