Caroline smiled. That was the one. Miguel. There was hope for him and Suze yet.
Putting his phone away, Tom said, “I was right about you. The fact that you’re thinking of the two of them and not yourself right now…I saw that generous spirit in your devotion to the kids you work with. Society has given up on them—too soon—and you haven’t. You believe in people.”
It’s true, Caroline thought. “That’s pretty fundamental to who I am,” she said.
“And that’s how I knew that underneath it all you were open to possibility. I wanted someone who was open to this process, open to new experiences, open to exploring the odd twists that life might offer.”
“Someone willing to believe that love might be hiding behind door number three,” Caroline added. She was impressed. Tom seemed to get her. It didn’t feel like they’d just met. “It’s just—you’re so…accomplished. And, full disclosure, I’m temporarily living with my mother. And she, full disclosure, is a piece of work. I worry that I’m not as together—”
He put up a hand. “Not to interrupt, but I was briefed. World’s Worst Mother-in-Law. You know what? I’m up for the challenge.”
They both laughed.
“Think of it from my side,” he said. “Am I really supposed to limit my dating pool to people who have gotten to a certain point in their lives? There are so many other factors to consider. And though I have this one part of my life squared away, it doesn’t mean I have everything figured out. Even my house—I rent everything that’s in it. I didn’t want to furnish a house according to my taste and ask a woman to join me in it. I want to make a life with someone and build it from scratch. I want a partner.”
Caroline chuckled. “I was a little put off by your rejection letter. And then you changed your mind so quickly. But now I see it’s actually kind of a plus. I’m glad you aren’t 100 percent confident in this strange method of yours—or in yourself.”
“See? I’m still a work in progress.”
Tom wasn’t at all what Caroline had expected. He didn’t seem like a high-powered businessman. He wasn’t checking her qualities off on a list or impatient to seal the deal with her. And then there was the matter of how close he was sitting to her. She was hyperaware of every point where their bodies were touching. It made her shiver, and the more she shivered, the tighter he held her.
“You said you believe in more than one soul mate,” she said. “It sounds like you’ve been in love before.”
“Yes,” he said, and as she watched, a riddle of emotions passed over his face. Was he about to laugh or cry? He took a deep breath and said, “About ten years ago, when I was in my late twenties, I lost someone I loved. After that I started this company and put everything I had into it. All my time, all my energy. I couldn’t replace her, so I worked my ass off instead.”
“If your success is a measure of your grief, then you must have missed her a whole lot,” Caroline said with all the sympathy that she felt.
“I’m proud of what I’ve done, and it brings me joy to succeed. But I’ve always felt that the most meaningful accomplishment in my life was loving Mary.”
He was matter-of-fact—Caroline could see that although he had obviously been greatly affected by this woman’s death, it had been a full decade. He had recovered as much as he ever would. And yet his enduring love for her, and respect for the value of that love, was moving.
“I haven’t been a total hermit. I’ve tried to date. But it never seemed to work out. Maybe someone else could appreciate this kind of success by himself, without a partner, but that’s not how I’m wired. Love is the most important part of life.”
They had been looking out at the water, but now Caroline put her hand on his and turned to face him.
“Thank you for telling me that,” she said. And for a moment they just looked at each other, feeling strange but comfortable, unknown but known, unsure but hopeful. When Tom spoke, his voice was quiet and serious.
“This ten-million-dollar thing was a crazy scheme. But there was always a possibility that it could work, that I would meet the right woman. And if it worked, it would all be worth it. So that brings the two of us to the present, right here, right now.”
Chapter 32
Caroline felt dizzy. What was happening to her? She didn’t believe in love at first sight, but the world seemed to be spinning a little faster than usual.
“I need to stand up,” she said. “Can we walk?”
“Of course,” Tom said, jumping to his feet and helping her up. “I know this is a lot.…”
Side by side, they walked along the shoreline. It was a clear day, as always, and the low tide left the sand at the water’s edge flat and easy to walk on. Tom held Caroline’s hand, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world.
“You said if there was a possibility you could find the right person.…” Caroline knew her way around an audition, but she had no idea where she stood with this still mostly mysterious man.
“That’s right,” he said softly. “Caroline, I liked you before I met you. But being with you is better. It feels easy. I’m sure it’s not the same for you…not yet…but I think we have a shot at happiness, and that’s all I was looking for. You are the winner. The ten million dollars is all yours.”
“But…,” Caroline gasped. What was happening? Now that it came down to it, she didn’t believe this contest was actually real. It couldn’t be true, that he was actually going to give her ten million dollars. It was incomprehensible. For all the auditions she’d failed, the parts she’d lost, the contests she’d never won, it couldn’t be that her life was a fairy tale after all. And yet—she hadn’t auditioned. She hadn’t played a role. She had just been herself, the whole way through. She had never pretended to be perfect, or even much of a catch. She’d been honest every step of the way. If he liked her for who she really was, that changed everything.
And then—Tom knelt down next to her.
