“Aw, Jeez. That’s not good. I guess that’s what you call direct evidence.”

  I shot a glance toward Conklin. Had Brock really not known that we’d seen him fire a cannonball through Rae Bergen’s head?

  Brock asked me, “Now what?”

  “There’s no reason to keep Jerry here.”

  Brock nodded, then said, “Go, Jerry. Hurry.”

  “Are you sure?” the campus cop asked me.

  “Go ahead. We’re good. Don’t let anybody in here. Okay?”

  “Okay,” he said. He holstered his gun. “Brock. You know me. Take my advice. Don’t fire that gun.”

  “Okay, Boomer.”

  Jerry shook his head and left the chapel.

  I said, “Brock, this is my partner, Inspector Conklin. Let’s all of us put our guns down and talk, all right? You okay with that, Rich?”

  Conklin nodded. What could he say? Disarming a volatile, violent killer could be done, but it was a calculated risk. I was showing Brock that he was safe. That killing us wouldn’t get him anywhere. Would he surrender? Or kill us because right now he had nothing left to lose?

  I thought the odds were even. We hadn’t hurt him. Maybe he would give up once his gun was out of the picture.

  I walked past the altar to the edge of the dais and sat down with my legs hanging over it. I put my gun down, and pushed it away, out of my reach. What would Brock do?

  Conklin said, “Now you, Picard.”

  “Put yours down first,” said Brock.

  If this maneuver didn’t work, my last thoughts would be about what I was leaving behind: my husband, our daughter, my partner, and how Brady wouldn’t have done this in a thousand years. Conklin walked to the first row on the aisle, ten feet away from where I sat on the dais floor.

  He sat in a pew with his gun still in his hand.

  Haloed again in a rainbow of many-colored glass, Brock Picard walked the aisle to the front of the chapel. He took a seat in the first row across from Rich Conklin. From my position on the dais, backed by the altar, I had a twenty-twenty view of both my partner and a young man who, in the next few moments, could end both our lives.

  Brock said to Conklin, “Put your gun on the floor, then kick it over to me.”

  Conklin’s expression was clear. He didn’t want to drop his weapon, but at the same time, Brock could shoot him dead where he sat, now or anytime. He was trusting my judgment and I had no idea if I was right. But “Keep the guy with the gun calm” was one of the first rules when the gunman was ready to die.

  Conklin put his gun on the floor, raised his right foot, and kicked his gun across the aisle to the twenty-year-old killer.

  CHAPTER 114

  BROCK SAID TO Conklin and me, “Well, you got me on shooting Moms. But you might like to know, Chris isn’t my father.”

  “How do you know?” I asked him.

  “Because my father is Jamie Fricke. I thought Chris told you.”

  “No,” I said.

  I thought about Moira Benet, Christophe’s friend, the gossip queen. She’d told me that Rae had had an ongoing multi-decade affair with Jamie before, during, and after she married Christophe.

  Brock said, “It’s fucked up, right? You grow up thinking that this sweetheart foodie dude is your father. You call him Dad, hang out at his cool restaurants. I thought maybe one day I’d work for him. Maybe one day I’d take over the business.

  “You know who told me the truth?” Brock asked.

  I shook my head no.

  He was passing his gun from right hand to left. I thought about reaching for my piece, just out of reach, firing on Brock. I was a good marksman. But unless Brock’s gun was empty, he didn’t have to reach. He could shoot me where I sat. My ride-or-die partner—he, too, would die.

  I tuned back in to Brock Picard, who was talking easily to us.

  “It was Holly. Yeah. That Holly. I loved her to death. She was my beloved aunt Holly, former Olympic champ. We played tennis together from when I was five. Then when I was sixteen, she took me to bed. I didn’t protest. I was the luckiest guy in the world and Holly was my dream come true.

  “One morning about a year ago, we were in bed at the Ritz hotel. Holly says to me, ‘You know you should ask your father to take you to Switzerland. See if soccer appeals to you.’

