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blinD eye

Mystery series

blinD curves

blinD leap

blinD Faith

Diane anD Jacob

anDerson-

Minshall

BLIND CURVES

A BLIND EYE MYSTERY

by

Diane and Jacob Anderson-Minshall

2007

Blind Curves

© 2007 By diane and JaCoB anderson-Minshall. all rights

reserved.

isBn 10: 1-933110-72-4e

isBn 13: 978-1-1993110-72-1e

This ElEcTronic Book is PuBlishEd By

Bold sTrokEs Books, inc.,

P.o. Box 249

VallEy Falls, ny 12185

FirsT EdiTion: March 2007

This is a Work oF FicTion. naMEs, characTErs, PlacEs, and

incidEnTs arE ThE ProducT oF ThE auThor’s iMaGinaTion or

arE usEd FicTiTiously. any rEsEMBlancE To acTual PErsons,

liVinG or dEad, BusinEss EsTaBlishMEnTs, EVEnTs, or localEs

is EnTirEly coincidEnTal.

This Book, or ParTs ThErEoF, May noT BE rEProducEd in any

ForM WiThouT PErMission.

Credits

EdiTors: JEnniFEr kniGhT and sTacia sEaMan

ProducTion dEsiGn: sTacia sEaMan

coVEr dEsiGn By shEri (graphicartist2020@hotmail.com)

Acknowledgments

No author is an island. We’re loosely paraphrasing Hugh Grant in

About a Boy, rather than John Kennedy or whatever notable said it Þ rst.

But in our case, it’s apt. No author is an island, so we have many folks

to thank: First and foremost, our publisher, Len Barot of Bold Strokes

Books, without whom you wouldn’t be reading this book now. BSB was

our Þ rst choice in a publisher, and we haven’t had a single regret about

that. And many thanks to our lovely kiwi editor Jennifer Knight, who

guided us through many sleepless nights of edits and spent more time

than most would explaining to us the difference between omnipresence

and third-person narrative and who often queried whether our word

choices were esoteric, unconventional (and thus brilliant) ideas rather

than, as was most common, horrible misspellings. Our cover designer

Sheri suffered through our speciÞ c demands, and copy editor Stacia

Seaman’s detailed eye caught and corrected numerous would-be

embarrassing mistakes. Any remaining errors in spelling, story or fact

are all our own.

And, of course, we want to thank our family members—the

Anderson, Minshall, Sherwood, Bolonos, Hernandez, Soria, Corcoran

clans—who put up with hearing from us twice a year at best because

we’re stuck at our computers for months on end, and our dearest

friends—Jeff, Athena, Angelina, Elisa, Corey, Erica—who get the

same kind of shoddy attention while we play mad novelists instead

of writing old-fashioned letters, attending cocktail parties, or throwing

weekly Noah’s Arc screenings (all things we’d love to do if only we

could Þ nd the time).

Diane would be remiss if she didn’t thank her boss, Frances

Stevens, and her peeps at Curve magazine, who help keep her rooted

Þ rmly in reality. And big thanks to the women of publishing who

have mentored her since she was thirteen, notably (and in no certain

order): Darlene Allison, the editor of the Independent Enterprise in

Payette, Idaho (who let Diane hang around long enough to discover

writing was in her blood); Ann Crosby (a reporter at the Daily Argus

in Ontario, Oregon, who told Diane that if she ever hoped to make

more than $12,000 a year she should leave publishing right away—and

she was right); and Ann DeBord, her long-suffering journalism teacher

from Payette High School (who taught her how to balance her slavish

devotion to the written word with the real world she was covering).

And lastly, she thanks Jacob, her partner in crime and life, without

whom she wouldn’t do a vast number of things.

Jacob acknowledges that without his being injured at work and

losing his ranger job, he might not have found time to write (or cook

dinner, which Diane is most thankful for). In addition, he thanks the

organizers of the National Novel Writers Month (or NaNoWriMo, as

participants call it) and their challenge to write a novel in thirty days.

With NaNoWriMo as the impetus, real events as our inspiration, and our

love of mysteries and crime shows the driving force, we came up with

Blind Eye Detectives and wrote what would become the foundation of

Blind Curves. More personally, he offers his deepest appreciation for

the many teachers who nourished his love of writing, those pioneers who

have paved the way for transgender writers, and all the individuals who

struggle with and overcome various kinds of disabilities—particularly

his sisters Jennye and Michele. You are my heroes. And lastly, he

thanks his wife Diane, for making every day worthwhile.

Dedication

As this is our Þ rst team effort, it seemed only Þ tting that

we offer up more than one dedication. So this book is

lovingly dedicated to our grandmothers, Annabel Biggs

Anderson and Jennye Roberta “Keenie” Norman, both of

whom were feminists ahead of their time, avid mystery

readers, and overall rather tolerant broads. We’re fairly

certain they would both be proud.

And while this book is pure Þ ction, we’ve had people

in our life who have inspired us to craft a story about

betrayal, injustice, and greed. This book is for you as

well. You know who you are.

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER ONE

Holy Fucking Hell. Between curses, Velvet Erickson ß ipped

off a passing motorist. The driver of the blue Behemoth XL

SUV echoed the bird with his own Þ nger held high below his rearview

mirror. He had come out of nowhere, suddenly on her ass, up her

tailpipe, ß ashing his lights at her to get out of the way, when she was

already driving ten miles over the speed limit. What an asshole.

Velvet thought he didn’t deserve the alluring spectacle of her long

nails, painted Corvette Red, waving an insult. She would never crop

them to the nub like some utilitarian lesbians; she was, after all, a femme,

and butches were an enterprising lot. They could just work around her

nails. Her lovers—and they were legion—had never complained. In

fact, they seemed to prize the scratch marks she tattooed down their

backs. Some even showed them off to their friends.

She glanced in her review at the solid stream of cars behind her.

As she darted in and out of the trafÞ c, distant brake lights warned of

problems ahead on the 101 North into San Francisco. Damn. It was

barely six-friggin-a.m. How could there be a trafÞ c jam already? She

should have stayed on the 280. No, she shouldn’t have come down here

at all. She should have stayed in her warm San Francisco bed instead

of hauling her ass out at three a.m. and traipsing down the Peninsula

to some Þ lthy parking lot just on the odd chance of catching Rosemary

Finney red-handed.

What was that place called anyway? Wonderland? What a crock.

Wonderland should be a Disneyland attraction, not some overgrown

hiking trail in the boonies. Okay, Woodside probably didn’t count as

• 9 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

the boonies, not really. But it was, like, forty minutes south of the city

down all these damn windy roads blacked out under a thicket of trees.

Velvet was exhausted. She felt like she’d been on some mythic

quest, Þ ghting her way through an enchanted forest searching for the

princess trapped high in a castle tower. Except, Rosemary Finney was

no princess. She was better suited for the role of wicked witch or evil

stepmother. That woman was a bitch with a capital B.

Out the passenger window, past the empty darkness of the bay and

above the East Bay’s urban lights, the sun peeked over the hills like a

shy geisha hiding behind her painted fan. San Francisco, still another

ten minutes away, was stirring under a thick blanket of fog that would

burn off early under the glare of the sun, leaving behind the Indian

summer weather that was normal for October in the Bay Area.

Velvet loved the city in the fall. Temperatures were often in the

seventies or eighties, permitting her to ß aunt her buxom, kick-ass

body in the tight, revealing outÞ ts she preferred. By contrast, a typical

summer’s day was lousy, freezing cold with endless fog and winds that

blew from the Bay to the breakers, forcing her to hide her curvaceous

Þ gure behind bulky sweaters.

Cresting the incline at Candlestick Park—she refused to call the

professional baseball stadium 3Com Park or PacBell Park or eBay Park

or whatever awful corporate shilling moniker they’d punished it with

now—she gazed lovingly at the city spread out before her like a lover

draped across her bed. Although she’d lived in San Francisco since

she’d escaped from Los Angeles Þ fteen years earlier, she still felt a glow

of euphoria each time she caught sight of its distinctive architecture.

Rows of brightly painted houses undulated like waves lapping at the

banks of the city proper. White stucco and pastel Victorians climbed

high above the landscape, where they were, in turn, topped off by the

grassy breastlike knobs of Twin Peaks.

Favored son, author Herb Caan, had described San Francisco as

“Baghdad by the Bay.” The staff at the San Francisco Chronicle, the

newspaper where Velvet worked, had never quite gotten over the death

of their most popular columnist. Even Stanley Wozlawski, the paper’s

editor in chief, who’d taken the position several years after Caan’s

passing, frequently waxed nostalgic about the good ’ol Caan days and

invoked the man’s name in times of crisis. “Herb Caan, save us,” he’d

exclaim, as though the columnist was now a saint enthroned at the foot

• 10 •

BLIND CURVES

of God, and he could put in a good word with the big guy in honor of

his fellow journalists if he were so inclined.

Of course, Caan hadn’t lived to see Bush destroy the real Baghdad,

and now the moniker no longer seemed apt. Not compared to images

of bombed-out streets and this stupid, never-ending occupation. Velvet

had come to see Jerusalem as a more Þ tting comparison, with its white

stone glistening in the sunlight as it climbed its way up a hill. From a

distance San Francisco also appeared to have been cast in stone carved

entirely from one quarry. While Jerusalem was a religious destination

that beckoned people from around the globe, San Francisco was a gay

Mecca that rivaled the Holy City’s diverse demographics.

From the bowels of her old-school Louis Vuitton purse—no self-

respecting dyke diva would carry one of those modern white and pastel

bags—Velvet heard the mufß ed disco refrains of “More, More, More.”

Her cell phone was ringing. Who ever it was, was going to have to wait.

Not that she was opposed to driving and talking at the same time, but

she’d shoved the bag under the passenger seat when she’d gotten out of

the car to follow Rosemary Finney and she couldn’t reach it now.

Yet again Velvet wondered what she’d been thinking, driving out

here. She’d sworn to avoid close contact with her ex-lover, but that

was before the phone call last night. She’d just returned to her Bernal

Heights shotgun house after driving home her latest conquest, Tucker

Shade. It was after midnight and she’d heard the phone ring as she

jiggled her key in the lock. Assuming at Þ rst that the caller was her

booty call checking in, she had rolled her eyes. Lesbians could be so

needy.

Velvet supposed she could have spent more time with Tucker after

they’d Þ nished their physical transaction, but she didn’t like her sexual

quarry to hang around. When they were done she wanted them gone.

Velvet fancied herself a lesbian cougar: a member of the growing legion

of middle-aged women who preyed on younger sport, though she was,

admittedly, under forty.

The buzzing phone had fallen silent as she sauntered nonchalantly

down the long hall. With a shrug, she dropped her keys on the kitchen

counter, slid off her shoes, and shufß ed barefoot into the living room.

The house made groaning and creaking noises that she’d long since

gotten used to. She ignored the sounds and settled into the soft cushions

of the couch to watch disc four of The Simpsons season six.

• 11 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

The phone rang again just as Homer throttled Bart for some

malfeasance.

Letting the DVD play, Velvet picked up the receiver and mumbled,

“Hello?”

“Velvet Erickson?” The mufß ed female voice wasn’t immediately

familiar.

“Yes?” Velvet muted the Simpson family chatter.

“The reporter?”

“Yes.”

“I have some information for you. About Rosemary Finney.”

Velvet sat upright. That got her attention. “Who is this?” Maybe

someone was playing a prank on her.

“I…I…” The caller stammered. “It’s not important.”

Of course it’s important. Velvet shufß ed through the entertainment

magazines on her coffee table, looking for a pen and paper. If she

switched on her recording device, the woman might get spooked and

hang up.

“What kind of information?” she asked.

“It’s about…let’s say, illicit business practices.”

The caller was a younger woman, Velvet decided, with a bit of an

accent, like those corn-fed starstruck girls who poured off buses back

home with nothing but an overnight bag and a fantasy in their heart.

“Why call me?” Velvet asked. “Why not go to the police?”

“The police?” The caller scoffed. “You of all people should know

that the Rosemary Finneys of the world aren’t stopped by police.”

Though she emphasized it, the caller forced out the last word so quickly

it sounded almost like “please.”

While Velvet did doubt law enforcement’s ability to enforce real

justice upon those who could buy their own version of it, she didn’t like

the overt familiarity inherent in the caller’s statement.

“What do you mean by me ‘of all people’? Do I know you?” she

wondered suspiciously.

“I’m familiar with your experience. You know, with Rosemary.”

“Okay.” Velvet allowed that to sufÞ ce as an answer. “So, what do

you want to tell me about Rosemary Finney’s business practices?”

“Uh, I…”

Velvet could hear the caller’s dry voice cracking, and wondered

what was making her so nervous. “Well?” she demanded impatiently.

• 12 •

BLIND CURVES

She could really use hearing a juicy bit of gossip about her archrival

and former lover.

“I shouldn’t have called.” The woman spoke abruptly. “Sorry—”

“Don’t hang up!” Velvet’s interest was piqued, her heart beating

hard, her mouth watering. “After all that? You have to tell me.” She’d

never liked teases.

For a moment the line was so silent that Velvet was sure the

mystery caller had already ended the call. Then the woman whispered,

“It’s not safe.”

“What?” Velvet was surprised. “What are you afraid of?”

Words spilled out of the receiver in a rush. “It’s not safe for us to

talk. Just go to Wonderland Park in a few hours’ time. You’ll see. That’s

the lower lot. It’s in Woodside, down on the Peninsula. Got that? Be

there by Þ ve thirty a.m. Bring a camera. Oh, and Velvet?”

“Yes?”

“Be careful.”

Velvet had wanted more information, but the line went dead and

the dial tone buzzed in her ear. She looked at the caller ID, which, not

surprisingly, read “blocked ID.” Apparently she wouldn’t be able to star

69 the caller or use the reverse directory to track her down. Damn it.

Still a little stunned, she looked at the paper in front of her. On the

back of a used envelope, she’d jotted down a list of words: “Wonderland,

lower, Woodside 530, camera, careful.” She wondered what “illicit

business practices” Rosemary might be involved in, exactly who the

caller could be, and why she seemed so frightened.

Oh, Velvet knew what Rosemary was capable of. At one time or

another she’d been the brunt of everything the woman dished out. But

typically, Rosemary’s preferred tools of torture tended to be emotional

and Þ nancial more than physical. Rosemary Finney played with the

emotions of friends, lovers, and employees, and she had a whole team of

lawyers eager to impose the kind of pain people felt when their careers

ended or they were forced into bankruptcy. Yet the woman on the phone

had seemed afraid of something more tangible, the kind of something

that might just lurk in the predawn darkness of a Woodside park.

Now, as Velvet jockeyed her way through the trafÞ c near San

Francisco’s downtown exits, she thought about the pain Rosemary had

inß icted on her and about her own revenge just a while ago. Sure, it was

schadenfreude—a German term she’d picked up from The Simpsons.

• 13 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

She’d thought it meant “shameful joy” until her editor corrected her

in front of the entire Chronicle staff. Although she’d been mortiÞ ed

with embarrassment at the time, Velvet had immediately gotten back on

the horse and began using the expression’s proper nuance: “malicious

delight.”

The term perfectly described her feelings right now. She knew

she would relish this day for years to come. She was gloating over

Rosemary’s misfortune. And why not? Rosemary Finney had it coming.

Velvet was glad, glad that she had been the instrument of that woman’s

undoing. It was about time.

v

The sound of shattering glass rose from the shrouded sidewalk as

someone collected recycling from the curb outside Yoshi Yakamota’s

Richmond District home. In the darkness of her bedroom, Yoshi lay

nestled beneath a thick goose-down comforter the color of desert mud,

atop a low-slung Asian-inß uenced bed. Reluctantly, she felt for her

bedside clock and pulled it toward her. She pressed a call button and

a computerized voice that sounded a bit like Hal from 2001: A Space

Odyssey said, “6:57 a.m.” in measured but staccato notes.

In other San Francisco neighborhoods, the early morning

cacophony signaled the inß ux of entrepreneurial individuals who

arrived under the cover of darkness, liberated glass and aluminum from

plastic bins, and transferred them into waiting truck beds, car trunks, or

shopping carts—thus preempting the city’s pickup.

Yoshi respected the capitalist spirit of these people, many of them

homeless, and did not understand residents who opposed it on the

grounds that since they paid the city for recycling pickup, it was stealing

when others removed the bottles and cans. These self-righteous citizens

had even formed a political action group, the End Illegal Recycling

Action Committee a.k.a. EIRAC, which pressured city ofÞ cials to crack

down on the early morning “thefts.”

Yoshi didn’t care who picked up the recycling, so long as it didn’t

end up in the local landÞ ll. Of course she recognized that here in the

Richmond, far from the poorer enclaves of the city, the odds were 60/40

that the din outside was actually the city’s ofÞ cial recycling operation,

not the entrepreneurs, although she had no idea why this was happening

• 14 •

BLIND CURVES

on a Wednesday morning instead of the usual Friday. Whatever the

source, she wished she could just sleep through it. She used to be able

to tune out the background sounds of the city. She used to be able to do

a lot of things.

Yoshi sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. Her toes

inched sideways on the hardwood ß oor until they located the plush

slippers tucked there. She pushed her feet in and shufß ed slowly to the

kitchen, where she pulled a mug from a bamboo-fronted cabinet and

placed it in the sink. Keeping two Þ ngers curled around the handle, she

lifted the steel lever that turned on the tap and positioned the mug under

the stream of cool water. Resting her index Þ nger on the rim of the mug,

she waited until the water moistened her Þ nger before turning the faucet

off. She then opened the ceramic container that held teabags, took one

out, and dropped it into the mug’s water and stuck the beverage into the

microwave.

Her father would have been appalled. What respectable Japanese

woman—or man for that matter—used a bag when they had access to

fresh tea leaves? Her father had taught her to honor tea as far more than

a beverage. It was a symbol of their cultural heritage, and the details of

the Japanese tea ritual concealed lessons about one’s connectedness to

others, how to be present in one’s actions, and the need to slow down

and appreciate life’s little moments. Having tea, in her father’s sense

of the word, bore little or no resemblance to Yoshi’s current version:

two minutes in the microwave and four quick gulps down as she rushed

through her morning routine.

Yoshi pulled a smaller, handle-less Asian teacup from her cupboard

and carefully poured some of her tea into it. She carried the cup into her

living room, where she placed it on a diminutive bamboo table near an

east-facing window. With her eyes closed, she bowed and then slowly

backed away from the offering.

Maybe that would appease his spirit, she thought wryly. She

missed him so much. Hiroki Yakamota’s memory demanded more than

an occasional cup of tea, and she knew it. But she did not want to think

about that now, and the truth was, she missed the tea ceremony itself

too. She yearned to have the slow-brewed tea infusing to perfection in

one of her beautiful clay teapots. She had stopped using them recently

when she nearly scalded her hand trying to Þ ll one with boiling water

fresh from the teakettle. Losing her eyesight had meant relearning even

• 15 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

the simplest tasks. Yoshi silently promised herself that she would take

the time to repeatedly practice pouring cold water from kettle to cup

and move on to hot water when she had the procedure down pat.

She left the kitchen, her slippers slapping against the hardwood

ß oor as she sauntered into the living room. She located the TV remote

on the back of the quilted ecru divan, turned on the news, and went

to her room to dress. She was buttoning a cap-sleeved blouse with

oversized lapels when she heard the television newscast switch from

trafÞ c to a breaking news item. Yoshi listened for a few seconds, then

gathered the rest of her clothes and rushed back into the living room.

“San Francisco publishing magnate Rosemary Finney, owner of

the lesbian magazine Womyn, was found dead early this morning in

a remote wooded area above Silicon Valley. We go live now to Marty

Honda at the scene. Marty?”

Rosemary Finney? Yoshi fumbled around for the remote to amplify

the volume. Did he say Rosemary Finney?

Reporter Marty Honda covered South Bay events for San

Francisco’s KTVU Channel Seven. Yoshi had met him once, ten years

ago at the Cherry Blossom Festival. The annual event, held as the trees

bloomed in April, brought hundreds of participants and onlookers to

San Francisco’s Japantown. There were parades and pageants, bonsai

artists and calligraphers, tea ceremonies and kimono dance troupes

of all ages, from grandmother to granddaughter. Seeing multiple

generations of a family’s women together always engulfed Yoshi in a

storm of mixed emotions. It was beautiful and touching and cut her to

the bone. Grandmothers and mothers, daughters and granddaughters,

like an unbroken chain linking present with past.

It must, she imagined, be wonderful to be a part of such a lineage.

Family meant so much to her people, and yet here she was without

one, with only her father, a man who didn’t even like to speak of his

dead wife, let alone the extended family they had left behind in the old

country. Hiroki Yakamota might have been a brilliant detective, but

when it came to raising a girl he had no clue how to provide her with

a feminine inß uence. He had raised her like a son. Maybe it was the

obvious absence of maternal guidance in her life that had led some of

the community’s grandmothers to meddle in Yoshi’s affairs. That had

been the case on the particular blustery day in April when Yoshi had

been introduced to the up-and-coming reporter Marty Honda.

“He’s single,” wizened Mai Lee whispered before shoving her in

• 16 •

BLIND CURVES

his direction, apparently not knowing, or not caring, that Yoshi was a

lesbian.

Some of the elders in San Francisco’s tight-knit Japanese

community viewed lesbianism as a repudiation of their heritage and a

naïve embracement of Western values. That or a meaningless activity

a girl might engage in while “saving herself” for a proper Japanese

husband. In Yoshi’s case, it was also taken as proof of Hiroki’s poor

parenting skills. Without a husband, they reasoned, a woman could

not have children. Without children a Japanese woman would have no

family, no living proof of her achievements, no future generation to

carry on her values—there would be no point to her life at all. After

listening to this lecture repeated at each social function that Yoshi came

to alone or with her father, she was actually relieved to speak with

Marty Honda.

They were both single, but beyond that, they had little in common.

While she was impeccably groomed, his black hair was unkempt and

his suit wrinkled and reeking of cigarette smoke. She had wondered

how he could be in television news looking the way he did. He had

explained that when he was busy following a story he hauled his suit

around with him in the news van, crumpled in a knapsack until he

needed to step in front of the camera.

Yoshi had thought she might Þ nd Marty mildly interesting; after

all, he was a reporter and she had recently become infatuated with a

female journalist. But she had quickly bored of his penchant for name-

dropping—the mayor played golf at the same club, he’d interviewed

Steve Jobs—and his complete lack of interest in anything she had to

say. As soon as his attention was diverted, she had skulked away into

the crowd. Since then, she’d heard, he had gotten married, had a kid or

two, increased his on-air time, and started losing his hair.

She adjusted the TV volume once more as Marty proclaimed

with his customary swagger, “I’m here in the Santa Cruz Mountains,

where the body of Womyn magazine CEO Rosemary Finney is being

loaded into an ambulance. Ms. Finney, a longtime resident of Woodside

township, was found dead on a popular Bay Area trail, apparently the

victim of a homicide.” He paused before asking someone, “Sir, can you

tell us what happened?”

A young-sounding man replied, “I was just out on my morning

run. Over there in the park.”

Yoshi squinted, wishing she could see where he was pointing.

• 17 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

She could not. She could only make out two elongated blobs that she

assumed were Marty and the eyewitness. Still squinting, she crept

closer to the big TV, trying to catch a glimpse. The blur of dark greens

resolved to vague shapes and shadows. She pressed her face against the

monitor, feeling the little hairs on her cheek cling to the screen with

static. Trees. A lot of trees. Tall trees. Flash of blue and red. Emergency

lights.

“Santa Cruz Mountains—Highway 35!” Yoshi pronounced like

a Jeopardy viewer conÞ dently announcing the answer to television’s

deaf ears.

“I was on the Huckleberry Trail,” the jogger continued.

“Wonderland Park.” Yoshi concluded. There was only one

Huckleberry Trail on the Peninsula.

“Anyway, it’s kind of overgrown. They really should trim it back.

That’s why I didn’t see her until I was almost right on top of her.”

“Can you tell us what you saw?” Marty Honda prompted.

Yoshi collected her tea from the kitchen and returned.

“…not moving, and her shoes were gone, which was the damnedest

thing. I kept focusing on how she didn’t have any shoes, out here in the

woods and the trail’s muddy from the fog drip. I had to run all the way

up here. I couldn’t get cell phone service. I had to use that call box.”

Yoshi imagined the man was pointing at one of the yellow boxes—

strung up on telephone poles—that sprouted every few miles along the

thin asphalt ribbon of Highway 35 that wound through the dark woods.

If she recalled correctly, there was a call box just across the street from

the top of Wonderland Park, near a row of mailboxes, tucked next to

one of Midpeninsula Regional Open Space’s brown metal gates. What

was the name of that open space preserve? Skeggs? No, that wasn’t its

ofÞ cial name, just what people called it because they would park in

the Skeggs Overview and dart across the highway, at a blind curve no

less.

Yoshi remembered being afraid to cross the Þ rst time she had been

there as a kid, when her father took her to see the Tafoni Caves. There

was a large map on display in a wood and glass presentation—what had

it said? She pictured it in her mind’s eye. El Corte de Madera Creek

Open Space Preserve. The Spanish name translated to “cut wood,”

which is what it had once been. Like most of the San Francisco Bay

Area, the giant redwoods had long since been clear-cut and even the

second growth harvested by the previous owner. Although half a dozen

• 18 •

BLIND CURVES

giants still dotted the preserve, most of the redwoods, while tall, bore

fairly thin waists. Between them grew a thicket of tan oaks that blocked

the sun on the western slopes angling down toward the ocean. The

tan oak’s bark was once utilized in the process of tanning leather, but

loggers considered the species an inferior lumber and declared them

unmarketable, which gave the weed trees further rein on the forest.

“Excuse me.” Marty Honda sounded peeved about something.

A brusque voice interrupted the reporter’s protestations. “No,

excuse me. I need this gentleman to come with me.”

That must be one of the law enforcement ofÞ cers, Yoshi surmised.

It might be a Midpen Ranger, or Woodside PD or maybe a county

sheriff. It might even be CHP, the state highway patrol. Yoshi used to

see their black-and-whites when visiting parks along the Santa Cruz

Mountain’s Highway 35, but primarily, she reminded herself, for trafÞ c

accidents.

“I’m sorry, Bob, it looks like that’s it for now,” Honda addressed

the Channel Seven’s news anchor.

“That was Marty Honda, live from Woodside’s Wonderland Park,

where the body of Rosemary Finney was discovered this morning. I

think we have a photo here—do we? Yes, yes, here it is.”

Rosemary Finney. Yoshi could picture the woman’s visage clearly,

even if she could not see the image Þ lling the screen. Rosemary’s long,

dark ginger hair and tortoise-shell glasses were unmistakably familiar,

and not just from the photo accompanying the monthly letter from the

editor that fronted each issue of the lesbian magazine Womyn. The

lesbian community of San Francisco was surprisingly incestuous, and

only a few fresh dyke faces could not connect themselves to any other

SF lesbo within six degrees of relationships.

But it was not six degrees that separated Yoshi from Womyn’s

editor. It was one. Velvet Erickson.

• 19 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 20 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER TWO

By the time Tucker Shade arrived at the historic Flood Building

in San Francisco’s Þ nancial district, the fog had begun to lift,

clinging to the rooftops of the taller buildings. The breeze rufß ed her

short hair and blew bangs the color of amber ale into her eyes. She

brushed them aside, straightened her black and white striped tie, and

smoothed her blue oxford shirt. Digging a set of keys from her jeans

pocket, Tucker thought again how thankful she was for the dress code—

not just at the agency, but in the San Francisco Bay Area altogether. It

seemed like the whole city was on permanent casual Friday, especially

the women in ofÞ ce work.

Back home in Idaho, she’d have had to wear a skirt to do this

job. Tucker shuddered at the recollection. Her tall and gangly body

looked ridiculous in feminine attire, or at least she felt ridiculous. As

if dresses and skirts weren’t bad enough on their own, wearing them

meant wearing nylons. And no matter how hot nylons looked on a

femme, Tucker couldn’t bear the stuffed sausage sensation she’d gotten

in pantyhose during events of enforced femininity, like weddings and

funerals.

She took the ornate elevator to the fourth ß oor of the historic

building, thinking about how nobody put this kind of effort into their

work anymore, all cookie-cutter buildings thrown up overnight, without

any character to them, inside or out. Although she’d never been out of the

country, she’d heard that Europe had the kind of incredible architecture

found in this building. She’d also seen it in some neighborhoods in

New Orleans, where she’d spent a month before moving to the West

Coast.

• 21 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Exiting the elevator, Tucker strode to the fourth ofÞ ce on the right.

For a moment she paused to stare at the company insignia appliquéd

onto the door’s frosted glass window. A large open eye stared back at

her from the center of a gold badge encircled by the words “Blind Eye

Detective Agency.”

It was a strange name for a private investigation Þ rm, Tucker

noted, as she had most mornings since she’d gotten the receptionist job

here three months ago. She’d always thought the phrase “turn a blind

eye” meant to look the other way, which was sort of the opposite of

“to investigate.” But her boss, Yoshi Yakamota, insisted the name was

appropriate.

“Everyone knows eyewitnesses are unreliable,” she’d reminded

Tucker last week. “At Blind Eye we use our other senses. We examine

cases more thoroughly so we don’t miss anything.”

Utilizing her budding investigative skills, Tucker had uncovered

a few interesting details about the agency and its small staff. Yoshi’s

father, Hiroki Yakamota, had chosen the tongue-in-cheek name when

Yoshi had one blind eye. Now she was legally blind in both.

Mr. Yakamota had been one of the Þ rst Japanese American police

ofÞ cers to make detective in San Francisco. Then, years after he left

the force and started his PI Þ rm, he had gained notoriety for solving

the infamous Bayside Murders. Tucker had the impression that he was

the kind of father who never allowed his daughter to feel handicapped

by her condition, which might explain why he had apparently pestered

Yoshi into helping out at the agency while she was still a teenager.

When he was killed a few years ago, Yoshi took over his managerial

role and inherited Blind Eye’s other detective, Delbert “Bud” Williams.

Tucker thought Bud Williams had probably been a pretty good cop, but

she could imagine him being overly aggressive, or a little too delighted

by the chance to use his authority. Maybe being shot in the back,

landing in a wheelchair, and being forced into a disability retirement

had changed him. Maybe he hadn’t been this way as an ofÞ cer.

Bud had stayed with Blind Eye after Mr. Yakamota’s death but

Tucker had the feeling he wasn’t entirely comfortable at the agency.

She wondered if he resented working for a woman, even one as bright

as Yoshi, and if he was just hanging around until he could get his own

agency off the ground. She was sure that he would never admit it, but

she thought Yoshi was the only agency head that would let him work in

the Þ eld, being in a wheelchair and all.

• 22 •

BLIND CURVES

Tucker contemplated her own role as she let herself into the ofÞ ce.

She screened calls, processed mail, kept the Þ ling system organized,

and did some preliminary research on cases. Although she hoped to

be more, in her estimation she was barely part of the team at all. She

ß icked on the light switch, dropped her knapsack next to the metal

desk, and hung her oversized men’s jacket on the coat tree tucked in the

corner. So her computer and the copy machine could have time to wake

before she needed them, she turned them on immediately. A combined

laser printer, scanner, and fax machine shared the cupboard top with the

copier, and Tucker collected several faxed pages from the printer tray.

Retrieving an archaic Dictaphone from the cabinet beneath the

ofÞ ce machines, she took it and the two-page fax addressed to Yoshi

and set them both on her own desk. Then she continued her morning

routine, Þ lling the glass carafe with water from the small sink and

pouring it into the coffeemaker. Although she would make coffee later

for potential visitors, Tucker began each day by brewing a pot of tea for

herself and Yoshi. Their electric kettle had just died, and she hoped the

hardware store would call soon about the new one she’d ordered. Yoshi

had been polite about the improvised tea-making yesterday, but Tucker

didn’t want to try her patience.

While the water was gurgling its way through the contraption, she

sat on her wheeled ofÞ ce chair that was built like a wasp with two

separated cushions connected by a metal backbone. After clearing the

answering machine, she plugged in the Dictaphone and began reading

aloud from the latest fax.

“OfÞ ce of Marin County Coroner. Autopsy performed Þ ve,

twenty-four, o-six, eight thirty a.m. by Lori Singh—that’s L-o-r-i S-i-

n-g-h—MD. Assistant Ann Marie Sherwood. Summary report autopsy

for Kristal Tarnoff.” Tucker spelled out the full name and continued:

“Coroner case number 2006 dash 114.”

Not nearly as squeamish as some girls, Tucker didn’t mind reading

the autopsy reports for Yoshi’s audio research Þ les. The reports, which

came in from all the Bay Area counties, utilized similar formats and

provided the standard information like height and weight of the victim

and whether that was consistent with the norm for their age, any visible

ligature marks, lab results that included toxicology and trace evidence,

and a rundown of the condition of each major body system: skeletal,

gastrointestinal, and central nervous systems. They concluded with a

Þ nal opinion that offered estimated time of death, a.k.a. TOD, and cause

• 23 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

of death. In Kristal Tarnoff’s case, TOD was between 7:30 and 9:30 the

night before the medical exam, and cause of death was asphyxia due to

ligature strangulation.

When she’d Þ nished, Tucker took the cassette into Yoshi’s ofÞ ce

and set it in a rich chocolate leather, velvet-inlaid tray on the large dark

cherry desk. Carefully arranged on the desktop were three low proÞ le

brunette platters, a clean black phone, and a slim iMac computer. The

wood’s high-gloss Þ nish was so shiny Tucker could see her features

reß ected there. Her strong nose, thin lips, high forehead, cool blue eyes,

and light hair exhibited her Nordic heritage. She wasn’t yet fond of her

face, but she had grown accustomed to it.

With a quick parting glance around the ofÞ ce to convince herself

that she hadn’t disturbed anything in Yoshi’s private retreat, she

returned to her own desk and began the tedious task of deleting penis

enlargement and diet pill ads from her e-mail. She was still working her

way through the in-box when she heard a knob turning.

Yoshi, she thought, and glanced up to see a shadowy Þ gure behind

the frosted glass of the ofÞ ce door. The soft scent of apple, grapefruit,

white amber, and sandalwood, which was Yoshi’s signature perfume,

drifted on the air. Tucker smiled and nervously ran her Þ ngers through

her hair as the well-dressed Japanese American woman paused inside

the door and folded a telescoping white cane, which she then hung on

the coat rack. Silky smooth brown loafers swaddled her delicate feet

and she wore a Þ tted pantsuit.

Yoshi didn’t remove her toffee-colored jacket, but Tucker could

see that underneath was an ivory cap-sleeve blouse. A few months

ago she wouldn’t have even known what a cap sleeve was, but Velvet

Erickson had been schooling her in fashion and entertainment—among

other things.

Tucker had been raised in a world without fashion, where one wore

clothing not for style or comfort, but functionality. Even her mother’s

wardrobe consisted primarily of worn jeans, plaid ß annel shirts, and

hiking boots. Nobody in her small farming community would’ve

recognized couture clothing if it bit them on the ass. Yoshi, on the other

hand, might not see the photos in fashion magazines any longer, but

obviously she knew enough about designers or fabrics to stay in style.

Or maybe she had one of those personal shoppers.

“Good morning, Yoshi,” Tucker said.

Not turning toward her, Yoshi nodded slightly, acknowledging the

• 24 •

BLIND CURVES

greeting. “Any messages?” She crossed the small reception cube on her

way to the inner ofÞ ce.

“Just Mr. Snodgrass asking about the photos.”

Yoshi paused at the ofÞ ce door with her name etched on the fogged

glass. “Nothing from Velvet?”

“Uh, no.” Tucker said, suddenly sheepish. She worried about the

day Yoshi would Þ nd out that she was dating her best friend, Velvet.

Tucker wondered whether she was more afraid that Yoshi would be

disappointed, or that she might not give a hoot.

“Put her through immediately.”

“Of course.” Tucker wished Yoshi would turn toward her, just

once. But she stepped inside her ofÞ ce and shut the door behind her

without looking back.

Yoshi kept her door closed a lot. Velvet had offered Tucker a

whispered explanation once, when she was visiting. Yoshi was new to

this being blind thing. That is to say, she’d been losing her sight for a

long time, but it was only recently that it had gotten this bad. She was

still learning blind tricks, like looking up when someone spoke. Even

though she couldn’t see, the speaker would want to see her eyes when

they talked, otherwise they’d feel ignored. Like Tucker did.

Maybe Velvet was right; maybe Yoshi didn’t look at Tucker

because of the degenerative disease attacking her optic nerve. It had

robbed her eyes of both sight and pigment, and left her with striking

pale blue irises. Yoshi’s eyes reminded Tucker of those hot pools in

Yellowstone National Park that looked so inviting but which the park

rangers warned were deadly and could instantly scald any person or

animal that fell in. She wouldn’t mind drowning in Yoshi’s waters,

Tucker mused, then she looked around nervously as if, were Yoshi

close enough, she might read her mind.

Despite Velvet’s reassurances, Tucker still wondered if Yoshi was

avoiding eye contact with her deliberately. Even though she was losing

her sight, Yoshi might fear that if Tucker gazed into her eyes, she’d

be transÞ xed. If that happened, neither of them would be able to look

away. Their feelings for each other would spill over and they’d fall

into each other’s arms, and…well, obviously, Yoshi was too much of a

professional to allow that kind of thing to happen with her receptionist.

Which was why Tucker was going to become a detective.

She’d already started taking night classes at the Sam Brown

School, a San Francisco institution that trained private investigators,

• 25 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

and when she was done she would become a PI herself. Then she’d

be Yoshi’s colleague, not her subordinate. Of course, Tucker was only

ten hours into the intensive 212-hour Investigative Career Program,

and after completing the required courses, she would still need to

accumulate 6,000 hours working with a licensed investigator before

she could qualify for a license of her own. That was 6,000 hours. 150

weeks. 38 months. Two and a half years. Three years from now, Tucker

Þ gured, she and Yoshi could Þ nally give in to their attraction for each

other.

Unless, Tucker worried again, unless she had already blown any

chance that Yoshi could ever think of her that way.

v

Slumped down behind the wheel of his baby blue 1960 Chevy

Impala, barely visible over the dash to any passersby, Delbert “Bud”

Williams had his eyes trained on the front door of the Enchanted Towers.

A luxury apartment building catering to upscale young couples, the

Towers had recently opened in the south of Market area of downtown

San Francisco. Bud had been here two hours waiting for his mark,

Rebecca Brown, to leave the privacy of her enchanted apartment and

enter his less-than-charmed world.

Brown’s husband, sure that his wife was sabotaging the success

of their fertility efforts, had hired Blind Eye to shadow her. In his

desire to catch the missus in the act, he’d also wired his apartment

with surveillance cameras that downloaded to his laptop in a 24/7 live

feed. To monitor Rebecca’s activities outside of that love nest, Bud was

tailing her.

He had been on this detail for three days and he was bored to tears.

His jeans were slung low under his recently cultivated beer belly, and

his navy blue T-shirt was stained with spill-back from the many coffees

he’d imbibed to stay awake. A dress shirt and suit jacket folded on the

backseat provided him with professional attire that he could exchange

for his stakeout clothes in an instant. Yoshi demanded that he be able

to look presentable at any given moment, regardless of how long he’d

been on surveillance.

Not that he was tempted to do so. He was tempted to ball the

fresh garments up into a pillow and take a nap. Despite her relatively

hip zip code, Rebecca Brown seemed to lead the monotonous life of a

• 26 •

BLIND CURVES

suburban housewife, with regular trips to the grocery, hair salon, and

trendy boutiques. Her secrets were even more boring than most: she

pored over the gossip tabloids but threw them away before going home;

instead of shopping at the street level Whole Foods she took a cab to

Grocery Outlet; and when she met a mother with child she made cooing

noises and her eyes glistened with tears. Bud had photos of the entire

spectacle. It made him nauseous.

The bench seat next to him was buried under a layer of trash.

Wadded candy wrappers and crumpled In-N-Out Burger bags mingled

with newspapers, empty Þ lm boxes, and his case notes. His 8 megapixel

15x zoom Samsung Pro815 shared seat space with a padded carrier

cushioning his three thousand dollar, top of the line, old-school Nikon

F6 SLR 35 millimeter plus 50mm, 70-150 and 70-210mm zoom lenses.

In the backseat, his folded wheelchair leaned against his headrest. Rather

than give up his favorite vehicle, he’d used his insurance settlement to

upgrade the Impala with special controls that allowed him to operate

gas and brake pedals despite his useless legs. At the same time, they

reÞ tted his once-original classic with a bench seat, headrests, and seat

belts.

Bud reß exively stroked his cheeks, relishing the roughness of the

stubble that was part of his general f-you to Yoshi Yakamota’s restrictive

grooming standards. She preferred him to be clean-shaven, and had

said as much more than once. But he wasn’t going to let some broad

tell him what to do, especially when she wasn’t even his wife—back

when he was married.

Bud looked at the gold retirement watch cinched around his wrist.

It hardly seemed worth the bullet he’d paid for it. 8:35 a.m. He’d seen

Mr. Jason Brown roll out at 8:15 in his silver BMW and he still had

another twenty minutes before the wife exited the front door to slide into

a prearranged taxi. God, this gig was dull. It was so mind-numbingly

boring that he’d actually prefer watching Brokeback Mountain on a

ten-story IMAX screen while sitting next to some guy beating his stiffy.

Okay, maybe not. But this was still pretty fucking dull.

• 27 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 28 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER THREE

Good morning, Blind Eye Detective Agency, how may our

senses be of service?”

“Good morning, Tucker.” The smooth voice was unmistakable.

“Oh, hi, Velvet. Yoshi’s been waiting for your call.”

“Yoshi?” Velvet sounded hurt, but still managed to purr her next

query. “What about you, mon cheri? Don’t you miss me?”

Tucker felt the heat rush to two speciÞ c points of her body. One

was her cheek, the other was much lower. She squirmed. “I-I’m sorry. I

just assumed…of course I’m happy. I—”

Velvet chuckled. “I’m playing with you, Tuck.”

“Oh.” Lord, she felt so stupid.

“Do you know what it’s about? Yoshi sounded so concerned on

her message.”

“Uh, no. She just got in. I mean, we haven’t talked. I don’t

know.”

“Okay, okay. Pass me through. And Tucker?”

“Yes?”

“Can you get away for a quick lunch? Sushi?”

Tucker blushed again at the sexual innuendo. She lowered her

voice. “I can’t. Not during work. Tonight?”

“You have my number. Call me,” Velvet suggested.

“Right, of course. Hold on. I’ll see if Yoshi’s available.” Tucker

patched Velvet through to Yoshi even though she’d have preferred to

chat with the femme herself.

She wondered why Yoshi’s response was curt. Was her boss mad

at her? There was no mention of please, or thank you. Yoshi could come

• 29 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

across cold sometimes, but she was always polite. Something must

really be wrong.

After Tucker hung up, she could hear low murmuring from Yoshi’s

ofÞ ce but couldn’t make out what was being said and it was rude to

eavesdrop, anyway. She went back to decoding Bud’s physician-scrawl-

style notes so she could type them into the computer to be translated

into printed Braille for Yoshi.

The cherry ß ame of Yoshi’s extension stayed lit for a very long

time before her disembodied voice crackled over on the intercom, still

abnormally brusque. “Get Bud in here right away.”

“He’s on assignment,” Tucker reminded her tentatively.

“This is more important. It is essential that he come back here. No,

scratch that. Ask him if he has an in with the Woodside Police or San

Mateo County Sheriff. Have him get on that immediately. It is essential

that we ascertain all we can in regard to Rosemary Finney’s murder.”

Wow. Murder. They hadn’t had a case like that at Blind Eye while

Tucker had been there; it was mostly just skip traces and cheating

husbands.

“Please drop what you are doing as well,” Yoshi continued.

“I would appreciate your completing a background on the victim.

Rosemary Finney was the publisher of Womyn magazine.”

“Was she the one they found in the hills this morning?” Tucker

asked.

“Yes,” Yoshi conÞ rmed.

“Who’s our client?”

Yoshi didn’t answer immediately, which was odd. She always

provided Tucker with the details to complete the client information

paperwork. Was it Velvet? Tucker instantly dismissed the idea. Just

because Velvet had been on the phone directly preceding Yoshi’s

instructions didn’t mean anything. Velvet couldn’t be involved with a

murder. Could she?

“For now, let us just say we are looking into it for a friend.” Yoshi

gave a rare political answer.

Tucker dialed Bud’s cell, holding the phone between her shoulder

and ear so she could start an Internet search on Rosemary Finney.

The results popped up and one caught her eye immediately:

a photo of Rosemary Finney looking overly intimate with a buxom

brunette. Tucker didn’t have to read the Þ ne print to identify the other

woman. It was Velvet. Her Velvet.

• 30 •

BLIND CURVES

v

When the factory-installed ring tone notiÞ ed Bud that he had a

call, he shufß ed through the papers on the bench seat of the Impala

feeling for something of weight and substance. All the while, he kept

his eyes trained on the apartment building’s front door. He hadn’t sat

out here for two hours only to miss his quarry because some moron had

rung the wrong cell phone number or the kid at the ofÞ ce needed her

hand held to get some paperwork done.

The phone rang three times before he found it and punched the

answer button with his thumb. As the pad of his thumb spilled over

onto several other buttons, he wondered how kids these days did all that

texting. Maybe it was a genetic thing, some evolutionary change that

gave today’s teenagers more ß exible thumbs.

Holding the small black box awkwardly between his ear and his

mouth, wishing he could stretch it until it cradled his neck the way a

landline receiver did—the way a phone was supposed to Þ t—he barked,

“What?”

“Good morning, Bud,” the ofÞ ce girl responded pleasantly.

“Yeah,” he grunted. “What’s up?”

“Yoshi wanted to know if you have any contacts down in Woodside

or San Mateo County.”

“Which one?”

“Both. I mean either.”