“No!” Caroline exclaimed.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “Please just hear me out.” He took both her hands in his. “I realize we just met, so you don’t know me, but I know you. You are funny, and kind to your sister, and tolerant of your mother. But what draws me to you most is something bigger than a witty answer in a questionnaire or a heartfelt conversation with a likeable interviewer. It’s the way you see the world. I trust you implicitly. If there’s anyone I would trust to make all my decisions going forward, it would be you.”
“Me? I have no idea—”
“Being with you feels right. To be honest, it’s hard not to take you in my arms. I know you’re a step behind in knowing me, so I’m trying desperately not to move too fast.”
Caroline blushed. She felt more ready to be taken in his arms than she was willing to admit. She knelt down in the sand so that she could see him face-to-face.
Tom squeezed her hands tightly. “I see your heart,” Tom said. “Your heart has a very good sense of direction. I hope it comes my way. That is to say…” He paused and looked right into Caroline’s eyes. “Will you marry me?” But before Caroline could speak, he held up a hand, stopping her. “Don’t answer. Yet. This is just a proposal. For now, I hope we can get to know each other. I’ll wait as long as you think we need. When you know me, when your heart guides you, then you can decide whether to accept the proposal. That’s up to you.”
“Oh, phew,” Caroline said. “Because, well, this is a lot to process all at once. I feel…excited, scared…confused. I can’t believe this is happening.”
“I know,” Tom said. “We have plenty of time. And just to be clear: the money is yours no matter what.”
Chapter 33
Caroline looked around a bit unsteadily. The man in front of her had been a complete stranger a couple of hours ago, and now there was so much at stake. Prince Charming had asked for her hand in marriage. This was her mother’s dream come true—but was it hers?
“So I can leave right now, right?” she said. “I can just walk back to my car with
the money, if I even decide to accept it.”
Tom’s face changed. It was subtle, just a shadow of sadness or disappointment in his eyes, but he nodded and gave a small smile. “Of course,” he said. “Well, not exactly with the cash. We’ll have to wire the money into your account or something. Trust me, I’m good for it.” He rose to his feet and stepped back to give her space.
Caroline moved toward him. She got closer. Closer. Then she held his face in her hands and looked into his eyes. Now there was a twinkle in them as he appreciated her unabashed appraisal. She liked his eyes.
“Here’s to possibilities,” she said. And then she kissed him.
“I’m not on trial. San Francisco is.”
Drug cartel boss the Kingfisher has a reputation for being violent and merciless. And after he’s finally caught, he’s set to stand trial for his vicious crimes—until he begins unleashing chaos and terror upon the lawyers, jurors, and police associated with the case. The city is paralyzed, and Detective Lindsay Boxer is caught in the eye of the storm.
Will the Women’s Murder Club make it out alive—or will a courtroom thriller ensure their last breaths?
Read on for a sneak peek at the shocking new Women’s Murder Club story, available now only from
It was that crazy period between Thanksgiving and Christmas when work overflowed, time raced, and there wasn’t enough light between dawn and dusk to get everything done.
Still, our gang of four, what we call the Women’s Murder Club, always had a spouse-free holiday get-together dinner of drinks and bar food.
Yuki Castellano had picked the place.
It was called Uncle Maxie’s Top Hat and was a bar and grill that had been a fixture in the Financial District for 150 years. It was decked out with art deco prints and mirrors on the walls, and a large, neon-lit clock behind the bar dominated the room. Maxie’s catered to men in smart suits and women in tight skirts and spike heels who wore good jewelry.
I liked the place and felt at home there in a Mickey Spillane kind of way. Case in point: I was wearing straight-legged pants, a blue gabardine blazer, a Glock in my shoulder holster, and flat lace-up shoes. I stood in the bar area, slowly turning my head as I looked around for my BFFs.
“Lindsay. Yo.”
Cindy Thomas waved her hand from the table tucked under the spiral staircase. I waved back and moved toward the nook inside the cranny. Claire Washburn was wearing a trench coat over her scrubs, with a button on the lapel that read SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. She peeled off her coat and gave me a hug and a half.
Cindy was also in her work clothes: cords and a bulky sweater, with a peacoat slung over the back of her chair. If I’d ducked under the table, I’m sure I would have seen steel-toed boots. Cindy is a crime reporter of note, and she was wearing her on-the-job hound dog clothes.
She blew me a couple of kisses, and Yuki stood up to give me her seat and a jasmine-scented smack on the cheek. She had clearly come from court, where she worked as a pro bono defense attorney for the poor and hopeless. Still, she was dressed impeccably, in pinstripes and pearls.
I took the chair across from Claire. She sat between Cindy and Yuki with her back to the room, and we all scooched up to the smallish glass-and-chrome table.
If it hasn’t been said, we four are a mutual heart, soul, and work society in which we share our cases and views of the legal system, as well as our personal lives. Right now the girls were worried about me.
Three of us were married: me, Claire, and Yuki; and Cindy had a standing offer of a ring and vows to be exchanged in Grace Cathedral. Until very recently you couldn’t have found four more happily hooked-up women. Then the bottom fell out of my marriage to Joe Molinari, the father of my child and a man I shared everything with, including my secrets.
We had had it so good, we kissed and made up before our fights were over. It was the typical: “You are right.” “No, you are!”