  “She was half asleep. I figured she misspoke. I joked around. Like, ‘I don’t think my dad knows much about soccer,’ something like that, but funnier. Holly didn’t laugh. She realized what she’d said and got dressed. She kissed me goodbye and just like that, she dropped me. I called her, texted her, asked her to talk to me. She says, ‘I’m sorry. I don’t love you anymore.’”

  I think I said, “Oh, no.” Brock didn’t hear me.

  He said, “No more lovely Holly in my arms. No more funny food daddy. You getting this? Jamie Fricke was my father.”

  He was angry now, saying, “All those years. All those lies, and I didn’t know it.”

  I heard him, but I was working out the DNA puzzle. Jamie had punched Brock. It was Brock’s DNA on Jamie’s knuckles. Brock had Fricke genes. Brock had killed his father.

  “I killed Holly first,” Brock said. “I called her to tell her that I had something of hers and wanted to give it back. She came out to meet me. When she got out of her car, I shot her. Took some things off her to make it look like a robbery. Diamond jewelry. Her car.

  “I was still furious at everyone, still couldn’t get over it or make it stop. Months later, I called Jamie. Told him I was in town and Mom had a book for him, asked me to give it to him. He met me on the street and I gunned him down. Are you getting all this, Detectives? These people played huge roles in my life but never gave a shit about me.”

  Conklin said, “And your mother?”

  “What can I say? She was loose and selfish. She kept Chris hanging all those years and he’s screwing Holly. I love Chris, though. Still, he was a dummy in a lot of ways. My mom told him Jamie was my biological father, but never told me. There’s your capital murder offense and punishment.

  “Heard enough?” he said. “Any more questions? Because I’m not sticking around to answer.”

  “Brock, we appreciate you telling—”

  He said, “You’re welcome.”

  He put his gun on the flat of his right hand and stretched out his arm to Conklin.

  “I won’t be needing this anymore,” he said. “Oh, wait. I forgot something.”

  He got a grip on his gun, pointed it at his temple, and as Conklin and I shouted “No!” in unison, he fired a round into his head and fell off the pew and onto the floor.

  I checked. No pulse. No breath. No heartbeat.

  Brock was dead.

  EPILOGUE

  CHAPTER 115

  CINDY HAD A question for me.

  “Will you be my maid of honor?” She looked shy, hesitant, as if she was afraid I would say no.

  “Aww, Cindy. You know I will.”

  But when I looked her square in the eyes, she squirmed and looked down. I had to ask, “Are you sure you’re ready?”

  “Lindsay, I am. Of course I am. I think I am. I’m sure, right? How can you know more than that?”

  As my expression changed from hope and happiness to doubt and consternation, she cracked up and said, “You should see yourself. Don’t you know me by now? Don’t you know how much I love him?”

  Yes, I did. But. Richie was an honest and kind man who loved Cindy entirely, and I really wouldn’t forgive her if she hurt him now in front of God and everyone. At the same time, my stubborn friend Cindy had been building her writing career and doing it very well. She’d said from the beginning that she had to devote herself to her work. And Richie had been supportive even though it had hurt him, and he was pretty sure that Cindy might never move off that position.

  “So, Linds,” she said. “Is that a promise?”

  I said, yes, yes, yes, and after she hugged me she asked Claire and Yuki to be bridesmaids, and now here we all were, flanking Cindy in the Chapel of Our Lady at the Presidio.

  Cindy was wearing a white gown even her mother loved, with buttons and bows and satin to her toes. I was standing to Cindy’s left, Yuki beside me, Claire beside her. Richie was standing to Cindy’s right and four of his brothers were lined up beside him.

  The officiant was a young reverend named Michael Romano, and he smiled as he asked if Rich and Cindy had prepared vows. Richie said they had and Cindy, clutching a small white square of paper, said, “Right. Here goes.”

  “I, Cindy Thomas, take you, Richard John Conklin, to be my partner in marriage and in life. To love you, to give thanks for you, and to honor you, with my wit and my strength—”

  Cindy stopped speaking, shook her head, and, veering off script, crumpled the note card. She looked at Reverend Romano and said to him, “That was my first draft. May I start over?”