She was the type that ß ustered easily. It made Bud want to toy

with her. There was something annoyingly naïve about the kid. It made

him want to crush her spirit, for her own good. The world wasn’t a nice

place; it chewed up the innocent and spit them out before breakfast.

Life sucked and then you died, and that girl needed her eyes opened

before something really dangerous came along.

“Yeah. I got guys I could talk to. What’s up?”

“We’ve got a new case. The Rosemary Finney murder.”

“Is that the stiff they pulled out of the woods this morning?” Bud

asked.

“Yes. Yoshi wants you to go on a Þ shing expedition, Þ nd out what

evidence they’ve got, what they think happened, any witnesses and

suspects, that kind of thing.”

“And I’m just supposed to ditch this?” For chrissake, the bitch he

was tailing would be leaving the building in Þ ve minutes.

• 31 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Sorry, Bud. Yoshi said to drop everything.”

“Whoa, that must mean good money. Who’s our client?”

“She wouldn’t tell me.”

“She wouldn’t tell you? Fuck.”

“What?”

“Oh, right, excuse my French,” Bud apologized.

“No, why do you say that? Does that mean something bad?”

“Who was in her ofÞ ce this morning? Or who called?”

“Just Velvet—you know, from the paper.”

Bud grew tumescent at the mention of Velvet. Back in the day, he

thought, I could’ve called her a sex kitten or a minx and not lose my

job. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, that’s not good. See it means either

there’s some story there and Velvet is hoping for a Pulitzer or she’s a

suspect. Either way we’re not getting paid shit.”

Predictably, Tucker got all defensive on behalf of their boss. It

was so obvious the girl had a crush on Yoshi, and equally apparent she

wasn’t in the league of the Japanese princess. “I’m sure there’s—”

“Yeah, I know. Whatever. I’m going. Does her majesty need me

to drop by the ofÞ ce? No? Good. I’ll head south and give her a buzz

later.”

Bud hung up before he heard a goodbye.

v

When Tucker put down the receiver and actually focused on

the screen before her, she Þ gured out two things. One was that she’d

somehow entered her search in the images Þ le, and the other was that

although the Internet might have the memory of an elephant, it also

had a way of ß attening time by offering up current and out-of-date

references on the same page. The photograph of Rosemary with her

arm around Velvet was from 1994, back when the two worked together.

The picture had been published in Womyn’s ten-year anniversary issue

and made it online in a piece about Womyn’s early history.

Tucker clicked back to the search engine and renewed her hunt.

After the requisite “Books by Rosemary Finney” Amazon ads, the Þ rst

twelve mentions Google spat out for Rosemary Finney were for a singer

fronting the New Zealand alt-rock band Suddenly Spring. The Rosemary

Finney that Tucker was looking for apparently didn’t have a personal

Web site, at least not one that came up on the Þ rst few pages of results.

• 32 •

BLIND CURVES

There were articles authored by Finney and numerous interviews about

her publishing company and its popular lesbian magazine Womyn.

Tucker clicked over to Womynmag.com. Under the tagline “a

feminist review of lesbian culture” were images of the latest cover,

featuring the cast of the Isle of Lesbos, the hot lesbian cable show. NOT

JUST PLAYING GAY, screamed a headline. Below, smaller text teased, “The

Lesbos Cast Comes Out,” and provided a link to the story. Not having a

television of her own, Tucker had only seen a couple of episodes of the

nighttime soap critics called a “lesbian Sex in the City,” but she did read

all the reviews and insider gossip about the show mentioned in Velvet’s

well-worn copy of Entertainment Weekly. Most of Lesbos was Þ lmed

on a soundstage in Hollywood, but the producers increased authenticity

by shooting scenes in San Francisco’s lesbian neighborhoods of Bernal

Heights and Noe Valley, and hotspots like the Lexington Club. Various

high-proÞ le local lesbians had also appeared as extras.

Tucker wondered whether Rosemary, being the well-known face

of a San Francisco–based lesbian magazine, had ever been on Isle of

Lesbos. There were several pages of the Womyn site dedicated to Lesbos

facts and trivia. Tucker skimmed these for any mention of Womyn staff

members or even the magazine itself showing up on set, but she found

nothing. Not having a San Francisco lesbian publication mentioned on

a lesbian show set in the city seemed odd to Tucker and she wondered if

it was some kind of a snub by the show’s producers. She’d have to ask

Velvet, who was much more knowledgeable than she about the inner

workings of Hollywood.

As she read Womyn’s most recent article about Lesbos, Tucker

found references to three supposedly straight actresses who the article

described as closeted lesbians.

That was big news.

Not only were the young actresses of Lesbos culled from the hot up-

and-coming Hollywood leading ladies but Jennifer Garcia, who played

a sultry lesbian rock star, had recently announced her engagement to

Tinseltown heartthrob Keith Ridger, about whom there’d been so many

gay rumors that the tabloids clung to the story like drowning rats to

a log. Tucker located the byline and found Rosemary Finney listed

as the author. The rest of the article was a feminist diatribe about the

negative political and psychological ramiÞ cations of straight actresses

portraying lesbians. Especially actresses who were, Finney argued,

closeted lesbians playing straight women playing lesbians.

• 33 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Tucker jumped in her seat at a soft noise behind her. “Oh, Yoshi,

you scared me. I didn’t hear you come in.”

Yoshi did not apologize—having nothing to apologize for.

Perchance her own actions would illustrate that it was not essential for

women to act contrite.

“I’m sorry,” Tucker apologized.

Okay. Perhaps not. “Have you found anything interesting?” She

stared over Tucker’s left shoulder at the computer screen. She couldn’t

really see it, but some habits die hard.

“Oh, wow. How’d you know I’m surÞ ng the Web?” Tucker

asked.

“I can hear the computer on, and the way you are sitting indicates

that you are gazing at the screen, although I do not hear you typing. You

are simply shifting the mouse.”

“Oh, right,” Tucker acknowledged. “That makes sense. So, mostly

I’ve just been making a list of people to follow up with. You know, I

was thinking?”

She ended the sentence with a lilt in her voice, as though she was

asking a question. It was something she frequently did, though more so

when she Þ rst joined the Blind Eye team. Yoshi wondered if Tucker was

aware that the consequence of this particular speech pattern was that

Tucker appeared hesitant and unsure of herself. “Yes?” she prompted.

“You know that before I started working here I spent a month down

in New Orleans helping with Katrina recovery efforts, right? Well, one

of the people I helped when I was down there was this seventy-year-old

grandmother, Miss Latisha, who lived in the Ninth Ward.”

Yoshi noticed lately that when she drew within close proximity

to Tucker, the younger woman became physiologically nervous, her

breathing increased. Not so much that it would be obvious to someone

else, but Yoshi, concentrating on sounds the way she had since losing

her sight, heard Tucker’s breath catch as though it were a record

skipping once and shifting to a elevated RPM. If she remained there

for a prolonged interval, she could smell the sweet musky odor of

perspiration forming in the hollow of Tucker’s underarms. Was it a

good or bad thing that she elicited such a response?

“Anyway,” Tucker continued, “one of her granddaughters, AJ,

moved out here after Katrina. She’s a police ofÞ cer. You know, one of

those that stayed through the hurricane and tried to help everyone but

lost her home and came out here to work so she could send money back

• 34 •

BLIND CURVES

to help her family. AJ, she’s one of the reasons I moved to the Bay Area.

See, I used to read her letters to Miss Latisha—she’s got cataracts, you

know, and has trouble reading—and AJ wrote such great things about

the area.”

Tucker had a just-off-the-farm ingenuousness, which made sense,

given that she had only recently relocated here and originated from

Idaho or Utah or another Midwestern state—Western, Yoshi reminded

herself; Tucker was particularly indignant about being referred to as a

Midwesterner.

“Mid west?” Tucker had exclaimed once. “It’s one state over from

California! Just because it isn’t on the coast doesn’t mean it’s not still

the West!”

Yoshi had nodded conciliatorily rather than voicing the snippy

response that darted into her head: “Japan is just west of here, but you do

not hear me becoming distraught and correcting everyone who signify

it as the Far East, do you?” Directional locations were so relative.

Tucker’s gullibility concerned Yoshi, but the girl’s innocence had

its charm. At the same time, Tucker’s easygoing demeanor sometimes

seemed to be a false front obscuring some hidden pain, and if you listened

intently or, Yoshi imagined, gazed deep into her—blue? green?—eyes,

you would Þ nd a wounded puppy there, quivering in fear, desperate for

a tender caress but ß inching at any outstretched hand.

“One of Miss Latisha’s relatives is renting me that room over in

Oakland.”

Yoshi did not Þ nd all of Tucker’s country girl characteristics

endearing. How long would it take her to get to the point? She

meandered through stories like someone on a Sunday drive turning

randomly down streets to view Christmas lights. For Yoshi, time was a

valuable commodity not to be squandered.

“Tucker,” she interrupted. “The point?”

“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Yoshi. So anyway, AJ? I think she’s working

for Palo Alto PD now—that’s down on the Peninsula, right? Is that in

the same area as where this murder happened?”

“Yes, actually, it is. Can you call her and establish whether she is

acquainted with Woodside ofÞ cers?”

“Yeah, that’s the thing. I have her number, but it’s at home. Maybe

I could go out over lunch or something.”

“Certainly, let us have you do that. In the meantime, tell me more

about your list of POIs.” Yoshi used the acronym for person of interest.

• 35 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

She was starting to weave insider police jargon into her conversations

with Tucker. It was time for the PI wannabe to step up her game.

“Oh, sorry. Did you know Rosemary just outed Jennifer Garcia?”

“Who?” Yoshi asked.

“Jennifer Garcia. She’s on Isle of Lesbos.”

“I don’t subscribe to HBO.”

“It’s Showtime, actually,” Tucker corrected, before rushing on.

Maybe she had seen the impatience on Yoshi’s features. “Anyway, she’s

a big television star. Latina. She used to go out with that basketball

player. Uh, what was his name? Oh, and she’s engaged to Keith Ridger

now.”

“Really?” Much to her über-hip friend Velvet’s dismay, Yoshi

did not keep up with Hollywood’s hot list, but you’d have to live in a

cave not to know who Keith Ridger was. He’d been People magazine’s

Sexiest Man just a year ago, and his antics spawned a cottage industry

of tabloid speculation, particularly about his sexuality.

“They are engaged? But, I thought he was—”

“Gay? No.” The blurry dark shape that was Tucker’s head moved

from side to side.

“According to whom?” Yoshi snorted.

“Keith. He says those are just rumors.” Tucker sounded like she

believed him. Yoshi wondered if the younger woman had never had

her trust broken. What would it be like to deem everyone truthful and

without hidden agendas?

“Certainly, if his Þ ancée is a lesbian, that damages his case, does

it not?”

“Probably. So, I guess that makes him a suspect too, since that

gives him motive.” The click of computer keys told Yoshi that Tucker

was adding Keith Ridger to her list.

“Not a suspect,” Yoshi corrected. Tucker hadn’t absorbed Yoshi’s

private eye lingo. She reined in her frustration; after all, Tucker had

only been with Blind Eye a few months. “Remember that we consider

them people of interest—POIs—until we have had the opportunity to

rule them in or out.”

“Oh, right, sorry. And I’ve got Jennifer Garcia down, since this

could really damage her career, too.”

“Did you not just say that she portrays a lesbian on the Isle of

Lesbos?”

• 36 •

BLIND CURVES

“Yeah, so maybe it doesn’t matter. But then if she’s not in the

closet, why would she be engaged? I don’t know, do you think it still

hurts a big actress’s career if she comes out?”

Yoshi was not convinced that Jennifer Garcia was a “big” actress,

now that she had Þ nally associated the name with a face. She certainly

had not been nominated for an Academy Award—although she had

supporting roles in a few successful Þ lms, as far as Yoshi could recall.

Obviously Garcia’s publicist was paid to ensure gullible youngsters

such as Tucker were wildly impressed. Image was more important than

substance these days, and not merely in show business. She found herself

a little disappointed that Tucker was so readily sold on appearances. If

she ever hoped to become a PI she would need to develop skepticism

and a desire to probe beyond the obvious.

In a neutral tone, Yoshi said, “It is difÞ cult to determine what

effect coming out might have on a career. Continue your effort and

ensure that you track down contact information for the people on your

list. Also, include the staff and former employees of Womyn.”

“Right, that makes sense, ’cause she worked there,” Tucker

afÞ rmed.

“She was the employer,” Yoshi amended. “And not a well-liked

one, from what I understand.”

“Oh?”

Yoshi did not answer the question inherent in the response. She

was reß ecting on the other controlling interest at Womyn magazine,

Rosemary’s partner Karen Friars. With Rosemary out of the picture,

Karen would be the sole surviving owner of the lesbian publication.

Yoshi was quite interested in speaking with the widowed publisher

who stood so much to gain from Rosemary’s demise. In addition to

the magazine itself, Yoshi understood that Rosemary had bequeathed

her substantial fortune to Ms. Friars. Yes, Karen Friars was absolutely

a POI.

• 37 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 38 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER FOUR

Protected by her cubicle from the noisy news ß oor of the San

Francisco Chronicle, Velvet Erickson slumped against her

desk with her head in her hands wondering what the hell she was going

to do. Her black pinstripe skirt was riding high, shorter than usual,

above her black stockings and patent black pumps. The collar on her

tight white blouse was rumpled at the edges, a rare less-than-perfect

day for Velvet, and her Þ tted pinstripe jacket, which had lost a button

while she was out in the Þ eld, was now crumpled up in the corner.

In front of her, the desktop was piled high with haphazardly

stacked spiral notepads, dozens of scrawled-upon Post-it notes, and

single sheets of paper that constituted her research on the dozen articles

she was currently juggling. On top of all of it lay a tattered copy of a

Bay Area Career Women newsletter, open to a page of attorneys.

Velvet was no longer high from her early morning escapade. Now it

was all crashing down on her. The realization that she was in big trouble

had washed away her glee at giving Rosemary her comeuppance. She

was wondering who might have seen her this morning at Wonderland

Park. Were the cops ripping through her Bernal Heights home right now,

armed with a hastily written search warrant? During their call, Yoshi

had advised her to get a lawyer. Velvet fretted that would just make her

look guiltier. She didn’t even know if the cops suspected her, so wasn’t

it premature to be hiring a lawyer? Yoshi had been insistent, especially

after Velvet admitted that she’d had a public row with Rosemary at the

Liberty Café just two days ago, a confrontation that could make her

look bad.

The Liberty was a small upscale eatery in the Bernal Heights

• 39 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

district of San Francisco. Standing on the Cortland Avenue sidewalk,

in the darkening fall evening, Velvet had spotted her old friend, and

business associate, Marion Serif through the restaurant window. Marion

was waiting for her at one of the petite square tables near the back

of the narrow dining room. Velvet waved but didn’t get her attention,

so she squeezed past the line into the faintly French-feeling bistro,

with its hardwood ß oors, lemon-colored walls, and adorable white

wainscoting.

As usual, the restaurant was fairly packed, even early on that

Tuesday evening. Velvet had been eating there since the place opened

twelve years earlier; she and Rosemary Finney and their soon-to-be

exes at the time had one of the Þ rst tables. The city’s foodies and the

denizens of Bernal Heights kept Liberty a must-visit eatery, which

infuriated Velvet since the posh spot still didn’t take reservations. She

pointed out Marion to the maître d’ and then pushed her way down a

tight corridor that was narrowed by guests spilling from their too-small

seats.

The venue wasn’t her choice. She and Marion met for dinner

every month and the choice of eatery alternated between them. Velvet

never picked the Liberty, even though it was in her neighborhood and

they did make the city’s best chicken potpie. Sure, Velvet enjoyed the

food—she considered herself a well-schooled connoisseur of good eats,

after all—but she also enjoyed feeling full when she’d Þ nished a $23

entrée. Paying that much for a petite, if delectable, meal like tuna conÞ t

with currants, pine nuts, and saffron-soaked onions always made her

feel embarrassed about grabbing a Big Mac on the way home to quiet

her unsatiated hunger.

So the truth was, Velvet had arrived late because she’d already

eaten. Tonight she’d stopped down the street at Zante’s and quickly

gobbled down a slice of Indian pizza—an only-in-SF specialty made

of naan bread crust, spicy spinach sauce with tandoori chicken, and

cauliß ower. Marion would have never approved.

“Sorry I’m late,” she said as she sat down and picked up the menu.

“What are you having?”

“Savory vegan polenta with asparagus ß an and Þ eld greens,”

Marion said, ever the food snob. Velvet shivered at the words “asparagus

ß an.”

“Ah, cornmeal mush,” she joked, “food of my people.”

At least that’s what she suspected: that her people, her ancestors,

• 40 •

BLIND CURVES

ate cornmeal mush. Her lily-white Scandinavian last name hid the truth

of her multicultural roots. Velvet was adopted. As far as her parents

were told, she was some mix of Native American and Hispanic peoples.

Beyond that, who knew? She had the kind of features that coded her as

ethnic, but the subcategorization was anyone’s guess. She’d been taken

for Italian, Greek, Palestinian, Spanish, Latin American, and a member

of nearly every Native American tribe. And it wasn’t just WASPs who

wanted to tag her with an ethnicity. Ethnic people were always claiming

her as one of their own. It was a compliment that others saw her as one

of them, a member of whatever tribe they hailed from. Velvet felt it

helped make her a better writer, the right person to chronicle the lives

of San Francisco’s diverse populace.

She peeked at Marion over the menu and thought again how she

was glad not to be the other woman. As much as she envied the sense of

ritual and belonging Jewish dykes shared, at this one moment she was

relieved to be religiously ambiguous—especially when it came to her

unlimited food choices. She didn’t envy Marion’s dietary restrictions,

which were compounded by her allergy to all things dairy. One time,

after they’d shared a vegan ice cream sundae at this lesbo-hipster ice

cream shop called Maggie Mudds, Marion had to go to the hospital

and have her stomach pumped because their server accidentally used

the same scoop on the vegan ice cream that he’d used for the regular

kind. What a terrible waste, Velvet thought to herself as she decided on

lemongrass-skewered Kobe beef and new potatoes.

She set down the menu. The athletic Marion, always a stunning

butch, was snappily dressed in her typical designer wear, in this case

a black pantsuit in a richly textured fabric that showcased attractive

Mediterranean features framed by her short but well-groomed dark

hair. Velvet decided the suit was Armani. She prided herself on keeping

up with the latest fashion and recognizing by sight the work of top

designers. Her education predated Sex in the City, but her nearly slavish

devotion to the cable show further reÞ ned her tastes. Like Marion, she

couldn’t afford to Þ ll her entire wardrobe with the latest couture, but

over the years she’d collected prime basics and peppered in essential

accessories like a few pairs of Manolo Blahnik shoes.

Tonight Velvet wore a black A-line skirt with a complementing

black and white corset top accented by billowy sleeves. She felt like

Johnny Depp from Pirates of the Caribbean every time she wore

it. There really was nothing better than a Þ lm based on her favorite

• 41 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Disneyland ride. At least before politically correct management had

neutered the ride by ruthlessly discarding the lecherous drunkards and

bawdy wenches.

“How’s the magazine business?” Velvet asked. Marion published

Bend, the Þ rst national lesbian publication, and primary rival of

Rosemary Finney’s Womyn.

“As interesting as usual. Are you sure you don’t miss it?”

Velvet took a drink from her triple extra-dirty martini, a very

simple drink she too often had to explain to cocktail servers, and

swirled it around in her mouth. The truth was, she did miss the pace of

magazine publishing. She missed writing for lesbian audiences, and she

missed the camaraderie of an all-woman staff. She set her glass down

and looked Marion in the eye with a smirk.

“You mean the low pay, the politics, the constant battle to get

celebrities to talk with you? No.”

Marion smiled and shrugged. “Well, there is that. But no, I meant

the entertainment part. I know you’re doing great work now. I saw you

were nominated for another award. Something about sex slaves, wasn’t

it?”

Velvet nodded. “Yeah. I did an investigative piece about this creep

landlord in Freemont who was shipping women in from India.”

“Sure, money matters, but don’t you ever wish you were back

critiquing movies and interviewing Oscar winners?” She held Velvet’s

gaze, daring her to lie.

“Okay,” Velvet admitted. “God knows I love pop culture. It’s

pathetic really. You know I still watch practically every movie that

comes out or you wouldn’t keep asking me to write a review column.”

“You can’t blame me for trying.”

Their meals arrived, models of minimalism. Velvet pointed at her

plate. “A graphic designer’s wet dream. Lots of white space.”

Marion laughed. She picked up her fork and knife and attacked the

small square of cornmeal. “How’s that other piece going?” she asked

without looking up.

Velvet knew exactly what Marion was speaking of. She Þ nished

chewing a ß avorful bite of Kobe beef and replied, “It’s coming along,

although not as fast as we’d like it to.”

“Did you see the latest issue of Womyn?”

Velvet shook her head and applied her attention to her martini.

She delicately bit half the blue-cheese-stuffed olive off the skewer

• 42 •

BLIND CURVES

and swirled the other half in the vodka. Small pieces of blue cheese

crumbled into the liquid.

Something pressed against Velvet’s leg. Often equating the effects

of alcohol with ensuing sexual gratiÞ cation, her Þ rst thought was that

Marion’s hand was caressing her knee. She’d promised herself to keep

their relationship limited to business, but her limb quivered under the

light touch.

She looked down at her lap, expecting to glimpse Marion’s neatly

manicured Þ ngers climbing up her thigh. Instead, she discovered a

magazine that Marion had judiciously slipped there. She smiled at her

own disappointment, which she experienced physically, like a ß ower

opening to the sun only to shrivel back into itself at a sudden eclipse.

Business, she thought, getting back on track. She inched the

magazine closer for inspection. It was the latest issue of Womyn, with a

headline blaring NOT JUST PLAYING GAY: THE LESBOS CAST COMES OUT.

She looked back up at Marion and raised her eyebrows.

Marion nodded. “They’ve stolen our cover. Again.”

Velvet sighed and bit her lower lip. “You had this?”

“We had the quote from an interview we did with an actress

who had a walk on part. She said most of the women on the show

were lesbians in real life. We have it on tape but we could never get

conÞ rmation from the studio. I mean, it was more than that actually.

The executives vehemently denied it. Our source was reliable, but we

felt without conÞ rmation…”

“Right.” Velvet nodded. Without conÞ rmation, saying someone

was gay could get a publisher sued, an actress Þ red, and unfortunately a

whole lot of people in hot water. Even for actors and actresses willing to

play gay on Þ lm, the stigma of actually being queer could still ruin their

career. Velvet was surprised that Womyn had been willing to risk the

fallout, even for the great newsstand sales the story would generate.

“Oh fuck,” Marion wheezed, and the color drained from her

attractive face.

Velvet whipped her head around to the door where Marion was

staring and found Karen Friars entering Liberty with her partner

Rosemary Finney, the bitch herself.

“Jesus.” Velvet ß ipped back so fast she nearly fell over. She

shoved the magazine under her generous ass and hastily drained the

last half of her martini.

“I can’t believe they’ re here.” Marion hid her face behind the

• 43 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

dessert menu and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I didn’t even have a

chance to tell you. They’re suing me.”

“What?” Velvet gasped, and the sharp inhalation of air propelled

the Þ nal piece of blue-cheese olive into her windpipe, choking her. A

few solid coughs dislodged it before her tablemate had to resort to the

Heimlich maneuver.

Velvet shot a look of silent thanks to a man who was eyeing her

apprehensively. He was balanced on the edge of his chair as if eager

to jump and wrap his arms below her ample breasts, all in the name of

saving her life. “I’m Þ ne,” she mouthed and smiled. As a long-haired,

big-breasted, round-assed femme, she frequently felt the object of

men’s openly sexual stares. Velvet sighed. If only butches would notice

as often. Instead many of them seemed, at Þ rst glance, to mistake her

for a hetero.

“Can you believe that?” Marion whispered. “They’ve stolen our

last three cover stories. And they have the nerve to claim I’m putting

them out of business?”

“Wait? Out of business?” Velvet was stunned. “Are you saying

Womyn’s actually going out of business?”

“I know. I’m as surprised as you. I had no idea they’re even having

difÞ culty, but I get served with this lawsuit the other day claiming my

‘immoral and illegal business practices’ are forcing them to shut down

and declare bankruptcy, and therefore I should be found personally

liable for three million dollars.”

“Three million.” Velvet whistled. She leaned forward in her chair

until she practically met Marion in the middle of the table. “Are they

crazy? Immor—”

“You cunts!” A shrill voice interrupted their mumblings.

Velvet jumped back in her chair.

Rosemary Finney stood next to their table, her hands clenched

at her sides, her navy blue pantsuit taut across her chest. Behind the

rims of her vintage glasses, her wide sea green eyes bored holes into

Velvet, and her shoulder-length crimped hair, as though loosened from

its restraints by anger, puffed out wildly around a face splotched purple

and red.

Velvet’s immediate reaction was one of fear. She found herself

sliding away from her former friend, lover, and business partner and

pressing against Liberty’s cool cinder-block wall, hoping it would open

• 44 •

BLIND CURVES

up and swallow her whole. She’d never known Rosemary to be violent,

but at that moment she had no doubt about the possibility.

Rosemary Finney was one of those kids born suckling a diamond-

encrusted paciÞ er. She grew up in Woodside, a tony town where

Jaguars and Hummers lined driveways and a proliferation of mall-like

mansions cut into the wooded hills, causing environmentalists instant

aneurysms. The elder of two girls, Rosemary had been shipped off

to private boarding school in Switzerland and then to Yale where she

earned ineffectual degrees in philosophy and women’s studies. By the

time Velvet met her thirteen years ago, she was a poor little rich girl in

crisis, slumming it in a funky San Francisco loft. She didn’t have a job,

but she had perfected trust fund living.

When she wasn’t working her way through the city’s fuckable

lesbians, she spent her days doing lunch, writing poetry, and exploring

her political-protest-of-the-week club membership. Velvet met her

when Rosemary hooked up with the sales director at The Monitor, the

gay magazine where Velvet worked.

Rosemary was smart and chic, a sexy and rich lesbian with

feminist ß avoring. Velvet was quickly enamored. Perhaps duped was

the word she was looking for. Rosemary had waxed eloquently about

crafting underground, counterculture lesbian utopias and smashing the

patriarchal system—all the while looting vaults that generations of

Finneys had Þ lled by oppressing the working class. Rosemary’s father,

an ultraconservative congressman from California, wasn’t amused by

her antics and she became Daddy’s dirty little secret, somehow eclipsing

her younger sister who had run off and joined the circus as a performer

with Cirque du Soleil.

Launching a lesbian magazine had probably been the furthest

thing from Rosemary’s mind. But when Velvet and Nikki, Rosemary’s

lover, walked away from The Monitor after another row with their

publisher over lack of lesbian visibility, it didn’t take long before the

three women were drunk with possibilities. Fueled by appletinis, they

mapped out a new publishing empire by, for, and about gay women.

They were going to take the lesbian nation by storm. It would be a

lesbian publishing revolution.

And it was. It took just four years, and by the time Womyn was

ß ourishing, they were so discombobulated and their lives so strained

from the pressure that there was nothing left of their shared ideals.

• 45 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

During a dyke-drama-laden breakup, Nikki had left in a huff just

months after the initial planning meeting. Rosemary and Velvet had

subsequently played at being lovers but they could never seem to agree

on the rules of the game, and Velvet didn’t like the protective gear she

was forced to wear.

Then Rosemary met Karen Friars, cofounder of a well-known

investment Þ rm that was making zillions in the dot-com boom. All of

Rosemary’s dozens of other lovers fell by the wayside. Karen became

the star running back of Rosemary’s life, and her blue-blood origins

seemed to serve as a catalyst for Rosemary’s reconciliation with her

biological family. That was when the real problems began.

Reclaiming the Finney name seemed to peel away Rosemary’s

feminist ideals. Velvet realized that the antipatriarchy sentiments so

dear to herself were merely baubles to Rosemary Finney. Worn for

years, they could be suddenly cast aside when she bored of them.

Velvet’s friendship, and later her very person, was discarded just as

ruthlessly. Suddenly Rosemary stopped using her money to subvert the

system and used it instead to buffer herself from the needs and concerns

of common folk. Karen even convinced her to abandon her funky loft

in exchange for their very own Woodside McMansion. Even worse, in

Velvet’s opinion, Karen became Womyn’s biggest investor. It was cash

the business desperately needed for expansion, but for Velvet, it came

with a steep price. Within weeks of investing, Karen wangled her way

into the daily management of the magazine, taking over the role of

publisher, and became Velvet’s boss.

Velvet was livid that someone without qualiÞ cations, even if she

was rich, could just walk in off the street and not only order her around,

but also initiate an avalanche of changes, like axing investigative pieces

and letting advertising impact the editorial content. Sure, they got more

funding from advertisers, but Velvet couldn’t stand running stories

that praised a product they were being paid to promote. That wasn’t

journalism. To top it all off, the advertisements Karen seemed to attract

were for cigarettes, beauty products, and weight-loss gimmicks—all paid

for by companies the magazine had originally refused to promote.

Velvet vowed to keep the magazine she’d helped start from

becoming everything she hated. Too broke to hire an attorney, she spoke

with a law school friend who said, in legalese, that she was screwed.

Her sweat-equity investment in Womyn meant nothing. Velvet felt like

• 46 •

BLIND CURVES

a 1950s-era housewife seeking a portion of her husband’s earnings in a

divorce. Her commitment to the magazine might be lauded, but it was

not to be rewarded, either Þ nancially or in editorial control. She had no

more power than any other hired staff member.

One day, after a particularly heated argument with Karen about the

magazine’s direction, Velvet took her case to Rosemary, appealing to

their friendship, and to logic and feminism, and a sense of justice. But

those values were no longer of concern to Rosemary, and she accused

Velvet of undermining Karen’s authority. In the politest, not-personal

manner Velvet could muster, she appealed to the one thing Rosemary

now prized: money. Risking her wrath, she detailed the ways in which

Karen’s presence cost the company cold hard cash: high staff turnover,

lost subscribers, offended writers, lowered industry respect.

Rosemary ß ew into a rage at the suggestion that Karen was less

than perfect. It was hard to tell what she was screaming because her voice

cracked and shrilled. Recognizing she’d sparked a powder keg, Velvet

quietly recommended that, in accordance with their employee contract,

they set aside the argument and appeal to an outside mediator.

Rosemary laughed. It wasn’t a pleasant laugh. She was so furious,

her hands shook, capillaries burst in her cheeks, and the vein in her

neck bulged. “You mean this?” She threw the contract at Velvet. “Ha.

It’s not legally binding.”

As Velvet stood stunned, her mouth agape, Rosemary began a

diatribe, claiming it was Velvet, not Karen, who’d been bad for the

company. That it was Velvet, not Rosemary, who’d ruined their

friendship, and that it was Rosemary, not Velvet, who’d created Womyn,

from initial conception through all the work in between. She topped off

her rant by repeatedly demanding, “Get out, bitch,” in rising decibels.

Back then, Velvet had shrunk from Rosemary’s irrational rage just

as she was now, huddled into the bricks and mortar of the Liberty Café.

She could remember the rest of that day’s events as if from a distance,

refusing to grant them the power to make her tremble with shock and

anger again. She had locked herself in a restroom stall to sob, and when

she’d Þ nally pulled herself together, she’d returned to her desk.

Karen had greeted her with a brusque but pleased, “You’re so

Þ red.”

Disbelieving, Velvet had wanted to hear it from Rosemary. She

got her wish as her former friend roughly escorted her to the door and

• 47 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

quite literally threw her out of the ofÞ ce and locked the door after her.

Shortly afterward, Karen had emerged and dropped a lidless Þ le box at

Velvet’s feet. It was her personal effects.

Like that wasn’t enough, Rosemary had then Þ led for an ofÞ cial

restraining order explicitly prohibiting Velvet from coming within Þ ve

hundred yards of the company that she’d helped build. It could take

battered wives months or even years to collect the evidence needed for

such an order, but the Finney legal team had made it happen in under

an hour.

If there is one thing that life has taught me repeatedly, it’s to know

when I’m beaten. The apt words had come to Velvet’s mind when she

was served, courtesy of Principal Skinner on The Simpsons. Unable

to Þ nd a way around the legal maneuvering of the Finney offense,

she’d been forced to give up her efforts to get partial custody—or even

visitation rights—of her beloved Womyn.

And here was Rosemary, standing in Liberty, blaming anyone but

herself for the demise of the magazine Velvet had considered her baby.

She could hardly believe her eyes when the irrational publisher yanked

the dessert menu from Marion’s hands, yelling, “You bitch. I knew you

were sneaking around trying to ruin me.”

Karen pulled on Rosemary’s shirtsleeve. “Let’s just go.”

Rosemary snatched her arm back and turned on Velvet, hissing,

“I should have known you’d be in on this.” In one smooth motion, she

reached onto the table, snatched someone’s water glass, and ß ung it at

Velvet.

Velvet saw the ß ash of movement and ducked just as the glass

sailed over her head and shattered against the wall. She felt something

like snowß akes on her face and reached up to brush aside the melting

water. Her Þ ngers came away streaked with blood. Flying glass had

nicked her face. Enraged by the injury and relieved at having escaped

worse—like a shard in her eye—Velvet sprang at Rosemary, yelling,

“You bitch!”

Karen already had one of Rosemary’s arms, and the gentleman

who’d gallantly been ready to offer Velvet the Heimlich was rushing

to grab the other one. As though having an out-of-body experience,

Velvet found herself inches from Rosemary’s face, not knowing how

she’d gotten there. It was almost as if she was watching herself from

somewhere high on Liberty’s walls. Suddenly she looked down and

was surprised to discover her hands were pressed against the exposed

• 48 •

BLIND CURVES

ß esh of Rosemary’s neck, her bright red nails barely visible against

Rosemary’s crimson skin. Although disturbed by her own desire to

throttle the woman, Velvet was pleased to see fear slowly wash over

Rosemary’s face, dousing the rage in her eyes. As though possessed

by the spirit of Homer Simpson with Rosemary standing in for the

disobedient Bart, Velvet’s hands began to close into a choke hold

around Rosemary’s neck.

Before she could constrict Rosemary’s breathing, Marion and

several interfering patrons tackled her, breaking her grip. As she

tumbled back under their combined weight, Velvet spat at the equally

engulfed Rosemary, “You come at me again and I’ll kill you. You got

that, bitch? I’ll fucking kill you!”

The words had barely escaped her before Velvet regretted saying

them.

Now, just days later and with the beneÞ t of hindsight, she was

petriÞ ed. At least thirty restaurant patrons could testify that she’d made

a death threat that night. The police weren’t stupid. Once they found out

she’d also driven to Woodside the morning of the homicide, they would

add two and two and in no time she’d be wearing an orange jumpsuit.

So yeah, she could not deny there had been moments when she

wanted to kill Rosemary Finney. But then, so, she speculated, had about

a third of the lesbians in San Francisco. Which one had done it? Who

Þ nally took the unsinkable Rosemary Finney down? When she found

out, would Velvet want to shake a murderer’s hand?

She stared at the mushroom-colored polyester-and-rayon walls of

her cubicle at the Chronicle and mentally rehearsed what she was going

to say to the defense attorney when she hired one. I’m innocent. Like

that would convince anyone.

• 49 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 50 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER FIVE

When Bud Williams rolled his wheelchair into the Mission

District Police Station where he’d spent most of his twenty

years on the force, none of the detectives looked at him. Oh, they

glanced up when the door opened, but once they realized it was him

their gazes plummeted to the ß oor and remained glued there for the

duration of his visit.

Some of their avoidance had to do with his current place of

employment. It wasn’t as adversarial as, say, becoming a defense

attorney or a prisoner rights advocate, but working for a PI Þ rm was

still sleeping with the enemy. However, in his case, their eyes had

begun avoiding Bud long before he took the job at Blind Eye Detective

Agency. It started when he was Þ rst out of the hospital and conÞ ned to

desk duty. He seemed to make the other detectives uncomfortable. His

physical presence had a way of clearing a room.

It hadn’t taken him long to Þ gure out the problem. His coworkers

were Þ lled with revulsion at his handicap because it reminded them of

their own frailties. He knew the feeling; he’d had it himself when a guy

was hurt on the job a few years back and condemned to limited duties.

Injury stalked cops around every corner, especially as they got older.

Disability was like Death’s younger brother and, like his sibling, he was

a mob boss you could avoid for a while, but eventually, he’d track you

down and break your legs.

Disability had a way of emasculating a man. Bud’s former

coworkers treated him like his weakness was contagious, and he’d

started to wonder whether these guys were really as strong as he’d

thought. Maybe they were hiding their shortcomings behind the shield.

• 51 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Maybe they’d all become cops to put distance between themselves and

their weaknesses or the powerlessness they’d felt as kids—the kind of

helplessness that Þ lls you with rage and the pure certainty that when

you’re a man you won’t take shit from anyone, not your old man or the

bully down the street. Only once you grow up, the bullies get bigger

and your father’s belittling voice is now in your head and you Þ nd

yourself searching for something to shield you from all of it.

Guys would come up, stare at the ß oor, and tell him how it sucked

that this happened. They never named the thing that had occurred,

never spoke the words “gunshot” or “disabled,” as if by verbalizing

those words they would jinx themselves. They’d simply tell Bud how

brave he was and how, if it was them, they just couldn’t do it. More

than one detective conÞ ded that their lives would be over if something

similar happened to them.

Bud recognized the inference. The manly response to such

castrating paralysis was to eat his gun. Only he’d had to turn in his

service weapon—the Glock 9mm semiautomatic beauty that had been

his faithful companion—when he became a desk jockey. One morning

after he’d been riding the desk for three months and it was obvious

he wasn’t going to get better, he opened his top drawer and found a

handgun resting comfortably on a stack of lined yellow paper pads. It

was an untraceable throwaway with its serial numbers Þ led off, a gift

from one of his brothers in blue. It didn’t come with instructions. It

didn’t have to. He knew all too well what was implied.

At home that night Bud found himself on high alert, almost

expecting one of his friends to show up and put a cap in his head from

a misguided sense of loyalty. The next day he called Human Resources

and asked about disability retirement. He was gone in two weeks. And

it was obvious that his old cronies would prefer it if he stayed away.

Which was why he didn’t bother speaking with them. He was at the

station house to chat with one of the new generation detectives, Chico

Hernandez, who Bud could see now, ducking down the hall toward the

restrooms.

Fuckin’ Chico. On one hand, the young detective was his major

source of information in the department, but on the other, Chico was a

thorn in Bud’s side, a constant reminder of everything Bud didn’t have.

He was the son Bud never had, and his father, Jesus Hernandez, Bud’s

former partner, was not only still walking around but still married, and

• 52 •

BLIND CURVES

still on the force. In fact, Jesus had gotten himself transferred to San

Jose years ago and now the bastard was that city’s ß ippin’ chief of

police. Bud remembered how happy it’d made him when he found out

that Chico was gay. It was such a relief. It sort of evened things out.

As he rolled his chair down the hall, he could see Chico crouching

down by the water fountain, his dark eyes darting back and forth like a

trapped rabbit’s. Damn, the guy was built. Bud remembered that joke

he’d heard about gay guys needing all those muscles to pin another

dude down—now that was funny. Course, Bud’s guns weren’t anything

to shake a stick at now that his arms powered him around. But his jeans

didn’t hide the fact that his legs were skinny stork sticks. That’s why

old Ironside had a blanket draped over his lap, Bud thought, recalling

the TV show from his younger days.

Chico Hernandez’s muscles rippled under the bright body-

hugging T-shirt he wore beneath a dark suit jacket, styling like that

American Idol sissy, Ryan Seacrest. The guy was lucky he worked in

San Francisco, where he could get away with that kind of casual shit.

Bud suspected that Chico wore tight jeans, too. He didn’t know for sure

because he kept his eyes above the belt, thank you very much, even

when that meant craning his neck. He hated the way the wheelchair

lowered his eye level, making it so he always had to go out of his way

to avoid staring at some guy’s package.

“What do you want?” Chico muttered.

“Good to see you too, Chico.”

“You know the guys razz me for talking to you.”

“They razz you? Poor baby. They razz me too. It’s really funny

being disabled.” Bud’s sarcasm didn’t get a rise out of the detective.

“…after that Reynolds case,” Chico continued. “Chief read me the

riot act about leaking information to a civilian.”

“Civilian?” Bud spat out the distasteful word. “Don’t insult me.

What’s the news on the peninsula murder? That editor chick?”

“That chick?” Chico sputtered angrily.

Bud smiled to himself. He loved to dick with politically correct

assholes.

“She’s—she was—” Chico persisted undaunted, “Rosemary

Finney.”

“She a friend of yours or something?”

“No, not a friend.” Chico sighed. “Acquaintance. But she’s very

• 53 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

well known in the local LGBT community. Her death is a big deal.

Everyone’s talking about it.”

Bud rolled his eyes. He didn’t get the younger generation’s

propensity for giving themselves all these complicated “identities” and

then turning around and shorting it all to an acronym. To Bud, B, L,

and T had nothing to do with queers and everything to do with a great

sandwich.

“Are they saying anything useful?” Bud asked.

“No, just speculation.”

“Oh really? And who do ‘they’ say might have done this?”

Chico shook his head. “Despite whatever stereotypes you might

have, Bud, I don’t base my investigations on rumor and gossip.”

Bud rolled his eyes under lowered lids. “What ever. What do you

know about it? How was she killed?”

“Sounds like she was strangled, but there’s no autopsy report

yet.”

Bud tried his luck. “I’d like to see that report when you have it.”

“What’s your interest?” Chico whispered suspiciously. “You just

got hired by the suspect or something?”

Bud shifted in his chair, trying to move closer. Years on the force

and endless hours at the gun range—most of it before they mandated

ear protection—had limited his hearing range. “Shit. There’s a suspect?

That was fast.” Bud tried a nonchalant shrug as he lied, “Just looking

into it for a friend of a friend. Who do you guys like for it?”

“Shh. You wanna get me in trouble?” Chico cast a furtive glance

down the hallway from where they spoke by the men’s room.

Bud wondered if Chico would feel more comfortable in the

bathroom. Maybe he was the kind of gay man who had sex in public

restrooms. Bud had always wondered about the attraction of glory

holes. He imagined sticking his dick through a hole in a bathroom stall

to be mouthed by a stranger. Okay, he could see the appeal. Like an

amputated arm, sometimes his dead penis fairly ached. What would

he do if he had it back? If he could get hard? If he could come? He’d

do anything, Bud thought. He’d do everything. He’d stick his dick in

every hottie that walked by. He wouldn’t waste all those years trying to

be monogamous. He’d be like one of those ball players who’d fucked a

thousand girls. Maybe he’d even try a glory hole.

It made him mad that he still thought of sex all the time, his

• 54 •

BLIND CURVES

brain making its own random connections even though he couldn’t do

anything about it physically. He felt like he was just getting hornier and

hornier as the years passed since that last time with his wife, and he had

no way to relieve it. Ever.

“There’s this journalist,” Chico was whispering. “Chief just got

off the horn with the San Mateo district attorney…”

The D-fuckin-A? The case was only Þ ve or six hours old. This

early in the game, having the DA involved could only mean one of two

things. And since they hadn’t found someone standing over the body

with a bloody knife, Bud was guessing that Rosemary Finney wasn’t

just a big shot in the gay community. She, or someone close to her, was

straight up connected.

“…at the Chronicle.”

“Wait. The Chronicle? Fuck me.” Bud shook his head. He hated

feeling played.

“Why?” Chico asked.

Bud spun his chair in a 180 and whispered, “I wasn’t here. You

didn’t see me.”

“Wait, I don’t get it. What did I just say?”

Bud ignored the young detective. He knew who their new client

was; there was only one person at the Chronicle that Yoshi would go all

out for. Velvet Erickson. Yoshi wanted to play this game? Not tell him

what was really going on? Fine. He could play too.

He was still contemplating exactly how he was going to show

Yoshi what a real detective was made of when she phoned him.

“What do you have so far?” None of the teasing pleasantries that

could make a guy feel good about himself. No. She was always about

business.

Bud was opening the Impala door. He let go of the handle and

said, “She was strangled.” He didn’t let on that he knew more than she

wanted him to know about who they might be working for.

“What else?”

“Hey, I’ve only been on it for a few hours.”

“I need to rule out a couple of persons of interest,” she said.

Bud rolled his eyes. “Shoot.”

“Rosemary Finney was trying to out an actress. Jennifer Garcia.

She just got engaged to Keith Ridger.”

“The actor, right?” Bud didn’t see a lot of movies. Ridger was in

• 55 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

a spy thriller last year wearing skintight spandex. The guy was always

primping and grooming himself. Meterosexual was just another word

for queer. “I thought he was gay.”

“I have no idea,” Yoshi said. “But I want to know if there is any

way they could be involved.”

That Þ gured. If Velvet had gotten her ass in trouble, Yoshi would

be looking to point the cops in another direction. “I’ll talk to them,” he

said, like it would be no problem to get past security and lawyers and

ask a couple of celebs if they killed a woman for calling them queers.

“Let me know as soon as you have anything,” Yoshi said.

Before Bud could answer, she’d hung up. He tossed the phone into

the car and fought his way in after it. He would get around to talking to

the celebrity couple when he was good and ready. But Þ rst he needed

to Þ nd out a whole lot more about the crime. Real detectives got their

facts together before interviewing anyone.

v

When Blind Eye’s round wall clock held its hands straight up

like a robbery victim, Tucker poked her head into Yoshi’s ofÞ ce. “I’m

heading out to lunch now,” she said. “I’ll be going all the way out to

Oakland and back, to get that cop AJ’s contact information. So it’ll take

a while. I’ll try to get back by three.”

Yoshi’s dark hair brushed over her shoulders as her head bobbed

in assent. “Of course. Thanks for reminding me. I will see you when

you return.”

“Great,” Tucker replied, then immediately berated herself as she

closed Yoshi’s door. Great? What an idiot. Why couldn’t she be more

eloquent when speaking to Yoshi?

