The parolee across from her swore and spit from beneath his bandana.
The homeless man trundled toward them, one wheel of his cart squealing and wobbling over the cement walkway.
Kacie held her breath as he drew next to them.
“Can you spare some change?” His hand was already protruding from the dirt-encrusted sleeve of his jacket.
Her informant had ducked back into the shadows, but his voice lashed out at the transient from the anonymity of the darkness. “Move it along, buddy.”
The homeless man must’ve heard something in the other man’s voice because he thrust his cart in front of him and picked up his ambling pace without a word or backward glance.
The transient had enough street smarts to recognize a dangerous man when he heard one. What was her problem? Could she even trust an ex-con wearing a bandana across his lower face?
She scooped in a breath of salty air. “Like I was saying, I have no reason to tell Walker anything.”
“You sure he didn’t charm the pants off you? Make you wet?” The man chuckled low in his throat.
Kacie clenched her jaw where a muscle jumped wildly. He was just trying to make her uncomfortable, push her buttons.
She snorted. “Did you read my book?”
“I don’t read no books, but I heard about it. You tried and convicted the guy all over again and kicked him for good measure.”
“Then you should know his smooth talk didn’t work on me.”
“You’re a good actress, Kacie.”
She flinched. She wished he’d stop using her name. They weren’t friends. They weren’t even acquaintances.
“Why do you say that?”
“’Cuz Walker thought he had you eating out of the palm of his hand during all those interviews you two did together.”
“Oh well.” She tossed her hair over her shoulder.
“That’s why he was so pissed off. It’s not just that you wrote a book that made him look bad. It’s that he thought he had you.”
“He thought wrong.” And she’d done nothing in the interviews that would’ve made him think otherwise. She’d come into the project suspecting an innocent man had been convicted of murdering his wife and children. Several interviews later, she knew she was dealing with a sociopath, a guilty sociopath.
“Yeah, he had you all wrong.” He adjusted his cap with a hand sporting a tattoo of a cross on the back. “That’s why he wants to kill you.”
The wind whistled in from across the bay and blew right through her. She huddled into her sweater further. “Thanks for the heads-up.” She dug into her pocket for a hundred-dollar bill, creased it and held it out to him.
Stepping back, he sucked in a breath. “I ain’t no snitch. I didn’t tell you for money.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend you.” She crumpled the bill in her fist and shoved it back in her pocket. “I appreciate the warning, that’s all.”
“Sure, sure. I told you. You remind me of my sister.”
He pivoted, melting into the shadow of the building.
Kacie took one step away and cranked her head over her shoulder. “What were you in for?”
The voice came from the darkness like disembodied evil. “Killing my sister.”
Kacie’s hand flew to her mouth and she stumbled toward the weak light spilling from the ticket booth for the submarine. Her heart hammered so hard she wouldn’t have been able to hear footsteps even if they were coming straight toward her.
This time she didn’t care if she gave him the satisfaction of knowing he’d shocked her.... He had. She broke into a jog, heading for the lights at the more popular end of the wharf—not that teeming crowds met her here, either. Late on a Sunday night, Fisherman’s Wharf wasn’t exactly crackling with tourists and street performers. The fishermen had hauled in their catches many hours before and would be ready to go out in a few more. The hipsters and club hoppers were ducking in and out of bars in other areas of the city—other areas where the air didn’t reek of fish and resound with the clanging of masts.
Her footsteps carried her past the darkened and shuttered restaurants, past the homeless people huddled on benches or in doorways. She kept glancing over her shoulder, half expecting to see the masked face of the sister-killing parolee. He’d probably just been trying to yank her chain. Was there anyone in prison who didn’t lie?
If San Francisco were the type of city where you could hail a taxi on the street, she’d do it. No point in standing on a dark corner placing a call and waiting for one to show up.
Her legs moved faster. A few die-hard T-shirt shops still hoped for the odd tourist on a late-night souvenir run. The lights spilling from their windows tempered her pulse rate.
When she hit the street that led to her hotel, her breathing almost returned to normal.
A hotel near Fisherman’s Wharf wouldn’t have been her first choice, but Ryan Brody was staying there, so it was good enough for her.
He had at least two brothers living in the city, so she couldn’t figure out why he didn’t stay with one of them. Maybe there was a rift in the family.
Her lips stretched into a humorless smile. If that was the case, it couldn’t happen to a better bunch.
Brody. The name filled her with unspeakable rage.
Kacie let out a pent-up breath as she hiked up the sidewalk to her hotel. A few more people, other than the transients who owned the night, crisscrossed the street and wandered into the shops still selling their wares.
Kacie greeted the bellhop as she stepped through the doors of the hotel. “Is the hotel pool still open?”
“It’s open twenty-four hours, ma’am.”
“Thanks.”
When she got to her room, she fired up her laptop. She planned to find out the identity of her talkative ex-con. As the computer booted up, she shed her clothes and wriggled into a bikini. Then she grabbed the hotel-issued terry-cloth robe and threw it over the back of a chair.
She leaned over the laptop, her hands hovering above the keyboard. What was the murder of a sister called? Fratricide? Or was it something different for a sister?
She tapped the keyboard. He’d been imprisoned at Walla Walla, but that didn’t necessarily mean he’d committed his crime in Washington.
She twisted her stiff neck from side to side and then shoved the computer away. She could do this the next morning before she met with Ryan Brody. Right now, she needed a little relaxation.
She slipped her arms into the robe and knotted the sash around her waist. Twisting her hair around her hand, she headed for the bathroom. Her toiletry bag hung on a hook on the back of the door, and she dug inside one of the pockets until her fingers tripped across a hair clasp.
She secured her hair, dropped her key card in her pocket and pulled her door securely closed behind her.
The vacant indoor pool beckoned. She shrugged out of the robe and draped it over a chair. She jerked her head toward some splashing coming from the hot tub. Three teenage boys rose from the bubbling water in unison, steam floating off their bodies.
They better not be heading toward the pool. She sat on the edge and lowered herself into the lukewarm water. She kicked off the wall, and the water enveloped her as she sliced through it, her arms windmilling and her flutter kick just breaking the surface.
In, out, in, out. Her regulated breathing calmed her and cleared