Cindy cooked dinner, banging the metal spoon on the pot lids for emphasis as she rehearsed what she would say to Tyler.
“Henry.” Bang. “He’s not just a sneak.” Bang. “He’s a spy.” Bang. “He tipped off a reporter at the Examiner.” Bang. Bang. Bang. “He’s a danger to all of us.” Bang. Bang. Bang. “This is—”
Richie came up behind her and said, “Hands up, sweetheart. Drop the spoon and step away from the stove. Do it now.”
She gave him a look like, Funny. But I’m not in the mood. He tapped her on the butt and took over the stove, checked on the chili and the corn, turning to say, “Want to make a salad?”
“I shouldn’t handle knives,” she said. “Trust me.”
Cindy paced in the living room, a dark, narrow space banked with bookshelves and Richie’s photographic cityscapes. She brooded over McGowan, couldn’t help it. He was a bad guy. She’d run into bad guys before, criminals. But this guy had stood outside her office, smiling about handing their news off to the competition. This had never happened to her in her life.
Tyler would believe her. She had 100 percent credibility.
Rich called, “Cindy, put some music on, okay? Something chill.”
“I’m eyeball-deep in righteous indignation,” she called back, “and I gotta let it work its way out. Which maybe I can do if you come in and talk to me.”
“Music,” said Rich. “I’m bringing beers.”
Cindy riffled through the stack of CDs, found one by Metallica that fit her mood. She cued up “Fade to Black,” pressed Play, jacked up the sound, and threw herself onto Richie’s old blue couch. She put her bare feet up on the coffee table and exhaled.
Rich came in with a couple of bottles of Anchor Steam, saying over the discordant noise, “We don’t need a salad. Beans. Corn. Hops. We’re good. So tell me from the beginning.”
He lowered the volume, sat down next to Cindy, handed her a cold one, and put his arm around her shoulders. She tipped her head back and guzzled half the bottle.
Rich gave her a squeeze. “Speak.”
“He told me not to hold up the story—”
“McGowan?”
“Yes. McGowan. I told him it was just a temporary hold. That I would get inside dope from police sources if I just let the cops do their job without warning off the shooters.”
“Right thing to say and do,” said Rich.
“And because Lindsay asked me to, I sat on it. The story leaked. The connection between the hits was the story. Somehow I was scooped.”
“I hear you, Cindy.”
“That’s McGowan. A snake. A traitor.”
“Okay,” said Rich. “I’m going to ask you some questions.”
She sighed loudly.
“How do you know it was McGowan who squealed?”
“Because, Richie, a writer who used to be at the LA Sun Times broke the story. McGowan worked there until a couple months ago.”
“Speculation. What else?”
“No one connected Roccio to the Barons. Or Jennings and Peavey, for that matter.”
“You sure? Because I spoke with the primary on the Roccio case this morning, and Lindsay and I linked up the timing of the shootings for him.”
“You did?” she said tersely. “Why?”
“Seriously? We’re working a double homicide. We talk to other cops. Here’s my point. You have a suspicion, but you don’t have proof.”
“Oh, crap.”
“We’ll try to make it up to you, Cin. Go sit at the table. Take your beer.”
Cindy was relieved that she hadn’t told Tyler that McGowan had leaked her story. Richie was right. She didn’t have actual evidence.
Still, she had a gut feeling that she was right about McGowan. And she was going to harbor that feeling, massage it, and polish it until she could prove it.