Tucker pulled the suit jacket from the coat tree’s branches and

slid her arms into its well-worn interior. She’d bought it during college

and it quickly became her favorite, and not just because she thought

it looked cool. Tucker loved that in addition to the external pockets,

the inner lining had numerous cubbies for her daily essentials. She’d

never been one to carry a purse. But she did like being able to carry her

overnight needs, in case she had a hookup, without always having to

lug around her bulky backpack.

She exited the Flood Building onto Market Street and was

immediately engulfed by the lunch-going business crowd. She battled

to keep her feet and struggled to get up to speed before being trampled.

• 56 •

BLIND CURVES

Tucker was still learning how to let go and allow the herd to carry

her along with their momentum. She feared she’d end up somewhere

unexpected, like deep in the Tenderloin, and get stuck there while the

rest of the mob slid by.

Fighting her way down the stairway that descended to the Bay

Area Rapid Transit subway station, Tucker reminded herself that she

liked working at Blind Eye. Without the repetition, she didn’t think she

could continue subjecting herself to this psychological torture. She was

used to the wide open spaces of Idaho, where the only thing to block

her view were mountains and where other people were more likely to

avoid her than press up against her. With the crowd jostling her and their

closeness robbing her of air, her olfactory senses overwhelmed by the

pungent odor of sweat and perfume, she could Þ nd herself panicking.

BART rides were the worst part of her day. To get through them,

she closed her eyes and pretended that she wasn’t trapped in a sardine

can which itself was trapped inside a tubelike tunnel that ran beneath

the San Francisco Bay. What if the train broke down? What if the tunnel

gave way? Her shrink had her meditate through much of the ride, a

habit that Tucker credited with making her appear a much more normal

person than she felt inside.

“Normal” had been a label thrown around during her childhood,

and she bore the burden of being the only ordinary kid in the family.

Well, until she came out, anyway. Then her mother sobbed, “I just

wanted one normal child, but I guess that was too much to ask.”

Tucker had never felt normal, though. She felt like the girl in that

Ferron song, “White Wing Mercy,” the one that talks about fearing her

family will realize she’s crazy and lock her away. That’d been one of

her childhood fears, that one day they’d discover she was even sicker

than her siblings and she’d be sent away. Like her mom had talked

about doing with Tucker’s little brother, Hunter. When he was Þ rst born

and the doctors said he’d never be normal and they might as well just

send him to an institution right then.

After her Þ rst introduction to San Francisco’s downtown, Tucker

had vowed she would avoid the area in the future. All those people

pressed together like feedlot cattle. All those tall buildings blocking

out the sun, making you feel like you were at the bottom of the Grand

Canyon. All the scary homeless junkies and prostitutes. But then the

temp agency she worked for sent her to Blind Eye and she’d never

wanted to leave.

• 57 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

When Yoshi offered her a full-time position, Tucker hadn’t

hesitated in accepting. She felt at home at the ofÞ ce after a mere two

days. Bud came off gruff and everything, but she’d grown up around

opinionated, brusque rednecks and it put her at ease. Bud reminded

Tucker of her dad, her real dad, not the stepfather she’d lived with since

she was eight. Tucker’s father was strict and never said I love you, but

he’d showed his affection for her with nighttime games of catch and by

inviting her to Þ x cars with him on the weekends.

Even though she’d never mention it, she knew another reason she’d

taken the job was because both Yoshi and Bud were differently abled.

She’d seen how the world dumped on the disabled and she wanted to

feel like maybe she was making some small difference.

As the train thundered the rest of the way through the Bay tunnel,

Tucker ate her sack lunch of white bread egg salad sandwich and a

ziplock bag of potato chips. She exited at the Lake Merritt station and

walked the three blocks to Oakland’s Chinatown.

Despite the glowing descriptions that policewoman AJ Jackson

had written her grandmother, Miss Latisha, Tucker hadn’t taken easy to

Oakland. Maybe for lifelong New Orleans residents like AJ, Oakland

was a great city. When Tucker had read AJ’s letters to Miss Latisha in

the candlelit darkness of Katrina-torn New Orleans, the San Francisco

Bay Area had seemed like a faraway mecca where everything was

possible. If she’d been home, instead of volunteering in a hurricane war

zone, AJ’s imagery might have held little interest and Tucker wouldn’t

have moved here at all.

As it was, she’d managed to retain her sanity only by orchestrating

her life so that much of it was spent within walking distance of the

Lake Merritt BART station. On weekends, she languished at the

lakeside park, watching Italian gondolas cruise across the dark agate

and puce water, kids in paddleboats tossing about with laughter, and

California brown pelicans cawing and diving for Þ sh in the middle of

this indisputably urban area. Sometimes Tucker watched the Ladies of

the Lake, a women’s sail club that she found out started in 1916, as the

gray-haired old birds glided across the lake buoyed by their shared love

of water.

And though nighttime adrenaline-fueled sideshows had become

a nuisance to the police, Tucker was oddly compelled by the mostly

African American young folks who gathered in parking lots and city

• 58 •

BLIND CURVES

streets to play music, show off their cars, and do vehicular stunts. She’d

been to a few, even though she hung back behind the crowd. Although

they had a wholly hip-hop, Oakland feel to them, the sideshows

reminded her of cruising back when she was in high school.

Tucker’s tiny apartment smelled a little like the damp earth of

planting season back home. She leased it from the Johnsons, an amiable

old black couple who happened to be Miss Latisha’s nephew and his

wife. The Johnsons seemed to genuinely love having a wannabe PI

under their roof. They kept inviting her to dinner and Mrs. Johnson

often packed Tucker lunches in brown bags with her name scrawled on

the front in marker and left on the kitchen counter. Tucker had her own

toilet downstairs but shared the family’s upstairs shower and kitchen

area.

AJ’s phone number was on a scrap of paper at the bottom of the

cardboard box that served as Tucker’s underwear drawer. Tucker was

too embarrassed to tell Yoshi that in addition to not having a Palm Pilot,

a cell phone, or even a planner, she didn’t have her own landline. She

was still living like she was in college—quite the opposite of AJ, who

was only a few years older than her.

Miss Latisha had given her AJ’s number and told Tucker to call her

when she got to Oakland. When Tucker didn’t get to it on her own, the

Johnsons had invited both women for dinner and Tucker had taken an

instant shine to the dyke cop from New Orleans. AJ was strong, smart,

butch, and working class—all things that immediately put Tucker at

ease. Though they were merely years apart in age, Tucker looked up to

her and felt like she wanted to be AJ when she grew up.

• 59 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 60 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER SIX

OfÞ cer Angela Joy “AJ” Jackson gazed out over the still waters

of the San Francisco Bay. God, she missed New Orleans. If

she squinted her eyes just so, she could almost fool herself into thinking

she was on the shores of Lake Pontchartrain and that the distant San

Mateo Bridge, spanning the Bay and leading back to her stuffy East

Bay studio apartment, was instead the Lake Pontchartrain Causeway.

There were echoes of her hometown in the geography of the San

Francisco Bay, but not in the land itself. In New Orleans, if you went up

the elevator in one of the higher downtown buildings, nothing blocked

your view and you could see forever. But not here. Before she came

out West, the only hill she’d ever seen was when her grade school class

took a Þ eld trip to the Audubon Zoo. They’d taken turns playing on

Monkey Hill, the bare dirt hill built by the WPA during the Depression,

which still towered eight feet above sea level. Their teacher read a brass

marker about how the mound was built so that the kids of New Orleans

could know what a hill was.

The mountains that rose on all sides of her now were something

like three hundred times as high as Monkey Hill, and they made her feel

trapped with no way out.

The abandoned vehicle parked next to her, wheels gone, windows

shattered, and sprayed with grafÞ ti, lent another degree of authenticity

to AJ’s New Orleans fantasy. It was this vehicle, AJ was pretty

sure—along with the smell of salt water drifting through her rolled-

up windows—that had got her homesick again. She’d been in the Bay

Area ten long months, and still the smell of café au lait and beignets

lingered in her nostrils like she was standing in Jackson Square right

this very moment.

• 61 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Goddamn, she missed her hometown food. Her mouth watered

at the thought of fried chicken and spicy red beans and rice. Thank

God she’d recently discovered a Popeye’s Chicken joint in Hayward.

But not on the Peninsula. And there wasn’t no frozen daiquiri drive-

throughs or breakfast joints serving grits. And she’d kill for a pot full

of red mudbugs boiled in Tony Chachere’s Creole spice. Instead, East

Palo Alto offered up only fast food chains and a few Mexican cantinas.

Venturing farther aÞ eld she could get a diet of greens that the locals

called California cuisine. After a lifetime of heavy sauces and spicy

dishes, California cuisine—especially the strange obsession with

adding avocado to everything—felt like grazing on the area’s green

grasses and weeds. Every salad she ate reminded AJ that she wasn’t a

fucking cow or whatever naturally ate that kind of crap.

With a sigh, she reached into the small paper bag next to her and

pulled out a cylinder bound tightly in tin foil. Slowly unwrapping the

super-sized burrito she’d gotten from a nearby taqueria, AJ glanced

toward the potholed city street that led to the dirt parking lot. Fifteen

minutes ago, dispatch had radioed asking her to meet a Midpeninsula

Open Space ranger at the Ravenswood parking area. The guy hadn’t

shown, then she got another call telling her to make the meeting

tomorrow instead, so it seemed like common sense to eat her lunch

now that it was almost two in the afternoon.

Refrains of Crazy Town’s hip-hop tune “Butterß y” wafted through

the air, reminding AJ of the one that got away. She sang along, thinking

of Chantal, the way her perspiration would pool on the small of her

back and moisten her round ass while they were dancing together,

barely touching in all the right places, at the Rubyfruit on a rare night

when hip-hop brought the city’s black dykes to the white bar. That was

before the hurricane, and before Chantal broke her heart.

AJ’s mind wandered until the song went away and came back again

and she remembered it was the ring tone on her cell phone. She made

a mental note: change ring tone to a New Orleans rapper like Juvenile

and kill two birds with one stone. She remembered her high school

music teacher telling students that both jazz and hip-hop originated

in her hometown. He was a brother from New York and he’d falsely

assumed that the teens didn’t know that fact. But they had, they’d all

known since they was younguns that their favorite music style started

on the same streets they played in. There was something rewarding

about the overlooked city spawning a global phenomenon.

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BLIND CURVES

She swallowed the bite of burrito, washing it down with a swig

of Coke, then answered the phone. People here told her she’d lose the

unmistakable drawl of the South after living in the Bay Area for a few

years, but AJ wasn’t sure she wanted to lose what she considered the

ofÞ cial vernacular of the African American nation. She wasn’t even

sure she wanted to stay here that long. She’d only planned to be away

until New Orleans was resuscitated, and the police department did

some damn housecleaning.

“Hi, AJ?” the voice on the other end of the phone asked.

“Yeah, who’s that?” She knew from the pause at the other end that

her response sounded like “who dat?” In the dialect of Louisiana, “dat”

was often used for “is that,” and though her new colleagues found her

use of it confusing, the habit was hard to break.

“Tucker Shade. You know…”

Ah, the cute little white girl that was staying with AJ’s cousins

over in Oakland, the one Grandma Latisha thought so highly of. Before

Tucker arrived in town, AJ had gotten instructions to be nice to her.

“Hey, Tucker.”

“I’m not bothering you, am I?”

“Naw, I’m on lunch.”

“Oh, good. Hey, the reason I’m calling is, well, I don’t know if I

told you that I work for a private investigator?”

“Yeah, you did.” Over dinner at the cousins’, AJ had thought the

two of them would converse about law enforcement and investigation,

but it turned out the Shade girl was just the receptionist.

“Well, we got this case, it’s down in your area, actually in the

woods near Woodside, but I thought maybe with you being with Palo

Alto PD…”

“East Palo Alto,” AJ corrected.

“Wait, what’s the difference?”

AJ laughed. “Girl, it don’t get much different than that! I’ve only

been here six months and even I be knowin’ that.”

“Oh.” Tucker sounded embarrassed. “I’ve never been south of San

Francisco. Can you explain it to me?”

“Sure ’nough. It be like the diff’ between Audubon Place and

Ninth Ward,” AJ explained, using New Orleans’s points of reference.

“I never saw New Orleans before Katrina. And everywhere I went

looked pretty much the same. Flattened rubble. I don’t think I even got

uptown, just to the Ninth Ward and East New Orleans.”

• 63 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Hmm. Okay, Palo Alto. That where Stanford University be? Like

there ain’t no crime. Just richy-rich white folk with mad cribs, clean

streets, and snobby restaurants you got to dress up for.”

“Oh, okay.”

“East Palo Alto. That where I’m at, and we got ourselves high

murder rates and full-up crooked police shit.”

“Like New Orleans used to be?”

“Yeah, some. NOPD get a bad rap but it ain’t all bad.” Or at least it

wasn’t, AJ thought. “East Palo Alto’s like East LA, or some shit. Latino

ghetto with turf wars between rival gangs and—” AJ cut herself off. She

could mention the problems she’d had since she joined the EPA PD, but

she’d been burned before. She didn’t know this kid well enough to trust

her with the details.

“You really work for your money.” Tucker sounded deß ated. “I

was hoping maybe…I mean,…”

“So spill. What’s your business up in here?”

This seemed to raise Tucker’s spirits and the younger woman

quickly relayed what she knew, which was not a whole lot, about the

murder of some rich white lady. A murder that would no doubt get

priority and resources because of the victim’s money and the color of

her skin.

AJ wanted to care but her ability to trouble herself over someone

who wasn’t black had been washed away by the New Orleans ß ood,

when she saw bloated bodies rotting in the streets and her people

Þ ghting for their lives while the fucking politicians acted like it wasn’t

happening. Those bastards in Washington DC had watched New

Orleans drown. They’d known exactly what it would take to save the

city and they hadn’t just failed to provide it, they’d decided to withhold

it. They wanted the city to die. After all, what was New Orleans to the

Republican Party? A bunch of black folk?

They think we nothing but murderers and hos. And they talk like

N’awlins the modern-day Sodom and Gomorrah. President Bush and

his redneck cronies probably done watched us on TV, holding babies

in the air and begging for water, and they probably laughed, clappin’

themselves on the back for a job well done, then gave the order to blow

the levees and drown the Ninth Ward.

She didn’t give a shit ’bout no dead white girl.

“That park. What’s it called?” AJ asked, driven partly by guilt

at her own lack of interest. Tucker’d been a godsend for her grammy

• 64 •

BLIND CURVES

Latisha, and AJ’s manners demanded that, in return, she help the girl

out.

A pause. “Wonderland. It’s in Woodside.”

“Well, I might be able to help y’all,” AJ said. “I’m supposed to

take a meeting with this ranger here tomorrow. I’ll let y’all know what

I Þ nd.”

v

When Velvet saw the uniformed ofÞ cers exit the elevator to

the Chronicle’s second-ß oor editorial department, she thought about

running.

Everybody runs. Tom Cruise said it in Minority Report. Velvet

was most aware of her movie-junkie habits at times like this, when

lines from Þ lms popped into her head. Like the running commentary

of a voice-over, she’d think in dialogue borrowed from cult B-movie

favorites, highbrow independents, lowest-common-denominator

blockbusters, Oscar winners, and even obtuse foreign ß icks.

She experienced her motion-picture obsession as a brand of

collector’s madness. Like fanatical Beanie Baby owners’ the world

over, her passion spilled from one room to the next until it threatened to

engulf her entire home. Her living room housed three ß oor-to-ceiling

shelves packed tight with DVDs carefully arranged in alphabetical

order by title. Rather than displaying Þ ne art, the hallway and bedroom

walls were devoted to her extensive collection of movie posters. As

her own private curator, Velvet regularly rotated compilations through

the framed and lighted displays. Currently showing were the reÞ ned

works of Polish artists who individually hand-designed movie posters

for American classics including Taxi Driver, Sunset Boulevard, and The

Fly.

Velvet tried not to stare conspicuously at the two cops loitering by

the cubicle nearest the elevator. Ever helpful, Rachel Heinz stood up

and pointed in Velvet’s direction. Moron. Why was it that the girl could

barely remember her name on most occasions but today could pinpoint

her location from Þ fty yards? How did Neo escape from his cubicle

ofÞ ce? Oh, right. The Matrix hero didn’t; he climbed out the window

but got scared on the ledge. Wuss. Of course she couldn’t go around

clinging to window ledges. It had nothing to do with her fear of heights.

She just didn’t want anyone looking up her skirt. The skirt—Velvet

• 65 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

thought of that cute, sexually harassed secretary in Bridget Jones—was

also the reason she couldn’t crawl out of her cubicle hoping that her

proÞ le was low enough to avoid detection.

“Velvet Erickson?” The two cops blocked the mouth of her

shoebox stall, one in front, and the other back a little to the right.

Velvet sighed. She should have taken Yoshi’s advice and hired a

lawyer. From her seated position, her eyes were level with the ofÞ cers’

black leather duty belts. One, a woman, produced a pair of handcuffs.

For one brief, glorious second Velvet thrilled at the erotic trappings:

leather, cuffs, and uniforms. Then she remembered where she was.

“Turn around, please, miss,” the other cop, a man, commanded

grufß y.

Velvet’s titillation was quickly replaced by mortiÞ cation. “You

don’t have to cuff me, I’ll come willingly.”

“Please turn around,” the cop repeated, ignoring her plea.

Velvet reluctantly turned her back to them. Her right arm was

yanked roughly behind her and the cold metal snapped around her

wrist.

“Velvet Erickson.” The policewoman was equally ofÞ cious. “You

are under arrest for the murder of Rosemary Finney. You have the right

to remain silent.”

Velvet’s left arm was wrenched back and secured. Grabbing the

link between the two metal bracelets, the female ofÞ cer propelled her

out of the privacy of her cubicle and into full view of the hallway. The

perp walk is supposed to happen at the courthouse, Velvet thought, her

cheeks ß ushing. Lights ß ashed as one of her enterprising coworkers

snapped photos.

“You have the right to an attorney.”

Velvet’s workplace march of shame seemed to last a lifetime. She

focused on the threadbare charcoal gray carpet in front of her, trying to

ignore her gawking colleagues.

“If you cannot afford an attorney…”

Finally, they were at the elevator. Velvet thought about pushing

the call button with her nose, just to hurry things up.

“One will be appointed for you.” The cop stopped her recitation as

she pressed the button. The doors slid open immediately.

Thank God. Velvet hurriedly entered and sighed in relief when

the door closed behind them. As the elevator drifted down and the

• 66 •

BLIND CURVES

ofÞ cer concluded reading her rights, Velvet swore she could still feel

her coworkers’ eyes on her. At least some of the startled onlookers

wouldn’t be disappointed to witness her humiliation. A handful of

seasoned old newsmen thought a former magazine editor had no place

in the Chronicle’s newsroom.

• 67 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 68 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was after three p.m. when Bud pulled his Impala into the gravel

California Transportation Park-and-Ride turnout across from

Crystal Springs Reservoir. The man-made lake stored drinking water

for San Francisco residents. It was fed by local runoff and the long

system of pipes that stretched all the way across California’s Central

Valley to Yosemite National Park, and siphoned Lake Hetch Hetchy.

Like many local residents, Bud had been here as a kid on a school

Þ eld trip. He didn’t remember much about Crystal Springs, except that

it sat directly on the San Andreas Fault and as a kid he’d imagined the

ground opening up and the whole lake draining like a bathtub. Most of

the land around the reservoir was a protected refuge closed to everyone

but a handful of water tenders and political bigwigs. Bud had read a

newspaper article a few years back that said the water district rangers

made, like, seventy-thousand dollars a year, lived in fancy lakeside

houses, and hosted big-shot guests like former San Francisco Mayor

Willie Brown and Senator Diane Feinstein.

Fucking snobs. The place should be turned into a recreation area.

He wouldn’t mind buzzing around on his Jet Ski out here on the rare

occasions he still got to play like a big kid. There was something so

freeing about being on the water. He could almost forget about his

crippled legs. But now he had to haul the thing all the way to Nevada

to have any fun. Damn environmentalists had outlawed Jet Skis on the

bay and local waterways. Bastards.

Bud pulled alongside Sheriff Deputy Roy Freeman’s patrol car,

so each faced the opposite direction, front end to rear and vice versa.

This automotive sixty-nine allowed two drivers to speak through open

• 69 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

windows without leaving their seats. It was a classic law enforcement

meeting style in San Francisco Bay’s smaller cities and rural areas. He

unrolled his window and stuck his arm out into the space between the

cars. “Hi, I’m 16D5, Bud Williams, retired detective,” he offered as he

saw Deputy Freeman suspiciously eying the unmarked vehicle.

Bud had a Motorola 2 wave radio system that allowed him to

scan local emergency trafÞ c and speak directly to personnel when he

needed to. Most dispatchers would quickly sniff out amateur users and

remind them that radio trafÞ c was reserved for ofÞ cial and emergency

business. But if you knew the lingo, especially if you were previously a

law enforcement ofÞ cer yourself, you could slide under the dispatch’s

radar. So Bud had simply asked to get a 10-87, a meeting, with the

deputy involved in that morning’s 10-55—coroner’s case, a.k.a. dead

body. When asked who he was, he used his old radio call sign, SFPD

16D5.

“You’re here about the murder at Wonderland?” Deputy Freeman

asked.

Bud nodded.

“What’s your interest in the case?”

“I’m with Blind Eye Detectives. We were hired to Þ nd the killer.”

Bud kept his answer vague, allowing the deputy to assume Blind Eye

was there at the behest of grieving family.

“That’s a shame,” Deputy Freeman commented while shaking his

head. “Nobody trusts us to do our job anymore.”

“I hear you,” Bud empathized.

“I mean, what is it, only half a day since time of death and the

DB’s family’s already hired a PI? No offense to you, but you know, I

think Woodside PD is already gunning for someone. They might just

wrap this up before you even get started.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Bud affected surprise.

“Those Woodside boys work fast.” Freeman winked at Bud,

indicating he didn’t chalk their speed up to brilliance. “Guess when you

have your Þ rst murder in twenty-Þ ve years, you’ve got to act speedily,

else all those rich residents wouldn’t feel safe.” He pulled a soft pack of

Marlboro Reds from a breast pocket. “Your being here’s proof they’re

right.”

“You think there’s rushed judgment going on?” Bud asked.

Freeman tapped the cigarette pack against the dashboard. “Could

• 70 •

BLIND CURVES

be. Could well be. Like I said, I’m betting there was a lot of pressure on

someone to wrap this up and quick.”

“Pressure,” Bud echoed, thinking about Yoshi’s persons of interest,

the queer celebs.

“You know how it is.” Freeman looked like he had a bad taste in

his mouth. “There’s rules for us, then there’s rules for them.”

“I hear you.” Bud nodded. “Who was Þ rst on scene? Woodside?”

“No. One of those Midpen rangers. It came in as a medical call

Þ rst.”

“Midpen?” Bud wasn’t familiar with the name.

“Midpeninsula Open Space, something like that. They’ve got

these parks all along Highway 35, up on the hill.” Deputy Freeman

pointed past the reservoir to the winding road that disappeared into the

tree-shrouded Santa Cruz Mountains. “But they call ’em preserves, not

parks. Being all wooded and such. Then they got some land down south

near Cupertino.”

Deputy Freeman reached out of his window, holding the Marlboros

out to Bud. The pack was open and one Þ ltered end stuck up, begging to

be accepted. Bud shook off the proffered cancer stick. “Gave it up.”

It was technically true. He didn’t smoke cigarettes anymore, not

since he left the force. Now he had a pipe in the glove compartment

and a little packet of sweet-smelling tobacco leaves. You had to have

something to do on stakeout. There was only so much time you could

spend consuming snacks and reading the Chronicle sports section. Still,

it seemed a little weird for someone his age and a law ofÞ cer to boot,

so he kept it tucked away.

He blamed Tucker Shade for its presence, actually. He’d scrawled

something in his notes one day about needing a smoke, or maybe he’d

doodled lit cigarettes. Anyway, Tucker shoved a package at him one

morning and stuttered something about how it belonged to her dad and

she thought he might like it. She was always trying too hard in that

way, doing stuff for people like some desperate little kid hoping for

friends. She went bright red as usual and babbled on about buying a

new mouthpiece. The whole time Bud didn’t know what the hell she

was talking about.

Later he’d cracked open the small rectangular box and found a

beautifully hand-carved cherry-colored pipe and a pouch of scented

tobacco. It looked like something a dweebish college professor would

• 71 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

have hanging from the side of his mouth. Bud had shoved it back in the

box and tossed it on the ß oor. He wasn’t that guy.

A few days later when he was ready to scream in boredom and

had another nicotine craving, he remembered the pipe, packed the bowl

with tobacco, and lit up. He’d been surprised to Þ nd that he actually

liked the pleasant aroma, the sensation of the pipe between his lips, and

the sweet smoke curling in his mouth.

“So the rangers were already there?” he commented. “I thought it

was really early. Before dawn.”

“Yep, that’s right.” Deputy Freeman mumbled past the cigarette

in his mouth.

“They’ve got rangers on around the clock?” Bud was impressed.

Most park and open space systems couldn’t afford twenty-four-hour

patrols.

“Nothing like that.” Deputy Freeman ß icked open a Zippo and

lit up. “It’s just that some of those rangers, they live on the hill. I

guess they’re on call 24/7.” His exhaled smoke drifted through Bud’s

window.

“Got it. So, when did you arrive on scene?”

“I didn’t head up there until they called for the coroner,” Freeman

admitted sheepishly. “We don’t get a lot of murders up there. Just the

occasional body dump. You know, someone gets killed over drugs or

something and the perp wants to ditch the evidence. They Þ gure the

best place to unload it is in the woods.”

Bud nodded absentmindedly. Watching the other guy smoke was

giving him cravings of his own, but he didn’t dare pull out his pipe. He

couldn’t risk losing the deputy’s respect. Not yet.

“’Course, sometimes you get lucky. Like a few years back when

that Palo Alto student went missing?” Freeman looked at Bud for

conÞ rmation.

Bud nodded. He remembered the story. It made headline news

because she was a Stanford student. She’d supposedly been biking over

the mountain to the ocean, and just disappeared. It came on the heels of

several high-proÞ le abduction cases.

“We had search parties all over the woods up there at the time

because we were following up on a tip. Some chick sold out her

boyfriend to get out of a drug charge. Supposedly, he killed another

female and the two of them drove up there and dumped the body.”

• 72 •

BLIND CURVES

A radio squawked inside the patrol car. Deputy Freeman stopped

to listen, took another inhalation, and continued, smoke curling out of

his mouth like a dragon. “We brought that broad up there two days in

a row but she couldn’t pinpoint the spot, then those Stanford kids trip

right over it. It was pretty decomped by then and I guess they thought

it was their missing friend. Shit, she’d only been gone a week. How’d

they think she’d rotted away so fast? I guess those Stanford kids aren’t

so damn smart after all.”

“I thought the Stanford girl was found.”

Freeman took a last puff on his Marlboro and then crushed it out

in his ashtray. “Yeah. She killed herself up in a park near Palo Alto. One

of the rangers found her swinging from a tree. That’s what we always

say when we’re doing searches up there—don’t just look at the ground.

Look up. Look for the swingin’ feet.” He laughed.

Bud smiled. He missed the gallows humor of the force, but he

needed to lead the deputy back to the subject of today’s murder. “Did

you go down to where this DB was found? The Finney chick?”

“And hump all the way back up the hill? The EMS team probably

trampled the evidence anyway, so no point. I just took a statement from

the reporting party and checked the jurisdiction with the Þ re chief. It’s

Woodside’s case and no one’s stepping on those toes nohow.”

Bud knew what he was saying. Woodside had a reputation. With

some cities, good working relations applied and ofÞ cers on the scene

could investigate until the detectives showed. But others, like Woodside,

once jurisdiction was conÞ rmed, ofÞ cers just secured the scene until

they arrived. He thanked Freeman and stayed where he was until the

deputy drove away. If Woodside PD was already gunning for someone,

did that mean they actually had something on Velvet Erickson? Could

that loudmouthed bombshell actually be guilty?

Bud needed to speak with the Þ rst respondents—these

Midpeninsula rangers Freeman mentioned. He could hardly wait to Þ nd

out what Woodside had on her.

Following directions given him by Deputy Freeman, he drove up

Highway 92, rising with the twisting road until it peaked high above

Silicon Valley. When he turned onto Highway 35, the vantage point

gave Bud a panoramic view, with the bay on one side and the PaciÞ c

Ocean on the other, stretching toward the horizon and disappearing at

the curve of the earth. He didn’t pull over to enjoy the view. Soon the

• 73 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

narrow highway dipped into the cover of trees—burnt orange trunks,

crammed next to looming evergreens. His perspective disoriented by

all the foliage, Bud began to feel like he’d never see daylight again.

Although the afternoon sun was shining brightly in the valley

below, up here under the branches of tall redwoods it was drizzling.

It took him a few minutes to realize that the beads of water on his

windshield weren’t raindrops. It was the fog. Of course he was familiar

with fog. He lived in San Francisco, after all, but he’d never before seen

it drench an area so completely. It was almost like the tall trees were

pulling the water from the sky, as though they’d pierced a cloud and

caused it to rain.

As he continued along, the fog drifted down until it enveloped his

Impala in a ghostly haze. His tires losing their grip on wet pavement

and the glare of the fog reducing visibility, Bud was forced to slow to a

snail’s pace. He was so irritated by the sluggish momentum that when he

saw a pullout to his left, he swerved into it, even though a sign warned

him not to. Darting in front of oncoming trafÞ c sent his heart racing. He

parked near two outdoor crappers, unrolled his window and retrieved

his pipe from the glove compartment. He unfurled the little Baggie of

tobacco, took a pinch out, and packed it in the bowl. Holding the pipe

in his left hand, with the other he dug in his right pocket, shifting in his

seat until his Þ ngers closed around cold metal. He extracted the Zippo,

ß icked it open, and, sucking on the mouthpiece, lit the pipe’s tobacco.

As the cool damp air wafted through his window and the sweet

smoke curled up his nose, Bud began to relax. After he smoked the

bowl, he tapped the ashes out of the open window. While he was here,

he decided he might as well take advantage of the porta-potty. Who

knew when he’d get a chance to piss again. He unlocked his seat belt,

opened the car door, and swung his hips sideways. The move dragged

his feet across the ß oorboard but didn’t get them outside. To do that, he

lifted each immobile leg in turn, using his arms to drop them when his

feet were over pavement.

He opened the rear door, gripped the top with both hands, and,

with a grunt, lifted his whole body from the edge of the seat and swung

himself around like a trapeze artist. Swiftly following his body with

one hand and then the other changing positions on the door frame, Bud

was able to land his butt cheeks onto the edge of the backseat.

A little winded by the relocation effort, he swore at his weak-ass

• 74 •

BLIND CURVES

body and sat there for a minute, regaining his strength. Then he jerked

the wheelchair from its position, swung it in front of himself, and

folded it open. He ß ipped the lock on the wheels so the chair wouldn’t

roll away and hoisted himself onto the padded seat. He released the

brake, rolled back, and slammed the Impala’s doors closed. He didn’t

lock the car but he took his keys with him. If some asshole ripped off

his gear despite his handicap placard, he’d hunt them down and beat

the hell out of them.

Rolling into the disabled pod, he thought how it was shaped like

the transportation device in The Fly. He wouldn’t mind being able to

teleport on days like this.

When he was done and rolled back out to the parking lot,

he discovered a vehicle had arrived while he was busy. Two young

men stood next to a metallic green two-door Mazda removing mountain

bikes from a rack on the vehicle’s trunk. They wore tight spandex,

matching yellow and blue jerseys, and shorts so revealing that when they

turned toward him, Bud swore he could tell the men were circumcised.

He snapped his gaze away from them and rolled toward his Impala.

Just as he was starting to open the door, he noticed a sign posted at the

other end of the lot, barely visible through the fog. Although he didn’t

give a shit about rules or educational material it might pronounce, he

was curious about where exactly he was, so he took a moment to Þ nd

out.

The plaque described the turn out as Skeggs Point Overlook, and

indicated that beyond the heavy layer of fog, Silicon Valley stretched

out below. If you had a zoom lens, you’d not only be able to locate

larger landmarks like the Stanford University’s giant telescopic dish

but also correctly identify a coed’s bra size. He made this last part up

because a close-up of a scantily dressed college girl was about the only

thing that would make the excruciating drive up here worthwhile.

The two bike riders whizzed past him and darted across the highway

where they were swallowed by the fog. He hoped they’d be blinded by

the haze and ride off a cliff. It didn’t seem right that these punks could

be up here in the middle of the day ß aunting their mobility. He’d been

like them once, so sure of his invincibility. They probably had no idea

how tenuous their hold on physical abilities could be, having been hurt

and healed a hundred times. Then something as benign as a rock in the

trail could send them ß ying over their handlebars and break their neck.

• 75 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

He didn’t wish paralysis on anyone. Just a broken arm or fractured

collarbone.

It took him several minutes to get back to the Impala and cram

himself and his chair into their respective spots, and he exited the

overlook the way he’d come in. He hadn’t driven more than thirty

or forty seconds when he spotted a row of mailboxes that had been

invisible through the mist until he was almost parallel to them. He

braked hard and veered off the road. He was glad that the sheriff had

given him directions or he would’ve driven right past the spot.

In his rearview Bud could see the yellow call box that the witness

had used to call for help that morning. Across the two-lane highway

was an entrance to the Wonderland Park. This was sandwiched between

two roads that came at opposite angles and intersected with Skyline

Boulevard, leaving a small strip of undeveloped land in between that

was the upper corner of the park. Although he could see the sign for

Bear Gulch, the roadbed itself wasn’t visible from his vantage point as

it apparently dove sharply down to the left. The second road, marked

Mountain Meadow, inclined up to the right.

Bud sifted through the debris on his bench seat until he located

his cell phone. He’d been putting off calling the Blind Eye ofÞ ce but he

Þ gured that by now the police would be questioning Velvet and Yoshi

was probably on tenterhooks, wondering what was going on.

Bud chuckled to himself as he watched the image displayed on the

LCD spool endlessly, searching for service. Unsuccessfully. Probably

could have guessed he wouldn’t get a signal up here in the cover of the

forest. He shrugged. Oh well, let Yoshi get mad when he didn’t check

in. He was pissed at her anyway because she hadn’t told him of Velvet’s

involvement in this case.

Still, he did like Þ ery women, and on Yoshi that Þ erceness seemed

particularly hot, contrasting as it did with her cool Japanese reÞ nement.

First glance, you might think her a shrinking violet or demure innocent

like a lot of Asian women seemed to be. He’d heard Asian broads were

the preferred trophy wives of dot-com types. And who could blame

them? American babes had gotten far too bossy and liberated. That

might be kind of hot for a good fuck, but you didn’t want to marry a

woman like that, not if you wanted to wear the pants in the family. It

was easy to get taken in by the way Yoshi looked down all the time.

But Bud Þ gured that must be less about modesty and more about

• 76 •

BLIND CURVES

embarrassment, like she worried everyone could tell she was blind by

the color of her eyes. They were this startling translucent blue, really

unusual on an Asian chick.

Yoshi was like one of those kung-fu-Þ ghting, kick-ass Asian girl

assassins he’d seen on movies. Under that sweet exterior was a no

nonsense B-I-T-C-H. He’d never wanted a broad for a boss, and he found

ways to be a less-than-perfect employee. But there was something

about Yoshi’s attitude that he respected. You needed to be hard as nails

in this business, but sometimes the camouß age of her soft shell elicited

cooperation in a way his harsh words didn’t. Not that he’d ever admit

that out loud.

He dropped the phone back into the pile and hauled out his 35mm

camera and 70mm lens. Thankful there was still enough daylight for

decent exposures, he snapped off a stream of wide-angle location shots

before moving on to more detailed work. Opening the Impala’s door,

he took close-ups of the ground directly below. The dirt was muddy

from the fog and there was a jumble of tire tracks. The thick tread of

off-road four-wheel-drive trucks crisscrossed the fat six-inch-deep ruts

left by Þ re and emergency vehicles. Bud concluded these were left

that morning when the DB was hauled up from Wonderland Park. The

newer tracks of passenger cars and SUVs probably belonged to the

nearby residences because they swung in close to the mailboxes.

With the door still open, he switched to a medium-distance lens

and took close-ups of the soft shoulder across the highway, starting

at the entrance to the park, which was a mishmash of footprints, and

slowly pulling back from the log fence. Closer to the pavement were

more tire ruts. He swung the camera northward, focusing on the soft

shoulder and keeping it zoomed so he could clearly see individual

pebbles. The ground was pretty thrashed until he got about twenty feet

away from the access point.

From then on it was relatively undisturbed, and Bud was able

to discern the tracks of a thin tire running parallel to the highway. It

was the tread of a mountain bike, and since it wasn’t visible closer

to the park entrance it most likely predated the morning’s emergency

crew, but it seemed to be headed straight for Wonderland. Bud veered

his attention back to the entrance and took a photo of a small square

sign posted there. It showed a bike surrounded by a circle with a cross

through it. No bikes. Whoever’d ridden to the park had probably left

• 77 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

their vehicle in the Skeggs lot seventy-Þ ve yards down the road. But

since there was only one set of bike tracks, they hadn’t come back this

way. Interesting.

Bud let the Impala drift slowly backward toward the yellow call box

while he continued snapping images of the wide soft shoulder. Rather

than collecting roadside trash or making casts of the tire impressions,

he preferred photographs. Less mess to deal with and he could blow up

the images to make tread comparisons.

A two-story rustic barnlike house stood twenty yards back from

the road to the west. Bud reversed into the driveway that led to it

and took photos out the passenger window. The late-afternoon shade

was so deep under the trees that he wasn’t certain if he’d exposed the

Þ lm. He switched to his digital and moved closer. He’d learned that

digital cameras captured more information than the 35mms. A picture

that would have previously seemed too dark to keep could now be

manipulated in Photoshop until it was totally clear. Of course, he didn’t

do that work himself. Couldn’t stand to learn that new shit. But with

young guns like Chico harping on him for being a Luddite, whatever

that was, he’d Þ nally given in and found a service bureau to do the

work for him.

It looked like the house had been subdivided into apartments. That

explained at least two of the six mailboxes lined up by the highway’s

pavement. Above one screen-doored entry, an external stairway led to

the second level. Bud wondered if the guy upstairs was an early riser

and whether he’d seen anything that morning. Cracking his driver-side

door, he scooped up a handful of driveway gravel and ß ung it at the

second-ß oor window. The pebbles scattered, striking randomly against

the wood paneling but not hitting the glass or garnering a response from

the resident. Maybe the guy was at work.

He scraped another Þ stful of the small rocks and threw them

against the building. They hit with the rat-a-tat-tat of automatic gunÞ re,

and at least one bounced off the windowpane. Rather than rousing

the upstairs resident, this attracted the downstairs neighbor. A woman

emerged from the doorway, wearing slippers, a terry cloth housecoat,

and hair curlers. Bud was surprised by the look on her face. She didn’t

seem scared, or concerned about this strange man throwing rocks at her

house. Just eager to help.

“You looking for Warren, the park ranger?” she asked. “He moved

away.”

• 78 •

BLIND CURVES

“Oh? When was that?”

“Couple months ago, I guess it is.”

“Who lives up there now?” Bud asked.

She shook her head. “No one. Won’t be anyone there until they

hire a new ranger. Way that they work, it could be six months or

something.”

“Did you hear or see anything unusual early this morning?”

“Ah, you mean when that woman was killed at Wonderland? Maybe

if Warren had still been here she might’ve made it. You know, because

he would have gotten there quicker? You with Woodside PD?”

“No, I’m a private investigator.”

“Oh, okay.” She nodded.

In the background, a baby started to cry. The woman glanced over

her shoulder and back at Bud.

He thanked her for her time and as she ducked back into her

apartment, he turned the car around near a squatty outbuilding with

four garage-style doors. One of the doors was open. Rather than being

the kind of door that rolled back into the building, it stuck straight

out like a razzing tongue. Brown corrugated cardboard boxes rose to

the ceiling and spilled out of the storage unit. Bud photographed this

for good measure, then made a Þ ve-point turn and drove back to the

highway.

Looking across Skyline Boulevard at the Wonderland entrance, he

imagined Yoshi yelling at him to get his ass out of the car. He brieß y

considered the idea, reviewing the muddy shoulder, gravel driveway,

and the highway’s blind corners.

“Seriously,” he explained to an imaginary Yoshi, “it wouldn’t

be safe. My chair’s wheels would get stuck. It’s not meant for four-

wheeling, you know.”

He thought of the wheelchairs that were now designed speciÞ cally

for trail travel with fat tires, deep tread, and hardier suspensions. Until

now, he could never imagine why someone would need one. He didn’t

spend enough time outside the city limits to make that kind of purchase

worthwhile. He’d sooner buy a mechanized wheelchair or set his

Impala up with a series of hydraulic lifts that would spit the chair out

at the touch of a button. Besides, few things made him want to get out

of his car these days. Sometimes he felt like he was just on autopilot,

going through the motions well enough to keep his job, but not really

engaged, not like he used to be as a detective.

• 79 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“I might tip over.” He made up excuses for the continued argument

with Yoshi in his head. “If I tried to cross the road I’d probably get

killed by a passing truck.” As if to illustrate the point, a motorcycle

whizzed by at half the speed of light.

Bud pulled cautiously out of the driveway and continued down

the road. A few minutes later, the tightly knit canopy of trees opened to

reveal the small, unincorporated burg of Skylonda and its smattering of

houses, a roadhouse restaurant, an archaic gas station, and a shoebox

convenience store. On the right, next to the wooden A-frame that was

Alice’s Restaurant, a sign marked the entrance to the local California

Department of Forestry Fire Station. Bud slowed but didn’t stop. He

would call later pretending to be Deputy Freeman. He’d make up some

story about losing their report and ask them to fax him another copy.

The CDF was too well organized and savvy to hand their paperwork

over to a PI or a civilian, and in person, in his chair, he wouldn’t pass

for an active-duty detective.

As he drove slowly past, Bud glanced at the sandwich board

detailing the day’s specials at Alice’s. He brieß y contemplated the

tables and mismatched chairs alongside the patio and the bikers parked

in the lot, weekend warriors on rice rockets and full-timers on old-

school Harleys. His stomach growled but he forced himself to drive

on, continuing on Highway 35 past the intersection of Highway 84 that

bisected the Santa Cruz Mountains east to west. In his younger days he

would have stopped in a heartbeat, but now, what was the point? Any

stop entailed another protracted struggle to get his wheelchair from the

car.

Instead Bud dug through the pile on the bench seat next to him

until his Þ ngers closed around a Snickers. Thank God for candy bars.

Maybe he should get that black canvas bag out of the trunk. Designed

to hang over the seat and organize his stuff, it had a large section for

Þ les and big pockets on the sides where he could store his cameras and

snacks. He’d been a little surprised when Tucker gave it to him last

month on his birthday, even more so when she mentioned she’d been

looking for something like it for a while. He didn’t really understand

why she went out of her way to be so nice to him when he’d never made

an effort to befriend her. He had surmised that the girl had some serious

daddy issues.

“What the hell am I supposed to do with this?” he’d asked when

• 80 •

BLIND CURVES

she pushed the bag at him. “Who asked you to get this in the Þ rst place?

I have my own system.”

An enormous “Stop trying to change me” billboard had popped

up in his head, surprising him a little since it wasn’t like Tucker was

his ex-wife or anything. She was just trying to be nice. When her

face fell in disappointment—a look that hadn’t helped matters—he

took the thing, to shut her up, and stuffed it in his trunk. Since then,

he’d seen her walk past the Impala and peek in at the front seat. She

seemed a little saddened that the organizer wasn’t there, but she hadn’t

mentioned it.

At least once a week Bud thought about the bag and how it might

make it easier for him to Þ nd things while driving, but he was too

entrenched in his position to actually relent and use it. If he gave in

now, she’d think she’d guilted him into it, wouldn’t she? That’s what

women were like. Once they found out you had a soft spot, they’d aim

right at it, sending arrows of tears and looks of disappointment, and

talking of their hurt feelings.

Crying shouldn’t be allowed at work. It should be outlawed, plain

and simple, a Þ reable offense. Bud Þ rmly believed that feelings didn’t

belong on the job. The workplace used to be the one sanctuary where

men didn’t have to deal with those feelings you had to tiptoe around at

home. Nowadays women brought all that baggage to the ofÞ ce. Even

the boys in blue, who had once been allowed to be men, swearing and

pulling pranks on each other, and not worrying about fucking feelings,

even cops had to go through all this touchy-feely sensitivity training.

The world had become a dangerous place for old-school men, one

where a wrong word or gesture could get you disciplined, Þ red, or even

sued.

He considered heading into the ofÞ ce, but Yoshi hadn’t phoned

him again, which meant she had plenty to do without his input, and

she’d probably gone home for the day by now. There was no point

starting to dig dirt on Keith Ridger and Jennifer Garcia, either. That

could wait until tomorrow. Of course, there was always his Enchanted

Towers surveillance stint, but the jealous hubbie would be home at any

moment and Bud could do without the guy sticking his head in the

window and baring his soul for another hour. He stared out into the

fading light. No one would miss him if he wanted to spend all night in

front of his TV with a pizza and beer.

• 81 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

He put a call in to Yoshi and informed her voicemail that he could

be reached at home if anything came up. It was a safe bet nothing would,

and even if it did, he’d be the last person she would call unless she had

no choice. Yoshi only used him for the work she couldn’t handle, or

didn’t want to handle, and there was just enough of that to keep him

in a job. Bud supposed he could be thankful for that. Things could be

worse. A lot worse.

• 82 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER EIGHT

Yoshi disguised a yawn and wondered how much longer it was

going to take for Velvet to be escorted from lockup. Yoshi had

waited at the police station until late the previous evening, only to learn

that her friend was not going to be released immediately. The police

did not seem to realize that they had made an error, and Velvet was to

be arraigned Þ rst thing in the morning. Yoshi had not been permitted to

see her, so she had gone home for practical reasons. She needed sleep,

a shower, and fresh clothing.