  “Of course,” said the reverend. “Go right ahead.”

  “Thank you.” Cindy cleared her throat. She looked up at her groom and said, “Richie, I’ve loved you since our first date at Ruby Tuesday, no lie. I want to tell you… I’m sorry I’ve been so difficult—” Her voice broke. She took some breaths and swallowed, then said, “—but I can be stubborn, you know.”

  I laughed first but not last. All the people on the left side of the aisle, Cindy’s family and college friends and coworkers at the Chronicle, joined in. Cindy turned her head to the audience as the groom’s side also fell apart—and she laughed along with them.

  Cindy had always been a good sport, and watching her crack up at the altar filled me with more love for her than I’d ever felt before. I knew she was all in.

  “Richie,” she said, “I want to thank you for picking up after me, putting up with me, going out to my car in the rain to get my radio, sitting up front for my little readings in tiny book clubs, rolling with my shenanigans, letting me cry in your armpit, giving me funny nicknames, and for saving my life. There are a million other things I’ll tell you later. But right now, I want to say, I love you so much. You can count on me to support you every day and in every way. I believe in you deeply and will always do so, even when you doubt yourself. I promise never to take you for granted but to let you know that you’re a giant and my hero. I promise that I’m yours, Rich. All the way, in all ways, and for all time. I swear to you and to God.”

  Richie laughed, hugging this precious woman who was just tall enough to come up to his shoulder.

  “You’re one of a kind, Cindy,” Rich said. “And I love that about you. I love you for more reasons and in more ways than I can say, and I trust you with my heart and my life. I promise you, Cindy, it doesn’t matter how many rainy nights I go out to the car or run the dry cycle in the washing machine or call you Bunny Toes, I am grateful that today you are making me so very happy. And I will be by your side, always.”

  Applause broke out in the chapel. Darcy Thomas got to her feet and clapped hard, and so did Cindy’s dad. Henry Tyler, Cindy’s boss at the Chronicle, gave her two thumbs up while Richie’s brothers roughed him up, messed up his hair, and called him their own pet names as the laughter rolled from front to back before returning again to the altar, where Rich and Cindy grinned while looking deeply into each other’s eyes.

  Standing between Lindsay and Claire, Yuki was also grinning along with the bride and groom. She then turned toward the congregation, and as if he were sitting under a spotlight, Yuki’s eyes fell on her own fair-haired, good-doing husband, Jackson Brady, Homicide lieutenant, who winked at her as he clapped for Rich and Cindy.

  Yuki had never asked Cindy if she’d had sleepless nights when Richie hadn’t answered his phone, when he hadn’t come home, or had come home in the morning so tired he couldn’t sleep or tell her what was wrong. And then having to rip herself away from him and go to work.

  Yuki smiled at the sounds of approval from the congregation. She fingered the angel skin coral necklace that Brady had given her as a wedding gift, and she thought about their honeymoon—on a cruise ship that had been boarded by pirates, all armed and dangerous. Every person on the Finnstar could have died but for Brady’s sharp thinking and courage. Richie, too, had those qualities.

  Claire, standing beside Yuki, reached out and took her hand, nodding once as if she could read her thoughts. Or maybe she just saw the worry on Yuki’s face. Yuki tried but couldn’t wish the worry away.

  She recalled the day she married Brady. Yuki had had little experience with men, and for the most part, had kept to herself. On her wedding day, she’d had a vision of her mother, Keiko, saying to her, He is love of your life, Yuki-eh. This life and next one. Tell him that.

  Yuki had said those words to Brady, who’d hugged and kissed her, lifting her off her feet and telling her in his soft southern-tinged voice, “Sweetheart. Ah’ll be right here with you.”

  Now Yuki beamed those words and feelings at Rich and Cindy.

  Claire took in full sight of the handsome couple, her friends who were about to make official a marriage that had already put down deep roots during their years together. She thought that Cindy and Rich were more alike than they knew; courageous, committed to their careers, loyal to their friends.

