At seven sharp there was a pounding on her door loud enough to wake Forest Lawn cemetery. She threw on a robe, padded across the white ash floors in her bare feet, and opened the front door only to have a dozen camera strobes flash in her face.
“Ms. DeRose, is it true you and Danny Clay plan to marry in the fall?”
“Are you two doing a cooking show together?”
“Does Candace know?”
Like the proverbial deer caught in the headlights, Gina stood in the doorway of her house, frozen. It was only later that she realized that whoever set her up wasn’t done with her yet.
Chapter 18
Sawyer waited in a San Francisco Starbucks while Cash ambushed his friend, Ken, outside the Phillip Burton Federal Building on Golden Gate Avenue.
The coffee shop was the closest Cash would let Sawyer get to the courthouse. Even so, Sawyer was grateful for the concession.
Afterward, they were meeting Cash’s parents, Aubrey, and Ellie for dinner. Cash had grown up in the West Portal neighborhood, eighteen miles away from the federal building. His dad—Sawyer’s uncle—was a retired SFPD homicide lieutenant. Law enforcement ran through the family’s blood as much as ranching.
Sawyer stared out the window, sipping his third cup of coffee, wondering what was taking so long. Cash had been gone nearly two hours.
He checked his phone in case Cash had tried to call or text. And while he was at it, he scrolled through his Gmail account for a message from Gina. He hadn’t heard from her in days, not since they talked on the phone. According to his mother, Gina was holed up in a hotel because the paparazzi had made it impossible for her to stay in her own home.
Maybe she’d come back to Dry Creek Ranch, maybe she wouldn’t. Sawyer told himself he was beyond caring. Unfortunately, he’d never been a good liar.
On a lark, he’d called that blogger friend of his who worked forEaterand left a message. Sawyer wanted to run a few things by him on the latest tabloid BS that Gina and Danny were engaged. What a joke. Why didn’t these asshats check their facts?
He glanced at his watch again and peered outside at a group of tourists in shorts and freshly purchased fleeces from Fisherman’s Wharf to keep them warm.
“The coldest winter I ever saw was the summer I spent in San Francisco.” The quote had been attributed to Mark Twain, but no one knew if he’d actually said it. Regardless, there’d never been a truer statement. Even in August.
Occasionally, the sun would peek out from the overcast sky and heat the City by the Bay for a few hours. Then, back to the fog. It was as different from Los Angeles as the West Coast was to the East Coast.
Although Sawyer had been raised in Beverly Hills, he liked San Francisco better. The people were more interesting, the city was more diverse, and more important, it was closer to Dry Creek Ranch.
His phone dinged with a text and he quickly put down his coffee.
On my way,Cash had written. That was it. No hint of what he’d found out, which Sawyer assumed was nothing. Two hours of wasted time, though he’d managed to send his article off to his editor and had made deadline. At least by California time.
Six minutes later, Cash came through the door. He’d dressed for the city. No cowboy hat; just jeans, boots, and a windbreaker, tossed over his arm.
“Well, you get anything?” Sawyer stood, but Cash motioned for him to sit back down.
“I want to do this before we meet with my folks.” He eyed Sawyer’s coffee. “Hang on a second.”
“You’re fucking kidding me, right?”
Cash ignored him and joined the coffee queue behind a kid with purple hair and enough piercings to open his own earring shop. Sawyer would’ve given Cash his cup. Another sip and he’d swim home.
Cash returned with a frappuccino and Sawyer rolled his eyes.
“There’s something to the email.” He sat next to Sawyer at the counter. “Ken was tight-lipped at first…afraid someone might see us together. Maybe waylaying him outside the federal building wasn’t such a good idea. Especially because I’m persona non grata around there.”
“I would think you’d be a goddamn hero after what went down.”
Cash had tried to save the Bureau’s ass on a serial-murder case that had consumed the nation. The killer had targeted female joggers in the Presidio. Naturally, the Bureau’s top brass wanted to tie up the case in a neat little bow as fast as possible. They didn’t want a serial killer tainting a national treasure. Despite Cash’s warning that they had the wrong guy, his bosses made an arrest anyway.
The problem was Cash was right. The guy they’d nabbed was a scumbag to be sure—an ex-con with a rap sheet for sexual assault—but not responsible for the Presidio killings.
Cash shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway. What Ken learned is classified.”