A little after eight in the morning she had returned to the station,

to occupy one of their uncomfortable chairs until she could walk out

of here with her best friend. At least Velvet had not been required to

pay a compulsory overpriced bail to obtain her freedom, Yoshi thought.

She was fortunate that the judge at the arraignment was a Chronicle

reader and had apparently recognized Velvet as a respected journalist.

Or perhaps she’d recognized Velvet as having once edited the lesbian

magazine Womyn. Or maybe they had even shared a bed. Who was to

say that her honor was not a lesbian? Whichever it was, Velvet had been

afforded a rare forty-eight-hour window to clear her name and avoid

having to surrender herself to the San Francisco justice system for a

preliminary hearing.

When Yoshi heard the front desk clerk step away, she ducked

through the door and wandered out of the public waiting area into the

bullpen, the large open ofÞ ce in which desks where paired in twos and

threes. She had been inside the Mission Police Station a few times and

remembered the layout.

When she Þ rst walked into the room the voices of half a dozen

• 83 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

ofÞ cers seemed to mingle together into a thunderous roar. It was true

that when you lost your eyesight your other senses heightened to Þ ll

the void. But it was not instantaneous or absolute. When she was faced

with this type of cacophony from all directions, it took Yoshi a moment

or two to Þ lter out the background noises and focus on a speciÞ c

conversation. It was similar to staring at a wall of forest green, where

the vegetation is shades of the same color. At Þ rst glance, it appears

uniform, but then your eyes focus and you can separate out trees, grass,

and bushes.

Yoshi narrowed her interest to two conversations. One was a man’s

voice talking in the distinctive pattern of telephone communication.

“I understand that,” he was assuring the person on the other end of

the line. “I’d still like to come down and speak with you in person.”

There was a pause for the response. Yoshi heard a rustling of

paper, as though he were preparing to write down information.

“965 Mission. Thank you. I’ll see you later today, then.”

Yoshi made note of the address and focused her concentration

on the other conversation of interest. Two men were speaking in low

voices farther in the room. Yoshi strolled in their direction.

“…just the shoes.”

“No murder weapon?”

“Maybe…to lab…comparison.”

“Witnesses?” As Yoshi drew closer, she recognized the gravelly

tenor of Detective Ari Fleishman.

“Still canvassing—”

“Whoa.” Ari cut the other guy off. “PI—don’t say anything.”

Yoshi smiled to herself. Detective Fleishman was not a bad guy.

They had worked together on several cases. They respected each other.

She could hear papers shufß ing on the desk as one of the men buried

something below documents. Just because she and Ari played well

together did not mean they showed each other their cards.

“Say anything about what, Ari?” Yoshi asked. Turning toward the

other man present, she outstretched her hand, “Yoshi Yakamota, Blind

Eye Detective Agency.”

“Detective Packard of the Woodside police.” His hand closed

around hers and pumped vigorously.

“Detective,” Yoshi acknowledged. “Did your mother not teach

you that it is rude to hide important papers from blind girls?”

• 84 •

BLIND CURVES

He dropped her hand. Yoshi could almost hear the crimson of

embarrassment ß ush his cheeks. “Oh no, I was just—”

“Ari?” she requested, ignoring Packard’s discomfort. “Do you

have a moment?”

“Certainly.” He moved a chair noisily across the ß oor as an

invitation to sit.

“But this is my case,” the Woodside cop complained as if she

weren’t there.

The air rippled and the chair squeaked as Ari straightened from his

seated position and moved a hand toward his face. Yoshi imagined him

holding a Þ nger up in front of his lips, motioning Packard to hush.

“I’ll just be a minute,” Ari insisted.

Packard sighed and shufß ed away in the direction of a harsh coffee

aroma.

“He is going to be disappointed,” Yoshi said as she took a seat.

“What? Why?” Ari sat down in his rolling ofÞ ce chair, which

creaked and groaned slightly under the weight.

“You are out of coffee.”

“Oh, come on, how could you possibly know that?” He swiveled

in his chair.

“Fresh coffee has a distinctly different odor than coffee that has

been congealing for hours. By now, the burnt coffee smell suggests

there is only a thin layer of sludge at the bottom. Not enough for a full

cup, I imagine.”

“You aren’t here about our coffee, Yoshi. You don’t even drink the

stuff. So what do you want?”

“The Rosemary Finney case. What do you have on Velvet?”

“Enough.”

“Come on, Ari, give me something. I know you haven’t acquired

the murder weapon, the body has only been cold for, what, twenty-

four hours? Have you even obtained the ME’s report yet? Have you

looked at other suspects? What evidence do you have that substantiates

an arrest?”

Ari pivoted his chair around and rolled closer.

“Look.” He lowered his voice. “It wasn’t my call, okay?

Woodside’s all gung-ho to wrap this up. But I can tell you this—it

might have been hasty, but your client is looking very good for this. A

witness reported seeing her car at the crime scene. Get an explanation

• 85 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

for that, and who knows.” He rose abruptly. “It looks like your client’s

anxious to leave.”

“Really? I simply cannot imagine why.” Yoshi stood and thrust

the chair out of her way. “Oh, one more thing,” she said, intentionally

mimicking Columbo’s parting shot. “Where did you locate the

shoes?”

“You heard that. Damn it! Fine—they were in the Dumpster at

Velvet’s workplace, right next to where she parked her car.” He touched

Yoshi’s forearm. “I’ll walk you out.”

v

Velvet embraced Yoshi and kissed her on the cheek. “God, am I

glad to see you!”

“Are you?” Yoshi looked suspicious. “You seem surprised.”

“I thought maybe you’d send Tucker.”

“You sound slightly disappointed. What is that about?”

Velvet deß ected the question as she glanced around at her

surroundings. “Can we go? I’ll feel a lot better when we’re out of

here.” She took Yoshi’s arm in her own. “I saw you talking with the

detective—what’s his name—Fleishman? Did he tell you anything?”

As soon as the two women stepped out onto the sidewalk, they

were hit by air thick with the pungent, unmistakable aroma of Mission

Street. It wafted up from the sidewalk stinking of used wine blended with

slow-cooked taqueria beans and deep-fried Chinese dishes. Homeless

mingled with Latino day workers, while skateboarding urchins darted

between the steady ß ow of vehicles and pedestrians who seemed locked

into a serious competition for right of way.

Velvet raised her voice to be heard over the din. “Wow, there’s a

cab—how lucky is that? Taxi!” She frantically waved her arm, which

was already toting a cell phone in a pink fuzzy poodle-shaped holder

and a recycled rubber messenger bag.

The yellow cab stopped four feet from the curb. Velvet opened

the back door for Yoshi, who slid in and gave the address for the Blind

Eye ofÞ ces.

“No, no,” Velvet said as she climbed in and closed the door.

Leaning forward in the seat, she demanded, “901 Mission.”

Yoshi raised an eyebrow. “The Chronicle?”

• 86 •

BLIND CURVES

The cabbie quickly darted into trafÞ c to prevent second thoughts.

“Feel free to speed,” Velvet told him.

On cue, the bored Pakistani driver slammed on the gas and roared

through the busy streets like a post-heist getaway driver. Fighting the g-

force vortex within the cab that threatened to slam her into Yoshi, Velvet

grabbed the door’s armrest to keep herself in place and explained, “I’ve

got to get back to work.”

“Work? You were arrested yesterday. Surely no one is expecting

you to report for work as usual.”

“I know, you’d think that’d give me some leeway, but Stan sent

explicit orders to get right back there this morning. Can you believe

they cuffed me right there in the ofÞ ce? God. How humiliating.”

“Who is next door to the Chronicle building?” Yoshi asked.

“What?” Velvet was surprised by the change in subject.

“At 965 Mission.”

965 Mission? Velvet didn’t really think that was any of Yoshi’s

business. “Why?”

“Humor me.”

“Fine.” Velvet sighed. “If you must know—which I guess you

must—I mean, I don’t know what it has to do with anything, it’s just a

medical ofÞ ce complex.”

“And who do you know there?”

“Artemis McDermid. My shrink. There. Are you happy?”

Yoshi touched Velvet’s hand with her own. “Velv, it is not as though

I am unaware that you have a shrink. I overheard several detectives

talking about a meeting there, this afternoon at two. I would prefer to

speak with her Þ rst, especially since we are already on the way.”

“Oh God, what’s she going to tell them? I mean, what I tell her is

conÞ dential, isn’t it?”

“It will be okay,” Yoshi consoled her. “I am sure she will keep

your conÞ dence. However, you should probably tell me why you have

been seeing her.”

“Because I’m a lesbian. Isn’t it a rite of passage?”

Yoshi was silent.

“Now?” Velvet made a pointed nod at the driver. She wasn’t about

to talk about her intimate problems in front of a stranger.

She waited for a sign that Yoshi understood, then remembered

about her sight and reached for her hand. Yoshi gave Velvet’s Þ ngers

• 87 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

a reassuring squeeze. That wasn’t what Velvet was hoping for, so she

tugged Yoshi’s arm to the back of the driver’s seat and traced an arrow

on her palm. Yoshi nodded her comprehension. They’d discuss it later.

“So, you sent Tuck out on an errand? Cool. I was afraid you’d

Þ red her or something. Not that you would. I mean, she’s so cute.”

Yoshi always had the best-looking assistants, and Tucker—the shy little

butchy one with the doe eyes—was no exception.

“Do not go there,” Yoshi said curtly.

Velvet feigned innocence. “What?”

“You know what. I would prefer you did not even think about it.”

Oh, I’ve thought about it. I’ve more than thought about it. Velvet

didn’t share her glib reply. She believed in right timing, and this wasn’t

it. “Oh, I see, you want her all for herself,” she goaded. She liked to get

her friend going.

Yoshi blushed. “That is absurd. It is simply…”

“Doth protest too much.”

“Have you forgotten how many assistants you have cost me?”

“Me?” Velvet huffed indignantly. So maybe she’d slept with one

or two. But how did that constitute “costing”?

“Yes, you. You date them—”

“I don’t date,” Velvet clariÞ ed. Dating was an antiquated patriarchal

system designed to constrain women’s sexual freedom.

Yoshi ignored her. “Then you leave them.”

“I might get with a woman, but I’m never with her. Not in some

kind of going-steady couple way. So how could I leave?”

“If they are not absent from work because they are too exhausted

from all night lovemaking—”

“Fucking,” Velvet chided. “Or do you prefer ‘hitting it’?”

“Then they quit,” Yoshi continued to ignore her, “because they

simply cannot bear to be reminded of you. Or they are so heartbroken

that they cannot do their work. They just stare into space pining away.

You have blown through four of them.”

“Blown.” Velvet snickered, doing her best Beavis and Butthead

impression.

Yoshi was immune. “Tucker is a great worker and—”

“Too cute to share?” Velvet suggested again.

“Damn it, Velvet. I am serious. In case you have not noticed, my

eyesight is not merely deteriorating. It has practically disappeared.

There is so much I cannot do. I need—”

• 88 •

BLIND CURVES

“Oh.” Velvet gasped as though the wind had been knocked out of

her. She couldn’t remember a time when Yoshi had admitted to needing

anything.

Yoshi declared, “I need someone who can really help—you know,

grow with the company and take over more of the Þ eld work. Or I need

to hire myself a personal assistant like that woman on Monk. What is

her name?”

“The girl from the pizza shop or Bitty Schram?”

Yoshi crinkled her forehead. “Excuse me?”

“The Þ rst season it was Sharona.” Velvet launched into her

entertainment education voice. “Played by actress Bitty Schram. Since

then it’s been the girl from Two Guys, A Girl and A Pizza Place, Traylor

Howard. Both cute, just in different ways.”

“I stopped watching it after the Þ rst year. But yes, I think I could

use someone like her.”

“Are you saying you need a nurse?”

“No.”

“A seeing-eye person? Why don’t you just get a dog? They’re

more loyal.”

Yoshi sighed. “I am on the waiting list, actually, for a seeing-eye

dog.”

“There’s a waiting list? I thought they trained assistant dogs up in

San Rafael.”

“Yes, they train the dogs there. But then the organization ships

them out across the country. I worry that the business may require

more. More than Bud—who is permanently glued to the front seat of

his Impala—and me.” She smiled a small smile. “I know you assist us

too. I am not overlooking that.”

“Well, I certainly don’t want to bad-mouth Tucker,” Velvet

interjected. “But it sounds like you need another investigator, not a cute

receptionist.”

“Yes, perhaps I do need to bring on another PI. It is also essential

that I have someone who has administrative skills to assist me in that

arena. As it is, I just cannot keep from worrying that we might be

missing things.” Yoshi paused and sighed again. “This time, your life

is on the line. Are you not the least bit concerned about Blind Eye’s

capabilities?”

Velvet scooted over on the taxi’s bench seat and palmed Yoshi’s

knee. Yoshi smiled and covered the hand with her own. Tears pooled

• 89 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

in Velvet’s eyes and she looked out the window, silently urging them

away. She didn’t wipe her eyes lest Yoshi hear the movement and ask

what was wrong. Velvet wondered if she would ever get used to the

idea of Yoshi’s blindness. When they were together Yoshi could still

see. Oh, her vision was blurry and her peripheral vision sucked, but

up close, when Yoshi looked at Velvet’s face, she could see her. Yoshi

could read all the emotions displayed there; Velvet knew that.

Of course she’d always been aware of Yoshi’s degenerative eye

disease. She’d known that Yoshi would eventually be completely blind.

Usually the full effects didn’t set in until a person reached their forties.

It seemed wholly unfair that Yoshi had a more virulent case and had

already progressed to this point when she was only thirty-six.

Velvet and Yoshi had broken up years ago—it had been almost a

decade now, and Velvet couldn’t remember anymore who’d left whom.

They were two very different femmes, but she still liked to pretend that

they’d just been too similar and that’s why she now stuck with butches.

But the truth was, she and Yoshi had just drifted apart while devoting

their lives to their careers. They’d both spent seventy hours a week at

work and eventually they became ships that passed in the night. Still,

their relationship had transitioned into a quiet familial friendship that

worked for them.

Unfortunately, the same thing hadn’t worked with any of the

transitory girlfriends that had followed Yoshi through the rotating door

that was Velvet’s bed. That was one of the issues she was exploring in

therapy. Why couldn’t she seem to make a relationship last, why didn’t

they stay friends with her? And were they right about Yoshi? The post-

Yoshi girlfriends eventually formed a loose-knit Yoshi hate club whose

members claimed Velvet spent too much time with Yoshi, that she was

too intimate with her former lover, that Velvet was always comparing

them to Yoshi and that none of them could compete with the specter of

that long-buried romance.

Were they right? Velvet didn’t see it that way. Hell, she worried

when she and Yoshi didn’t talk on the phone, especially when Velvet

was really into a new girl. There always seemed to be a new girl. Velvet

would get bored after a few weeks or get tired of their need for attention

or demands for deeper intimacy. Sometimes she envied gay men, who

seemed to have those string-free sexual hookups that she would like to

cultivate. Really, that was all she had time for in her life anyway.

But at moments like this, when she endured a Þ erce need for

• 90 •

BLIND CURVES

someone, moments when she could appreciate the advantage to having

a wife at home—in those moments, Yoshi was always there. Perhaps

that wasn’t the best or entirely healthy arrangement. Sometimes Velvet

felt guilty about the assistance because it didn’t seem like Yoshi needed

her as often, even though Yoshi had fewer people in her life to turn to.

Maybe Yoshi was just more stable.

“I would never doubt your abilities, Yosh. Plus,” Velvet took on a

more lighthearted tone to tease her friend, “I could solve this myself. I

just wanted to spend time with you.”

Yoshi smiled. Velvet knew Yoshi was grateful she had not made a

big deal of her admitted weakness.

She changed the subject, asking rhetorically, “You know what the

worst thing about being in county lockup is?” then answering, “The

stench.”

Yoshi laughed.

“Honestly. I don’t even mean that ß ippantly. I mean, there you

are, locked in this minuscule cell with six other women and you’re

inordinately obsessed with this pungent odor that doesn’t really seem

to be coming from any of your Þ ne cellmates—in my case two aging

sex workers, an angry shoplifter, and a couple of strung-out junkies.

Instead it emanates from the walls or the cement ß ooring around the

tiny cots. I thought at Þ rst it was a ‘Oops, I forgot where the toilet is’

issue, like years of urine had soaked into the ß oor and attached itself to

the cement somehow, on, like, the microbial level.”

Yoshi smiled again and allowed Velvet to continue her rant.

“But after a few hours in there, you realize that it’s much more

serious than that. I mean, I interviewed everyone in the cell last night,

collected samples for analysis back at the lab—I’m expecting this to be

a cover story, maybe a four-page spread with sidebars and everything.

I’m going right in and pitching that to my editor.”

“I like it.” Yoshi said. “Is there someway we can pin this murder

on it? The odor, I mean?”

Velvet was back to her upbeat self. “Exactly. I’m sure it could

stand up and move from room to room, and what was it locked up for

anyway? You know, my arraignment hearing was nothing like I’ve seen

on Law & Order. ” She changed the subject, connecting to something

she’d thought earlier. That was kind of how her mind worked, like a

continuous experimentation in word association. “My experience

getting bail was nowhere near what it is like in the movies. Fortunately,

• 91 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

I didn’t get just one phone call. I mean, I know you told me to get a

lawyer already, but I still haven’t seen one.”

Yoshi didn’t voice disappointment or amusement; she just shook

her head and the corners of her mouth twitched.

“At least I asked for a lawyer right away,” Velvet argued in her

own defense. “As they were putting me in the squad car—they really

do put a hand on your head as they shove your handcuffed ass into the

backseat. The cuffs, the locked doors, and the metal cage sure make

you feel claustrophobic. I thought I might hyperventilate.” She felt her

chest tightening at the memory.

“When they got me to the station,” she continued, “they put me in

an interrogation room. After a little while this guy came in wearing this

ugly brown suit—where are the fashion police when you need them?

So, anyway, he started asking me questions. I told him I wanted a

lawyer. You know, they wouldn’t even let me make the call. They made

it for me. Then another detective—that stocky one from Woodside?”

“Packard,” Yoshi supplied.

“Right, Packard. He came in, said the lawyer was on the way and

then he sat down and started telling me things.”

“What, exactly?” Yoshi asked.

“He said they had found a pair of shoes in the Chronicle’s

Dumpster, and he asked how was I going to explain that. Well, I had no

idea. I mean, anyone could use that Dumpster. It’s not like it’s locked

or anything. And what would I be doing with Rosemary’s shoes? Well,

he told me that I took them from her body after killing her. He asked me

why I took them. I told him—”

“Wait,” Yoshi interrupted. “You mean you answered him?” She

shook her head again. This time there was no hint of humor. “After you

had been read your rights and called your lawyer?”

“Oh, God.” Velvet gasped. “I did. Fuck. That was so stupid of

me. I can’t believe I fell for that. Am I totally screwed?” She held her

breath, waiting for the answer.

“What did you tell him?”

Velvet hoped Yoshi’s question suggested that there were some

things that could be said that wouldn’t be a problem. “I told him I

wasn’t some kind of shoe fetishist and I wouldn’t want anything of

Rosemary’s. Then he asked me what I’d used to strangle her. Said they

knew I had had a big ugly Þ ght with her the other night—which is

true, of course. I told you about that. Anyway, he said I’d gone to the

• 92 •

BLIND CURVES

Wonderland Park, hidden on a trail until she ran past, and then I jumped

out and strangled her.”

“How did you reply to that?” Yoshi asked.

“I told him that was crazy, and I said—oh, you aren’t going to like

this—I said Rosemary’s a scrappy bitch and I’d never have been able

to take her alone.”

“Velvet.” Yoshi sighed and shook her head again. “What am I

going to do with you?”

“I know, I know, but he was so annoying. But, yeah, after I said

that, he sat up like I’d just confessed. He actually asked me who my

accomplice was. God, what an idiot.”

“Him? Or you?”

“I deserve that. Oh, we’re here. You’ll have to berate me later.”

Velvet rummaged in her purse for her wallet.

“Here,” she said, waving cash at the driver.

“I am exiting as well,” Yoshi reminded her.

“Right.” Velvet slid out of the cab and then bent over and reached

a hand in to Yoshi.

“Thank you,” Yoshi said as she stepped onto the curb. “Will you

walk me to your therapist’s ofÞ ce?”

“It’s just right there—well, I guess I can show you to the door.

But then I really must be off. Stan will be in a tizzy as it is, and he’s

supposed to be doing something for me. I need to keep him happy.”

“She will not simply talk to me,” Yoshi pointed out. “You will

have to give your permission.”

“Oh, right.” Hastily Velvet found a notepad in her purse and

composed a suitable waiver of privacy. She read it aloud.

“I, Velvet Ericksen, give my therapist, Dr. Artemis McDermid,

permission to speak with private investigator Yoshi Yakamota of Blind

Eye Detective Agency, who is working on my behalf to uncover the

truth about Rosemary Finney’s death. Please tell her anything that

might be relevant.” Velvet added her signature, tore the note from the

pad, and placed it in Yoshi’s hands as they climbed the outdoor stairs to

the second ß oor. “Okay?”

“Thank you.” Yoshi was not sure if the note would be of any

use, but for some people a piece of paper was all it took to overcome

reservations. It provided an excuse.

Artemis McDermid’s ofÞ ce was in an older walk-up that was

surprisingly quiet inside, given the cacophony of vehicle and pedestrian

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DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

trafÞ c outside. Though the inhabitants seemed thoroughly modern—

Velvet had mentioned a chiropractor, a plastic surgeon, and several

therapists—the faint smell of mold and the feel of rough matte walls

gave Yoshi an old-world image of the place.

Velvet held the door and ushered her into the waiting room. “She

sees patients on the hour. There’s a couch here, if you want to sit and

wait. It’s a quarter till, now.”

Yoshi stretched her hand out to feel the couch. It had a soft inviting

cover.

“There’s a table about a foot in front of the couch,” Velvet warned.

“It’s kind of a tight squeeze.”

“Thanks.” Yoshi maneuvered into place and lowered herself

slowly into the overstuffed cushions that seemed capable of swallowing

her whole. “I am afraid I might become wedged in here.”

“Thanks for everything, Yosh.” A kiss landed on Yoshi’s cheek.

“I’m so lucky to have you on my side.”

Yoshi smiled. “Call me later to compare notes.”

“Okay.”

“Now take care of yourself. And Velvet?” Yoshi heard the sound

of a hand making contact with a doorknob and pictured Velvet

hovering.

“Yes?”

“I am the fortunate one—to have you in my life.”

“Oh, stop that.” Velvet tsk-tsked. “I’ll talk to you soon. Good

luck.”

After the door shut quietly behind her friend, Yoshi wondered what

all Velvet had kept from her. Velvet was not particularly secretive, but

she was a consummate journalist at heart. Which meant she preferred

to hoard potentially useful information—offerings to heap at the feet

of the story gods. Yoshi would wager a week’s pay that Velvet had not

told her everything she knew about this case. In fact, she’d venture

that Velvet was either already assigned to write a piece on Rosemary’s

murder or she was on her way to pitch one, right this minute.

Velvet would exploit the fact that she was a suspect as fodder for

a compelling article. Which was a problem because she might shield

from Yoshi information that would otherwise clear her name, if that

meant the paper would have exclusive access. Yoshi would acquire all

• 94 •

BLIND CURVES

the relevant facts eventually, but it might not be until after they were

published in the Chronicle.

Closing her eyes, Yoshi made a mental picture of Dr. Artemis

McDermid’s waiting room. She could smell the printed ink of

magazines spread on the low coffee table that pressed against her shins.

The smooth cold pressure on her pressed cotton-sheathed legs informed

her that the table was metal, not wood. She could hear the stuttering

glub of a water cooler against the far wall. In the therapy room, a door

opened and closed. As with many other counselor’s ofÞ ces, this one

doubtlessly possessed a rear exit, an architectural feature that protected

clients from the discomfort of seeing another patient.

Apparently, Yoshi thought, the last thing you want when you leave

your psychologist’s ofÞ ce is to witness the person about to take your

place on the couch. Was it about the intimacy? she wondered, having

never had occasion to try therapy. Maybe patients desired the pretense

that they were the only one, that no others shared that intimate space with

their counselor. Or maybe it was about stigma and embarrassment—not

wanting to see another human, not wanting anyone else to see that you

required such services.

From the other room, a speakerphone rang into the doctor’s voice

mail. Even after the message began, with the obviously upset voice of

a client, the psychologist did not raise the receiver and silence the call.

Yoshi hoped only her vastly trained ears could hear through the thin

wooden door that separated the inner sanctum of the therapeutic space

from potential eavesdroppers in the waiting room. She didn’t expect

Dr. McDermid to be loose lipped about her patients—by accident or

even with a note like Velvet’s.

“This is Liz Claiborne. Did you see the news?” A female voice

on the recorder cracked with emotion. “She’s dead. I have to see you.”

Sobs emanated. “Please call me, at 863-7384.”

Yoshi pulled her special Braille Palm Pilot from her bag and

quickly entered the phone number and name. The message ended and

there were no others. As the phone clicked off, Yoshi heard rustling

through papers, then the dial tone and a number punched in.

“Liz? Dr. McDermid returning your call. I’m sorry I missed

you.” Artemis McDermid spoke in a cadence that indicated she wasn’t

connected to a live person. “I usually see my last patient at four p.m.

• 95 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

but I’ll make an exception today and stay late, if you can come in. Give

me a call and leave me a message conÞ rming what time you’ll be here,

between Þ ve and seven, okay? All right, I hope to see you then.”

The phone clicked off and light footsteps—slender legs in kitten

heels, Yoshi guessed—shufß ed toward the door. She could hear the

whisper of fabric brushing against itself as Dr. McDermid entered the

waiting room, and speculated that the therapist was wearing a light

skirt, probably fashioned from cotton-blend fabric.

Yoshi stood and squeezed past the coffee table to offer her hand.

“Oh,” the psychologist exclaimed in surprise. “I was expecting

someone else. Can I help you?”

She smelled clean and comforting, as though she had been baking

cookies. Yoshi decided, after a deeper inhalation, that the scent of

vanilla and chocolate probably originated from Dr. McDermid’s use

of a cocoa butter–based bath product rather than a plate of cookies.

She wondered if the psychologist purchased her personal grooming

supplies at Lush, as she did.

“I am here on behalf of my client, Velvet Erickson.” For what it

was worth, Yoshi surrendered the paper Velvet had entrusted to her and

waited a moment for the response.

Artemis McDermid ended the handshake abruptly, dropping

Yoshi’s hand. “I’m really not at liberty to discuss my clients. A note

doesn’t change that.”

“If you will allow me, I will take just a moment of your time. I do

not intend to ask anything that would be conÞ dential.”

“Fine.” The psychologist didn’t make a move toward her ofÞ ce.

“You have Þ ve minutes.”

Yoshi wondered if Dr. McDermid preferred to speak in the public

area or was merely waiting for her to enter the therapy room Þ rst. Yoshi

chose privacy and strode ahead through the doorway. Once they were

both in the small inner ofÞ ce, she located a couch and seated herself,

resisting the urge to lie down as the patient in traditional psychotherapy.

Across from her, a chair’s springs squeaked.

Yoshi dove right in. “What time did you arrive yesterday morning,

Dr. McDermid?”

The question seemed to surprise the psychologist. She shifted in

the squealing chair and said, “Excuse me?”

“My question does not breach your patient conÞ dentiality, does

it?” Yoshi asked pleasantly.

• 96 •

BLIND CURVES

Dr. McDermid did not ask “what’s it to you?” but Yoshi thought

she could hear the question simmering below the surface in the timbre of

her reply. “I get in around seven. I like to have an hour to do paperwork,

and some of my clients come in before work. Why?”

“Did you notice anything suspicious when you arrived?”

“Suspicious? I don’t think so.”

“Was anyone else here? Were other cars in the parking lot?”

“Just Dr. Michaelson. He has an ofÞ ce downstairs and drives a

silver Mercedes. He’s usually here when I arrive. I’m sorry, I thought

you had some questions about Velvet?”

“Oh, certainly. What day do you usually see her?”

“It really depends, but I guess it’s usually Wednesday

afternoons.”

“Would you consider her dangerous?”

“Velvet? Oh no, deÞ nitely not.”

“A threat to anyone?”

“No.”

“Did she ever discuss Rosemary Finney?”

The ensuing moment of silence suggested Velvet had mentioned

her former lover, colleague, and nemesis. The evasive tone when she

spoke revealed that Velvet had also made mention of her dislike for the

woman.

“Anything my client discussed is conÞ dential.”

“Of course. Did you know Ms. Finney?”

Dr. McDermid rose abruptly from her chair. “I’m sorry, but I really

must be going.”

Yoshi did not move. “Why are the police interested in speaking

to you?”

Dr. McDermid drew a deep breath. “How do you know about

that?”

“I overheard it when I was bailing Velvet out of jail.”

“Jail? Oh, dear.” Dr. McDermid seemed to crumple back into her

chair.

“Yes, jail. She has been charged with Rosemary Finney’s murder.

So while I respect your commitment to patient conÞ dentiality, please

understand that as long as this is hanging over Velvet’s head, I will not

stop investigating. I will not simply go away because my questions

make you uncomfortable. Now, what are the police expecting you to

tell them?”

• 97 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Dr. McDermid’s voice cracked. “I don’t know, I swear. I can’t tell

them about Velvet’s temperament.”

“Why not?” Yoshi asked. “You just said you did not think Velvet

was a threat to anyone. Would any statements by you about her mental

state not actually help her? Or do you intend to reveal something that

would implicate her?”

“No, of course not. I simply cannot break my client’s

conÞ dentiality.”

“Even if she speciÞ cally requests that you do?” Yoshi was getting

frustrated. She did not believe that Velvet’s psychologist was restricted

from breaking her conÞ dence in light of her patient’s permission.

Probing the limits of Dr. McDermid’s resistance, she asked, “Would

you testify on her behalf—if it got to that?”

“Of course, if I was legally required to. If I were subpoenaed, for

example. But even then I would not be at liberty to reveal anything that

might break another client’s conÞ dentiality.”

“Another client?” Yoshi slid to the edge of her seat. “Liz Claiborne,

per chance?”

“What?” Dr. McDermid’s voice rose in pitch and volume.

Yoshi immediately regretted the question.

“How dare you!” The doctor kicked aside her chair. “You’re

spying on me? You’ve violated my clients’ privacy?”

Yoshi stood from the couch and held her palms out contritely. “I

was not eavesdropping, I simply—”

“I should report you for unethical—” In her anger, Dr McDermid

cut herself off. “God, I can’t believe you did that.” She took two

steps and opened the rear door. Cool air rushed into the ofÞ ce, but it

didn’t serve to cool the psychologist’s emotional outburst. Instead, she

demanded loudly, “Get out.”

“Thank you for your time.” Yoshi held out a business card. When

it was refused, she dropped it on Dr. McDermid’s chair. “If you change

your mind—”

“I won’t,” Dr. McDermid insisted. “Now please leave.”

“Not for me.” Yoshi added, “For Velvet.”

“For Velvet, I won’t pursue charges against you.”

Yoshi nodded with her head bowed. Before she stepped outside

she asked, “Have you ever thrown anything into the Chronicle’s

Dumpster?”

• 98 •

BLIND CURVES

“Excuse me?”

Yoshi strode outside and pointed toward the San Francisco

Chronicle building. She could smell the trash from the ofÞ ce balcony.

“The parking lot here, it butts up against the newspaper’s lot, doesn’t

it? There’s a Dumpster, by the fence on their side.” It smelled like more

than just paper waste. “It would be easy to throw something in there—if

you were cleaning out your car or something.”

“No.”

“I am sure they would not mind.”

“I said no,” Artemis McDermid repeated curtly. “Now please

leave.” The air changed as the psychologist started closing the door.

“Now really, I must be going.”

As the door clicked shut, Yoshi wondered if she had destroyed

any prospect that Artemis McDermid would reveal what she knew.

Obviously her patient Liz Claiborne had something to do with Rosemary

Finney, but what? Had Liz been the one to discard Rosemary’s shoes in

the nearby Dumpster? Or was it Dr. McDermid? Was the psychologist

lying? And if she was, what else was she lying about? And why?

To Þ nd out, Yoshi was determined to speak with Liz Claiborne

directly. From the overheard phone conversation, she knew Dr.

McDermid had invited the Claiborne woman to drop by her ofÞ ce later

that evening. If the distraught patient did show up, Yoshi would be

there to intercept her and extract some answers. There was one thing

that Yoshi already knew: she could not simply let it go. Nothing was

going to prevent her from clearing Velvet’s name. Not even the threat

of disciplinary action.

• 99 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 100 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER NINE

Before the approaching truck even got close enough for her to

see inside its cab, AJ made out the unmistakable silhouette

of an emergency light bar balanced on the roof and knew that a park

ranger was driving. All the PD units in the area drove sedans. Sure, the

California Highway Patrol had some Ford Bronco–style vehicles, but

those were all unmistakable black-and-whites.

Back home, AJ had never even met a park ranger and she

sure wouldn’t fancy them law enforcement. She shook her head in

bemusement. It was the damndest thing, rangers patrollin’ suburbia’s

streets while rollin’ between scattered plots of nothing but dead grass.

She stepped out of her own white sedan and stretched her

arms and legs. By exiting her vehicle, she hoped to avoid the car-69

communication style California law enforcement seemed so fond of.

The cops never leaving their cars, just pulling up to each other like they

was at the McDonald’s drive-in. The tight streets of the New Orleans

French Quarter prevented that kind of thing, and in other parts of the

city, like the Ninth Ward, where she’d been raised and patrolled, cops

didn’t like stopping too long, even within the relative safety of their

vehicles. They weren’t welcome in the hood. Not even by law-abiding

folk, most of them long since lost their faith in NOPD’s ability to keep

them safe.

In the hood, gangs and drug dealers ran the show. Most of the

residents got caught up in the street economy, making money off drugs

and prostitution and robbery. When shit happened—as it did on a

regular basis—good folk just hid behind closed doors and the gangs

• 101 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

brought down their own justice. Things were usually resolved down the

barrel of a gun.

AJ had been paired with a partner in New Orleans—which made

patrols safer, but came at a price, one she hadn’t always been eager to

pay. During her six-year career, she’d been teamed up with a couple

of lazy, ineffectual, homophobic, and in one case downright criminal,

partners. In those situations she’d had a choice to make: risk retaliation

by breaking the code of silence and turning rat, or remain party to

behavior she didn’t condone. She hadn’t always been proud of the path

she’d chosen.

Here in East Palo Alto, the Peninsula’s version of the Ninth Ward,

AJ not only rolled alone, but there was times when she’d be the only

EPA ofÞ cer riding the streets. The supes on duty were, on paper, the

second patrol. But in all the months since she’d started, she never saw

one leave the station.

Not that you wanted a supervisor lurking around trying to catch

you riding dirty. Or, as she’d begun to fear lately, trying to pin the

department’s stink on her. The truth was, she’d wanted to get the hell

out of New Orleans, least till the Katrina mess blew over. But she’d been

lured to this department in part with the understanding that she’d be up

for a promotion, making her EPAPD’s Þ rst female lieutenant. She’d

known straight up that they’d recruited her to meet some minority-

hiring clause, but every place had its own political bullshit and she

could handle that.

During her phone interview the brass told her that the current

lieutenant was out on disability leave and it didn’t look like he’d be

coming back. She hadn’t thought to ask what’d happened—being a cop

was a dangerous job—so it was only after she’d gotten here that she’d

learned the guy was out on psych leave. He’d had a nervous breakdown.

Even AJ, as the rookie in the department, could see that wasn’t a good

sign. It stank, like something Þ shy was going on. In the last month

she’d begun to see why—just around the time the lieutenant recovered

and made a surprise return to the force.

The bayside breeze blew over her coiled, closely cropped hair

and cut through the fabric of her uniform shirt. She could feel the cool

breath on her arms, but the Mylar vest she wore blocked the air from

reaching her chest. Bulletproof. Bunch of crock. She’d seen what a

high-powered riß e could do to the material: tear a hole right through

• 102 •

BLIND CURVES

it. The many different layers of Þ bers crisscrossing each other couldn’t

stop a .30 caliber round, but at least they could slow handgun bullets

and might even stop a knife from getting through to a vital organ.

AJ missed a lot of things about New Orleans, but she had to admit

that the East Palo Alto Police had better equipment, even if it was hand-

me-downs from Palo Alto, their well-to-do big-sister-city. Because Palo

Alto was handing down last year’s top of the line equipment, it still

totally beat out the decades-old shit they’d been stuck with at NOPD.

When she’d Þ rst slid the EPA vest over her head and adhered the

Velcro ß aps to the front and back panels, she could tell right away that

it was two or three pounds lighter than the shit they humped around

in N’awlins. That made a big difference, especially on hot days when

the dense, nonbreathable material—the same technology that repelled

bullets—trapped in the heat and sweat and multiplied them a thousand

times. Eventually that crap could kill you, toppling you over with

heatstroke.

The white ranger truck that pulled up a few feet from her had

a red contraption in its bed, which, AJ had learned, was a portable

pumper unit meant to suppress small Þ res and provide initial attacks

until Þ re department personnel arrived. It could even do mobile attack

for areas that required nimble vehicles. The trucks were more like agile

quarterbacks than bulky linebacker Þ re engines. It looked to AJ like the

truck was brand new. Last year’s model, at the most. Damn, some of

the agencies around here sure were stacked. How did she get stuck in

the poorest city on the Peninsula? Probably because she was black, AJ

thought. When she left New Orleans for the West Coast, she’d thought

she was leaving behind the racism of the South. And sure enough, the

people here didn’t say the N-word to your face, and there were all these

rules about “political correctness,” a term she never heard back home.

But that prejudice shit was still around in her new location. It was just

more subtle, so you didn’t notice it all the time.

Oh, she’d seen some of those successful homies on television and

driving by in their Mercedes and BMWs—less ß ashy with their money

than when the boys back home made it good and rolled by in pimped-

out Escalades sporting matching gold grills. Here they’d be some Oreo,

talking all proper English and acting like their shit didn’t stink, like

they forgot where they came from or they embarrassed by the people in

the hood. But she’d noticed a deÞ ciency of black faces on the west side

• 103 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

of the bay; some invisible force Þ eld ran from Marin County to San

Jose, keeping all the homeboys conÞ ned to the eastern shores.

AJ shifted her concentration to the park ranger who climbed out

of the high Dodge Ram cab. She was a petite white woman with long

straw-blond hair pulled back from her face into a perfect ponytail. She

wore green jeans and a khaki uniform shirt with a gold star badge over

her left breast pocket.

“I don’t think I’ve met you,” she said, looking AJ up and down.

She stuck out her hand. “I’m Lisa Whitman.”

Her smiling lips were tinted pink and her ears pierced by small

gold hoops. Unlike AJ, Lisa Whitman was trying to look like a woman

in spite of the masculine uniform and ofÞ cial gear.

AJ introduced herself and heartily shook the outstretched palm,

which was delicate and soft against her own rough calluses.

“Oh.” Ranger Whitman’s cheeks went a shade darker than her

rouge. “I’m sorry. I thought you were a guy.”

No, just a dyke. AJ wondered what had tipped Lisa Whitman off. It

wasn’t usually her gravelly voice. Whatever. She shrugged. “It’s okay.

I get that all the time.”

“It’s these vests.” The ranger pointed to her own chest. “They

smash your boobs and make everyone into barrel-chested unisex. They

must be made by men. A woman would design them to accommodate

breasts. You can be damn sure that if we had to wear one under our

pants, it wouldn’t be ß at in front.”

AJ smiled.

“Anyway, it’s nice to meet you. And nice that EPAPD Þ nally hired

a woman.”

“Yeah? I don’t think my coworkers are too happy ’bout it.”

“Why? Because of the mustache?”

“Huh?” Was that a put-down? AJ absentmindedly stroked the

peach fuzz she carried over her top lip.

“Didn’t you notice? All the guys on the East Palo Alto PD have

the same mustache-goatee combo. You know, around the mouth and

covering the chin.” Ranger Whitman illustrated by drawing a Þ nger

around her pink lips.

“Ah.” AJ had noticed how the other ofÞ cers sported similar facial

hair. “What that about?”

“It’s stupid, really. The brass made this policy where police

• 104 •

BLIND CURVES

ofÞ cers have to be clean-shaven. This is like their big protest. What ever,

huh?”

“Ya here about that abandoned vehicle?” AJ nodded in the

direction of the trashed Pontiac sedan.

“Yeah. So here’s the deal. It’s in our lot, so we have jurisdiction.

But our supervisors like us to have the local PD write up a police report,

too. If it had plates, we’d run those. But since they’re gone, let’s see if

we can Þ nd a VIN.”

Whitman strode to the vehicle and peered in the broken windshield,

checking the dashboard near the steering wheel for the metal plate that

carried the vehicle identiÞ cation number.

“Already ran it,” AJ said.

“You did?” The ranger seemed disappointed.

Didn’t know I was supposed to save it for ya, AJ thought. “Came

back clean. No tickets, tied to no crime, ain’t reported stolen.”

“Do you have the RO’s info?”

AJ nodded and pulled a small notepad from her breast pocket.

She ß ipped through it until she found the registered owner’s name and

address, and handed it to the ranger.

Lisa Whitman thanked her and jotted down the information in a

similar notebook of her own. “If you don’t think it’s related to a crime,

I’ll just have it towed, and I’ll contact the RO. Otherwise, you can have

it impounded.”

AJ stared at the remains of the car, trying to decide if it was just an

abandoned vehicle or evidence of something criminal. “Seeing how it’s

so badly vandalized, I think I’m gonna call impound,” she said. Better

safe than sorry, and besides, the supervisors loved getting paperwork

back to prove she’d actually done more with her day than scratch her

ass.

Whitman nodded. “Fair enough. Might end up being associated

with some other criminal activity and then you’ll be happy you hung

on to it.”

AJ radioed dispatch and requested a tow truck. While she sat in

her patrol car Þ lling out paperwork on the trashed vehicle, the ranger

wandered around the lot, carrying a Þ ve-gallon bucket in one hand and

a can-grabbing staff in the other. The garbage stick ended with two

Þ ngerlike pinchers that closed around trash when she pulled a trigger

on the handle. AJ watched her picking up some litter, thinking about

• 105 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

how back home, the city’d have some convict crew doing the job

by hand, bent over picking up trash. She completed the triplicate

form and then remembered the favor she’d promised to do for Tucker

Shade.

Although she seemed done with her task, Whitman walked slowly

from one end of the lot to the other. AJ recognized the look. In New

Orleans she’d seen guys loaÞ ng around on patrol. The job was just

about making rent, and cops made less money than the criminals they

policed. There’d always be malcontents.

As if she felt AJ’s eyes, Whitman pulled the grabber’s trigger,

lifted it over the white bucket, and let go. AJ didn’t see nothing drop

from the wand’s Þ ngers.

Approaching the ranger, she called out, “Can I ask ya something?”

“Oh, sure.” The grabber hit the bottom of the bucket with a thump

and Whitman set them down in the dirt.

“That female they found murdered in the park—that one of

yours?”

“Oh yeah, that was a big deal. Not ours, though. It was a Woodside

park. But it was one of our rangers that found the DB.” Whitman used

the shorthand for “dead body.” “Well, she didn’t Þ nd her. I meant that

she was the Þ rst responder on scene.”

“Y’all handle calls on other properties? For other agencies?”

“Not usually. We have ranger residences on preserves. Wonderland

starts down here at the bottom of the hill and climbs up to Highway 35.

There’s a Midpen preserve across the street. The RP read Midpen’s

info on the gate there and thought we ran the other park too. So 911

contacted our dispatch, who called up Jenny. Jenny Cooper, she’s in the

Purissima residence, Þ ve miles up the road. She’s a friend.”

“I’m guessing y’all don’t have a lot of homicides in your parks?”

AJ couldn’t imagine them being anything like the crime-ridden projects

she’d patrolled and grew up in.

“We get body dumps, but yeah, not a lot of murders. There was

one—back in the seventies, when the Trail Side Killer was ambushing

women in parks all over the Bay Area. Most of our medical calls are for

vehicle crashes and mountain bike accidents on preserves.”

“Was it reported as a 10-87?” When a death was Þ rst ruled an

accident, then declared a homicide, it could be too late to gather

evidence or locate witnesses.

“No, it went out as a medical call for a woman down.”

• 106 •

BLIND CURVES

“Y’all hear from your friend about it?”

“Yeah, we talked. Jenny’s really upset by it.”

“Sure ’nough.” AJ nodded. She would never forget the Þ rst time

she’d seen a murder victim—even though she weren’t but six at the

time.

Ranger Whitman bobbed her head, then leaned toward AJ

and added in a lowered voice, “Especially since she recognized the

victim.”

“Whoa, hold up. You saying y’all knew her?” AJ’s interest was

deÞ nitely piqued.

“We did, kind of. From a law enforcement stop. Jenny ticketed her

a couple of years ago—”

“And she still remembers it?” These guys must not write very

many tickets if they could remember everyone they’d ever stopped.

“Yeah, because it turned into such a big thing. See, Jenny stopped

her for being on a closed trail in Corte Madera. That’s our preserve

across the street from Wonderland Park. The funny thing is,” Whitman

continued, “Jenny’s really nice and she’d rather give a verbal warning

than a ticket, especially if they apologize. But Ms. Finney didn’t

even let Jenny explain. She just blew up and screamed in her face.

You know that kind of ‘do you know who I am?’ thing.” She paused.

“Maybe you don’t, working in East Palo Alto.” The ranger surveyed

her surroundings, as though they made her point for her.

“Unfortunately,” AJ replied, “I think I do. I’ve pulled over some

big shots who just rolling through East PA. They’d never own a crib

here.”