Then Joe went missing during possibly the worst weeks of my life.
I’m a homicide cop, and I know when someone is telling me the truth and when things do not add up.
Joe missing in action had not added up. Because of that I had worried almost to panic. Where was he? Why hadn’t he checked in? Why were my calls bouncing off his full mailbox? Was he still alive?
As the crisscrossed threads of espionage, destruction, and mass murder were untangled, Joe finally made his curtain call with stories of his past and present lives that I’d never heard before. I found plenty of reason not to trust him anymore.
Even he would agree. I think anyone would.
It’s not news that once trust is broken, it’s damned hard to superglue it back together. And for me it might take more time and belief in Joe’s confession than I actually had.
I still loved him. We’d shared a meal when he came to see our baby, Julie. We didn’t make any moves toward getting divorced that night, but we didn’t make love, either. Our relationship was now like the Cold War in the eighties between Russia and the USA, a strained but practical peace called détente.
Now, as I sat with my friends, I tried to put Joe out of my mind, safe in the knowledge that my nanny was looking after Julie and that the home front was safe. I ordered a favorite holiday drink, a hot buttered rum, and a rare steak sandwich with Uncle Maxie’s hot chili sauce.
My girlfriends were deep in criminal cross talk about Claire’s holiday overload of corpses, Cindy’s new cold case she’d exhumed from the San Francisco Chronicle’s dead letter files, and Yuki’s hoped-for favorable verdict for her client, an underage drug dealer. I was almost caught up when Yuki said, “Linds, I gotta ask. Any Christmas plans with Joe?”
And that’s when I was saved by the bell. My phone rang.
My friends said in unison, “NO PHONES.”
It was the rule, but I’d forgotten—again.
I reached into my bag for my phone, saying, “Look, I’m turning it off.”
But I saw that the call was from Rich Conklin, my partner and Cindy’s fiancé. She recognized his ringtone on my phone.
“There goes our party,” she said, tossing her napkin into the air.
“Linds?” said Conklin.
“Rich, can this wait? I’m in the middle—”
“It’s Kingfisher. He’s in a shoot-out with cops at the Vault. There’ve been casualties.”
“But—Kingfisher is dead.”
“Apparently, he’s been resurrected.”
My partner was double-parked and waiting for me outside Uncle Maxie’s, with the engine running and the flashers on. I got into the passenger seat of the unmarked car, and Richie handed me my vest. He’s that way, like a younger version of a big brother. He thinks of me, watches out for me, and I try to do the same for him.
He watched me buckle up, then he hit the sirens and stepped on the gas.
We were about five minutes from the Vault, a class A nightclub on the second floor of a former Bank of America building.
“Fill me in,” I said to my partner.
“Call came in to 911 about ten minutes ago,” Conklin said as we tore up California Street. “A kitchen worker said he recognized Kingfisher out in the bar. He was still trying to convince 911 that it was an emergency when shots were fired inside the club.”
“Watch out on our right.”
Richie yanked the wheel hard left to avoid an indecisive panel truck, then jerked it hard right and took a turn onto Sansome.
“You okay?” he asked.
I had been known to get carsick in jerky high-speed chases when I wasn’t behind the wheel.
“I’m fine. Keep talking.”
My partner told me that a second witness reported to first officers that three men were talking to two women at the bar. One of the men yelled, “No one screws with the King.” Shots were fired. The women were killed.
“Caller didn’t leave his name.”
I was gripping both the dash and the door, and had both feet on imaginary brakes, but my mind was occupied with Kingfisher.
He was a Mexican drug cartel boss, a psycho with a history of brutality and revenge, and a penchant for settling his scores personally.
Richie was saying, “Patrol units arrived as the shooters were attempting to flee through the front entrance. Someone saw the tattoo on the back of the hand of one of the shooters. I talked to Brady,” Conklin said, referring to our lieutenant. “If that shooter is Kingfisher and survives, he’s ours.”
I wanted the King on death row for the normal reasons. He was to the drug and murder trade as al-Baghdadi was to terrorism. But I also had personal reasons.
Earlier that year a cadre of dirty San Francisco cops from our division had taken down a number of drug houses for their own financial gain. One drug house in particular yielded a payoff of five to seven million in cash and drugs. Whether those cops knew it beforehand or not, the stolen loot belonged to Kingfisher—and he wanted it back.
The King took his revenge but was still short a big pile of dope and dollars.
So he turned his sights on me.
I was the primary homicide inspector on the dirty-cop case.
Using his own twisted logic, the King demanded that I personally recover and return his property. Or else.
It was a threat and a promise, and of course I couldn’t deliver.
From that moment on I had protection all day and night, every day and night, but protection isn’t enough when your tormentor is like a ghost. We had grainy photos and shoddy footage from cheap surveillance cameras on file. We had a blurry picture of a tattoo on the back of his left hand.
That was all.
After his threat I couldn’t cross the street from my apartment to my car without fear that Kingfisher would drop me dead in the street.
A week after the first of many threatening phone calls, the calls stopped. A report came in from the Mexican federal police saying that they had turned up the King’s body in a shallow grave in Baja. That’s what they said.