  Cindy had never shied from anything. Claire remembered well when Cindy had fatally shot a killer who’d had Lindsay in her gunsights. Claire had done the autopsy. No charges had been pressed against Girl Reporter, who’d never looked back.

  Claire also remembered a time when Rich had taken a .38-caliber round through his right shoulder at close range. It had been a painful injury that could have cost him the use of his arm or even killed him. But Rich had been stoic.

  Claire had conferred with his doctors and had spent seven hours with Cindy in the hospital waiting room while Rich underwent surgery and was still under anesthesia.

  When the surgeon had come out and asked for Mrs. Conklin, Cindy hadn’t corrected him, but she’d been visibly shaken and had sobbed when she’d lost her fight to stay with Rich at Metro Hospital overnight.

  Now, Claire watched Rich and Cindy stand together as the minister asked Eddie Conklin, best man and Richie’s oldest brother, for the rings. She dropped Yuki’s hand, covered her mouth as if to stop herself from shouting, “Whoo-hooooo!”

  CHAPTER 116

  REVEREND ROMANO NOW posed the two show-stopping questions.

  “Do you, Richard, take Cynthia to be your lawful, wedded wife, for richer or poorer, through sickness and in health, as long as you both shall live?”

  Rich said, “I do,” and before the minister had fully repeated the question to Cindy, she replied, to the delight of the audience, “I do, too.”

  The rings were exchanged, and Reverend Romano said, “I now pronounce you husband and wife. Richard, you may kiss the bride.”

  The bride didn’t wait for the maid of honor, her dearest friend, to lift her veil. She pushed it back herself. Richie kissed Cindy and buried his face in her curls, while nearly hugging the breath from her. Then he kissed her again to more applause.

  As the organ started up, Claire felt as elated as she had on the day she’d married her own best friend. And after all these years, and four blessed children, she thought that they should celebrate their good fortune by renewing their vows. She wanted to get married again and would propose it to Edmund tonight.

  Without knowing exactly why, Claire felt warm tears on her cheeks.

  As the recessional music continued and the pews emptied from the rear first, Cindy felt the entirety of the wedding flooding through her and with it, a deeper awareness of herself. She was no longer afraid.

  The long years of turning away from marriage to Richie and his longing for children were all about fear. Hers. She’d had a fear of failing, fear of giving up her independence, fear of not living up to Richie’s belief and faith and love for her.

  She also felt a sadness for all the years that she’d denied and delayed. She looked up at her new husband, who looked concerned as he gazed down at her.

  “You okay, Cindy?”

  “Yes, of course. It’s just that I’m sorry for being such a jerk for so long, Richie. But I’m a hundred times better now.

  “Thank you for waiting for me to wise up. I think I needed each of those years to learn to believe in myself as a wife. Your wife. To accept that we could be a team and that I could make you happy.”

  “Cin, we used those years to benefit our future.”

  Cindy nodded and reached up on tiptoes to kiss her husband as their guests surrounded them, enclosed them in a tight knot moving toward the door. Her parents worked their arms around them, and so did their friends and siblings as they left the small chapel through the narrow doorway and gathered on the front steps.

  The photographer was waiting and quickly lined up her shots of the brand-new married couple and the wedding party. Cindy gripped Richie’s hand. He squeezed and released hers so he could wrap his arm around her waist.

  The photographer said, “Cindy, Rich, look at me.”

  Enveloped by love, a beaming Cindy posed for many pictures, all the while keeping her one precious secret. She would wait until tonight when she and Rich were in bed. That’s when she would tell her best friend, her dear, sweet husband, what only she knew.

  Tonight would be the beginning of her married life with the only man she’d ever loved.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Our thanks to these experts who shared their experience with us in the writing of this book. Philip Birney, retired judge, and chief trial attorney for his San Diego law firm, WFGH&B, has practiced law for more than fifty years. Laurie Catherine Birney, licensed clinical psychologist and Phil’s daughter, advised us on the mental disorders depicted in this book. As always, we are grateful to the real-life Richard J. Conklin, assistant chief of police, in charge of investigations at the Stamford, Connecticut, PD.