Ranger Whitman smiled and continued, “Right. Well, we get a lot

of these new-money guys that come in. You know, Internet whiz kids

and Silicon CEOs and they think their newfound wealth gives them

a free get out of jail card to pull whenever they want. So Ms. Finney

insists Jenny doesn’t have the right to stop her. We’re authorized peace

ofÞ cers under PC 832.”

“Sure,” AJ afÞ rmed. Although she wasn’t familiar with the penal

code Lisa Whitman was citing, she understood it to be the state law

granting Midpen rangers powers of arrest.

“So, anyway, Jenny’s explaining her legal right to make the stop,

and that Finney woman, she just takes off. Plows right into Jenny and

knocks her over! Which means she’s just—”

“Done assaulted an ofÞ cer!” AJ supplied.

• 107 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Right. So Jenny gets on the radio and reports this to dispatch.

It’s late in the evening by this point, and it’s starting to get dark, so

a bunch of us rangers responded. It took us, like, two hours to track

the subject down, hiding in the preserve. When we Þ nally caught her,

Jenny charged her with the assault.”

“Yo. It ain’t no good to let people off easy for shit like that. You

got to have respect or you got nothin’.”

“Exactly. So the best part is Ms. Finney didn’t show up for her

court date.”

AJ chuckled. “They issue a warrant?”

“Right, there was a warrant for her arrest. And since it was assault

on an ofÞ cer,” Whitman stiß ed her laughter before delivering the punch

line, “the cops showed up at her door in force. Guns drawn.”

AJ laughed at the thought of a half dozen uniformed ofÞ cers

stacked backward from the entry door of one of those plantation type

mansions she’d seen in the area. “How’d that turn out?” she asked.

“When she Þ nally got to court, she had the nerve to talk back to

the judge when he sentenced her to community service. She stood up

and bitched about how unfair it would be to make someone like her

work with common criminals. She offered to write a bigger check to

avoid the community service.”

AJ snorted. “How’d that go over?”

“He ordered her to pay a Þ ve thousand dollar Þ ne, attend anger

management classes, and still do the community service. Plus he said

her time had to be spent working at one of the Midpen preserves. She

was livid.”

He should’ve charged her with trying to bribe a judge, AJ thought.

“You sure this Ranger Jenny didn’t kill the bitch herself?” She laughed,

making light of the question, even though she was curious.

Whitman chuckled. “No. Jenny’s the kind of person who hates

early morning call-outs. So if she’d done this, I think she would have

waited until later in the day. Oh, look at that.” She pointed out toward

the street at an approaching tow truck. “Guess you must be lucky.

Every time I call for a tow out here it takes, like, two hours for them to

respond. I think they’re afraid of the location.”

“He’s on contract with the department,” AJ explained. “Else I’d be

still waiting when my shift end.”

Whitman glanced at the thick black wristwatch on her arm, “Shit,

• 108 •

BLIND CURVES

it’s almost twelve. I’ve got to go.” She pointed at the timepiece. “Butt

ugly, isn’t it? I hate Timex sport watches, but I got tired of losing

expensive ones on duty. If you’re interested in the case, you should

drop by Wonderland this evening. I heard on the radio that maintenance

was going to be up there getting the place ready to reopen tomorrow.

They might know something.”

“Snap. I might just up and do that.” The ranger was right,

maintenance might’ve heard something or stumbled on something

while opening the trail. Maybe she would roll up there when her shift

ended.

“It was nice to meet you.” Lisa Whitman held out a hand.

When AJ went to shake, she found an outstretched business card.

She accepted it awkwardly. It seemed like everybody who was anybody

out here had their own cards. Soon even she would, but there ain’t no

way she’d hand them out. The PD’s administrative assistant had ordered

business cards with her birth name on them. Angela Joy Jackson. If

they fell into the wrong hands, she’d never live it down.

v

Rachel Heinz was a twenty-Þ ve-year-old Brown University grad

who’d been a cub reporter with the Chronicle for six months. Although

her pedigree was impeccable, her impressive credentials hadn’t

translated to real-life proÞ ciency. Since her arrival, the golden girl

had garnered the ire of nearly everyone in the newsroom. How could

someone who’d won awards for her writing, interned at the New York

Times, and run her own highly praised political activist zine, Altered

States, prove so incompetent?

Rachel seemed only half conscious when on the job, her attention

distracted by romantic breakups, money problems, housing issues,

and broken-down cars. The revolving soap opera of her personal life

conspired with bad luck, natural disasters, and acts of God to trigger

frequent late arrivals, unexplained absences, and missed deadlines. To

top it off, she absolutely failed to comprehend common words once they

were strung together in a sentence and made audible by the movement

of Velvet’s lips.

It was one thing, Velvet thought, for the girl to misunderstand

directions—that could be forgiven. But failing to ask questions beyond

• 109 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

the most perfunctory queries? That was unforgivable—that was a mortal

sin. The reigning commandment, understood by even the greenest J-

school student, was Ask Questions. In Velvet’s esteemed opinion, the

failure of a journalist to ask follow-up questions or clarify assignments

was evidence of criminal negligence and should be severely punished.

And yet, at the same time, Velvet had a well-deserved reputation for

mentoring and cultivating young talent.

In the Rachel Heinz situation, she’d been hoping that the younger

woman’s life would settle down and her skills would emerge from

whatever dark waters lurked below the blank surface. During this

particular nurturing period Velvet had resorted to completely rewriting

some of Rachel’s work and, out of some misplaced sense of loyalty

to a fellow journalist, hadn’t turned snitch or informed Stan of the

problems. All the chief editor saw was the Þ nal polished pieces. Which

might explain why Rachel was still on staff but could not explain what

Velvet was hearing as she sat in Stan’s ofÞ ce.

“I can’t let you take the lead on the story without compromising

the paper’s integrity.” Her boss sighed and rubbed the bridge of his

nose. “Not when you’ve already been charged with Þ rst degree murder.”

Stanley Wozlawski, managing editor at the San Francisco Chronicle,

wasn’t really the kind of old, grizzled, and jaded newspaper guy from

noir Þ lm lore. He had an MBA from Stanford, a manga collection in

his ofÞ ce, and a husband and two kids at home. But he was hard-assed

when it came to the paper.

“You know the charges are crazy,” Velvet objected

“I know.” Stan leaned back in his plush leather executive. “You

made bail. Good.”

“No thanks to you.”

“I could have put something up, but Þ rst I’d need your signature—”

“For my soul?”

Stan nodded.

“Actually,” Velvet decided to share her good news, “the truth

is, I didn’t need your bail money. The judge let me out on my own

recognizance.”

“In a Þ rst degree murder case? What is our justice system coming

to?”

“It’s not indeÞ nite,” Velvet said. “She gave me forty-eight hours to

clear my name or surrender to the police. If I still had a current passport

• 110 •

BLIND CURVES

I would’ve had to give that up too.” When he didn’t say anything else,

she took it as his usual sign of dismissal and got up, framing her Þ nal

question.

Before she had a chance to form the words, Stan asked, “Where do

you think you’re going?”

“To Þ nd the real killer.” She winked.

Stan laughed. “Listen, O.J., it would be irresponsible of me to let

you work this story, especially after yesterday morning’s public arrest.

What kind of example would that give the other writers? They might

get ideas, especially on slow news days.”

“Wait.” Velvet narrowed her eyes at her boss. “I just told you that I

have forty-eight hours to clear my name or rot in jail for months waiting

for a trial date. And you’re seriously going to ask me stay here in the

ofÞ ce? When the story’s out there? Come on.”

“You’re right. I can’t have my best reporter locked away for all

that time, unless she’s working on a piece about jails.”

Velvet, sure now that he’d just been joking, parted her lips and

pressed her tongue against her top teeth, forming the T sound to begin

her gracious appreciation.

But Stan continued speaking. “I wish I could help. I really do.

But you know I can’t spare you this close to the elections. We’re

shorthanded as it is.”

“But…” Velvet pleaded with her eyes and wondered for just a

moment if getting on her knees and begging would help. Probably not,

she realized. That probably only worked on straight men.

“You’re lucky I’m even keeping you on. Most murderers lose their

jobs.”

“Stan! You know I didn’t do it!” Velvet pouted.

“I know what you’re capable of,” he stated, matter-of-factly.

His eyebrows were drawn down like shades covering his eyes,

and deep furrows plowed across his forehead. His mouth was pulled

into a frown. If he wasn’t being serious, Velvet decided, then it was one

good act.

“Of course we’ll need to get the dirt on this Finney murder,

but…”

Velvet superstitiously crossed her Þ ngers. Here it was, this was

going to be the silver lining. Since she was right in the middle of it

anyway, Stan was going to rethink and assign the Finney murder to

• 111 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

her. That way, when she solved the case it wouldn’t just keep her out

of jail. The story would break on the front page with her byline front

and center.

“I have no choice.” He looked sincerely troubled. “I’m going to

have to put you on—”

“No!” Velvet gasped before he could Þ nish the sentence. She

could see by his face that it was going to be bad. “Not that, please,” she

begged.

“Fact-checking.” Stan Þ nished and banged his coffee mug on his

desk like a judge’s gavel.

Velvet took the momentary break to close her gaping mouth.

She still couldn’t believe this was happening. Could the day get any

worse? “Fact-checking? That’s an intern’s job. I’m a journalist, for

God’s sake.” She slid onto her knees in front of Stan’s oversized desk,

risking additional ruin to the beautiful outÞ t that already reeked of eau

de cellblock. “Give me research, let me copyedit. Anything but fact-

checking.”

“Fine. First go talk with Rachel, she’s covering your murder. I

want you to Þ ll her in. Background on Rosemary, why you’re a suspect,

and who else should be.”

“Wait. Rachel is doing what?”

Stan held up a hand to silence her. “If, if Rachel thinks she can

use you for research, or anything that keeps you out of the public’s eye,

then you can work on the story with her.”

“Rachel?” Velvet repeated. “Are you kidding? She can’t handle

this piece.”

Stan glared at her. “I don’t want to hear it. And I still need you to

fact-check that piece on the state initiatives. I expect it by Þ ve.”

Velvet groaned. “Stan, I need some good news. Tell me you got

my Þ lm developed.”

“Your Þ lm?” He sounded vague.

Alarmed, Velvet said, “Duh! The Þ lm I gave you yesterday

morning. The one I said was important.”

He slapped the front of his head. “It’ll be done by the end of the

day. That’s a promise.”

Velvet didn’t say anything else. She didn’t want Stan to know just

how important those photos might be. She was almost afraid to look at

them herself, afraid in case they were worthless and didn’t have any

• 112 •

BLIND CURVES

information for her to work with. As she opened his ofÞ ce door she

blurted, “With Rachel on the story I’m as good as convicted. I hope you

know that. You’re sending me to jail.”

“I’ll be sure to write,” Stan quipped.

Still standing in the doorway, Velvet tried one last ploy. She

stamped her foot and pouted like Stan’s curly-haired two-year-old.

“My hands are tied,” her boss said. He buried his head in the

papers on his desk. “Close the door after you.”

Velvet uncrossed her Þ ngers in disgust. She couldn’t believe that

her boss was rewarding the most inexperienced journalist at the paper

with the most important story of the year. The report on Rosemary

Finney’s life and sudden death, and the murder investigation, was the

kind of thing that could bestow the writer with the recognition and

awards that Velvet so clearly deserved. It steamed her panties that an

incompetent upstart like Rachel could even acquire a story like this.

And she had to admit, it concerned her that the reporter on the case—a

case in which Velvet’s career, perhaps her very life were at stake—

showed no sign of living up to her promise. There was little danger that

Rachel was going to help Velvet’s cause.

Velvet ambled into the rookie reporter’s cubicle and sat without

waiting to be offered a seat. “Stan says you’re covering my story.”

“What story?”

Velvet rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. “I was arrested and I’ve

been charged with murdering Rosemary Finney? She was killed in the

Santa Cruz Mountains yesterday morning. She runs Womyn magazine?

Stop me if any of this sounds familiar.”

Rachel continued to stare at her blank-faced.

Wanting to throttle the young reporter, Velvet reminded herself

that doing so would mean another homicide on her record. Stan would

Þ re her for sure. They’d lock her away, and she’d never Þ nd out who

killed Rosemary Finney. That was the kind of thing that could haunt

a person for the rest of their life. No, she couldn’t kill Rachel, and

that meant she had to help her do her job. It wasn’t even about the

truth at this point, Velvet joked to herself. It was about escaping hours

of mindless research done for this punk kid reporter who didn’t even

know who she was.

“Remember the cops being here yesterday afternoon?” Velvet

asked. “You pointed me out to them? They dragged me out of here

• 113 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

handcuffed? I was in jail because the police think I killed Rosemary

Finney.” She spoke slowly, as though explaining something to a small

child. “Rosemary used to also be a friend, one of my best, actually. And

an ex-lover, one of my worst. When we were young and idealistic, back

when you were a teenager taking ecstasy at a weekend rave, we started

a lesbian magazine together.”

Rachel’s eyes had already glazed over, but Velvet continued

describing the magazine’s founding.

“We were sexy and snarky and hip and wanted a magazine that

reß ected that sensibility and reached out to the lesbian diasporas.

Womyn was the culmination of all those hopes and dreams, a magazine

that entertained and challenged queer women all across America in a

way no mainstream media ever could.”

“Women’s magazine?” Rachel awoke from her stupor. “You mean

the one that’s in all the checkout lines? Wow. My mom reads that! She

loves that Martha Stewart crap. All those recipes and patterns.”

Velvet sighed. “No, honey, that’s an entirely different magazine.”

Disbelieving, she got up and walked back out onto the newsroom

ß oor, where she was met by the usual newspaper symphony, people

talking, Þ ngers ß ying across keyboards, a television blaring in the

background, the police scanner, and the distant hammering of the press

running downstairs. Yet again, all the noise stopped abruptly and Velvet

could feel all eyes boring into her. Crap. Her coworkers would never

forget the spectacle of her humiliation when she was cuffed and arrested

in front of them. By now, even the few who had missed yesterday’s

show would have heard it lavishly described by their gossipy coworkers.

There were no secrets in the newsroom.

Velvet was pretty sure she’d never forget it either. She was further

horriÞ ed to see Rachel peeking over her cubicle walls. The young

upstart would love to take over her job if Velvet didn’t recover from

this blow to her ego and her career. Even the J-school interns seemed to

watch her with barely hidden disdain.

“They let you go?” one guy teased.

“Hey, killer. How’d you do it?” Another laughed.

“Shut up, or you’ll be next,” Velvet joked back.

As she passed Brad, the Metro editor, he whispered, “Imelda

Marcos, if you wanted her shoes so badly, why didn’t you just ask her

for them?”

• 114 •

BLIND CURVES

“I did, but she refused to fork them over. They were the latest

diamond-encrusted Manolo Blahniks— to die for.” Velvet retorted.

She reß ected on the missing shoes. What was the signiÞ cance of

the murderer absconding with Rosemary’s shoes? It almost sounded

like a serial killer’s penchant for collecting souvenirs. She’d have to put

in a call to her source at the FBI and have her run the MO through the

national crime database and check for any other violent crimes in which

the perpetrator took the victim’s shoes.

Velvet paused at a window and looked down at the Dumpster in

the parking lot below. Yoshi said the police had found Rosemary’s shoes

in that very bin. Was that just a coincidence, or was someone trying

to deliberately frame her? Velvet had to admit that there was a lot of

circumstantial evidence pointing her way, and it was making her a little

nervous. Even with the best intentions and responsible police work,

the justice system could get it all wrong and send innocent people to

prison. What if it was the police themselves that were framing her?

Then what chance did she have to beat them at their own game?

• 115 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 116 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER TEN

Downtown, in the Flood Building, Tucker Shade answered the

phone, hoping that the caller was Yoshi. She was disappointed

when the voice that responded to her greeting was several octaves lower

and carried a different inß ection than Yoshi’s.

“I got info for y’all.” The New Orleans drawl was a dead give

away.

“Wow, AJ. Thank you.”

“No worries.”

“Let me grab a notepad.” Tucker set the receiver down and

shufß ed through the papers on her desk. Not Þ nding blank paper

there, she pulled a sheet from the shelf in the supply cabinet, sat down,

and thought, That’s stupid, why don’t I just type notes right into the

computer? She opened a new Word document and put the phone on

speaker. “Go ahead.”

As AJ relayed the elements of her conversation with the

Midpeninsula Open Space ranger, Tucker typed in the information.

“Do you have Ranger Whitman’s contact information?” Tucker knew

that was something Yoshi would ask for when she arrived.

Yoshi hadn’t left a message, and when Tucker called her cell

phone it went straight to voice mail. What should she do? She’d tried

Bud Þ fteen minutes ago, but all she got was one of those messages that

said the subscriber had left the service area. Where could he have gone?

Wasn’t he supposed to just be going south of the city? This was the

Bay Area, for heaven’s sake, and Bud had said he would be in Silicon

Valley. How could there not be cell phone coverage in the high-tech

capital of the world?

• 117 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Hold tight, girlie,” AJ was saying. “She done give me a card.”

Through the speakerphone Tucker could hear the sound of rustling

fabric that suggested AJ was searching pockets.

When she read the contact information, Tucker’s Þ ngers ß ew over

the computer keys. “Okay, how about the other ranger, Jenny Cooper?

Did you get her details?” she asked.

“Naw.”

“No problem. How about where she lives?”

“Purissima,” AJ replied, pronouncing the word like a hissing snake

chasing a purring cat away from her mother. Fortunately for Tucker,

the policewoman then spelled the name, calling out letters like church

bingo.

“Is that a town?” Tucker asked.

“Naw, it ain’t. It’s one of them Midpen nature preserves.”

Tucker typed this information and encouraged AJ to continue with

her narrative. When she described Ranger Cooper’s previous encounter

with Rosemary Finney, Tucker interrupted again. “You know what

court that was processed in? The assault case?”

“Didn’t think to, sorry,” AJ said. “But it’d be in the county she

arrested in, I betting San Mateo. Y’all ring up Ranger Whitman, sure’s

shit she’d be of help. An’ I got an idea.”

“Oh, yeah, what’s that?” Tucker prodded.

“Get you somebody to roll down here and check out that ranger

Jenny’s pickup. I’m betting she got a Þ ve-gallon bucket roped up back

there.”

“Yeah?” Tucker didn’t grasp the relevance.

“That Whitman, she picking up trash and stowin’ it in a pail.

She say all them rangers carry buckets.” AJ paused as though this last

sentence conÞ rmed the importance of her previous statements.

Tucker still didn’t get it.

AJ tried again. “Cops coulda missed it if Jenny tossed something.

Like her latex gloves.”

“Oh.” Tucker Þ nally understood. “You mean, like she might have

used latex gloves when providing Þ rst aid, and then she might have just

thrown them into her garbage bucket without even thinking it might be

evidence? That’s great! Thanks, AJ.”

As they said their goodbyes and hung up, Tucker thought, Now I

just need to get Bud to call me. Where could he be? And would she have

a chance to tell him AJ’s idea before he’d cleared the ranger station?

• 118 •

BLIND CURVES

v

Yoshi dialed Velvet’s work number while she bounced along city

streets in the backseat of a cab en route to the Castro. It went straight to

voice mail, which was typical; Velvet often had her phone on “do not

disturb.”

“Hi, Velvet, this is Yoshi. I just wanted to warn you that I offended

Dr. McDermid. I hope it does not cause any tribulations for you. I am

on my way to talk with the Womyn staff. It might be fruitful to check

about the Dumpster in the Chronicle lot. Will you obtain the number

so we can ascertain at what point it was previously picked up? Are you

really going to be at the paper all day? The clock is ticking, you know.

Do not waste all of your forty-eight hours at work. Not when you were

so lucky to get the time. Call me.”

The cab stopped on Castro Street, pulling over next to a Bank of

America. Yoshi paid her fare and exited onto the busy sidewalk. She

immediately smelled the aroma of men. Castro gays were some of the

best-smelling men in the city, matching their obsessive cleanliness with

generous portions of grooming products and cologne. Even the men

that came from the gym up the street smelled fresh.

The pedestrian lights in San Francisco’s main gayborhood were

not equipped with the synchronized beeps that alert the blind when

to walk, stop, or run. Yoshi shufß ed to the curb and stopped when

her cane dropped in elevation. Even though she could see the shape

of large objects, with her condition they often blurred together as

though in motion. Her specialist explained it once, the way human eyes

perceived the world as though objects were constantly in motion—like

images captured by an unsteady camcorder. For those without ocular

dysfunction, the brain steadied the image, but for Yoshi it was all chaos.

So she listened to the cars, felt for the heat and the odor of exhaust,

trying to discern which were idling and in which direction the others

were speeding through the intersection. She was not entirely conÞ dent

in her new skills and was happy that there were people within a few

inches of her.

When the light had just changed to red and there was no chance

for them to dart out without being struck by vehicles, the pedestrians

next to Yoshi physically relaxed. But as it closed in on the next signal,

they crouched at the ready, like pumas preparing to spring into motion.

The pedestrian light turned to walk without a sound, but the second it

• 119 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

changed Yoshi heard the slapping of feet and felt the brush of skirts,

hands, jeans, and the breeze of the crowd pressing forward. She moved

with them.

Once her feet hit the sidewalk again, she turned left and walked

down Castro Street. Smells were a jumble. First a coffee house with

espresso wafting out, then a Body Shop with mango soufß é Þ lling the

air. There was no mistaking the next aroma. A whiff of Escape to New

York Pizza—the best pizza joint outside of Manhattan, or so she’d

heard—reminded Yoshi that she had not eaten lunch. Suddenly aware

of her hunger, she popped into the crowded joint for a quick slice of

their wood-Þ red gourmet pizza, which used to be served oven warm

by a pink-haired girl with a tongue ring and wolf tracks tattooed on her

neck. From the sounds of the crowd, little had changed.

Yoshi ordered two slices of “Gourmet,” which were topped with

feta cheese, dried tomatoes, and artichoke hearts. She knew from

experience that Escape to New York didn’t take credit cards, but

cash transactions presented obstacles for the visually impaired.

Unlike the currency of other countries, the United States’ bills were

indistinguishable to the touch. Printed on the same size paper and

bearing no raised Braille letters, one-dollar bills and twenty-dollar bills

felt the same in her hands. Yoshi had heard that there was a case pending

in the Supreme Court addressing this very issue. In the meantime, she

and other sight-impaired individuals were forced to trust that merchants

and bankers would not take advantage of the situation.

Yoshi did not have that kind of faith in humanity. She was not

comfortable simply unfastening her wallet, allowing a cashier to riß e

around and conÞ scate whatever funds they elected as some blind

people did. Instead she had her bills carefully arranged together by

denomination, with paper clips located at different locations to indicate

their value. Naturally, this required the assistance of a visually able

individual—a role Tucker was currently fulÞ lling, because she wasn’t

entrusting the job to her Þ nancial institution. Tellers could shortchange

you too.

Yoshi had recently decided to collect a cell phone photograph of

the change she was given—as another layer of protection, so she could

later verify she had received the correct amount. Visual impairment

added a layer of difÞ culty to one’s life; even the simplest task could

suddenly become a convoluted procedure, but she was perfectly capable

of devising creative solutions to work around them.

• 120 •

BLIND CURVES

She sat on one of the tall stools at the counter and wondered if the

display in front of her had changed since she was last here. It had been

years. Back then, there were black-and-white head shots of famous

people like Dolly Parton and Matt Groening autographed with short

but benign compliments like, “It’s all in the sauce, man” and “Keep up

the good pizza.”

By the time she’d paid and left the bistro ten minutes later, she had

decided that the pizza did not taste as exceptional as she remembered. To

be fair, nothing did these days. She had heard that this was a temporary

response to loss of sight. Once her nasal abilities increased, her taste

buds would adjust. The way sight played into taste had surprised Yoshi

at Þ rst. Before she had begun to lose her vision, she would never have

thought that not seeing food would make it harder to distinguish what

she was eating.

People in food marketing probably knew, and that’s why they

colored certain foods a particular shade. Maybe yellow-orange actually

made things taste cheesier. Eventually she hoped she would become

a connoisseur of tastes, like a wine-tasting champion capable of

discerning, from the bouquet alone, the geographic origination and the

speciÞ c soils the grapes had matured in. But she was a long way from

that kind of epicurean talent now.

Three entrances down from Escape to New York, her destination

was tucked between a Chinese noodle hut and a sushi joint. Although

the metal-barred front door was the type that needed to be buzzed open,

Yoshi found it slightly ajar when she reached it. Oddly, the nondescript

wooden number behind it was also unlocked. Yoshi pushed it open and

found herself at the base of a steep set of carpeted stairs she remembered

from a visit twelve years prior.

These led to what had once been the ofÞ ce of Blush Entertainment,

a lesbian-owned company that produced erotic lesbian Þ lms and had

published the Þ rst lesbian erotic magazine. The founders had long

since abandoned the second-story ofÞ ce, and their once-revolutionary

contributions to the sex wars were now barely remembered by the

newest generation of San Francisco lesbians. Today the funky little

ofÞ ce housed the lesbian magazine Womyn and the late Rosemary

Finney’s put-upon staff.

Yoshi stood at the bottom of the stairs like a hiker regaining her

strength before attempting to crest the distant summit. Snippets of the

conversation drifted down from above.

• 121 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“…still can’t believe…”

“…Rosemary’s not even in the ground.”

Maybe she would not have to climb the stairs after all, Yoshi

thought. Maybe she could just stand here and eavesdrop. Even though

that was the kind of thing that had just gotten her in trouble at Dr.

Artemis McDermid’s. The shrill ring of a phone sounded and Yoshi

pressed her body against the wall. Slowly, slowly she inched her way

up two steps, thinking if she got a little closer she could hear more of

the conversation. The phone rang again.

“…she is selling…”

Yoshi crept up another step. She heard the rustle of her clothes

brushing along the sheet-rocked walls and froze. Could the Womyn

magazine staff in the ofÞ ce above hear that?

The phone rang a third time. Was anyone going to answer that?

If this were her staff, she would be mad as hell. She tried to imagine

Tucker letting a phone ring and conjured up a vision of the soft-butch,

feet up on the desk, doing her nails. Yoshi stiß ed a laugh. As if.

“Womyn magazine,” a woman with a Latina accent Þ nally replied

brusquely. “Oh, you want to talk with Rosemary Finney? Yeah? What

about, asshole? You want to sell her your long-distance plan? Well, sorry

jerk, but she’s dead. Yes, D-E-A-D dead. She was murdered yesterday.

Oh, you don’t think it’s a good time to call?” She paused. “He hung up

on me.”

Someone laughed. And kept laughing. A little too long. It verged

on hysteria. Everyone dealt with loss in their own way. Yoshi struggled

to comprehend why the magazine’s staff was back at work when

their boss had recently been murdered. Rosemary had accumulated a

division of enemies, but surely someone would miss her. Surely the

psychologically unstable cackling at the head of the stairs was proof

that someone was grieving—right?

Yoshi realized suddenly that she was no longer paying attention,

and in that moment there was a noise at the door and then a draft as it

was pulled ajar and the darkness surrounding Yoshi faded in face of the

bright daylight.

“Can I help you?” The woman who’d discovered Yoshi lurking in

the shadows of the Womyn’s stairwell sounded genuinely surprised, and

her voice betrayed no hint of suspicion.

“Who’s there?” Yoshi played her helpless tone, stretching out her

• 122 •

BLIND CURVES

hands and fumbling into the space before strategically dropping her

cane.

“I’ll get that.” The woman’s voice fell and rose as she bent to

retrieve the white cane. “Oh, I’m so sorry. You’re blind.” She pressed

the cane into Yoshi’s open palm. “I mean,” she rushed to correct the

potentially offensive descriptor, “visually challenged. I’m Grace Lee.”

“Hi, Grace Lee.” Yoshi held out a hand. “I’m Yoshi Yakamota.”

They shook.

Grace Lee’s hand was smaller than her own, with well-manicured

short nails. She spoke with the faint accent of a second-generation

Chinese American.

Yoshi smiled. It was not every day she met another Asian American

lesbian. “I have a meeting here, but I was a little daunted by the stairs,”

she said, almost feeling bad about her deception.

“Of course.” Grace kept hold of her hand. “Let me help you.”

They maneuvered the steep staircase with Grace leading the way.

Yoshi silently counted the steep stairs as she went, in case she didn’t

have a chaperone on the way down.

When they reached the landing, Grace asked, “Who are you

meeting?”

Here goes. “Rosemary Finney. The editor.”

There was more than one harsh inhalation of breath, and the chatter

in the open ß oor ofÞ ce stopped abruptly.

“Is there something wrong?” Yoshi feigned surprise.

Grace Þ dgeted next to her.

“Didn’t you see the news today?” a woman asked from across the

room.

Grace stiffened. Yoshi could tell her hands ß ew to her face. She

imagined her running a Þ nger across her throat in the “cut” signal.

Subsequently she would almost certainly point to Yoshi’s cane or eyes,

or mouth the words, “She’s blind.”

“Sorry,” Grace stammered. “It’s just that Rosemary, she’s dead.”

“Oh my God.” Yoshi gasped appropriately. “Dead? But I spoke

with her a few days ago. How?”

“She was killed yesterday morning.”

Yoshi swayed on her feet. Helpful Grace responded by ushering

her to a chair.

“Here, sit. Joni? Get her a glass of water.”

• 123 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

A moment later, a cool glass was placed in Yoshi’s hand and she

continued to spin her tale by Þ rst “sharing” that she was an old friend

of Rosemary’s from Brown University, though they had not seen each

other in many years. Improvising on the ß y like she used to with her

father, she revealed that she had come to San Francisco to undergo a

cutting-edge, breakthrough therapy that might just restore her sight. In

reality, as far as she knew, the treatment she described did not exist and

there was no cure for her particular ocular degeneration. She continued

with her fabrication, explaining that while she was in town, she had

intended to catch up with Rosemary, who was unaware of her visual

impairment. Rosemary had found time in her busy schedule to squeeze

in a brief meeting and they had scheduled an appointment.

“I guess she is not going to make it.” Yoshi offered a weak smile.

“Was it some kind of accident?”

“No, apparently she was murdered,” the girl who had supplied her

with water replied blithely.

“Murdered? Oh my God. How? Where?”

“Well, we aren’t really sure about the details, but it seems that she

was in some park in Woodside, near her home. A jogger found her on

the trail.”

“On a hiking trail?” Yoshi shook her head adamantly. “Then it

couldn’t be her. I mean, what would Rosemary have meant to accomplish

on a footpath? She had not gone all L.L. Bean, had she?”

“It’s weird, isn’t it?” Grace Lee agreed. “But they positively

identiÞ ed her.”

Yoshi shook her head again, doing her best to project stunned

friend in denial. “Who’d want to murder Rosemary?”

From the tense silence, she deduced that Rosemary Finney’s

employees immediately had a suspect or two in mind. Maybe they had

even dreamt of killing her themselves. Yoshi tried to relay how Velvet

had described Rosemary, back when the wealthy editor was likeable.

“She was such a great woman, dedicated to her friends. A feminist with

progressive ideals.”

Someone snorted. Another laughed bitterly. “Feminist? Are we

talking about the same Rosemary?”

“I suppose everyone changes after college,” Yoshi allowed. “You

don’t think she could have done something that would get her killed?

Like drugs? Or making dangerous enemies?”

• 124 •

BLIND CURVES

None of the women responded to her query.

“It is just that,” Yoshi dropped her head and let her voice crack, “I

thought maybe it would help me to understand. Never mind. I should

go.”

She stood, wobbled, and then fell forward. As she had hoped,

Grace Lee caught her and eased her back into the chair. Was it wrong

to prey upon people’s guilt and sympathy for the disabled in order to

get information? Not if it worked, Yoshi told herself, thinking it was

something Velvet would say.

“I don’t think you should be going anywhere, not until you feel a

little better,” Grace said.

“All right,” Yoshi meekly conceded. The phone rang again and as

soon as it was answered, she said, “You girls are so dedicated. Rosemary

was fortunate to have you. Here you all are fast at work, the day after

this horrible event. You must be incredibly devoted to your work.”

“Are you kidding?” chortled the Latina woman with an accent

that Yoshi pegged as Cuban American. She was the one who had rudely

answered the previous call. Yoshi could tell she was very angry.

“Becca,” Grace cautioned.

“Lay off her, Grace,” Joni responded. “Stop pretending this isn’t

ridiculous. What kind of person makes their staff work when the editor

has just been killed?”

“Someone made you stay?” Yoshi asked. The astonishment in her

voice was not forced.

In the bickering, the phone started ringing again, this time

unanswered.

“Yeah, someone did.” Becca sneered. “That bitch Karen.”

“I bet she did it,” Joni declared.

“Are you kidding?” Grace’s tone was accusatory. “She was always

fawning over Rosemary—that’s true love.”

“Whatever, Grace, you brown-noser,” Becca responded. “You

going to stand there and defend her now? Even though she’s selling us

to OutNation?”

“That’s just a rumor,” Grace insisted.

“You think they’re going to keep you on?” Becca asked. “We are

all so fucking Þ red.”

“Even if that’s true,” Grace said, “I’m sure it was Rosemary’s

doing, not Karen’s.”

• 125 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Oh, right, Karen is a perfect angel,” Becca taunted. “We all know

you’ve got the hots for her.”

Yoshi wondered if they had forgotten she was there. She certainly

was not going to remind them of her presence, not when their squabbling

was revealing so many interesting details.

“Yeah,” Joni piped in. Yoshi detected some resentment from the

girl. “Maybe you killed Rosemary so you could hook up with Karen.”

“That’s ridiculous.” Grace waved aside the accusation.

“Oh, that’s ridiculous?” Becca laughed sardonically.

“If it’s so ridiculous, where were you when it happened?” Joni

asked.

“I don’t even know when it happened,” Grace said, clearly

exasperated.

“Around six,” Becca supplied.

“So, where were you before six yesterday morning?” Joni

persisted.

“Sleeping. Where were you, smart-ass?” Grace sighed. “This is

stupid, you guys. We shouldn’t turn on each other.”

“You’re right,” Becca said. “We should all get together and Þ ght

the real enemy.”

Becca paused and Yoshi thought she could hear Grace nod in

agreement. “OutNati—” Grace began.

“Karen!” Becca interjected.

Joni laughed.

“Oh, fuck you,” Grace said.

“I think I should depart,” Yoshi interjected.

“I’ll walk you out,” Grace offered eagerly.

As they ambled down the stairs, Grace said, “I’m sorry you heard

that. We aren’t always—”

“At each other’s throats?”

“Yeah.” Grace sighed. “It’s just hard right now—losing Rosemary

and then this rumor going around that we’ve been sold.”

“Do you have any insight into who might have wished Rosemary

dead? Is there anything unusual going on at your magazine?” They had

reached the base of the stairs.

“Well, there’s this newspaper reporter who came around a few

weeks ago asking all kinds of questions. Unusual name. Velvet, I think.

She might be good for you to talk to if you can Þ nd her. Other than

that, I don’t know if it’s anything, but we had an intern a few months

• 126 •

BLIND CURVES

ago. Everyone said Rosemary had a thing for her. She was only here

for three weeks, and then one day she just stopped coming in. It was

weird.”

Yoshi was intrigued. “Do you remember her name?”

“Elizabeth Claiborne.” Grace held open the door. “Nice to meet

you,” she said. “Maybe we’ll see you at the funeral?”

“Perhaps.” Yoshi was noncommittal.

v

Velvet was not in the mood to fact-check a tedious piece on this

year’s state initiative that would ban same-sex marriage, but she set

about verifying sources anyway, making sure that the Henry fellow who

wrote the piece had dotted all his i’s and crossed his t’s. Stan wanted it

by Þ ve and she would spend the next three hours making that happen.

But she wasn’t giving him a thing unless he had her Þ lm ready.

While she waited on hold for conÞ rmation from the secretary of

state’s ofÞ ce, she cracked open a new composition book and wrote

a single-word header: “Suspects.” Below that on the left side of the

page, she listed a bevy of potential killers. Each person clearly had

some cause for retaliation against Rosemary. Velvet made another

column to express those reasons, “Motive,” and jotted down potential

motivations.

She added herself to be empirical, and besides, the cops had her

at the top of their list. If she was going to establish who was really

responsible, she’d need to track down and eliminate each person who

became a suspect. At least she had Blind Eye on her side. And whatever

they found she could, in good conscience, keep from the Chronicle. But

anything she discovered on the paper’s time would have to end up on

Rachel’s desk. Not that Rachel would know what to do with it—she

couldn’t write a decent article if her life depended on it. Besides, it was

Velvet, not Rachel, whose life was at stake.

So Velvet wasn’t about to compromise her leads by sharing

information with a cub reporter who didn’t give a rat’s ass whether

she ended up in prison or not. When Yoshi had something solid Velvet

would write the article herself and present it to Stan. She suspected

that once he was handed a completed and engaging piece he wouldn’t

be hung up on minor details—like that she’d ignored his assigning the

story to Rachel.

• 127 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

At the top of the suspects list was Velvet’s friend, Bend magazine

publisher Marion Serif, who wouldn’t speak with her over the phone.

Not with a Yuri in the ofÞ ce. Both fans of the movie Intern and its

insider look at fashion magazines, she and Marion had co-opted the

Þ lm’s snappy slang when Marion began to suspect that Bend had a

spy, or “Yuri,” of its own. Aware that “Yuri” by deÞ nition referred to a

lesbian in manga and anime, they were amused by the double entendre,

and they’d employed the term to describe every spy, tattletale, or

backstabber in their lives.

In the months since Marion’s suspicions were Þ rst raised about

a spy in the house of Bend, she had become increasingly vigilant,

bordering on paranoid. Velvet couldn’t blame her. It had to be more

than mere happenstance that Womyn was constantly outscooping Bend.

It did seem as though someone was tipping the rival publication off

about story ideas as soon as Marion suggested them.

Differing publication schedules meant the newest issue of Womyn

always hit the stands a week before Bend, so there was nothing the

Bend staff could do to compensate since their publication was already

at the printer by the time they discovered the duplicity. For the past

three months, the two competing magazines had sat side by side on the

newsstands, boasting the exact same cover stories. Lesbian consumers

didn’t like buying two magazines, not when they essentially covered

the same things, so Bend’s bookstore sales had plummeted. And since

Womyn came out earlier, readers assumed it was Bend, not its crosstown

rival, that was stealing the scoops.

Marion had concluded that one of her staff members was the mole

committing corporate espionage, which was why she would only speak

freely in person. She had hired Velvet a month ago to smoke out the Yuri

but so far, Velvet hadn’t had much luck with the endeavor. Now she and

Marion were seriously contemplating creating an entirely fabricated

magazine, with every word nestled between its covers a complete fake.

Perhaps then they could prove the other publication had swiped their

stories.

It wasn’t just the Yuri that could have given Marion a motive to

kill Rosemary. There were three million other reasons she might want

her rival publisher dead. Three million dollars: that was the amount

Womyn’s management was asking Marion to pay in their lawsuit. Marion

couldn’t afford to Þ ght a protracted and costly court battle. Bend would

• 128 •

BLIND CURVES

be out of business before the suit was proven to be frivolous. Obviously

that’s what Rosemary had counted on. It wouldn’t take Rosemary

winning the lawsuit to drive Bend out of business; all it would take was

the lawsuit itself.

Money was always tight in the magazine business, what with

distributors who could take twelve months or more to pass along the

magazine’s share of newsstand sales. In the last decade a stream of

the nation’s largest distributors had gone belly-up, and they had taken

a lot of publications with them. The rise of the monolithic Wal-Mart,

bookstore chains like Barnes & Noble, and Internet sites like Amazon

and Half.com had permanently altered the publishing landscape, and

things were even tougher in the LGBT niche market, especially for

publications that targeted only queer women.

Lesbians were too busy trying to keep food on their tables and

roofs over their heads to be the kind of consumers gay men were. What

kept mainstream magazines aß oat, even with three times the pages and

half the cover price of Bend, was a constant infusion of advertising

cash. While mainstream advertisers had warmed to the pink market,

they tended to focus on gay men, whose income and spending habits

rivaled those of straight households.

Velvet dialed Bend’s number and punched in Marion’s extension.

There was no doubt in her mind that Rosemary and Karen had been

hoping to force Bend into bankruptcy. Then they could swoop in and

buy the competitor magazine, gut it, and use the subscriber list to keep

Womyn aß oat.

“Can we meet when I get off work?” she asked when Marion

Þ nally picked up her phone. She didn’t give her name in case the Yuri

was listening. Besides, Marion knew her voice.

“Coffee?” Marion asked. It meant more than just a cup of joe. She

was referring to Velvet’s favorite café, the Coffee Klatch.

“Good. See you.”

They both hung up and Velvet unlocked the bottom drawer of her

desk, withdrew a red folder, and ß ipped through its contents. Grainy

black-and-white photographs of the Bend staff were paper-clipped

to individual dossiers detailing what Velvet had learned about each

employee. In the back of the folder were several computer printouts

about surveillance cameras. Two weeks ago Velvet had researched the

different brands available and suggested Marion install one at the Bend

• 129 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

ofÞ ce, but Marion had been affronted at the ethical implications of

scrutinizing her staff’s every move. She wasn’t willing to become Big

Brother, not even to save her magazine.

Velvet knew her friend was at her wits’ end. Coming on top of the

Yuri’s damage, the lawsuit must have been a devastating blow. Could it

have pushed Marion to murder?

• 130 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Bud pulled into the handicapped spot near the entrance of the

Midpeninsula Regional Open Space District Skyline Field

OfÞ ce, maneuvered his chair out of the Impala, and rolled up the

inviting ramp. At the door he realized that the entrance was positioned

so he’d have to make a three-point turn just to get through it.

“Damn it!” he muttered before rotating the chair to face the glass

door. From that position he could see that the entrance ahead of him was

equipped with neither hydraulics to open automatically nor a ramp over

the three-inch lip that separated the cement landing from the linoleum

ß ooring inside. Fucking architects.

As he wrestled with the door it closed against him. With half the

wheels inside and half out and the heavy door crushing him, Bud spit

out another string of curses. The profanity roused a boy who didn’t look

old enough to be a ranger.

“Need help?” he offered while grabbing Bud’s wheels and trying

to haul him inside.

The assistance succeeded only in impeding Bud’s way and wasting

precious time. Finally he shoved the teenager backward, crunched over

his booted foot and rolled into a room ringed by old metal desks and

dinged gray Þ le cabinets. Several ofÞ ces, encased behind glass, lined

the far wall, their interiors darkened. Bud located the big round wall

clock. 4:35 p.m. He hid a smile. He’d timed his arrival perfectly. He

wanted to talk to an underling.

The scowling teen hopped in front of him, wearing a full-on ranger

uniform, topped off with a gold-plated Þ ve-point star badge on his shirt

• 131 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

and a brass name tag that read Scott Robbins. They get younger every

year.

“May I help you?” Robbins asked with a trace of irritation.

“Nice to meet you,” Bud said after introducing himself. “Deputy

Freeman with the San Mateo County Sheriff’s OfÞ ce told me you might

be of assistance. I’m investigating the murder that occurred yesterday

up at Wonderland Park.”

Bud knew right away that he’d have Ranger Robbins’s cooperation.

It was clear in the kid’s wide eyes and the way he held himself that

he had law enforcement dreams. Bud wondered how many times he’d

failed to qualify for the police academy before he’d settled on playing

park pig. “It’s always a pleasure to talk with other law enforcement

ofÞ cers,” he remarked. The compliment was distasteful in his mouth,

but he knew it would open doors. “You wouldn’t believe what a pain it

is to work with civilians.”

Ranger Robbins nodded vigorously. “Straight up, dude, you don’t

have to tell me. How can I help?”

“I understand one of the rangers was Þ rst on scene yesterday

morning?”

“Oh, yeah, Jenny,” the kid said enviously. “I wasn’t on duty yet,”

he added as if to explain away his absence from what was surely the

biggest event of the year for these guys. He sauntered over to a row of

clipboards that hung on the wall between two of the enclosed ofÞ ces

and ß ipped through several pages before offering one of the boards to

Bud. “Here’s the IR.”

Bud took the incident report and ß ipped through the two pages.

“I’d like to get a copy of this.”

“Sure. Want her log, too?”

“That’d be great.” Bud couldn’t believe his luck. The hour-by-

hour log of a law ofÞ cer’s daily activities wasn’t meant for public

consumption and wouldn’t even be submitted to a DA. Yet here was

Ranger Robbins, offering Jenny’s to him without batting an eye. “So,”

he continued as Robbins took the clipboard to a copy machine. “The

call came in as a medical?”

“Yeah. CDF were like sent to the wrong location. That’s how come

Jenny got on scene Þ rst.” He handed the warm photocopies to Bud and

returned the clipboard to its designated place on the wall.

Knowing that reports were often condensed and sanitized versions

• 132 •

BLIND CURVES

of the real story, Bud wanted to keep the ranger talking. “Did she know

right away it was a crime scene?”

Robbins’s brow crinkled in thought. “I don’t think so. She just

found the victim down with no pulse and she couldn’t get out on the

radio, so she goes and, like, starts CPR.” As if embarrassed by the

inference of substandard equipment, he rushed to explain, “We’ve got

stupid blind spots up here, ’specially with portables.”

“How long was she alone with the victim?”

“Like Þ fteen, twenty minutes. Why?”

“Just for the record,” Bud said with a dismissive wave of his hand,

but he was thinking about how a good defense attorney might use that

information to raise doubts about physical evidence in the case. “In that

time, did she notice anything suspicious?”

Robbins shook his head. “She was hella busy. You know, one-

person CPR is super tough, you can’t really focus on much else. Except

the shoes missing. She was like, ‘Who steals shoes from a corpse?’”

Bud nodded. “Anything else?”

“When CDF got on scene and were, like, working on the victim,

that’s when they Þ nally noticed these marks around her neck. Maybe

a ligature situation.” Robbins reß exively touched his own neck as he

revealed his impressive forensic awareness.

“Did they search for a weapon?”

“Yeah, I guess Jenny poked around a bit, and when I came on duty

I did, like, a totally thorough search. Woodside probably sent someone

up from the bottom. They kinda don’t have rangers, just a maintenance

crew. Local PD gives them backup. You know, for law enforcement

duties.”

“And you didn’t notice anything suspicious when you examined

the site?” Bud asked.

“No, not really. Well, there was this one thing. Horse tracks on

the trail, but I didn’t notice them above the murder scene. They coulda

just been obliterated by all the EMS trafÞ c up there. But…” Robbins

shrugged.

Bud was intrigued. “Could you tell if there was just one set or if

they’d come back that same way?”

“Hmm. Now that you mention it, there did seem an awful lot of

prints, so they probably did come back that way. Or they could, like, be

more than one horse going one way.”

• 133 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Bud nodded. “So there’s a parking area at the bottom? Is that

where someone would park and unload a horse trailer?”

Robbins bobbed and then shook his head as though he

couldn’t decide if he agreed or not. “Yeah, there’s a lower lot. But

they’re probably just locals. See, Woodside’s straight-up horse central.

They don’t need to trailer horses, just ride ’em straight from their

residence.”

“Okay, that’s great. You’ve been a big help.” Bud extended his

hand.

Ranger Robbins rushed to shake it. “Can I like get the door for

you?”

“Sure. If you aren’t afraid to be run over again. But Þ rst, I need to

make a call and I can’t seem to get out on my cell.”

“Yeah, reception sucks up here. You can use the landline. You

don’t have to dial nine or nothing.” Robbins led Bud down a short

hallway and opened the door to a spacious room at least ten degrees

cooler than the front ofÞ ce. Floor-to-ceiling windows dominated one

wall, looking out at a picnic table under some trees. The wall closest to

the door housed shelves of books on medical rescue and native plants

of California. Bleached animal skulls and shards of pink glass were

scattered around the books. A phone sat on the lone desk next to a

tower of stacking chairs. Bud rolled over and dialed Blind Eye’s main

number.

When Tucker answered, he said, “Put me through to Yoshi.”

“Where have you been?” Tucker demanded. “I’ve been trying

to reach you for hours. Yoshi’s not here. You haven’t left the ranger

station, have you?”

He furrowed his brow. Yoshi wasn’t around, he was stuck in the

fucking boonies, and Tucker was being annoying as usual. “Just put me

through to her voice mail.”

“No. I have something important to tell you.”

“Fine,” he said, pulling a notepad from his back pocket. “Just tell

me.”

“I talked with this East Palo Alto police ofÞ ce I know. AJ Jackson.

And she—”

“She? What the hell kind of name is AJ for a woman?” Bud

chuckled. “Never mind, look who I’m asking.”

• 134 •

BLIND CURVES

“You never listen to me, do you? I told you a hundred times—”

“Down, girl. I know the story. Your brother Tucker died, your

parents were despondent, they gave you his name. Blah, blah. Get to

the point.”

“Sorry. The important thing is, she suggested checking the back of

Ranger Jenny’s truck. Look for a bucket that has trash in it. She thinks

there might be some evidence there, like used gloves.”

“And how the fuck am I supposed to clamber around in the back

of a pickup?”

“Oh, gosh. Sorry, I didn’t think.”

“Whatever. I’ll see if I can get someone here to do it. Now, do you

want to put me through to Yoshi’s voice mail or write down what I’ve

got?”

“I’ll just write it down. Go ahead.”

“I’ve picked up the ranger’s report on Þ nding the DB. I’m headed

down to Woodside, to Wonderland Park. Maybe I’ll swing by the

victim’s house. We’ll see. It’ll be another thirty minutes or so before I

get cell service again. Got all that? Great, thanks, doll.”

Without waiting for more Tuckerisms, he hung up and exited the

meeting room. In the hallway he spotted restrooms and rolled into the

men’s, pushed his way into the handicapped stall, and undertook the

lengthy process of relieving his bladder. The bathroom also served as

the staff locker room, and no one seemed to think locks were important.

Bud opened a locker door at random. It held a uniform, rain gear, and

the usual crap. Deodorant, shaving gear, and shampoo.

A knee-high bench ran the length of the lockers, and below it were

numerous pairs of dark reddish brown leather boots that laced up over

the ankle. Bud stared long and hard at them, his mind processing a

possibility that seemed almost too good to be true. He wondered if the

women’s restroom had the same ß oor plan.

When he rolled back to Robbins, he said, “I noticed the boots back

in the john. Any chance that female ranger—Jenny—might’ve left hers

in the women’s room yesterday?”

“We all get two pair, so maybe if they got wet or something, and

she changed them. Want me to go see?”

“Yeah, I’d appreciate that.”

The kid ducked into the women’s restroom and returned a

• 135 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

moment later carrying a pair of boots, their soles encrusted with mud.

“Whaddaya know.” He held them at Bud’s eye level. “Your lucky day,

I guess. I think these are hers. They’ve got 9L6 written inside. That’s

her call sign.”

He held them so Bud could see the faded number on the brushed

leather inside of the boot, then set them down on a nearby desk.

“You got a Baggie or something I could use?” Bud retrieved a

Swiss Army knife from his pants pocket as Robbins scavenged around

in a supply closet. Bud started scraping dried mud samples off the boots

with the blade of his knife laid ß at to prevent nicks. The boots were

the kind of three hundred dollar made-to-order ones Þ reÞ ghters wore.

He didn’t want to damage them. “That Jenny,” he asked when Robbins

dropped a handful of ziplocks in front of him. “Her truck wouldn’t be

out there, would it?”

He knew it was a long shot, what with the earlier lesson about

ranger residences, but he asked anyway. It was a reß exive CYA move;

it paid to ask questions, even if the answers seemed obvious, if not

asking them could in any way come back and bite him on the ass. Like

if he stopped by the ranger’s house and then found out the truck was

here at the station all along.

“P49? Doubt it.” Robbins glanced back toward the wall-sized

chalkboard. Bud followed the kid’s gaze and saw some notations

scrawled in white chalk. “Dude.” Ranger Robbins whistled in

amazement. “You’re, like, straight-up stupid lucky, man. Jenny’s truck

is never here. She takes it home, you know, ’cuz—”

“She’s a resident ranger,” Bud completed.

“Yeah. Exactly. But it’s going for service tomorrow. That’s sick,

man.”

Bud wondered when he’d gotten so old, and who taught these punk

kids to talk anyway? He’d never been good at grammar, but damn. Kids

today. He tried his luck. “Do you think you could do something for

me?”

The ranger’s baby face pulled into a doubtful scowl. “Yeah?” He

pronounced it with suspicion.

“It’d really help with the case if you’d take a look in the back of

her truck.”

The kid wasn’t biting.

“Understandable.” Bud exaggerated a shrug. “’Specially seeing

• 136 •

BLIND CURVES

as how I’d have to take down all your personal information so I could

include it in my ofÞ cial report. And then the chief’s always calling

people back, you know, to verify everything, and the next thing you

know they’re embarrassing you with ofÞ cial commendations and—”

“Oh, no.” Robbins acted like Bud had misunderstood. “That’s no

big deal. I mean it’s a murder case, man.”

“You might be called to testify.” Bud pretended he was trying to

dissuade the ranger.

“Whatcha need?”

Bud hid his smug smile by wiping at his face. “You guys pick up

trash while out on patrol, right?”

“We’re not maintenance or anything. There’s a crew that does

that.”

Bud wanted to smirk at the kid’s defensiveness. “No, I didn’t mean

that, I meant small things, like litter from the parking lots.”

“Oh, yeah, we do that. Why?”

“Well,” Bud drawled, “I was thinking Jenny might’ve picked up

some evidence, just thinking it was garbage. So if you could check the

truck bed for litter, there’s garbage bags in my trunk.”

“Okay.” Robbins replied reluctantly. “But, don’t you, like, need to

check for prints or something? Before I touch stuff?”

“No, that’s okay. Just try not to touch stuff too much. Pick

bottles up with a pencil in their mouth, that kind of thing. If it’s all

in some kind of bucket or something, you can just dump it out

together.”

The kid nodded enthusiastically.

“Catch.” Bud tossed his car keys at Ranger Robbins, who had to

drop his pack to grab them. “Bag it and put it all in the trunk for me.”

v

Tucker was still alone in the ofÞ ce and not sure if she should just

leave work for the night or stay until she located her boss. She tried

calling Yoshi’s cell again, expecting the voice mail to answer, as it had

the forty other times she’d called all through the afternoon. She was

actually stunned when Yoshi answered.

Her soft voice sent goose bumps along Tucker’s usually baby-

smooth arms. God, she’d like to hear the woman whispering her name.

• 137 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Or shouting it out. Just one night of dipping her pen in company ink,

and Tucker knew that it would change her life forever. Trying to focus,

she shook the naughty thoughts from her head.

“Boy, I’m glad you’re okay. You are, right?”

“I am Þ ne, Tucker. What can I do for you?”

“Oh, sorry, it’s just that I’m supposed to be off already, but you’ve

been gone all afternoon and there wasn’t a note, and I guess your

phone’s been off?”

Yoshi sighed. “You are correct. Something unexpected transpired.”

Tucker was curious, but didn’t pry. “I just wanted to check in

before I left for the night.”

“Oh. Right.” Yoshi sounded almost disappointed.

“I don’t have to go, if you need something,” Tucker gushed. She’d

so like to meet Yoshi’s needs. “Really, I don’t mind staying late.” She

wasn’t heading home anyway, not for a couple of hours at least.

“Well, if it’s not an imposition.” Yoshi drew out the Þ rst word.

“Not at all,” Tucker assured her.

“In point of fact, I could use your assistance. I am en route to 965

Mission, where I hope to intercept a person of interest.”

“Who’s that?” Tucker asked.

“Elizabeth Claiborne. Also known as Liz. She worked brieß y for

Womyn. During today’s investigation, I have gotten the impression that

Elizabeth Claiborne may have pertinent information.” Yoshi seemed

cagey. Before Tucker could pose a query, Yoshi said, “Can you do a

background search on her and then meet me at the ofÞ ce building next

to the Chronicle?”

“Of course,” Tucker agreed before wondering how she was going

to get there. She’d Þ gure it out. She began cleaning off her desktop.

“Good. I originally expected to meet up with Velvet, but I guess

she is not at the ofÞ ce.”

“I’ll see you soon,” Tucker bubbled. She was so excited she’d get

to spend more time with Yoshi, she didn’t even consider what Velvet

might think. Nor did it cross her mind that she was more likely to

become involved with the investigation than the investigator.

• 138 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER TWELVE

Velvet settled into the cozy leather couch set in the back corner

of Noe Valley’s Coffee Klatch. The small, lesbian-owned

coffee and tea café featured cushy purple brushed-velvet sofas, mocha-

colored walls, dim recessed lighting, funky lesbian artwork, and tons

of intriguing magazines. To calm herself down, Velvet ß ipped through

the San Francisco Bay Times while sipping her skinny, no whip, double

mocha. Stan hadn’t kept his “promise” until it was too late to get her

Þ lm back from processing by Þ ve. Now she had to wait until tomorrow

morning. Velvet was still considering the appropriate response. Maybe

she should just resign.

Marion slid onto the seat next to her. “What’s up?” she

whispered.

Velvet put down the paper. “You heard about Rosemary?”

Marion nodded.

“I’ve been charged with her murder.”

“What?” Marion looked horriÞ ed. “You didn’t, did you?”

“God, no. But I am trying to Þ gure out who did.”

“And you’re asking me?”

Velvet smiled, “Not so much, no. But I did want to Þ nish our

interrupted conversation. From the other night at the Liberty. What’s

Rosemary suing you for?”

“You won’t believe it. For hiring Kathleen Hillman, among other

things.” Marion shrugged and shook her head.

“But didn’t Rosemary throw her out?” Velvet was incredulous.

“Like a year and a half ago?”

Kathleen Hillman was the editor credited with turning any queer

mag she touched into newsstand gold. Celebrities loved to talk to her,

• 139 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

readers loved to gossip about her, and in San Francisco everyone was

as enamored with her as Rosemary Finney once was. But when staff

tensions grew at Womyn, Kathleen got caught in the crossÞ re, which

meant a nasty breakup with Rosemary and getting tossed out by the

publisher’s legal goons unexpectedly one morning. After a year of

solitude on some ashram or something, she had recently reappeared in

San Francisco and Bend was quick to snatch her up.

“Yeah, she threw her out. It was ugly, too.” Marion took a sip of

her latte. “Personally, I can’t see how Womyn has a case, but…”

“But it’s expensive to Þ ght,” Velvet Þ nished Marion’s sentence.

She knew from personal experience how difÞ cult it was to go up against

Rosemary and her lawyers.

“I tried talking to Karen a few weeks ago, to see if we could…I

don’t know, work this out somehow.”

“Karen? Really?” Velvet was surprised Rosemary’s partner would

have agreed to speak with Marion. “What did she say?”

“She said no.”

“Of course she did,” Velvet said sarcastically. That sounded like

Karen.

“Actually, I got the feeling that Karen wished Rosemary would

drop it.” Marion stared at Velvet. “What?”

“I didn’t say anything,” Velvet replied, thinking it was far more

likely that Karen had put Rosemary up to the lawsuit than the other

way around.

“You had a look. You don’t think she could disagree with

Rosemary?”

“I’d just be surprised if they didn’t show a united front.”

“Maybe now Karen will drop the lawsuit,” Marion said

hopefully.

Velvet wasn’t convinced. “I hope so. For you. Maybe the Yuri will

stop selling your secrets.” She didn’t really believe that would happen

either. With Rosemary gone, Womyn would probably value the insider

information even more. “Anything new going on? Anything weird?”

A look of concern crossed Marion’s attractive face, and when

Velvet prompted her, she said, “Okay. For what it’s worth, one of

our interns hasn’t shown up for two days. It’s weird. She’s usually so

reliable, but I’ve called her at home and she doesn’t answer.”

“Well, maybe some family emergency came up or something.

Still, I’ll look into it if you want.”

• 140 •

BLIND CURVES

“Would you? Her name’s Liz Claiborne. She’s only been with us

a month, but I’d hate to lose her. She’s the kid I told you about a couple

of weeks ago, remember?”

Velvet didn’t. She vaguely remembered Marion waxing on about a

new addition, but at the time she’d been distracted by a phone call from

Tucker, and her mind had wandered to bedroom fantasies.

Marion was silent for a moment, ruminating, her brow pinched

in concern. Then she shook her head as if to dislodge the unsettling

thoughts amassing there. “Now, what can I do for you?”

“Where were you yesterday morning around Þ ve thirty or six?”

Velvet had to ask. She needed to verify Marion’s alibi so she could

cross her name off the list.

“Home, in bed.” Marion winked. “Victoria’s in town. She can

vouch for me.”

Marion’s lover, a very unproper blond Brit named Victoria, was

a pilot with British Airways, and was often away for weeks at a time.

When she was home, the couple spent days sequestered, making up for

lost time.

Velvet smiled, genuinely pleased for her friend. Velvet didn’t really

see the point of long-distance love affairs. But maybe Marion had the

best of both worlds, with some of the perks of a serious relationship,

like someone to take to holiday dinners, but without sacriÞ cing her

independence. Plus the time the couple spent apart seemed to fuel their

passion for each other.

She winked back at Marion. “So, what are you doing talking to

me, when you should be home with your honey?”

v

As Bud slowly maneuvered his Impala around the blind curves of

Page Mill Road, he passed more Open Space Preserves and enclaves

of the rich and famous. On one hill was a Mediterranean-style mansion

that belonged to the founder of the auction site eBay. Around another

curve lay the sprawling vineyard of a Hollywood mogul. And under the

cover of a tree-topped ridge hid a famous but reclusive dyke musician.

Defying gravity, in Woodside money rolled uphill as the wealthy rose

above the Silicon Valley’s business sprawl. From their high-altitude

hideaways, the afß uent could look down on the working folk in yet

another permutation of feudal systems.

• 141 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Following the route he’d traced on his Thomas Guide map, he

meandered down the hill, past townhomes, the wide grassy Þ elds of

Palo Alto’s Arastradero Preserve, and the sleepy town of Portola Valley.

After turning onto Highway 84, Bud pulled into the lower parking lot

of Woodside’s Wonderland Park.

Woodside was a snooty community tucked against the foothills of

the Santa Cruz Mountains, under broad branches of hulking oak trees.

The town and its inhabitants set themselves apart from the rest of the

Bay Area, and the rest of California, for that matter. Woodside residents

were overly educated, raked in annual incomes signiÞ cantly higher

than their fellow Californians, and lived in houses that dwarfed those

of other neighborhoods. They kept the riffraff out of their exclusive

area—except, Bud imagined, when they needed servants, nannies,

and maintenance staff. Those they imported from black and Hispanic

neighborhoods on the East Bay.

Bud didn’t get the attraction to the place. Surrounded by parks,

Woodside felt like a small, country town, except for the sprinkling

of what girls would probably call quaint or charming restaurants and

stores. Despite its rural façade, it had none of the amenities one would

actually go to the country for, like great Þ shing holes, dive bars, or

greasy-spoon diners.

As he turned into the Wonderland Park lot, gravel scuttled away

from the Impala’s wheels and jingled against the undercarriage.

Bud spied a maintenance worker driving a Woodside Maintenance

Department vehicle, waved him down, and pulled up next to the

battered pickup truck.

“Hey, there, how’s it going?”

“Okay?” The driver replied in a questioning manner.

“I see you’re with the town. I’m here following up on yesterday

morning’s homicide.”

Bud’s direct and ofÞ cious manner disarmed the young man,

who immediately responded to the assumptions that such a statement

evoked. Bud wasn’t sure what those assumptions were in this case, but

if it worked, he didn’t really care who the guy thought he was.

“Oh, yeah, what a mess. Just Þ nished cleaning up. They had that

trail closed all day with someone posted at each end. Not really sure

why, not like the murderer was going to come back. I mean, even the

Trailside Killer didn’t hang around a day later.”

• 142 •

BLIND CURVES

“What all did you clean up?” Bud refocused the conversation on

the area of interest to him.

“Oh, uh, I cleaned out the cans and picked up some litter from

the lot. Management was worried about line-of-sight issues. You know,

after the attack. Thought the trail might be overgrown. Too many blind

corners and so on. So after we got the permit, I hiked up and pruned

everything back. I just Þ nished opening it up again. Removed the

barricades and police tape.”

“I’d love to take that trash off your hands,” Bud said. “Might have

something useful.”

“Oh. Sorry, dude, I already gave it to that other guy.”

Damn. “What guy?”

“The cop that was just here. You didn’t see him on your way in?

He just left.” The maintenance worker leaned out his window.

Shit. Bud shook his head. “Find anything unusual in the

cleanup?”

“Yeah, now you mention it, something strange all right. There was

an iPod in the crapper.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah, you heard right. I’m cleaning the porta-potty and I check to

see if the tank’s full or not. And there it is. One of those pink ones.”

“What’d you do?”

The younger man’s eyes drifted upward as if trying to pull the

answer from his head. It was a standard liar’s tell. “Those things are

expensive, so I Þ gure whoever lost it down there probably would want

it back. After it’s cleaned up, I mean.” He chuckled.

Bud imagined that a lot of people, especially the kind to own a

pink iPod, actually wouldn’t be interested in reclaiming it once it landed

on a pile of human waste.

The Woodside employee continued his story. “I got my can picker

and yanked it out of there. Washed it off with my drinking water. I was

going to take it to the lost and found.”

Bud didn’t buy for a moment that the maintenance worker had

meant to turn in the iPod. Maybe he was going to give it to his girlfriend

or post ß yers in town and hope for a reward from the owner. Even

working for an afß uent municipality like Woodside, maintenance didn’t

pay worth shit. Found items were an unofÞ cial perk of the job.

Bud wondered if the iPod had been accidentally dropped in the

• 143 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

chemical toilet or ditched there on purpose. If you wanted to get rid of

something, what could be a better place to dump it? No one was going

to stick an arm in there to get it out.

“I could take it in for you,” Bud offered.

“Better not. I got to do a report and everything.”

Bud doubted his truthfulness but nodded anyway. “No problem.

Would you mind taking a few photos of it for me? Just in case.” Once

he had photographic evidence of the iPod’s existence the kid would

probably feel compelled to turn it in. If he didn’t, at least Bud would

have a picture to show detectives or give to Velvet’s defense team. If it

came to that.

“You think it could have something to do with the murder?”

Bud shrugged. “Well now, I wouldn’t know that. Not without

examining it.” He held his Polaroid out the window. “A few shots, if

you don’t mind, with the ß ash on.”

The kid hesitated a moment. Then he accepted the outstretched

Polaroid. Lights ß ashed in his cab as the photos were taken. He shoved

the camera and photo cards back at Bud. “It’s late. I got to lock up.”

“Sure,” Bud said. “Let me get out of your way. I’ll watch out for

that report.”

v

By the time Tucker Þ nished the research for Yoshi and pushed her

way through pedestrian crowds over to the San Francisco Chronicle

ofÞ ce, it was 6:00 p.m. She looked up at the building, wondering if

Velvet was up there working late. Then she remembered what Yoshi

had said. That she couldn’t Þ nd Velvet.

Standing in the dark thinking about that woman brought vivid

memories to mind, and Tucker experienced them physically. Her

stomach tightened and a shiver worked its way down her spine and

settled between her thighs. She could almost feel lips bruising her own,

a soft body pressed against hers in need, awkward fumbling replaced

by bold exploration.

The memory of Velvet pulling her thighs apart with one hand and

pinning her back with the other made Tucker feel weak in the knees.

How could she be so aroused by one woman when her heart pined

for another? She shook the visuals from her mind and consciously

slowed her breathing, hoping the dampness in her jeans and the scent of

• 144 •

BLIND CURVES

desire wasn’t a giveaway. This job could only work if she maintained a

distance between her sex life and business. She’d heard that dogs could

smell arousal. Could blind girls?

A stream of cars passed by as she continued down Mission Street to

the neighboring ofÞ ce complex. Tucker sauntered through the parking

lot in front of the three-story building that butted up to the Chronicle

headquarters and wondered where Yoshi would be and how the blind

woman would know it was her approaching.

She whispered, “Yoshi? Yoshi?”

“Over here.”

Yoshi’s voice was low and Tucker couldn’t pinpoint its exact

origination, but she wandered in the general direction.

“Under the stairs,” Yoshi directed.

In the half-light, Tucker located the cement steps leading to the

second ß oor ofÞ ces. Beneath it, Yoshi leaned casually against a wall.

“Hi, Tucker, thanks for coming.” Yoshi kept her voice low.

“No problem. What are we waiting for?”

“I’m hoping Liz Claiborne is going to show up since Dr. McDermid

requested she come by the ofÞ ce this evening.”

“Oh, right. I didn’t Þ nd a lot, but it looks like the Claiborne we’re

looking for is this journalism student from Amherst College. She’s out

here in San Francisco doing an internship. It’s a requirement of her

program. She writes a blog, through Blogger?” Tucker wasn’t sure if

Yoshi was familiar with the online journaling community. “Anyways,

it’s funny. She talks about working at a magazine. She never mentions

it by name, but I guess you said it was Womyn? It’s obviously a lesbian

magazine, but couldn’t it be Bend?”

“No, she works for Womyn. Or at least she did. One of the

employees said she hadn’t been around for a month. What else did you

Þ nd?”

“Just her address. I got it through reverse directory. She lives in

the Mission.”

“Okay. I’m hoping she will materialize. There was something

about her phone message to Dr. McDermid…” Yoshi was quiet for a

moment. Tucker half expected the private eye to make a “bing” sound

and spit out a fortune teller card like the machine in that movie Big.

Yoshi continued, “Which I accidentally overheard. She sounded more

alarmed than distraught by the news of Rosemary’s death. And her

tone—it gave me the impression that she expected Dr. McDermid

• 145 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

to have speciÞ c knowledge about the murder. Dr. McDermid seems

concerned about protecting Claiborne in relation to this case. If either

of them does know something, I want to Þ nd out exactly what it is.”

Tucker remembered watching Big when she was a kid. She

couldn’t remember the occasion, but she must’ve been at someone

else’s house, because hers didn’t have television. But then, she’d been

at other people’s houses a lot back then, which she supposed was better

than the other option. No kid wants to spend all her time at a hospital.

They’re only there if they have to be.

“Tucker?” Yoshi had her head cocked to one side as though she’d

been listening.

“Oh, sorry,” Tucker apologized, certain she’d missed something.

She was sorry for more than that. She still felt bad about those years,

about being healthy when someone she loved wasn’t.

“I just asked if you could do something for me?”

“Oh, yeah. Of course.”

“Will you go out to the parking area and write down the make,

model, and license plates of any vehicles out there? And see if the light

is still on in the second-ß oor ofÞ ce, the fourth one down on the right.”

“I’m on it.” Tucker brushed her hands over her jacket until she

found the small notepad tucked in an inside pocket. Feeling herself up

failed to produce a pen, but it did stir up additional memories of Velvet.

Tucker felt the heat rise up her neck to her cheeks. She wondered if

Yoshi could sense that, like thermal imaging.

“Do you need a pen?” Yoshi held one out to her.

Tucker thanked her and took it. Their Þ ngers brushed and Yoshi

jerked hers away, as though electricity had passed between them.

After that reaction Tucker was a little relieved to slip into the

darkness. As she traipsed into the middle of the lot, she gazed up and

veriÞ ed that the light was still burning in the speciÞ ed ofÞ ce. There

was even a little movement there, as though someone had been staring

out the window and just dropped the shade. It happened so quickly she

wasn’t sure if she’d really seen anything.

In the far corner of the lot, she located three vehicles. She knew

right away what one of them was, even when she was still ten yards

away. It had the unmistakable proÞ le of a Volkswagen bus. Tucker

thought nostalgically about her own VW, which had served her well

over all those thousands of miles and endless nights. She’d bought it in

Pocatello, Idaho, and driven it all the way to New Orleans, camping in

• 146 •

BLIND CURVES

it at state parks along the way. And she lived out of it while she helped

in the restoration of one of the city’s youth shelters.

The bus had barely made it back to the West Coast. It nearly blew

a head gasket in Houston, and a mechanic there told her it would cost

her $1,500 to Þ x it. She didn’t have that kind of money. She’d bought

the thing for $600 and done most repairs herself. So she’d just kept

driving, plugging away till she reached California, even though she

knew she was ruining the engine. She stopped every few hours and

added another quart of oil. It limped into the San Francisco Bay Area

and expired in Livermore in a Þ nal gasp of gray exhaust. Tucker had

ended up getting it towed to Oakland. Now its carcass was tucked in the

Jacksons’ backyard waiting for Tucker to afford parts, Þ nd spare time,

and learn how to rebuild the engine.

She wondered how the more recent model in front of her handled

the hills of San Francisco. Even when hers was in top condition it hadn’t

had a great deal of power and had crawled up mountains at thirty miles

per hour, sputtering all the way.

As she jotted down plate numbers, Tucker was momentarily lit

by headlights when a car pulled into the lot. Her Þ rst instinct was to

hide, so she ducked down between two smaller vehicles. Rather than

coming toward her, the car turned into a parking spot near where Yoshi

hid below the stairs. The motor sounded rough, like it needed a tune-

up. Tucker wondered if the driver could be Elizabeth Claiborne. Still

crouched down, she waddled like a goose to the rear bumper and peered

across the dark parking lot to the car. The occupants didn’t immediately

exit. That was suspicious, wasn’t it? What would Yoshi want her to do?

Creep over there on her belly and jot down the license plate?

In unison, two of the car’s doors opened and two Þ gures from

the front seat were joined by a passenger from the rear. Tucker ducked

behind her shielding vehicle so they wouldn’t see her. She heard doors

slam closed.

“What the hell?” a brusque, heavily accented voice roared from

behind her. Tucker pirouetted to Þ nd an angry, balding, middle-aged

man pointing a pudgy Þ nger her way. She thought he was probably

Italian. “What are you doing to my car?”

“Oh, oh my God, I’m sorry, I’m not doing anything, I swear,”

Tucker sputtered. “I was just, uh, just…I lost a contact.” Tucker was

almost pleased at her ruse. A lost contact. It wasn’t exactly spy novel

material, but for her it was damn quick thinking.

• 147 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“What?” the guy bellowed.

“I lost my contact lens and I bent over to look for it and I was

startled by you.”

“All right. But you better not have scratched it,” the man said,

almost sounding ß irty now. “This here is a rare Pontiac.”

Apparently taken with Tucker’s ditzy act, the hairy-armed guy

went on to offer her a night to forget at Olive Garden. By the time

Tucker extricated herself, she discovered the suspicious subjects she

had meant to tail were no longer visible. Damn. Damn, damn, damn.

Why does this always happen to me, she chided.

No longer concerned with keeping a low proÞ le, Tucker strode

briskly across the lot to the newly arrived vehicle, an aging, Robin’s egg

blue Honda Civic. She scrawled the Civic’s plate on her notepad, Þ nding

it difÞ cult to write in the dark. She wondered if she’d be able to read her

notes later, or if, in the light of day, it would be a nonsensical scrawl of

childlike script written diagonally across the margins of the page. Kind

of like Bud’s writing. Maybe this was why Bud’s handwriting was so

terrible. Was this what it felt like for Yoshi? Was closing your eyes an

accurate, if self-enforced, experience of blindness? Or was there more

to it than that?

As she neared the stairs, Tucker whispered to Yoshi.

No answer.

Tucker walked under the stairs, calling her name. “Yoshi?” Her

stomach knotted. “Yoshi?” There was no response. “If you are hiding

from me, it’s not funny.” Of course Yoshi wouldn’t hide. That was

far too juvenile. Tucker knew already that Yoshi wasn’t the type for

practical jokes.

Her searching became more frantic as the truth became painfully

clear. Yoshi wasn’t playing some trick on her. She wasn’t there. Yoshi

was gone.

v

Velvet was lost in contemplation as she headed out the back

door of the Chronicle. After her brief meeting with Marion, she’d

returned to work and spent some time on the phone, tracking down

former employees of Womyn magazine. Although several of the women

were overly euphoric about Rosemary Finney’s untimely death, she’d

managed to rule all of them out as suspects. These women freely shared

• 148 •

BLIND CURVES

their abject hatred of Rosemary and their glee at her passing but one by

one they’d offered solid alibis for the morning of her murder.

Velvet understood that eliminating suspects was a critical aspect

of any investigation, but still she felt a little anxious about how little

she’d accomplished on the Þ rst of her two days out of jail. The clock

was ticking, she fretted as she rushed through the dark toward her

shrink’s ofÞ ce building. What could Yoshi possibly be doing skulking

around a parking lot after sunset? Her phone message, left over an hour

ago, hadn’t given details. She’d just requested Velvet meet her outside

Dr. McDermid’s ofÞ ce.

Velvet was so lost in thought as she rounded the corner of the

medical complex that she nearly collided with a tall Þ gure lurking in

the shadows. She started to scream and then recognized her lover’s

face. “Tucker? What are you doing here?” Then, worrying that the

question would be taken the wrong way, she explained, “Yoshi asked

me to meet her.”

“Oh, Velvet, I’m so glad you’re here.” Tucker embraced her tightly

and moaned into Velvet’s neck, “Yoshi’s missing.”

“Missing?” Velvet disentangled herself. “What do you mean

missing?”

“I don’t know.” Tucker pouted. “We were watching that ofÞ ce up

there, the one with the light? We’ve been waiting for someone called

Elizabeth Claiborne to show.”

“Did you just say Elizabeth Claiborne?” Velvet recalled the new

intern Marion had mentioned back at the Coffee Klatch. “Liz, right?”

“Yeah. A journalism student from Amherst College. She’s in San

Francisco doing an internship with Womyn magazine.”

“You mean Bend.”

“No, Womyn,” Tucker insisted. “The staff there told Yoshi about

her. Apparently she was working there till about a month ago.”

“Damn.” Velvet shook her head. The Yuri. She had to be. “Son of

a…”

Certainly the fact that Liz had worked at both magazines in such a

short time frame was suspicious. Especially in the light of the sabotage

of Bend. Apparently Marion had trusted her, which meant she’d

probably had access to commercially sensitive information. Could she

have been sent in by Rosemary to spy on Marion?

Velvet thought about the unidentiÞ ed young woman whose phone

call had triggered her current problems with the law. Thanks to her,

• 149 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Velvet had gone to Wonderland Park with her camera the morning of

the murder and was now a prime suspect in Rosemary’s death. Was the

mystery caller Liz Claiborne? And if so, what exactly did she know?

Suddenly it seemed very urgent to speak to her.

Velvet wondered how much Yoshi knew about the enigmatic intern.

It was time they put together everything they’d each discovered.

“What’s this about Yoshi missing?” she demanded.

“Well, see, Yoshi sent me to check if there were vehicles in the lot.

I was only gone a few minutes when this car pulled in.” Tucker pointed

at the Honda Civic. “And these people got out and then I got distracted

and now”—she gulped—“now Yoshi’s gone.”

“And you guys are watching Artemis McDermid’s ofÞ ce?” Velvet

pointed up at the one still brightly lit window. “What does my shrink

have to do with all this?”

Tucker raised her eyebrows. “Your shrink?”

Velvet glared at her.

“Sorry,” Tucker said, exaggerating a serious look. “I think Yoshi

was expecting the Claiborne woman to show up. She wants to talk with

her.”

“So do I. Why is Yoshi expecting her here? It’s kind of late for an

appointment with Artemis.”

“She overheard a phone call, that’s all I know. And now Yoshi’s

gone.”

“I’m sure Yoshi’s Þ ne,” Velvet reassured her young lover. “She

probably just went up to the ofÞ ce.”

She touched Tucker’s shoulder lightly, to calm her. The younger

woman crumpled into her arms and Velvet thought how cute she was, all

worked up and worried in her soft-butch way. She wondered if Tucker

had been crying, and brushed a hand across her cheeks, checking for

dampness. Maybe a little. Such a sweet, naïve gal in many ways, but

when they were in bed together she revealed some surprising skills. In

the dark, she could feel Tucker melting under her reassuring caresses,

leaning in toward her, wanting her. She sensed Tucker had her lips

parted slightly, anticipating a kiss. It sent a little shiver down her back.

Velvet wanted to give in to the moment, but the timing was all

wrong. Besides, Velvet liked to keep her sex and work lives separate,

even if that boundary was occasionally breached, and had, at times,

served as the location of erotic intimacy. It could be so hot to do it in

the ofÞ ce, but not while investigating a story, not outside her shrink’s

• 150 •

BLIND CURVES

ofÞ ce, and not while Yoshi was missing. She stroked Tucker’s short

hair, then gently pushed her away.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said Þ rmly. “I’ll go up to

Artemis’s ofÞ ce, see if Yoshi’s up there. You wait here, in case she

comes back.”

“What if she doesn’t?”

“I won’t be long. If anything happens, call the police.”

Velvet strode briskly up the concrete stairs and down the balcony

until she reached Artemis McDermid’s ofÞ ce door. She paused for a

moment, wondering if this was going to cost her a psychologist. She’d

hate to have to Þ nd another one, especially when she’d been happy

with Artemis’s approach. She wasn’t a psychiatrist, she just held a

PhD in psychology, and Velvet liked it that way. She wasn’t fond of

psychiatrists, those medically trained mental health professionals who

liked to psychoanalyze you or dope you up with Prozac.

Reluctantly, she raised her Þ st and knocked once.

Before she could knock again, the door swung open and Artemis

gushed, “Liz! I’ve been so worried.” She stopped dead, obviously

expecting someone else, and stuttered, “Oh, uh, hello, Velvet. This is

an odd time to visit.”

“Yes, it is an odd time,” Velvet agreed. “I thought you left at Þ ve.”

She got right to the point. “Where’s Yoshi?”

“Excuse me?” Artemis stepped back as though pushed.

Velvet closed the space between them. “Yoshi, my friend? The PI?

I know she talked to you earlier today—where is she now?”

“How should I know? That was this morning.”

“Yes. But she came back. Apparently she wanted to talk to Liz

Claiborne. She a client of yours, or a friend?” Velvet watched Artemis

carefully. A look of consternation crossed her face.

“I’m not at liberty,” Artemis protested.

“So, she is a patient. Why are you meeting her?”

“That’s what I do, meet with patients.”

“Are you helping her spy on me?” Velvet demanded.

When Artemis gaped incredulously at her, Velvet wished she could

come up with a more subtle way to ß ush out if it was a coincidence

that Liz Claiborne, the Bend Yuri, was seeing the same shrink as she.

Artemis seemed genuinely stunned by the accusation, but from Velvet’s

point of view, the circumstantial evidence was beginning to pile up, and

it pointed in the intern’s direction.

• 151 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Maybe you really didn’t know, but Liz Claiborne is not only

stealing trade secrets from my friend Marion, but she phoned and sent

me to Wonderland yesterday morning, when Rosemary was murdered.

At least, I’m pretty sure it was her.”

The color drained from Artemis’ face. “You were there? When it

happened?”

“I didn’t do it!” Velvet rushed to reassure her therapist. “But

maybe your friend Liz was trying to set me up so it would look like I

did.”

Artemis shook her head.

Velvet eyed her psychologist suspiciously. What was she

disagreeing with? What did Artemis know about the case? Velvet

continued, “I swear I didn’t set foot on the trail where Rosemary was

killed.”

Artemis cleared her throat. “Did you see anyone else there? Do

you know—”

“I don’t know what I saw.” Velvet sighed. “Sometimes, when I’m

shooting rolls of Þ lm, I have this terrible habit of not paying attention

to details. I sort of rely on the camera to catch everything and then I go

back to the pictures later.”

“You took photos but you haven’t seen them?” Artemis asked

dubiously.

It was just like her shrink to simultaneously show interest in the

details of Velvet’s life stories while seeming to question both Velvet’s

objectivity and the subconscious motivations behind her decisions.

Artemis probably thought Velvet had seen something at Wonderland

but just couldn’t admit it to herself. Or maybe the psychologist thought

Velvet’s odd habit of relying on photographs, and then not looking at

the images right away, was a form of self-sabotage.

As much as she liked Artemis, during their sessions, Velvet often

found herself psychoanalyzing the psychologist’s comments and

behavior, wondering, Why did she ask me that? What does that look

mean? What did she think of what I just said?

“No, I haven’t seen the photos because I had to ditch the Þ lm

with my boss, which was a good thing because after they arrested me

the cops sent someone to tear through my cubicle. Anyway, they’re

still being developed.” Velvet ß uttered a hand to wave aside the topic.

“Can’t you tell me what you know?”

• 152 •

BLIND CURVES

“You know that my patient information is conÞ dential, Velvet.

Even if I wanted to tell you, I can’t.”

“Look, Artemis, Yoshi’s my dearest friend. And I know she

wouldn’t have been here tonight unless she thought Liz had something

to do with Rosemary Finney’s murder. I’m beginning to think so too.

So where is she?”

“She never showed up.” Artemis looked down at the ground.

“I meant Yoshi. Where is Yoshi?” Velvet felt anger rising in her

chest. Why was Artemis stringing her along? And what was it she didn’t

want them to know about Liz Claiborne? If her psychologist knew who

was really responsible for killing Rosemary, would she protect that

person even if it meant Velvet would go to jail for something she hadn’t

done? God, Velvet thought, unconsciously shaking her head, I really

am going to have to Þ nd a new shrink.

“Velvet, are you actually accusing me of doing something to your

friend?” Artemis touched her arm. Her knitted brows and the genuine

concern in her voice doused some of Velvet’s anger. “Do you really

think I’m capable of hurting someone? And why? Why would I do such

a thing?”

Velvet sighed and threw herself down on the couch. “I’m sorry.”

She waggled her head side to side. “I know you wouldn’t hurt anyone.

It’s just that I know Yoshi was downstairs tonight, so I’m worried. And

you’re here after hours to meet with this woman and then she doesn’t

show. What’s going on? I assume you’ve called her?”

Artemis made a small noise of dismay. She looked out of her

depth. “I am worried.” She sank into the seat across from Velvet. For

a moment, she rested her face in her hands. “I don’t know where she

is.”

Velvet thought quickly. Obviously Liz was Rosemary’s secret

agent inside Bend, feeding information back to the now-dead editor.

Had the Yuri grown a conscience and refused to continue spying? Was

she being threatened or blackmailed by Rosemary so that she would

betray Marion? Had she Þ nally snapped and killed the awful woman?

If so, maybe she was now on the run. Or maybe someone knew

and Liz thought she was in danger. Velvet immediately rejected the

idea that Marion could have paid Liz to whack her enemy and was now

hunting her down to eliminate the evidence. That plot was more apt for

Linda Fiorentino in The Last Seduction.

• 153 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“What are you afraid might have happened? Is someone after

her?”

Artemis shook her head. “No, it’s nothing like that. I don’t know

what to think.”

“My friends are investigators, and we have reasons of our own to

Þ nd her. We could help. At least you’d know she’s all right. Can you

give me her address?”

Artemis wasn’t falling for that. “No.”

“Artemis, I’ve been charged with Þ rst degree murder in the death

of Rosemary Finney.” Velvet repeated the phrasing the police had

used.

Artemis’ face constricted. She shook the expression away, but not

before Velvet saw it. “I know. I’m so sorry, Velvet. Is there anything I

can do?”

“Well, yeah!” Velvet stood and walked around the coffee table.

Standing directly in front of her psychologist, she explained. “If you

know something, please spill it before I spend the rest of my life in

prison.”

“Oh, no, no. I’m sure it won’t get that far.”

“I’ve already been arraigned.”

Artemis hung her head. “Oh, dear.”

Velvet looked down at the Swatch on her wrist. Her long chocolate

hair fell in front of her face and she brushed it aside. “In thirty-seven

hours and twenty-four minutes I have to appear before that judge again.

If I can’t clear my name, they’ll lock me up for the next three months,

minimum, until the trial. Or I’ll have to pay enormous bail.”

“But how could that happen? You had nothing to do with it!”

Velvet rolled her eyes. “I know. It’s crazy. But that’s why it’s so

important that you tell me anything you know. I mean, you’re not okay

with me going to jail for something I didn’t do just so you keep your

reputation for protecting client privacy intact, are you?”

“No, of course I don’t want that, Velvet. It’s just that I know

you’ll be okay. You weren’t even involved and you’ve got friends like

Yoshi—who is clearly very devoted to you and who I’m sure will not

rest until you are cleared. Can you just give me a little time? I need to

talk to Liz Þ rst.” Artemis’s voice wavered and she kept glancing toward

the door as if she was still expecting the elusive Liz Claiborne to walk

through it at any moment. “Then perhaps I can help.”

• 154 •

BLIND CURVES

Velvet wondered what their connection was, exactly. It almost

sounded like the psychologist was trying to buy time to bring Liz

Claiborne in. Maybe Artemis was already telling her all she needed

to know. Could she infer from the shrink’s statements that Liz was

somehow involved in Rosemary’s death and didn’t have anyone to

keep her out of jail—except maybe Artemis herself? Could Artemis be

laying the groundwork for some kind of insanity plea? Artemis had said

she didn’t think Claiborne was in danger from someone else, but what

if she was suicidal—was Artemis implying that was a concern, without

putting it into words?

As eager as Velvet was to know what Artemis wasn’t saying, she

could see the psychologist was tormented, and decided it was time to

leave. She and Yoshi could track down Liz Claiborne. First they could

make sure the girl was okay, and then they would Þ nd out what, exactly,

her connection was to Rosemary and the murder. Meantime, Yoshi had

vanished and Velvet needed to make sure she was okay.

• 155 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 156 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Yoshi had not been kidnapped. She had been deep in Spanish

conversation with the cleaning ladies responsible for the

medical suites where Artemis McDermid had her practice. After

assuring everyone that she was not with INS, she’d learned that they

routinely discarded refuse into the Chronicle Dumpster, because the

closer Dumpster was occupied most of the time by homeless guys

who sheltered between the buildings. She’d also learned that Artemis

McDermid had discarded a pair of shoes in the Dumpster the morning

of Rosemary’s murder. Yoshi wanted to speak to the psychologist about

that. So after she’d thanked the cleaning crew, she made her way up to

the second ß oor. Evidently she wasn’t the only visitor that evening.

“Your friend was just here looking for you,” Dr. McDermid said

when she answered her door. She sounded harried, as if she’d been

crying.

Yoshi was surprised that Tucker could have that effect on anyone.

She reintroduced herself and said, “This is about Elizabeth Claiborne.”

“Where is she?” The therapist ß ung her door wide. Yoshi took this

for an invitation and walked in. Even if it was not, few people would

order a blind woman to leave.

“Did you divert her so you could talk to her Þ rst?” Dr. McDermid

demanded. “If you’ve taken advantage of her emotionally distressed

state to—”

Yoshi held up a hand, palm out in the universal sign for stop.

“I have done nothing of the sort. I did not encounter Ms. Claiborne

this evening.” She heard the sound of skin pressed against itself and

concluded that the doctor was squeezing her hands together nervously.

• 157 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Fishing for information, she continued, “You were expecting her

tonight, and you’re worried.”

“Yes,” the shrink afÞ rmed with a note of relief.

Yoshi guessed she was thankful that someone else understood her

apprehension. “Under the circumstances, I think it is reasonable to be

concerned.”

She had learned from her PI father that people speak more freely

to those who project an air of knowledge. If one appeared to know vital

information about an individual, for example, a subject might even

become competitive, wanting to illustrate that they knew the person

more intimately. Of course, Artemis McDermid was a psychologist and

probably able to control immature urges. Still, Yoshi recognized that

mental health professionals were just as fallible as anyone else. They

had their own emotional problems, their own need to share their stories,

and their own psychologists.

Artemis began to cry. “I’m terriÞ ed that something awful has

happened to her, and I blame myself.”

“Tell me about her,” Yoshi suggested.

“She…I…” Artemis stammered. “I still feel uncomfortable

breaking her conÞ dence.”

“We both know she is in trouble and why,” Yoshi reasoned quietly.

“You cannot protect her forever. That is why I am trying to Þ nd her.”

Artemis stopped crying. “Protect her?” She laughed a dry bitter

laugh that seemed to die in her throat. “I didn’t protect her from

anything. I couldn’t save her.”

“From Rosemary?” Yoshi took an educated guess and hoped it

would pay off.

It did. The ß oodgates opened as Artemis, relieved to get it off

her chest, unloaded. “Well, you wouldn’t understand, but that’s my

job, you know, to save people from themselves—or from the people

abusing them. Liz is a very disturbed young woman. She had problems

long before she ever met Rosemary Finney. But Rosemary tipped

the scales.” She sighed and pulled a tissue from the box on her desk,

dabbing at her eyes before continuing. “Despite the fact that their affair

was rather abusive—emotionally, that is—when Rosemary broke it off,

Liz really lost it. She started following Rosemary everywhere. Stalking

her.”

“That is not a good idea.” Yoshi sighed.

“You have no idea. And when she discovered that Rosemary had

• 158 •

BLIND CURVES

already moved on to her next conquest, Liz lost it. She desperately

wanted to confront Rosemary and have it out with her. I tried to talk her

out of it, of course.”

“Why?” Yoshi thought shrinks liked to prepare their clients for

handling conß ict, not avoiding it.

“I was afraid of what might happen if she faced Rosemary alone.

I felt it would be safer if the confrontation occurred in the sanctuary of

my ofÞ ce.”

“If you thought Liz was a threat, did you not have a professional

obligation to report it?”

“I wasn’t sure,” Artemis replied. “I didn’t know if she’d be more

likely to react violently or just allow Rosemary to victimize her again.

Clinically speaking, it would almost be a step forward if Liz were to

lash out in response to someone hurting her. And I just couldn’t see

prematurely committing her to a mental health facility. She had a

history of being conÞ ned against her will before, Þ rst during a rape, and

then in a psychiatric facility in Oklahoma.”

Yoshi made a sympathetic soothing noise. Liz Claiborne had been

through some rough experiences in her young life and Yoshi did not

envy her. Gambling, she said, “I assume you are aware that Liz was at

Wonderland Park the morning Rosemary Finney was killed.”

The psychologist almost sounded relieved. Yoshi imagined this

was because she had not made the incriminating disclosure herself.

Very quietly, she murmured, “Yes. And it seems that Liz somehow

arranged for Velvet to be present, too. Velvet said something to me

about receiving a phone call.”

“Interesting.” Yoshi wondered what else Velvet had been keeping

from her. “You were there too, were you not?” she guessed.

Artemis made a soft noise like a hiccup.

“You may relax,” Yoshi said. “I am not making accusations. The

truth will come out anyway, and naturally I have my own theory. I

suggest you tell me your account in conÞ dence so that I can avoid

passing on faulty conclusions when I speak with detectives. I would

not wish to cause a problem for innocent people.” To drive her point

home, she added, “To cause an ordeal such as the one Velvet is enduring

would be dishonorable. You understand, I am sure.”

Artemis reacted with a nervous shufß e. Then it seemed she could

not talk fast enough. “There’s an explanation for everything. Liz used

to meet Rosemary at Wonderland Park.”

• 159 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Yoshi denied herself a satisÞ ed smile. This was the kind of

information that could lead to clearing Velvet’s name.

“She frequently stayed the night with a friend of hers who lives

in the mountains on the Peninsula?” She framed the statement like a

question, wanting Yoshi to understand. “From there, she would ride her

mountain bike down to Wonderland Park and hook up with Rosemary

to talk or have sex. Anyway, Liz let it slip that she was going to meet

Rosemary at the park that morning. I went there to keep her from doing

anything drastic.”

“Were you unable to prevent her from going?” Yoshi asked.

“I tried to catch her before she left her friend’s house, but when

I got there she was already gone. I fucked up. I failed my patient.”

Artemis was sobbing now, her professional façade entirely shattered.

Yoshi let her cry. After a few minutes Artemis dabbed at her eyes

with a handy tissue pulled with a ripping noise from a box on her desk.

Yoshi assumed patients wept often.

Artemis began explaining again. “I found Liz on the trail, yelling

at Rosemary. Rosemary said something I couldn’t hear, and then Liz

just jumped her. It surprised the hell out of me. I really wasn’t expecting

that. I tried to break them up, but that sociopath Rosemary turned on

me. She started hitting me with her Þ sts and screaming about going to

the police.”

“And the two of you killed her to keep her quiet?” Yoshi

postulated.

“No!” Artemis sniffed. “Why would you suggest something like

that? Do I seem capable of murder?”

“Contrary to popular opinion, murderers tend to appear much like

anyone else,” Yoshi said. “Quite frankly, I do not know you. I do know

Velvet Erickson, and I know she did not kill Rosemary Finney. That

means someone else did. And I am going to Þ nd out who. Now, one

way or the other, I just need to hear about your and Liz’s involvement.

Go ahead with your story.”

For a few seconds Artemis appeared unnerved. Then, as if she

realized she had gone so far that there was no turning back, she said, “I

admit, when Rosemary was hitting me and talking about the police, I

was really scared and I decided to make Rosemary give us her shoes so

she couldn’t chase us. I just wanted to get Liz safely out of there and I

wanted Rosemary to cool off. I wanted—”

“To keep her from going to the police?”

• 160 •

BLIND CURVES

“No. No! Just to get out of there.”

“Then what did you do?” Yoshi asked.

“Liz gave me a ride up the hill to my car.”

“No, I do not think so.”

“What do you mean?”

“Firstly, you just said Liz rode her bike to the scene, so how did

she give you a ride?”

“Oh, sorry, I mean, that’s what she usually did, but not this time,

this time, she drove there.”

“Okay, let us say that’s true,” Yoshi allowed for argument’s

sake. “Does that mean you are actually claiming you rode down on a

mountain bike? Because I understand there were fresh bicycle tracks

on the trail.”

“Uh, yeah. That’s right.”

Yoshi shook her head, disappointed that Artemis would so blatantly

attempt to mislead her. “It will not be beneÞ cial to deceive me. You

cannot protect Liz this time.”

“I don’t know what you mean.” Artemis played dumb.

Yoshi sighed. “Pardon me if I am misjudging you, Artemis, but

you do not strike me as the sort of law-breaking, risk-taking athletic

individual who would ride down a steep single-track dirt trail that

prohibited mountain bikes. And is that Volkswagen van parked out

front not yours?”

“How did you know?” Artemis asked. “I thought you were

blind.”

“My assistant described it and I could smell it. The odor of oil

burning—it is an older model, isn’t it? From the 1980s? You have to

replace oil regularly, correct? And perhaps it is misÞ ring?”

“Yeah. Wow. I don’t know how you do that.”

“I am a PI. You might want to have a mechanic check it out.”

“Are you completely blind?” Artemis asked. “See nothing but

black?”

“No, actually, not yet. It is more shades of gray. I can still make

out large shapes—rough outlines. When everything is pushed together

it becomes one big blur. I can tell a person’s general size, that kind of

thing.”

“Is it treatable? Can you have LASIK surgery?”

“No. There are some experimental treatments being tested, but

there is no cure as yet.”

• 161 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“And it’s degenerative? It’s getting progressively worse?”

“Yes.”

“That must be very difÞ cult, very frightening to lose your eyesight.

I mean—I imagine that it’s more difÞ cult than being born blind.”

“I cannot say,” Yoshi replied. “I know how blessed I was to have

those years of sight, because they allowed me to experience the world

visually. That is a wonderful gift, to see your father’s face, to perceive

colors.” She shrugged. “Naturally, there is still a great deal of sadness.

It is a loss.”

“I get the feeling that you don’t talk about that much. Maybe

you’re unwilling for anyone to see your weaknesses, so you don’t ask

for help.” Artemis was falling into therapy mode. “But it might be nice

for you to have someone to process those feelings with.”

Yoshi laughed. “You are good. I will grant you that. I see why

Velvet likes you. However, I am not here to be psychoanalyzed or

counseled. I am here to solve a murder and I would like to get back

to that. I believe we were talking about your Volkswagen? You were

parked at the bottom of the hill, in the Wonderland Park lot, were you

not? I would wager your vehicle cannot traverse the steep incline to

Highway 92—I understand that they are a little lackluster when it

comes to hills. It was Liz who parked up on Skyline and rode down the

hill, was it not? Was that to ambush Rosemary?”

Artemis’s uneasy silence spoke for itself.

Yoshi continued. “Although it is admirable that you are covering

for Liz, I do not believe it was you who took Rosemary’s shoes.” Yoshi

smiled at Artemis, hoping to convey a “that’s cute, but stupid” look,

and then continued her analysis. “But it also makes you an accessory,

not just a witness.”

“Only if she killed her. And she didn’t. I’m certain of that.”

“And I am certain you did not scufß e with Rosemary,” Yoshi said

Þ rmly. “I think if you had, you would have bruises or scratches or some

other defensive wounds. Which you do not. I am unable to smell any of

the ointments that people typically use to medicate minor wounds, and

I know Velvet would have noticed if, say, you had received a black eye

in an altercation. You might have been at Wonderland that morning, but

I think the whole time you stayed in the parking lot in your van. Maybe

you were waiting to talk with Rosemary Finney. Or maybe you were

there looking for Liz. I do not know. Regardless, I believe you were in

• 162 •

BLIND CURVES

the lot and you witnessed Liz ß ying down the trail on her bike, carrying

Rosemary’s shoes. You insist she did not kill Rosemary, but how do

you know for certain? Have you asked her?”

After a long pause, Artemis admitted, “No. At the time I had no

idea Rosemary had been killed. I mean, if she had been at that point,

which I’m still not sure of. If I had known, I swear I would have done

something: gone to check on her, called an ambulance, something. The

funny thing,” Artemis added, without laughing, “is that Liz must have

thought I did it, when the news came out. That I had sent her riding

back up the hill via Bear Gulch Road so she wouldn’t pass by Rosemary

again, and went back and killed Rosemary myself.”

“Did she tell you that?”

“Not in so many words, but when we made our arrangements

for tonight she was obviously scared.” Artemis snifß ed. “I think she

must have come early, but the fucking cops were here. They demanded

that I go with them down to the station. I called Liz, but I don’t know

if she got my message.” Artemis shook her head. “I mean, imagine.

She thinks her therapist—the one person she’d been opening up to and

feeling she can rely on—she thinks I killed that woman. Then she Þ nds

out I thought she might have done it, that I think she’s capable of that.”

She punctuated her words more with her intensifying emotions. “Then

she comes here to talk to me and the police are here. She probably

assumed I’d turned her in.”

“That would explain her staying away,” Yoshi said.

“What a blow,” Artemis summarized, her voice quiet and wavering.

“I hope she’s okay.”

“You have done everything you can. You will just have to wait

until things die down. I am sure she will show up.”

“Did I?” Artemis McDermid didn’t sound convinced. “I should

have seen this coming. Here I thought we were close to a break through

and it turns out she’s closer to a break down. I should never have let her

go that day. I could have stopped her and I didn’t.”

“They say hindsight is 20/20,” Yoshi remarked. “But I Þ nd it far

more cloudy than that. When we gaze at past actions, we fail to notice

extenuating circumstances. We only focus on one thing. But life is the

intersection of a million things, colliding at one particular microscopic

point in time and space. It is like a blind curve. You never know what

is around the corner.”

• 163 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Thanks,” Artemis offered weakly.

“Tell me how you ended up with Rosemary’s shoes.” Yoshi

prompted a directional change in the conversation.

“You don’t miss anything, do you?”

“One of the cleaning ladies saw you throw something in the

Chronicle’s Dumpster yesterday morning.”

“Yes.” Artemis sighed. “I threw them in there. I’m so sorry.”

Her voice had increased in volume and the scent of her perfume

grew stronger. Yoshi deduced that Artemis must have been leaning

forward in her chair to emphasize her apology.

“What are you apologizing for?” Yoshi asked.

“I think I’ve contributed to Velvet’s problems with the police. I

never meant that. I was only thinking of Liz. Please tell Velvet I’m

sorry.”

“I am certain that she will understand.” Yoshi did not voice her

doubts. So far nothing in Artemis’s account explained why Liz had

phoned Velvet to draw her to the scene. “So, did Liz leave the shoes in

your van?”

“Right. I found them when I got to work. I knew I wasn’t going to

return them to Rosemary.” She laughed, but there was no humor in the

sound that came out of her mouth.

Winding up their meeting, Yoshi asked if Artemis had anything

else to add.

“There is one thing I could do to help, if you’d allow me.”

“Yes?” Yoshi was not sure what Artemis had in mind.

“Can you tell me how Rosemary was killed?”

“Strangulation.”

“Choking,” Artemis mused, before becoming silent in thought. “It

brings to mind cutting off someone’s voice, silencing them. Did the

killer use their hands or something else?”

“I am not sure, yet.” Yoshi shifted in her seat. Catching on to

what Artemis was thinking the detective was intrigued by what the

psychologist might deduce about the killer. “Let us say it was something

the victim was wearing.”

She knew it would make a difference if the killer brought

something with them. That could point to premeditation, and Yoshi had

the impression that this was not a well-planned attack. Even if she had

read the autopsy report and was certain of the details, she would still

have kept her answers a little vague. Years of working with the police

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BLIND CURVES

had taught her discretion when sharing details of a crime, and she did

not want to taint Artemis’s deductions.

“Not using his hands probably means the killer doesn’t want to

get his hands dirty, metaphorically. He is not driven to experience the

sensations speciÞ c to physical contact. Utilizing something at the scene

would suggest that it wasn’t preplanned.” Artemis conÞ rmed Yoshi’s

inclinations. “Then again, I think there are a whole group of criminals

who prefer to use something they Þ nd. You understand I’m not trained

as a criminal proÞ ler. I’ve only had one class on the subject. But to

me that would seem to indicate that the killer was conÞ dent enough to

assume he could utilize something at the scene for a murder weapon.”

She continued to ruminate aloud. “It could be someone who knew that

Rosemary wore the item. Can I ask you a question?”

“Absolutely,” Yoshi said, willing to facilitate Artemis’s

speculations. You never knew when something would spark an essential

insight.

“I assume this was an isolated incident? Not related to other

murders.”

Yoshi nodded. “Probably not.”

“To me, that would implicate someone who was familiar with

Rosemary’s schedule. I know it sounds like I could be talking about

Liz.” She sighed again and disappeared into her thoughts. Yoshi heard

another tissue pulled from its box. “I don’t know if that helps.”

“Very much.” Artemis had said a few helpful things. Yoshi shifted

forward on the couch, ready to stand.

Artemis responded by pushing her own chair back and standing

up. “I’ll call you if I think of anything else.”

“Thank you.” Yoshi reached for the woman’s hand. “One last

thing. Have you cleaned your vehicle since the incident?”

“No.” As if deducing Yoshi’s intention, she added, “I never lock it,

though, if that makes a difference.”

It might. In court, if they were presenting evidence. There would

be no chain of custody, no proof that any trace evidence found inside

the vehicle could be linked to yesterday’s events. But since Yoshi still

hoped to keep the case against Velvet from going to trial, she asked,

“Would you mind if I looked around in it?”

“No, please do. And, if you Þ nd anything that will help Velvet,

feel free to take it with you.”

• 165 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

v

Black cast-iron gates and stately ancient oak trees with branches

that cast deep shadows on the road hemmed in the Friars-Finney estate.

At night, the area looked more like a football stadium than a fancy

estate, ß ooded with hard white beams of security lights. Woodside

might have once had more horses than residents, but now it was the

domain of spoiled rich bitches who thought just because Daddy made

millions they were somehow better than the rest of the Bay Area.

Land that formerly held stables was sold for millions simply to

be razed. Once the previous buildings were torn down, the new owners

erected enormous, city block–sized mansions so big Bud’s own house

would probably Þ t in their washroom. Neighborhood Watch signs

were posted every few hundred feet, reminding nonresidents that their

every move was being constantly monitored and reported. Although

Bud didn’t see them, he imagined there were security cameras hiding

amidst the branches of darkened trees. He wondered if they were

purchased by homeowners or the local police. He’d heard Woodside

PD was the most technologically advanced of Silicon Valley’s wired

cops. Local industry giants like Hewlett-Packard poured money into

the community’s infrastructure.

The dead woman’s house was a three-story sprawling

Mediterranean manor silhouetted by lights posted along a circling

drive of ghostly white crushed oyster shells. The shades were drawn

and lights glowed in several rooms, but no one answered when Bud

pressed the drive-up intercom where visitors presumably gave their

names to be buzzed through the tall gates. He sat in the Impala for a

few minutes watching the house through thick steel bars, looking for

any sign of shadows moving. Nothing stirred.

While he was there, Bud thought, he might as well read that

ranger’s incident report. He’d worked hard enough to get it. He ß icked

on the overhead light and shufß ed through papers to Þ nd the photocopy.

Since the incident hadn’t occurred on Midpeninsula property, the

Midpen ranger completed a supplemental report, which differed from

other incident reports in several ways, the most critical being that it

didn’t include a detailed listing of involved parties and their respective

addresses, driver’s license numbers, and vehicle plates—suspects,

victims, and witness all fell in this category.

Bud remembered that Sheriff Deputy Roy Freeman also hadn’t

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BLIND CURVES

written a primary report, not wanting to be seen as infringing on

Woodside’s jurisdiction. He wondered if anyone had actually gathered

the relevant information. He pulled a stapled corner toward him and

started reading, skimming the ofÞ cial data until he reached Jenny

Cooper’s neatly typed “Synopsis of Incident.”

Responded to Dispatch report of hiker

down at Corte Madera, gate CM04. On

arrival found RP who directed me to the

injured individual on Wonderland Park’s

Huckleberry Trail. Located individual,

non responsive. Performed CPR to no

avail. Coroner pronounced at scene. Ruled

suspicious death, possible murder.

Bud continued to scan.

District Equipment and Supplies Used:

Responded in truck P49. Used latex gloves,

disposable CPR mouth guard, emergency

blanket: covered body with blanket to

protect victim’s ID from news media.

Risk Assessment: Darkness, slick and

muddy trail, trail not properly brushed,

poison oak. Poor hand radio reception.

Since this was not reported as a crime:

risk of perpetrator in the area.

Additional Information:

SYNOPSIS: In the early hours of 10-25-

06, Woodside resident Rosemary Finney was

found dead on Wonderland Park’s Huckleberry

Trail. The death was ruled suspicious by

the San Mateo County Coroner.

DETAILS: On 10-25-2006 at 0558 hours

I was contacted via phone by Mountain

View Dispatch and informed of a reported

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DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

hiker down in the El Corte de Madera

Creek Preserve. A reporting party was

standing by at the call box by gate CM04.

When I arrived there, the RP directed me

to Wonderland Park, where he had found

the victim on the Huckleberry trail. I

contacted Mountain View, requested Fire,

Ambulance, Woodside Police, and San Mateo

County Sheriff Department.

Carrying my medical bag, I ran down

the trail until I located the victim. She

was lying partially off the trail in the

bushes. The victim was unresponsive, not

breathing and without a pulse. I attempted

to relay the information to dispatch, but

was unable to get out on my handheld radio.

I immediately began one-person CPR, which

I continued until CDF personnel arrived

on scene, approximately 15 minutes later.

The CDF medic and a Þ reÞ ghter continued

manual ventilation, with 2-man CPR, while

I returned to my vehicle at the top of the

hill. There I conferred with CDF Chief

Williams and requested the County Coroner.

As he was delayed, CDF chose to transport

the subject to the ambulance, which had

arrived on scene. With the ambulance crew

and additional CDF personnel, I assisted

in the transportation of the stretcher

down the trail, secured the patient to the

board, and slowly transported her uphill

while 2-person CPR was continued. At the

summit, there was a media crew that was

set up and interviewing the RP. As per

District policy, I declined to speak with

them and referred them to District Public

Relations.

The patient continued to show no

sign of life. She was loaded into the

• 168 •

BLIND CURVES

ambulance. Before the ambulance left, the

coroner arrived and time of death was

ofÞ cially declared.

SCENE: Woodside City’s Wonderland

Park, on the Huckleberry Trail, about 3/5

way down from the top. The victim was

partially off the trail, pulled off into

the bushes (primarily coyote brush, poison

oak, manzanita, and scrub oak). The victim

was wearing expensive-looking sweatpants,

T-shirt, and a hooded sweatshirt that was

partially unzipped. The victim was not

wearing shoes. The bottom of her socks

were slightly dirtied. There were no signs

of trauma (no bleeding).

EVIDENCE: None collected. Saw evidence

of recent mountain bike activity on

the trail, which is permanently closed

to bikes, and fresh horse hoofprints,

although the trail is closed to horses

for the season. There is a sign to this

effect at the trail’s upper entrance.

OTHER COMMENTS: At the time, I thought the

woman looked familiar. Once I returned to

the ofÞ ce I was able to verify that the

victim was the same Rosemary Finney who

assaulted me several years a—

A short, loud burst from a police siren bellowed. The white paper

Bud held in front of his face suddenly glowed rose.

What the— He glanced up and groaned as his corneas were pierced

by a spotlight reß ected in his rearview mirror. Damn. He squeezed his

lids shut. Even with them closed, he could see the blue aura tinting

everything in his vehicle. Cops.

Bud raised his right hand to shield his eyes from the blasting

intensity of the spotlight. He’d lost track of time reading the report and

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DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

now he’d been skulking outside Woodside’s richy-rich Friars-Finney

estate for forty minutes. No doubt one of the neighbors called 911 to

report the noticeably out-of-place vehicle casing the joint. Maybe they

thought he was the kind of burglar that scoured obituaries, seeking to

target wealthy households distracted by bereavement.

The cops hit the siren again, perplexing Bud. Obviously they

weren’t asking him to pull over. The Impala was already off to the side

of a private driveway. Bud wasn’t even blocking the domineering gate

that prevented him from reaching the Friars-Finney mansion. Was this

one of those “move along” warnings? He raised a hand to signal he

understood, then turned the ignition key and the Impala purred to life.

“Stop what you’re doing!” The ofÞ cer’s command screeched

through the vehicle’s megaphone system.

Bud didn’t want to be shot again, especially not by some trigger-

happy nervous-Nelly patrolman, so he immediately complied, killing

the engine. Slowly, very slowly, he slid his hands along the smooth

steering wheel until they met at the wheel’s apex. Pressing his thumbs

tightly against each other like a fat girl’s thighs, he stopped moving,

aside from the slow rhythmic expansion and contraction of his chest.

The well-aimed spotlight reß ected on his mirrors and prevented

Bud from seeing the car behind him. He Þ gured that there were

probably two ofÞ cers. This was Woodside, after all, a city with a big

enough budget to have two cops doing the job that one San Francisco

patrolman handled on his own.

The cops had been silent long enough to call in his vehicle plates,

Bud Þ gured. They’d come back clean and these ofÞ cious jerks would

let him go with some kind of warning, or at least drop the intensity of

the stop. Right now they were treating him like a threat. Once they

Þ gured out who he was, that would end, and in the meantime, since

he couldn’t see, Bud closed his eyes and tuned his ears to the sounds

around him.

Frogs were croaking in the dark. California tree frogs, he thought,

and then snorted to himself. “Did you know that the sound of silence in

most movies and television shows is actually the call of the California

tree frog?” The irrelevant factoid sounded like something Velvet would

say, what with her fascination with all things Hollywood. But it had

been Tucker who’d shared the tidbit. Maybe you learned that kind of

shit growing up a country bumpkin.

Muted mumbling drifted through the window. Was that the radio?

• 170 •

BLIND CURVES

Maybe dispatch broadcasting Bud’s private investigation credentials?

He’d hear better with the window down, Bud reasoned. He began

inching his left hand toward his window.

“Keep your hands on the wheel.” The booming megaphone-

distorted voice startled Bud.

Why were they still treating him this way? He should have been

cleared by now. He returned his wayward hand to rest on the wheel

and heard a door open and the crunch of feet on gravel. It would be the

guy on the right, Bud thought. He’ll come up to my passenger window,

thinking it will be unexpected, and shine a ß ashlight in my eyes. That

was the usual two-person technique on a stop, leaving a patrolman at

the wheel and placing the other more than an arm’s length from the

source of potential danger, the stopped driver.

He couldn’t see the approaching ofÞ cer, but Bud knew he’d pause

for just a moment at the rear of the car, placing one palm ß at against

the trunk lid, verifying it was secure and no one could burst forth

guns blazing. The mandatory hand compulsion, which rookies had to

successfully demonstrate in every vehicle stop from police academy

to training ride-alongs, wasn’t just to shut the occasionally ajar trunk.

It had a more sinister, more cynical purpose. Every ofÞ cer touched

the vehicle he approached so that if the occupants killed him, there

would be some forensic evidence to tie him to the vehicle: his

handprint.

This guy placed his hand on the Impala’s Þ n and ran his Þ ngers

along the side of the Impala. Bud rolled his eyes. Way to smudge your

print, buddy. Then the cop was rapping against the passenger window

with his metal baton. Bud wondered who’d come up with this tactic.

Some egghead somewhere, evaluating statistics? Why did they think

it was always safer to approach on the right? Because they expected

the criminal to have a gun in his hand, ready to shoot through the door

when you came to the driver’s side, Bud reminded himself.

Still, here he was, having to stretch all the way across the bench

seat to the opposite door. Bud unhooked his seat belt and leaned across

the seat, thinking how his outstretched hand could just as easily go to

the gun in his glove compartment as the window roll-down handle.

Cops make the best criminals, he thought out of nowhere, because they

know all the tricks.

“Evening, OfÞ cer.” He looked up from the handle after he’d rolled

the window down halfway.

• 171 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

He was met with the beam of a ß ashlight in his eyes. Holding

himself up with his right arm, Bud shielded his retinas with the left.

“License and registration,” the ofÞ cer demanded grufß y.

“I’m reaching for my wallet,” Bud said, knowing to explain his

movements before he made them. “It’s inside my jacket pocket.” He

peeked at the ofÞ cer for veriÞ cation.

“Take it out real slow. No quick motions.”

“I know the drill.” Bud nodded.

He felt the guy tense and heard the snap of a gun hostler being

unhooked.

“I used to be on the job,” Bud rushed to explain, realizing that the

ofÞ cer had taken his familiarity with the routine as indication that he’d

been in the system. He opened the wallet so his driver’s license and

PI license were both visible, stretched across the cluttered bench seat

again, and handed it to the ofÞ cer.

The patrolman peered at the open wallet, focusing his ß ashlight

on the cards inside. Not saying anything to Bud, he then reached to his

shoulder, pressed the button on his mic, and read off the numbers of

Bud’s license. “Your registration,” he reminded Bud while waiting for

his dispatch to run Bud’s information for warrants.

“Here’s the thing,” Bud said, nodding toward the glove

compartment. “There’s a .45 in there. I have a license to carry. Behind

the PI card.”

The ofÞ cer jumped two steps back and away from the Impala. His

right hand, which had been resting on the handle of his service pistol,

drew the weapon in one smooth motion and in another, aimed it at

Bud’s head.

Jesus, talk about trigger-happy. Bud heard the distinct click of

a safety ß ipped off. He was being treated like a felony vehicle stop,

like he’d been ß agged with a warrant or something. What the fuck? By

now they should’ve been able to verify his credentials. The guy back

in the patrol car took over on the public announcement system and Bud

played ball, extracting his Colt .45 and dropping it out the window into

the gravel. The cop scurried over and retrieved it, then Bud was ordered

to toss his keys out the window and exit the car.

He didn’t move. With the cold barrel of a gun that was suddenly

pressing an indentation into the soft skin below his leftt ear, sitting

still seemed wise. “Enough’s enough,” he said, not looking at the gun’s

owner. “You guys have had your fun, so let’s move on.”

• 172 •

BLIND CURVES

The gun barrel jammed deeper into his ß esh. “I said, get out.”

“So, does Woodside PD treat all PIs this way? Or am I something

special?”

“Shut up. This isn’t happy hour and I’m not your buddy. Now exit

the vehicle.”

Bud kept his hands on the top of the wheel and tried to keep his

voice calm. “You might have noticed from the handicap plates, or the

blue placard hanging over my rearview mirror, or even the wheelchair

in the backseat, I’m disabled. If you want to take me into custody, I

suggest you provide me with the appropriate accommodations, or I

swear to God I’ll have a civil rights lawyer crawl up your ass so far that

he’ll be fucking your ear canal. Now, am I under arrest? Or what the

fuck’s going on here?”

“We got a report that you’re stalking one of our residents. We take

that kind of thing seriously, especially after recent events.”

“Stalking? That’s ridiculous.”

“Sorry, sir, but we’re under orders to treat you as a person of

extreme interest, and to transport you down to the station— posthaste.”

He emphasized the term as if to reiterate his superiority to the former

San Francisco detective. Bud had heard even the cops down here were

products of Stanford and other high-caliber universities. ’Course,

he didn’t think that made for better police. Not if this guy was any

indication.

A short while later, after a memorable journey in the Impala, a cop

sitting behind him with a handgun trained on the back of his head, Bud

found himself in an interrogation room at Woodside PD. “I’ll take an

attorney, thanks,” he yelled as they shut the door behind him.

He pulled vainly at the cuffs that secured each wrist to the metal

wheelchair. They hadn’t ß ipped the light switch as they left, and he sat

in the dark for the next ten minutes clattering his cuffs and shouting

obscenities.

Then the door slammed open, light drenched the room, and a

tall, gray-haired man in a suit marched authoritatively up to the table.

Bud assumed he was looking at Woodside’s Chief of Police, Anthony

Barnes.

“Oh, Detective Williams,” Chief Barnes sneered. “I remember

you from the papers.” He pulled a chair out from the table and sat

down across from Bud. His smile didn’t extend to his eyes. “What

ever happened with those charges? What were they? Brutality? No,

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DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

corruption, wasn’t it? Funny, as I heard it, you were just about to

be indicted, with Internal Affairs breathing down your neck. Next

thing you know, you’re suddenly injured and all the charges just slip

away.”

Bud snorted. “You suggesting I got myself shot and paralyzed

just to get out of going to court? Brilliant tactic on my part.”

“I’m not a doctor. I have no idea what your physical limitations

are. But if I recall, they never did catch the guy who pulled the trigger.

Meanwhile, three of your fellow ofÞ cers all go down hard like the

cleanup after that Rampart shit down in L.A. I heard one guy ate his

gun, didn’t he? While the other two went to prison? And that doesn’t

bother you at all?”

“What the fuck do you know about it? If you’d seen the court

transcripts, you’d see that I didn’t testify against them. I was a fuckin’

character witness. The force was my life and those guys were my

brothers. I straight up bawled like a baby at Mickey’s funeral. So,

what’s it to you anyway?”

The chief turned as purple as an unwanted birthmark. “What’s it to

me?” He spat at the retired detective. “What’s it to me? Mickey Lowman

and I went way back. We were friends since the second grade.” As he

talked, he leaned over the table until he was just inches from Bud’s

face. “Don’t you remember me from Mickey’s funeral?”

“Oh, I remember you now.” Bud pulled at the cuffs on his wrist

again, then pointed his foreÞ nger and aimed it as well as he could. “You

were the one with the bulge in your pants. Happy to see me?”

The police chief closed the gap between them with the jab of

one arm. His Þ st closed around Bud’s shirt collars and bunched them

together, pulling Bud down until the tips of their noses touched. “Listen,

fucker, you think you’re funny? Yeah, I had something in my pants for

you that day, but I can assure you, it wasn’t my dick.”

“That’s a relief,” Bud croaked, the pressure of the chief’s grip

cutting off his air.

Chief Barnes whispered hoarsely, “It should have been you that

died, not him.” He let go of Bud’s shirt and pushed him away.

Bud settled back into his chair. He would have rubbed at his sore

neck if his hands weren’t cuffed. “Is this why I’m here?” he asked.

“You gonna kill me?”

“Lord knows I’d like to,” the chief afÞ rmed. “I don’t know what

you did, but I’m sure as shit you were the one to bring those boys down.

• 174 •

BLIND CURVES

But no, today you’re here so I can tell you to leave this case the fuck

alone.”

“What case would that be?”

“You know damn well. The Finney murder.”

“Ah, that one. Well, see I’m paid to do a job, so I can’t just drop

it.”

“Let me put this another way. We catch you inside the town limits

again, and we’ll make your life a living hell.”

Bud smirked. “Actually, that takes a lot less than you’d think. And

since my client wasn’t involved, I think I’ll continue to defend her.”

Chief Barnes snorted. “That’s rich. We both know that your client

just happened to be lurking around the crime scene at the time of death.

I suppose that’s just a coincidence?”

“What are you talking about?” Bud was genuinely confused.

The chief’s eyes swept Bud’s face, as though searching for

deception. Apparently not Þ nding it there, he laughed. “I see, you don’t

know. She didn’t tell you, did she?”

Bud just stared at the man, refusing to give voice to the bad

feelings rising in his throat and giving him heartburn.

“You don’t believe me? Well, see for yourself.” Chief Barnes

muttered something into his radio mic. A moment later, a cop came in,

handed over a Þ le folder, then unlocked one of Bud’s cuffs.

Barnes took an envelope from the folder and pushed it in front of

Bud. The photographs it contained were printed on a desktop printer and

looked like snapshots taken from a cell phone camera. They showed a

Toyota photographed from a distance, Þ ltered through tree trunks and

across a street.

“This could be anyone’s car.” Bud shrugged. “It doesn’t prove

anything.”

Another photo landed on the table, a blown-up image. It showed

Velvet Erickson, clear as day, standing next to her car with a camera

around her neck.

Bud snorted. “Who took these? How’d you get them so quickly?”

“A friend of the town took them. He was concerned about a

reporter’s presence in our fair Woodside, and when he heard about the

murder—”

“Well, that’s convenient. If I’m to believe that these photos were

actually taken when and where the crime was committed, your friend

must have been there, too. What’s his name?”

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DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Chief Barnes shook his head. “No, I don’t think I’ll be telling you

that. Keep the photos if you like. We have others. But we’ll show them

again at court. I think we’re about done here. Let me just remind you

that our town has the beneÞ t of residents and friends who are powerful,

not just locally but on a national level. When you fail to clear her, and

you will fail, you might want to advise her to plead out. Because there’s

no way in hell she will ever win in court.”

• 176 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Although she was in a hurry to get home, it took Velvet nearly

forty minutes to make the short drive from the San Francisco

Chronicle to her Bernal Heights residence. The distraction began a

block away from where they’d left Yoshi, who insisted on taking a cab

to Liz Claiborne’s house and insisted on Velvet and Tucker leaving her

there to do her job.

Waiting for a red light to change, Velvet glanced in the rearview

mirror and felt bad for depositing Yoshi on the sidewalk at night. Alone.

She tried to be open-minded, but she wasn’t comfortable with Yoshi’s

blindness and the vulnerability that came with it. Though it was a long

time coming—after all, the diagnosis was years ago—this year seemed

different. Yoshi seemed, well, really disabled by the change in her sight.

It Þ lled Velvet with dread. And guilt.

Her thoughts were interrupted when Tucker turned sideways in

her seat and leaned over as if to whisper something in her ear. Velvet

felt a breeze rustle through the delicate hairs on her neck as Tucker’s

ardent breath brushed her skin like midday sun warming the ground.

Heat traveled along her nerve pathways and slowly soaked below

the surface. Instead of murmuring the sensuous phrases Velvet was

expecting, Tucker ß icked her tongue along the rim of Velvet’s ear,

tracing from one side to the other and then engulÞ ng Velvet’s lobe.

A horn sounded angrily behind them and Velvet jerked away from

Tucker and drove forward, determined to pay attention. Apparently,

Tucker was also determined. Although Velvet didn’t notice immediately,

she was inching her left hand slowly over the space between them on

the seat. Her Þ ngers touched Velvet’s knee, fondling it through the dark

• 177 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

nylons. Then they rounded the curve of her kneecap and ran softly along

the inside of her thigh. Velvet’s legs weakened as though they were

in cahoots with Tucker, and her knees fell away from each other. The

pressure of her leg and foot against the gas pedal melted slowly until

the Toyota was merely inching along. When another motorist beeped,

Velvet stiffened her legs, slammed closed the gates of her knees, and

slapped Tucker’s hand away.

“Ow.” Tucker shook the punished hand. “Meanie.” Watching

Velvet from the corner of her eyes, she assumed a pout.

Velvet wondered if Tucker was aware just how sexy that full

lower lip was. She bit her own lip thinking about it. Tucker’s errant

hand returned a few moments later to caress Velvet’s kneecap. When

the touch cracked apart her clenched thighs, Tucker’s hand slowly

slid up Velvet’s leg and Velvet felt her nipples crystallize into hard

candies. Steam rose from between her thighs. With one hand on the

wheel, she used the other to weakly pull Tucker’s hand away from its

spelunking.

In response, Tucker pretended to sulk. It was cute on her, Velvet

thought, sneaking peeks at the soft country butch from the corner of her

eye. She hid a devious smirk from her sexy passenger. Turnabout is fair

play. As Velvet continued driving with her left hand on the wheel, she

ran her right hand along the inside of Tucker’s thigh. Her Corvette-red

nails were long enough to frighten a less experienced lesbian, but Tucker

had seen the amazing ways she could use them or hide them inside her

while they made love. Now they grazed the butch’s denim-ensconced

thigh, causing her to arch in her seat. Feeling the younger woman’s

response was like a biofeedback loop, giving Velvet a metaphoric hard-

on.

When her stroking hand reached the inner sanctum between

Tucker’s thighs, she rested it there for a moment, reveling in the damp

heat that rose from Tucker’s Levi’s. She then gripped the buttons on

Tucker’s ß y and tugged.

Tucker moaned. Velvet grinned.

“You have to pull over,” Tucker begged, in a voice husky with

desire.

“Oh? Why’s that?” Velvet teased.

“I need you.”

• 178 •

BLIND CURVES

“We’re almost home, dear. And you seem to be doing quite well

as is.”

Tucker groaned and released her grip on Velvet’s hand. Although

Velvet couldn’t see at that moment what she was doing, her companion

appeared to be searching for something in her front pocket. Just as

Velvet was beginning to verbalize some clever observation, Tucker

abruptly snatched her hand once more and roughly shoved it down

her now-unbuttoned Levi’s. All thoughts vanished as Velvet’s brain

embraced the sensations her palm experienced, sliding across Tucker’s

taut belly and scratching against the roughness of her pubic hair before

being plunged into the damp warmth of her desire.

“Vel!” Tucker exclaimed. “Stop!”

Stunned, Velvet immediately withdrew her hand. What had she

done? She glanced up, saw the parked car she was bearing down on,

and slammed on the brakes. She and Tucker rocketed forward until seat

belts restrained their ß ight and sent them crashing back into their seats

while the tires screeched and the papers from the backseat ß ew forward

and hit the windshield. Finally, the Toyota stopped, resting just a few

inches from the other vehicle.

The two women were breathing hard, but now their panting was

from fear rather than excitement. Still, adrenaline is adrenaline.

“Did that kill the mood?” Velvet asked. Just because the near

crash had heightened her arousal didn’t mean it had done the same for

Tucker’s.

“Hold on,” Tucker said as if she wasn’t sure. She leaned over and

pressed her lips against Velvet’s. As their tongues entwined, Tucker slid

her right hand inside Velvet’s low-cut blouse and fondled one of her

mammoth breasts.

Velvet’s eyes ß ew open and she backed away from Tucker’s

mouth.

“No.” Tucker grinned. “I’m good.”

“You!” Velvet punched the butch on the shoulder. There was a

tattoo inked into Tucker’s skin there. It pictured a pinup girl draped

across the New Orleans Superdome. Across her busty chest was a

beauty queen’s banner that said “Katrina.” In the background an image

of the Mississippi River wound around an aboveground cemetery. One

of the mausoleums bore the inscription “RIP New Orleans 2005.” A

• 179 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

keepsake in commemoration of New Orleans, the tat was an unusual

departure from Tucker’s rigid thriftiness and hinted at hidden depths,

suggesting that she wasn’t quite as unworldly as she seemed.

Velvet appreciated such surprises in a lover. “Why don’t I stop at

the park?” she suggested.

“That’d be nice,” Tucker whispered into her ear while massaging

her other breast.

“Back off, lady,” Velvet joked, swatting her lover away. “Seriously,

Tucker, you’ve got to cool it for a minute or I swear I’m going to

wreck.”

“Okay, okay.” Tucker backed away with her hands up. “Just hurry.”

She leaned back in the passenger seat and slid one hand sensually down

her own tummy toward her own still-open jeans.

“Stop it!” Velvet demanded. “Please.”

Tucker looked deß ated, but she withdrew her hand and buttoned

her ß y. “Since you said please.”

Twenty minutes later they lay hidden partially behind a tree at

Dolores Park, protected from the damp grass by Tucker’s jacket

spread out below them. Velvet’s skirt was hitched up around her hips

and Tucker’s jeans were bunched around her knees. Breathless and

exhausted from their lovemaking, they looked up at the sky. The stars

were barely visible, their ancient light obscured by the persistent fog

and glowing lights of the city.

Tucker pointed up, directing Velvet’s gaze to a constellation.

“See? That’s Orion. The one you have on your thigh.” She rolled on to

her side and with a Þ ngertip traced the freckles that she insisted formed

the hunter’s constellation on Velvet’s creamy olive skin.

Velvet, who was embarrassed she even had freckles, pulled

Tucker’s hand away and kissed the Þ ngers. They smelt of sex. “You

ready to go?” She straightened her skirt.

“Yeah, I guess.” Tucker pulled up her jeans. “That was nice. Thank

you.”

Velvet smiled at her lover’s odd habit of expressing gratitude after

they fucked. Sometimes having sex with Tucker made her nervous.

Velvet usually avoided the kind of lesbians who confused casual sex

with emotional connection. But when Tucker looked at her with doe

eyes spilling over with emotional intensity, she didn’t respond in her

usual manner—by ending the relationship.

• 180 •

BLIND CURVES

Since Velvet had Þ rst explained her rules, which she liked to make

explicit prior to all her hookups, Tucker had never violated them by,

for instance, verbalizing the L-word. Yet she conveyed the sentiment in

the way she traced the features of Velvet’s face or, on their increasingly

frequent sleepovers, by spooning throughout the night. What frightened

Velvet was just how much she was enjoying those aspects of their

burgeoning relationship.

She thought about that as they drove back to her place and walked

to the door. Reeking of intimate fragrances, Velvet pressed Tucker up

against the door frame of her Victorian and turned the key clockwise

until she heard the deadbolt click off, then pushed the door open behind

Tucker. Their bodies were pressed together, aching for a repeat of their

park experience. Velvet walked Tucker backward into the Victorian

shotgun’s hallway.

Tucker’s eyes ß ew open and her startled look told Velvet something

was wrong. She untangled her tongue, but their bodies remained

entwined as though unwilling to cooperate. Tucker was speechless. But

she was moving away.

“Oh, no,” Velvet moaned in dread as she realized that they were

falling. They were falling together and she was going to land right on

Tucker.

Tucker hit the hardwood ß oors with a painful “Ow!”

When Velvet landed, her supple, curvy body seemed to engulf the

younger woman. Their faces were inches from each other. Tucker’s was

twisted in pain and she exhaled sharply, but did not speak. Oh great,

Velvet thought. She thinks I’m fat.

“Can you get off?” Tucker pushed at her.

Oh, I don’t think so. Velvet replied in her head. It’s over. She

scrambled to her feet. The house was pitch black. She must have

forgotten to leave a light on.

“Thank God,” Tucker said, rolling onto her side.

Whatever. Velvet opined. She felt along the wall for the light

switch and illuminated the hallway. “Oh my God.” Velvet was stunned.

She leaned against the wall so she wouldn’t faint.

“I’m so glad to get off that,” Tucker said.

On the ß oor next to her was the unmistakable award statute of

so much fame. It was an Oscar. Velvet’s Oscar. Well, she’d bought it

anyway. It had been awarded to some computer geek special-effects

• 181 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

person whose name she hadn’t bothered learning, but that was beside

the point. She’d won it fair and square on an eBay auction, and now her

Oscar was on the ß oor.

“I’ve been robbed,” she declared, making a reasonable assertion.

“Holy shit! Do you want me to call the police?” Tucker lifted the

Oscar and held it by the neck as she examined it. “Whoa. Is this real?”

“Of course.” Velvet snatched the golden boy away and cradled

him in her arms before brushing him off and carefully checking for any

wounds. He seemed to have survived intact. “Let’s take you back where

you belong.”

She strode down the narrow hallway to the Þ rst doorway, the

entertainment room. When she turned on the light, she sobbed.

Everything was on the ß oor. Bright rectangles on the wall were blank

while the framed movie posters were in a pile on the throw rug. Every

disc in her expansive DVD collection had been removed from the tall

bookshelf, opened, and thrown in a pile that rose to a small hill on the

ß oor.

The world of Þ lm entertainment had always both soothed and

inspired her, so instead of using the second bedroom in the house as

an ofÞ ce Velvet had set up her desk where she could see the ß at-screen

TV and her collection of movie memorabilia. The intruder had violated

the sanctity of her desk, pulling the doors askew and molesting the

contents, which were now strewn on the ground. What could they have

been looking for?

Velvet wanted to sit down, but the ofÞ ce chair held an assortment

of pens, paper clips and Liquid Paper bottles. The cushions of the couch

were on the ß oor and her beloved leather recliner was now home to her

collectibles. The autographed photo of Angelina Jolie and her lesbian

mechanic girlfriend, the still mint-in-the-box Þ gure of Willow from

Buffy, which Velvet—to her chagrin—could see was no longer mint-in-

box. Even the yellow tennis ball autographed by Martina Navratilova

had been damaged and moved.

“Velvet?” Tucker called from the hallway.

While Velvet was absorbing the shock of her battered entertainment

room, Tucker had looked through the rest of the house. The other rooms

had also been tossed. Tucker was happy to discover that the robber

wasn’t still in the house. She’d had silly thoughts about protecting

Velvet as she searched through the rooms, but she was terriÞ ed of

coming face-to-face with a real criminal and had no idea what she

• 182 •

BLIND CURVES

would have done to defend them. Now, rather than assuaging Velvet’s

concerns, Tucker was afraid she was bringing worse news.

“Velvet?” she called again as she strode into the entertainment

room.

Velvet looked up. “Yes?” Her voice was ß at.

“I don’t think we need to call the police.”

“What? Why? Oh, my God, is he still here?”

“No.” Tucker held a piece of paper in her hand. She stretched it

out toward Velvet. “It was the police. Here’s the search warrant, with a

little note saying they were here.”

“Jesus. They can just do this? They can just come in when I’m not

home and trash my place and just leave it this way?”

“It seems crazy. I can’t believe they could even get a warrant for

this.”

“What does it say?” Velvet returned a cushion to the couch and

sat down hard.

It took a moment for Tucker to reply. “It says they were looking

for evidence in connection with the murder of Rosemary Finney. The

murder weapon, clothing, trace evidence. It also mentions photographic

Þ lm, digital Þ les, CD-ROMs, or photographs related to the crime.”

“Those bastards!” Velvet shook her head. “They did this out of

spite. It’s a Þ shing expedition. They don’t have a case against me, so

they’re trying to build one so this will get to a preliminary hearing. It’s

bizarre. I wasn’t the only person there that morning and they know it.”

“I’m sorry.” Tucker carefully stepped over Velvet’s things until

she reached the sofa. She knelt down in front of Velvet and touched her

face. “Can I help you put everything away?”

Velvet shook her head. “No, but thanks.”

Knowing Velvet had read her sympathy and would probably push

her away now, Tucker made a crooked smile. “I guess this ruined the

mood?”

Velvet rufß ed her hair. “Yeah. Sorry, sweets. Would you be

offended if I took you home now?”

“No, of course not.” Tucker smiled, hoping Velvet couldn’t see

the disappointment in her eyes. Not that it would make any difference.

Tucker had learned it was not in Velvet’s nature to change her mind to

please anyone, not even a girlfriend.

v

• 183 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

At her Richmond district home, Yoshi stood with her hand on the

front doorknob. When the doorbell rang, she called out, “Velvet?” The

timing seemed right.

“That’s creepy, Yosh,” Velvet answered from the other side of the

closed door.

“I heard you walking up the steps,” Yoshi explained as she let her

friend in.

“Yeah? Well, it’s still creepy.” Velvet hugged Yoshi close. “I’m

sorry to bother you at home.”

Yoshi gave her a quick squeeze in return, then placed her hands

on Velvet’s shoulders and pushed her away. “You know you are always

welcome, but what brings you?”

Velvet followed her ex into the living room and tossed a bag on

the divan. Yoshi heard the bag land with more of a thump than she

would have expected from Velvet’s purse—even if it was full of

recording equipment—and she deduced that it was instead an overnight

case.

This was followed by a brief silence and a faint sigh Yoshi often

heard when Velvet Þ rst entered her home. She supposed that having just

come from her own pop-cultural paradise, Velvet found Yoshi’s simple,

modern, earth-toned living room a stark reminder of their contrasting

personalities. Where Velvet had campy movie posters and vinyl

miniature collectible toys strewn about her Warholesque loft, Yoshi had

abstract Japanese erotic prints and low-slung Asian furniture. Seeing

their two homes, it might be hard for a stranger to believe they’d once

considered each other soul mates. Yoshi smiled at her own youthful

naïveté.

“The police ransacked my house,” Velvet lamented.

“I guess that is to be expected, with you being their prime

suspect.”

“Okay. A search, maybe. But they trashed my place.”

Yoshi could tell from Velvet’s voice that her friend was Þ shing

for sympathy, not rationalization. It was something that had come

up in their relationship—although they were both problem solvers,

sometimes Velvet just wanted to express her emotions without trying

to Þ x the situation.

“I am sorry, Velvet. That must be really upsetting. Would you like

to stay here tonight?” Velvet did have an open invitation, but Yoshi still

• 184 •

BLIND CURVES

would have appreciated a little forewarning. Surely Velvet could have

called during her half-hour drive through the city.

“Yeah, I would like that.” Velvet threw herself down on the sofa

next to her overnight bag. “Thank you.”

“Martini?” Yoshi asked.

“Of course.” Velvet smiled. “Extra dirty, please. Do you want

help?”

“No.” Yoshi went into the kitchen. She had arranged everything

so that she would remember where to Þ nd what she was looking for.

She opened the freezer and searched around with her hand, locating

the rectangular bottle of vodka she kept there. She carefully poured

the alcohol and olive brine into an ice-Þ lled glass shaker that she used

because an old bartender girlfriend had told her that using a glass

container bruised the gin less than a stainless steel one. She mixed in a

hint of vermouth, a drop of bitters, and gave it a couple of shakes, then

poured the concoction into the glasses and added two giant Basque

olives. A moment later she walked slowly into the living room bearing

two brimming martini glasses.

“What were the police looking for?” she asked.

“Your balance always impresses me,” Velvet said, taking a glass.

“You didn’t spill a drop.”

“Thank you,” Yoshi answered politely. Not wanting to get off

track, she prompted, “The search?”

Yoshi heard Velvet swirling the contents of her glass before taking

a long drink.

She didn’t answer the question. She swirled the drink again.

“Velvet,” Yoshi said, insisting on a response.

“All right, I need to come clean,” Velvet admitted. “There’s

something I probably should have mentioned earlier.”

“I would say so,” Yoshi agreed, taking her own sip of the olive-

infused martini.

“Wait.” Velvet stopped. “You know? How?”

“Oh, I am not sure,” Yoshi replied sarcastically. “Perhaps due to

my being a private investigator?”

“I should’ve known you’d Þ gure it out. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you

sooner. But I can explain.”

“You don’t have to explain.” Yoshi shook her head.

“No, I think I do. See, because I think that’s what they were

looking for. I have photos.”

• 185 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“You have photographs?” Yoshi frowned. “It was not necessary

for me to hear that.” She was sure heat was ß ushing her cheeks. “For

God’s sake, Velvet, why would the police want your private photos?”

She shook her head furiously. “How can you be so blasé about this?”

“Blasé? Blasé?” Velvet choked. “I’m absolutely serious.”

“Truthfully?” Yoshi wanted to believe it.

“Of course I am. I know what’s at stake.”

“All right, then, if it is so serious, then where is she?”

“What? Who?”

“You forget I know you, Velvet. If you were in a serious relationship,

you would not send the girl home. But here it has been only a few hours

and you are at my residence, alone. You have never been one to leave a

warm bed, so I can assume that she is no longer in yours.”

“Whoa. Back up,” Velvet interrupted “What do you think we’re

talking about?”

“Your intimate relationship with Tucker and the appropriation of

your personal photos by the police.”

“Intimate relationship?” Velvet chuckled. “You mean sex?” She

sounded relieved. “You might not think it to look at her, but that girl’s

got a tight body, and it’s no coincidence that her name rhymes with

fu—”

“Stop it!” Yoshi covered her ears.

“Yoshi, you’re so cute. I think you have a crush on our Tucker.”

Velvet pinched Yoshi’s cheek.

“That is not funny.” Yoshi was still upset, despite Velvet’s

attempted jokes. “I cannot believe you. I asked you to stop having sex

with my assistants. It would be one thing if it meant something to you,

but I can see that it does not.”

Velvet’s hand brushed Yoshi’s. “I’m sorry. To be fair, we’d already

gotten together before you gave me that speech. I just didn’t know how

to tell you. Besides, you’ll be happy to know that I actually do like

Tucker and I wouldn’t have sent her home tonight if not for that little

inconvenience of the police ransacking my house.”

“Wait.” Yoshi wrinkled her forehead in confusion. “What were

you talking about?”

“Um, I don’t know. After we started talking about my hot young

lover I forgot everything else.”

“Do not toy with me, Velvet. These photos. Why would the police

want them—to discredit you in court?”

• 186 •

BLIND CURVES

“One question at a time. There’s something I need to tell you. I

have Þ lm, I slipped it to Stan yesterday. He was supposed to have it

ready for me tonight, but he didn’t get it in for processing until it was

too late.”

“A Þ lm of you and Tucker?”

“No, Þ lm of Wonderland Park. I’m sorry, Yosh. I should have said

something sooner, but—”

“Are you saying you have Þ lm that shows who killed

Rosemary?”

“It very well might.” Velvet did not sound like she was joking at

all.

“Oh my God, you were there? And you didn’t tell me?” Yoshi was

hurt. “I mean, even if you did not think to tell your best friend, did you

not think that information might be pertinent to the investigative team

trying to clear your name? Why?”

“Well, you know I’ve been working with Marion Serif over at

Bend?”

“No.”

“Yes, you do. On the corporate espionage case?”

“No,” Yoshi repeated insistently. “I did not mean for you to explain

why you were there, I meant, why would you keep it from me? What

reason could you possibly have? Don’t you trust me?”

“Oh, Yoshi, you know I do. I knew you’d be disappointed. You

know, getting myself into a position where I make a good suspect.

Maybe I worried, just a little, that you might not believe me and you

might actually think I’d done it.”

Yoshi felt conß icted. Hurt by her friend’s lack of faith, she could

also hear the depth of emotion in Velvet’s voice, the real fear that she

might be unable to prove her innocence. She sighed deeply. “Okay,”

she relented. There had never really been any other possibility. “Tell

me why you were at the scene of the crime. I would prefer a reason that

has nothing to do with causing bodily harm and or killing Rosemary

Finney.”

“I was looking for the Yuri.”

“You were looking for lesbian anime in Woodside?” Yoshi was

bafß ed.

Velvet laughed. “No. Didn’t I make you watch that movie Intern?

About the fashion magazine?”

The movie sounded familiar. Some people presume the visually

• 187 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

impaired did not watch movies. Velvet had never made that assumption.

She recommended ones that were heavy on dialogue.

“Is that the Þ lm with the young actress you interviewed?” Yoshi

asked, having recognized the actress’s voice in the Þ lm.

“Dominique Swain. Yes. Anyway, as they explained in the movie,

a Yuri is a magazine spy.”

“That is strange, that the word has such dissimilar meanings. All

right, so you were at the park to see a spy?”

“Yes, actually. A woman phoned me and asked me to be there. I

think it might have been Elizabeth Claiborne.”

“And did you see her?”

“I don’t know. I don’t think so.” Yoshi felt Velvet scoot closer

and she sensed Velvet gesticulating, as she had always been wont to

do, moving her hands to articulate her story. She described how Bend

magazine’s ideas continually appeared in Womyn Þ rst and her attempts

to Þ nd out how this was happening.

“So you determined Rosemary was paying someone for the

information? And you reasoned she was meeting that person—the

Yuri—at the park?” Yoshi asked.

“Exactly. But I’m not sure I saw the exchange take place. I mean,

I saw a middle-aged guy get out of a SUV, you know, one of those

Behemoth XLs. He threw something in the trash and then used the

restroom and left. Later Rosemary went into the same porta-potty. At

Þ rst I couldn’t believe it, that she would use those kinds of facilities. But

then she came out right away, carrying a manila envelope. So maybe

the Yuri was the guy with the SUV.”

“That sounds more like a bribe than an exchange of information,”

Yoshi reß ected. “It seems improbable that a man would be your spy,

rather than a lesbian. How would he have access to Bend magazine?”

“Exactly. I wish I’d gotten to see what was in the envelope.”

“What dissuaded you?” Yoshi couldn’t imagine Velvet being

easily deterred.

“I looked inside her car after she went for her jog. But I couldn’t

see it, so maybe she passed it off to someone else.”

“It is more plausible that she simply stowed it under her seat,”

Yoshi concluded. “You expect me to believe that you did not even

attempt to jimmy open her car door?”

“Of course I wanted to. But you know how those Jags are. Such

sensitive alarm systems. I didn’t dare disturb the air bubble around

• 188 •

BLIND CURVES

the vehicle,” Velvet explained. “And anyway, she didn’t go on her run

right away, she hung around, doing some stretches and looking at her

watch. About Þ fteen minutes later, a Hummer pulled in and she talked

to the driver through the window. I couldn’t see if she’d passed off the

envelope or not. Then Rosemary took off on her run.”

“Did the Hummer depart after Rosemary commenced her run?”

Yoshi asked.

Velvet pinched her brow together in thought. “No, I don’t think

so. Another vehicle pulled in then. A crappy old Volkswagen bus that

seemed out of place, what with Rosemary’s Jag, the Hummer, and the

SUV. And then one of the neighbors came out of their house shaking his

Þ st at me and I decided I had to get the hell out of there.”

“What time did you leave Wonderland?”

“Between Þ ve thirty and six a.m., but I can’t be sure. Do we have

a TOD yet?”

“No. I am expecting to ascertain time of death tomorrow when we

obtain the autopsy report. Can I also anticipate that you will retrieve

your Þ lm from Stan?” Yoshi raised her eyebrows and stared in Velvet’s

direction, hoping to convey the critical nature of her request.

“Now we’re on the photos again?” Velvet spoke with mock

indignation. “Boy, one time you don’t pay attention to a murder scene

and then don’t get your Þ lm processed right away, and you never hear

the end of it. I’m on it. First thing in the morning I’ll march into Stan’s

ofÞ ce. Don’t worry, after what I said to him tonight, he’ll have it ready.

Shall I courier it over to Blind Eye ofÞ ces?”

“No, you most certainly should not allow our preeminent evidence

to leave your possession. Can I count on you to hand the photographic

evidence directly to a Blind Eye staff member?”

“Of course,” Velvet said.

Behind the proclaimed sincerity, Yoshi thought she detected a

mischievous tone. She confronted her friend. “What dangerous thing

are you planning, Velvet Erickson?”

“Nothing,” Velvet protested. “I swear. I will hand the photos

directly to a Blind Eye staff person.”

Yoshi imagined Velvet had a hand over her heart or was raising

her Þ ngers in an oath of honesty. This is about Tucker, she told herself.

Velvet was planning to deliver the Þ lm to the Blind Eye receptionist

and most likely had in mind to give Tucker something else entirely. For

once she wished her friend would focus on the case at hand instead of

• 189 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

devoting her energies to arranging her next sexual interaction. Yoshi

shifted uncomfortably in her seat as an image of a naked Tucker Shade

drifted uninvited into her mind’s eye. She winced. She shouldn’t be

able to imagine her receptionist naked. She threw a sheet over the girl

in her mind and pretended not to notice the way it clung to her trim

Þ gure.

Speaking of Tucker, Yoshi thought to distract herself, Velvet had

not eased Yoshi’s trepidation that their affair was nothing more than

physical in nature. It really was none of her concern, but she did not

want to see the girl hurt when Velvet inevitably tossed her aside for the

subsequent conquest.

Truth be told, Yoshi was jealous. It had nothing to do with Tucker

Shade. After an eighteen-month romantic dry spell, any woman would

be a little envious.

• 190 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Have you had that Þ lm developed?” Velvet asked Stan

Wozlawski Þ rst thing the next morning.

“The Þ lm you told me to pretend I didn’t have? I don’t have it.”

“You don’t have to pretend with me.” Velvet expressed her

impatience. “Come on, I don’t have time for this.”

“I’m serious. I Þ gured that Þ lm was fair game, seeing as how you

work for me. I mean, after you lost your mind last night I had to know

if there was a story there that I needed to pass on to another reporter.

With you being on fact-checking duty and all.”

“Oh, my God.” Velvet started to panic.

Stan grinned gleefully. “Gotcha!”

“Jesus, Stan.” Velvet clutched at her chest to indicate the heart

attack this game was giving her.

Stan chuckled. “Relax. I got it developed.” He pulled a manila

envelope out of his desk and tossed the black-and-white prints across

the desk one by one, as though he were dealing cards. “Looks like a

bunch of crap. Don’t know why you won’t go digital.”

“I’m old school, Stan. Remember? That’s why you like me.”

“Ah, that’s it. I knew it was something.”

Velvet quickly gathered the photos back into a tight pack.

“Thanks.”

He waved a hand. “Don’t mention it. Really, I mean don’t. Not to

anyone. Can’t let it out that I’m—”

“A softie,” Velvet provided.

v

• 191 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

As usual, Tucker was Þ rst to arrive at Blind Eye’s ofÞ ce, and she

went about her day as she always did, starting green tea, this time in

their new kettle, and opening the shades in Yoshi’s ofÞ ce—at the blind

woman’s request. Tucker wondered if opening shades on the eleventh

ß oor brought enough light in to make Yoshi’s dark world a little brighter.

Or maybe she liked the blinds open for another reason, like warmth or

the way the ofÞ ce looked to prospective clients. Tucker didn’t know.

She just knew she was to open them in the morning and close them

midafternoon.

She sat down and opened yesterday’s mail. While she sorted she

reß ected on her involvement in the investigation. Oh, she knew it was

just a minuscule contribution, but she loved that she’d been out in the

Þ eld instead of behind the desk. She’d half expected to think of nothing

but the murder case today, but she wasn’t. Instead, she kept ß ashing on

being with Velvet and those moments when their skin and lips and hands

were pressed tightly against each other’s. Tucker thought of Velvet’s

tugging at her jeans and she shivered. She imagined their bodies, their

hearts beating against each other and their mouths yearning toward

each other, lips parted, hot breath building up in a layer between them

like LA smog. It was the anticipation of touch that turned Tucker on,

even more than the touch itself.

She shook her head, trying to force the thoughts from her head.

She slowly read the Þ rst line on the envelope in her hand. Addressed

only to Blind Eye, it didn’t reveal who it was meant for. When Tucker

slipped her Þ nger under the ß ap of the envelope it reminded her vaguely

of slipping her Þ ngers under Velvet’s bra and struggling to unhook it so

she could free those luscious DD breasts.

Dammit, she was back there again.

Maybe reading e-mails would hold her attention. All this thinking

about last night was spoiling another pair of briefs. Men supposedly

thought about sex all the time. How did they get anything done? The

phone rang, and that was no help.

“Hi, baby, did you miss me?” Velvet’s voice was husky. Was she

coming down with something, or had she been thinking about Tucker?

“Good morning, Velvet,” Tucker said earnestly. “I was just

thinking about you.”

“Was I naked?” Velvet asked.

• 192 •

BLIND CURVES

Tucker blushed and looked around the empty ofÞ ce. “Yeah.” She

lowered her voice. “I missed you last night.”

“I did, too. I’m sorry the apartment was uninhabitable. Maybe I

can face it tonight.”

“You mean you didn’t stay either?”

“Nope. I stayed over at Yoshi’s.”

Tucker felt a cold wrench tighten around her intestines. Well, it

was bound to happen. Lesbians never really broke up; they went on

sabbatical and got back together. Their liaison hadn’t been going on

long, but Tucker had known Velvet was too sophisticated and too

popular to spend much time with a naïve country girl.

“Tucker, are you still there?” Velvet asked.

Tucker swallowed. “So, you spent the night?”

“Of course. My house was a wreck, remember? I may never go

back there. Yoshi says I can stay as long as I want.”

Great, Tucker thought sarcastically. Velvet had made it clear from

the beginning that she wasn’t looking for anything serious and she

wasn’t the kind of girl to restrict herself to only one special friend at

a time. She had said, “There are a hundred ß avors of ice cream. Why

would you limit your tongue to just one?”

“Oh, that’s hella great,” Tucker said, hoping it didn’t sound like a

lie. “So, Yoshi’s got a second bedroom?”

“No,” Velvet cheerily chirped. “But there’s plenty of space. You

know I used to live there, when we were together.”

“Awesome. What can I do for you?” Now that you’ve explained

the situation, are we done or do you want something else?

“I think we should get together this morning. I need to see you.”

“Oh.” Tucker sighed in relief. Velvet just said she needed to see

me! “This morning?”

“I was thinking right away,” Velvet responded.

“What’s up?”

“I think it would be better if we met in person. There’s something

I need to talk to you about, face-to-face.”

The wrench was back on Tucker’s intestines, clamping down.

“Really?” She wondered if the dread she felt was apparent in her voice.

Was needing to talk in person ever a good thing?

Velvet continued, “Can you come down to my ofÞ ce?”

“I’m at work. I can’t just leave. Yoshi…”

• 193 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Oh, don’t worry about Yoshi, I already talked to her. She’s cool

with you popping out for a while.”

“You talked with Yoshi?” Hadn’t they agreed Yoshi didn’t need to

know about the two of them?

“Of course I did, Tuck. I can’t stay in her home and not speak to

her, can I?”

“Okay. I’ll leave now.” Tucker didn’t want to be at the ofÞ ce when

Yoshi arrived. Right now, she didn’t think she could face Yoshi—ever.

v

AJ rapped a second time on the Blind Eye Detective Agency

ofÞ ce door, but didn’t get a reply. She glanced down at the two bulging

black bags at her feet, the plastic tied closed. Lot of good that did.

One of them bags was oozing all over the hall’s slick marble ß oor.

She’d found the damn hole after it sat slowly leaking in her trunk all

night, rotten garbage juice seeping into the carpet of her Crown Vic.

She wondered how she would get the stains out of the carpet. Grandma

Latisha’d be all up in her face about not paying attention all them years

to her washerwoman secrets. ’Course, her brothers ain’t never had to

learn that shit, but here she expected to do it and be damn good at it too

all ’cause she had a pie. Some crap like olive oil and baking powder. Or

was that vinegar and baking soda?

The only upside to the damn bags leaking was it wasn’t her

car. She’d never be caught dead in a ride like that, not on her own. It

be courtesy the East Palo Alto Police Department. Still, it had been

assigned to her, and she’d autographed a whole shitload of papers

giving up her Þ rstborn if anything happened to the vehicle—especially

off duty. Joke’s on them. She didn’t plan on having shorties.

After the incident last year when half the EPA ß eet got tagged with

gang colors and the other half got pinched right out from under their

noses, the city came up with the plan to let cops roll their rides home to

their own hoods, seeing as how they be safer than areas they patrolled.

None of the EPA ofÞ cers were willing to have cribs in the run-down

hood east of Stanford University, and they couldn’t afford rent on the

rest of the peninsula. So riding patrol cars home made sure they got to

work.

Seemed like most San Francisco Bay cities had this problem

where their ambulance drivers, Þ reÞ ghters, and PD couldn’t afford

• 194 •

BLIND CURVES

rent where they worked and instead lived in black and brown hoods of

East Bay. Everyone talked about how when the big quake hit, it would

knock out all the local bridges and trap emergency crews on opposite

sides of the Bay from where they were needed. Imagine if Katrina hit

and all PD trapped in a whole ’nother city. Shit would hit the whole

west side of the bay all the same. Ain’t going to just be lootin’ here,

neither. The shaking ain’t even the worst of it. That’d be all the Þ res

sparked by burst gas lines. San Francisco’d burn to the ground for lack

of emergency crews, like it burned in the “big one” of 1906. Hundred

years later the locals still went on ’bout it.

Standing here in the hallway with foul-smellin’ trash bags, AJ was

beginning to think it was stupid to drop by without hearing from that

kid Tucker Þ rst. She’d thought the Blind Eye ofÞ ces would open by

nine.

Now here she was, and she didn’t want to take them stinky,

dripping bags back with her. Trying the doorknob, she discovered it

unlocked and stepped inside, calling out, “Yo, Tucker? Ya here?” The

reception desk was empty.

Light shone under the inner ofÞ ce door. AJ dragged the bags

into the reception area, then rapped on the fogged glass with scarred

knuckles.

“Yes? Come in.”

“Sorry,” AJ said as she stepped into the room. “Tucker wasn’t…”

One look at the raven-haired Japanese woman with skin the color

of grits sitting behind the desk, and her words dried up. She inhaled

sharply. Snap. The lovely was straight-up smokin’ hot, like a ß y Ann

Curry. “I, uh…” AJ was unable to think of anything to say.

The woman was staring back at her with piercing blue icicles that

seemed to penetrate right through her. Like she was seeing past all AJ’s

posturing to the scared ghetto kid inside. Everything froze for a second.

In that instant AJ felt like her whole world changed. Then the ethereal

beauty stood and stretched out her arm.

“Yoshi Yakamota.”

AJ was sure this was what angels sounded like. Like the heavenly

voice of the gospel choir back home. She leapt forward, and when her

meaty hand closed around Yoshi’s delicate Þ ngers, she was struck by a

sudden desire to be a knight in gold-plated armor, ridin’ in on a pimped-

out convertible and whisking the Japanese hottie up beside her.

Yoshi’s strong and hearty shake upended her fantasy, assuring AJ

• 195 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

that she weren’t no blushing lotus ß ower and didn’t need no rescuing.

They’d both be on modern-day horses, AJ thought, with Yoshi riding

a stretched Harley as black and wild as her dark locks. AJ’d bet Yoshi

be scrappy in a hand-to-hand Þ ght. AJ smiled. She was down with that.

She fancied Heath Bar babes—soft on the outside, with a solid core.

Yoshi’s hand still held AJ’s. The movement of her slender Þ ngers,

stretching away from the handshake, brought AJ’s focus back to the

moment. Her whole body tingled, the small hairs on her arm straining

to meet Yoshi’s Þ ngers. But instead of caressing the policewoman’s

dark skin in parting, Yoshi’s Þ ngers stroked AJ’s shirtsleeve.

“You must be Tucker’s friend AJ.” Yoshi’s hand slipped away.

AJ searched Yoshi’s face. “How’d ya know?”

“Your uniform. I felt the rough permanent-press material of your

sleeve. That is a popular fabric in uniforms. And then your walk, of

course, with those heavy boots and your hand resting on the gun holster.

The leather squeaks.” The private eye touched her nose. “And it has a

very distinctive odor.”

“Did ya just say I smell?” AJ feigned offense.

Yoshi smiled broadly. “The leather has a distinctive smell. I did

not say it was a bad thing.” AJ thought she saw color ß ushing her new

honey’s porcelain cheeks. “I am afraid Tucker stepped out to run an

errand. Would you like to wait for her? Or leave her a message?”

Did Yoshi think she and Tucker were friends? Or something more?

Just in case she did, AJ rushed to clarify. “We only met a coupla times.

Me ’n’ Tucker. I was just helping out on this case y’all working.”

AJ thought she heard Yoshi snort, but it could’ve been the swivel

chair.

“You found something helpful? In this Rosemary Finney

situation?”

“I think, yeah. See, I was up that way, near Wonderland Park. I’m

rolling by and I see this maintenance guy, loading up these Hefty bags.

I just up and asked if I could have ’em. So now y’all have ’em.”

“Wait.” Yoshi clariÞ ed. “You have refuse obtained from the crime

scene?”

“Yep. Y’all want it?”

“Of course!” Yoshi laughed.

“Cool. They out there.” AJ motioned to the reception area.

“Are you in a hurry? Do you need to leave immediately?” Yoshi

asked.

• 196 •

BLIND CURVES

“No, ma’am. I’m not on till ten hundred hours,” AJ offered.

“That’s ten a.m. Y’all need a hand?”

“And a pair of eyes,” Yoshi deadpanned and then smiled broadly,

to show she was joking. “Would you assist me with sifting through the

refuse? At least until Tucker returns?”

“No sweat.”

As soon as AJ lifted the Þ rst bag, Yoshi knew she’d misjudged the

contents and Blind Eye would be hiring a carpet cleaner. She heard the

liquid sloshing in open soda cans and half-Þ nished coffee cups soon

to be spilling out onto the spread-out newspaper and soaking straight

through to the carpet. Note to self: Have Tucker order a roll of plastic

sheeting, the kind they use when painting, for next time.

“Eww.” AJ groaned. “EfÞ n’ garbage juice. These bags left a

wicked stench in my trunk. I’m so sorry.”

“No, I am sorry your vehicle suffered the brunt of this mess. I

hope you will allow me to have your trunk cleaned professionally.”

“No, ma’am, I—”

“I insist. You are doing so much already. Did it spill on your

uniform?”

“Yeah.” AJ laughed. “Soaked the left leg.”

“Oh, no.” Yoshi clucked, pushing AJ into Tucker’s swivel chair.

“We should get them rinsed right away, before the stain sets. And please

don’t call me ma’am.”

Ignoring her own outÞ t, Yoshi dropped to one knee and reached

out for AJ’s knee. She missed. Her hand inadvertently stroked along the

cop’s uniformed inner thigh. The scratchy fabric clung to Yoshi’s palm

like Velcro. AJ’s taut hamstring muscle tensed, but she didn’t move her

leg away.

Yoshi was suddenly very aware of her heart beating in the

uncomfortable silence of the room. Her cheeks felt awash with crimson

and all the little hairs on her skin seemed to be standing at attention.

What had just happened? How had she, a respectable businesswoman,

ended up kneeling in front of this ofÞ cer of the law, her hand halfway

up the stranger’s thigh, ready to pull the pants right off her? She was

acting like Velvet, and that was not like her at all.

AJ’s strong hand closed around Yoshi’s, pulling it away from her

thigh and bringing it toward her mouth. The action yanked Yoshi off

her knee onto her wobbly legs and propelled her forward until she was

standing between AJ’s legs. In turn, AJ stood, still holding her hand.

• 197 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

She brushed her dry lips against Yoshi’s knuckles. Yoshi wobbled and

was pulled closer, encircled in the cradle of a strong arm. For what

seemed like hours but must have only been a few moments, the two

women stood there, bodies pressed against each other, swaying together

to unheard music. Then Yoshi felt AJ’s warm breath on her cheek, and

thinking they might kiss, she tilted her head and parted her lips. But

instead of AJ’s lips meeting her own, they pressed against her ear.

In her throaty voice, AJ whispered, “Nice try, miss, but ya ain’t

getting my pants off that easy. Not without no dinner or a movie.”

Pressed against AJ’s face as she was, Yoshi could actually feel her

smile spread. She was suddenly Þ lled with horror as she took in what

had almost happened.

AJ released her grip and Yoshi could fairly feel the eyes searching

her face. Apparently not Þ nding what she’d been looking for, AJ touched

Yoshi’s chin, tilting it as though to gaze deeply in her blind eyes. AJ

was treating her as though she could see, and it was disconcerting.

Yoshi brusquely brushed the tender hand aside and turned to wipe

her eyes. “I am so embarrassed,” she said, not looking at AJ. “I do not

know what just happened.”

“Ya ain’t got a need to apologize,” AJ quietly reassured her. “Now,

do ya want to tackle this mess alone, or can I help?”

“You are not uncomfortable?”

“No, honey. We cool.”

Yoshi nodded in appreciation. “All right. Would you take

photographs of the process? We have a digital camera that is relatively

simple to operate.”

“Point and click?” AJ asked.

“Yes.”

“Sure ’nough.”

As soon as Yoshi retrieved the camera from the storage cupboard

and nervously demonstrated the basic features, AJ photographed the

collection of empty beer bottles, energy drinks, coffee cups, Clif Bar

wrappers, newspapers, and lunch remains. Her hands sheathed in

disposable blue latex gloves, Yoshi sifted through the items spread out

on the newspaper. Between handling each item and occasionally lifting

one to her nose, she was able to distinguish many of the objects. She

emptied a paper bag that held sandwich remains, a bag of Lay’s potato

chips, and napkins.

• 198 •

BLIND CURVES

A small scrap of white paper ß itted down. Yoshi picked it up and

offered it to AJ. “Anything interesting?” she asked.

“It’s a receipt from a Buck’s Diner in Woodside.”

“Does it have a date stamp?”

“Yeah, both day and time.”

“That is great.” Yoshi pointed at an empty Þ le box. “Could you set

that aside and then pull over a garbage can so we can put trash in it?”

They sorted, the silence only broken with discarding items in the

trash.

Yoshi held up another scrap of paper. “Is this a Lotto printout? Or

a receipt? I feel the smooth edges on the sides.”

AJ took it from her. “Lotto. Late in the day.”

“The same date as the murder?”

“Yeah. But afternoon.”

“Please keep it too. Some perpetrators return to the scene of the

crime, especially if it is a high-proÞ le event with intense media scrutiny.

Or it could be garbage of a regular Wonderland visitor. It should be

relatively easy to track down where it was bought, if necessary.”

The contents of the second bag were quite different. A jumble of

branches and plant material tumbled out to be spread around and sifted

through.

“You are originally from the South, right?” Yoshi asked as she

held a branch up for scrutiny.

“N’awlins born and bred,” AJ afÞ rmed. “Why?”

“Poison oak does not grow down there, does it? I think your area

has poison sumac instead.”

AJ took hold of the thick branch. “This is poisonous? You eat

it?”

“No.” Yoshi laughed.

“Aww, you’re just yankin’ my chain.”

“No.” Yoshi touched her arm. “That is poison oak. The oil on the

leaves can cause an allergic reaction.”

“That all?” AJ snorted.

“No, that is not all. The allergic reaction causes a spreading,

itching rash that can be quite irritating or even send some individuals

to the hospital.”

“But this just a bare branch,” AJ insisted. “No leaves.”

Yoshi sighed. “You are holding a piece that was recently cut. That

• 199 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

is why it is bleeding. Do you see black sap? I can smell it. It tickles my

nose. You see, even without leaves, poison oak is still dangerous, and

the black sap is exceptionally toxic, even more so than the oil on the

leaves. If you touch your skin or wipe it on your clothes, you will most

likely get the rash. And you will wish you hadn’t.”

“You done convinced me.” AJ dropped the offending branch.

“Here.” Yoshi held out the box of gloves. “You might want to

switch.”

AJ carefully removed her gloves, peeling them inside out and

tossing them in the trash. She pulled on a fresh pair. “What else do you

smell?” she asked.

Yoshi wrinkled her nose, posing, “Is there manzanita?”

“Um, like I’d know. What it look like?”

Yoshi described manzanita, the reddish orange shrub with its

twisting branches and distinguishing scarlet wood.

“Have you been hiking or camping since you moved here?” she

asked the Southern cop.

“No, us black folk, we ain’t so hot on hauling our asses up and

down hills.”

“I used to go all the time,” Yoshi reminisced. “I miss it. There

are some truly incredible trails in the Bay Area, a surprising variety of

ecosystems and terrains. At the crest of the hill there are stunning views

of the bay and ocean.” She fell silent, thinking about how she would

never again experience those views.

“Sounds lovely,” AJ said softly. “Maybe you’ll take me along

sometime.” She wielded a branch matching Yoshi’s description. “This

might be the man’s eater.”

Yoshi laughed. “Man-za- nita, not man eater.”

AJ chuckled. “I’m getting scared ’bout these plants. If they ain’t

poisonous, they’ll eat ya. What’s up with that?”

“Bag it up for me,” Yoshi requested.

“What’s it mean?” AJ asked.

“When I was younger my father and I would go hiking in the

Santa Cruz Mountains, the hills between Silicon Valley and the PaciÞ c

Ocean. He knew a lot about the plants that grew there. There is one

species of manzanita, Kings Mountain manzanita, that is endangered

because it only grows in very speciÞ c soil that exists in small patches.

The Kings Mountain variety has a different genetic make-up than the

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BLIND CURVES

other manzanitas. So, if one of those plants is near the crime scene, it

might help us with a DNA trace.”

“That’s intense,” AJ exclaimed. “How do ya test a tree’s DNA?

There ain’t no blood. Do trees have mouths to swab?”

Yoshi chuckled. “Actually, I understand it is a rather involved

process. There is a plant lab over at UC Berkeley that has equipment to

do it. Recently their scientists have used a similar process to track down

the fungus causing sudden oak death. That is a disease that has wiped

out nearly ninety percent of Marin’s oak trees.”

The two women fell silent as they dug through more of the

garbage.

“Well, look at this.” Yoshi held up an envelope. “It doesn’t feel

opened.” She handed it to AJ.

“Just junk mail.” AJ moved to toss it in the trash can.

Yoshi blocked her arm. “No, that is perfect. Someone might have

cleaned out their car and discarded the direct mail marketing pieces.

What’s the name?”

AJ dusted it off with her sleeve. “Ryan Esterhaus. Los Altos Hills.

That’s not far from the park.”

“Can you read the date on the postmark?” Yoshi asked.

“Coupla days ago.”

“All right then, I guess we will be paying this Mr. Esterhaus a

visit.”

“Will ya need a ride?” AJ asked.

Yoshi smiled. “Thanks, AJ, but you have done enough already to

help. I should let you get back to your own job.”

AJ sighed. “Yeah, guess I oughta be goin’.”

“Do I sense some hesitation?”

AJ laughed. “It’s that obvious?”

“Well,” Yoshi mused, “at Þ rst I just thought you wanted to spend

time with me, but now I can see that you are just putting off going to

work.”

“It’s a little of both,” AJ began.

Yoshi waved the African American woman quiet. They both knew

what AJ was going to say, but she thought they’d tactfully agreed not

to speak of it here.

AJ nodded. “There’s a lot I love about being a cop. Uniforms,

respect, brotherhood, but then as a female I ain’t so welcome. In

• 201 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

N’awlins, once it got around that I was a dyke, I got shit from other

cops all the fucking time. Then things got even worse. No backup when

I’d ask for it, giving me the shit jobs, sending me out to get killed, more

or less. All these problems kind of blew up with Katrina, and I got me

some family out here. They always talking up the Bay Area, so I got a

job down there in East Palo Alto…”

Yoshi grimaced.

AJ laughed. “Ya familiar with it?”

“Yeah, once the murder capital of America.” Yoshi smiled.

“Well it ain’t no more, but still a dangerous hood, high crime rates

and all. Gots it’s advantages, you know. Ain’t never boring. Small town,

compared to N’awlins, but I already caught me three murders since I

came out here.”

Yoshi liked that the policewoman didn’t correct herself for acting

as though Yoshi could see. She didn’t stop, shaking her head and

embarrassedly sputtering some apology. It was refreshing.

“But there’s some stuff I’m uncomfortable with,” AJ said.

Yoshi knitted her brow. “Are you saying that you are being

harassed at work?”

“No, not that. It may be nothing,” AJ said in a voice that argued

differently. “I’ve gotten the dyke jokes all my time on the job, that ain’t

no biggie, but last week…” She trailed off, as though unsure if she

could trust a relative stranger with her secrets.

“AJ, there are some really strong antidiscrimination laws in this

state—”

“It ain’t no thing,” AJ cut her off. “And you’re right, Yoshi, I gotta

go.”

“All right,” Yoshi acquiesced. “But if you ever change your mind,

let me know and I will be happy to provide any assistance I can.”

From the brisk clomp of her boots, it sounded like AJ couldn’t

leave the ofÞ ce fast enough.

Yoshi made a mental list of the useful information gleaned from

their trash examination. The poison oak and manzanita. The dated

receipts that would isolate the trash as belonging to the period of the

murder. The unopened mail addressed to Ryan Esterhaus.

The name seemed familiar. Yoshi tried to place it as she moved

to the bathroom and washed her hands and face; she was sure the

trash odor had clung. By the time she returned to her ofÞ ce, she had

remembered the one occasion when the name came up. It had been

• 202 •

BLIND CURVES

mentioned by a former client who’d hired Blind Eye to investigate a

local talent agent with a penchant for luring teenage girls to the casting

couch. Ryan Esterhaus was a movie director, Yoshi recalled, a man who

bought his way out of trouble. She knew little about him, but she was

sure Velvet could remedy that.

Yoshi picked up the phone. She and Velvet had work to do and

photographs to examine, assuming Velvet had done as Yoshi asked.

• 203 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 204 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Velvet and Yoshi sat down on rather pretentious and

uncomfortable antique chairs in Karen Friars’s living room

and waited for Rosemary’s widow to return with refreshments. Although

they’d both denied their thirst, Karen had insisted that a polite hostess

would provide refreshments.

When she returned a moment later with a cheese plate and three

glasses of iced tea, she said, “It’s so good to see you again, Velvet. You

look great.” She set down the tray and scratched her arms through the

thin silk blouse that clung to her delicate frame. “I remember you used

to like iced tea.”

She held a glass out to Velvet. Her hand was slender, well

manicured, and appropriately dainty for the trappings of wealth visible

all around them. As Velvet sipped the tea, she glanced down at her

reupholstered Louis XV chairs overlaid with Japanese bondage imagery.

She wondered if Yoshi would be offended by the cultural appropriation

if she knew what was cushioning her posterior. Why was Karen being

so polite? Had she poisoned the drinks?

“I’m glad you came.” Karen took a seat across from the two

women.

“Why?” Velvet asked bluntly. She set the glass down. It didn’t

taste poisoned. She eyed the cheese plate.

“I would have thought you were instrumental in Velvet’s arrest,”

Yoshi said. “Obviously, someone brought pressure to bear on the

Woodside police to secure such a diligent response and focus the

attention squarely on Velvet. It strikes me as something you would have

been a part of.”

• 205 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Karen tilted her head. “Well, you’ve got me there.” She pushed the

cheese plate at Velvet. “Go ahead. I can see you want some.”

“Excuse me?” Velvet was ß abbergasted. “Did you just admit that

you set me up?”

Karen scratched again at her sleeve-covered arm. Her efforts

didn’t seem to satisfy her. She looked at her arm as though disappointed

in its lack of appropriate response. She seemed offended.

“Did you?” Yoshi asked.

Karen returned her gaze to Velvet. “Oh, it wasn’t like that.”

She shook her head. “Oh no, I didn’t need to set you up. You made

yourself a suspect after that public row with Rosemary the other night,

and everyone knows you two hated each other. Once I discovered that

you were at Wonderland Park that morning, it all fell into place. I just

demanded the quick resolution that I so richly deserve. My tax money

does pay for that police department, after all.”

Yoshi crinkled her nose. “But you certainly didn’t bother to inform

them that Velvet would never do such a thing.”

Karen shrugged. “You would be surprised at what people are

capable of, when they are pushed to it.” She unbuttoned her sleeve and

slid her hand inside to gain greater positioning against the persistent

itch. “I assumed the police would do their job and Þ gure things out in

due course. Velvet, you always thought I was an ogre.” At a murmur

from Velvet, she waved a hand impatiently. “Oh, don’t deny it. You all

did.”

“I was going to agree with her,” Velvet whispered to Yoshi.

“You thought I changed Rosemary. You thought I forced her

to change.” Karen shook her head. “I didn’t. The funny thing is that

Rosemary never really changed at all. She was always the poor little

rich girl, buried in cash and starving for Daddy’s attention. It didn’t

matter if it was negative attention, just that Daddy noticed. And boy did

he notice when she Þ rst started sleeping with women. He cut her off.”

Karen noted the disbelief on Velvet’s face. “It’s true. I guess you

didn’t know. She stayed in school on a scholarship and her mom slipped

money into her account. It didn’t last long, of course. It wasn’t so much

out of acceptance that it ended, more like Daddy couldn’t be bothered

to keep it up. So she went back to being ignored, until she—I mean

you.” Karen nodded at Velvet in acknowledgment. “Until you started

the magazine. I guess one of her father’s business partners in New York

• 206 •

BLIND CURVES

had a copy, probably to lambaste about the Þ lth, and Daddy discovered

Rosemary’s picture on the editor’s page. It upset him to see, as he put

it, ‘her illness’ in print. All very embarrassing.”

Karen shook her head. “May the bastard rest in peace. But then a

funny thing happened. The magazine started to make money. And for

a Finney, even a conservative like Arthur, a little green always made

up for the mortifying things you had to do to make it. They’re new

money, you see. Not like my family. The Finneys had a history of doing

things they were ashamed of, to make the money they had. We Friarses

had only done things we should have been ashamed of.” Karen smiled

wryly. She looked around the room and, apparently Þ nding no hint of

approval or empathy, shrugged. “So anyway, suddenly Rosemary had

Daddy’s approval again. Everything became about making money,

making a proÞ t, and to hell with the whole feminist politics thing. I

admit I came on as a part of that. Hell, those were my values, too. But I

didn’t make Rosemary go there. When Arthur died she got stuck in this

endless need to continue the one thing he had approved of.”

Karen was silent for a moment, looking up at the ceiling, as

though gathering her thoughts. “But that little rebellious part, that self

destructive, self-hating internalization of her father, it started seeping

out in other ways. She embezzled from the company. Then she decided

we needed to put out a lesbian porn magazine and produce lesbian sex

videos.”

“There’s money in that,” Velvet quipped.

Karen shot her a look. “It wasn’t the life I had imagined. I want

to have children. But how do you raise kids around all of that?” She

smiled woefully. “You have no idea what it was like being married to

that tramp. I know you thought she’d given up other women for me,

but that was far from the truth. She had sex with half the women on

those videos. We paid people to be quiet. Hell, I had to settle a couple

of sexual harassment suits when she started treating her staff like it was

her own private harem. After all that shit I put up with, a few months

ago, she announces that she wants a divorce.”

Velvet raised her eyebrows and shook her head. She’d had no

idea.

“A divorce?” Yoshi’s face was taut with concentration.

Karen scratched some more then heaved a theatrical sigh. “I

suppose it’s time I told you who did this.”

• 207 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Velvet held her breath. She could tell Yoshi was doing the same.

Karen’s eyes glinted. She had always relished an audience hanging on

her every word, even if she normally had to pay employees to provide

the silent awe she sought.

Milking the moment, she declared, “The Þ rst thing you need to

know is that Rosemary was straight.”

“Straight? I don’t believe it.” Velvet repeated.

“It’s true!” Karen asserted. “She told me she was never really a

lesbian.”

“How could that be?” Yoshi asked.

“Well, she said she was just rebelling against her father, then she

tells me that she’s in love. She’s been seeing some actor and wants to

end our ‘farce.’ I was livid.”

“Wait,” Yoshi interrupted. “She was sleeping with an actor?

Who?”

“That bastard Keith Ridger.”

Velvet was dubious. Rosemary was one ex she would never have

imagined as straight. “What? What about all those years of eating

pussy?”

Yoshi and Karen both cringed at Velvet’s gauche terminology.

“Isn’t that what makes a lesbian?” Velvet demanded. “Or are you

saying Rosemary was one of those women who think you can fuck

whoever you want and it doesn’t mean anything about your identity?”

Yoshi interrupted, hoping to prevent Velvet from further outbursts.

“Keith Ridger? But I thought—”

“That he’s gay?” Karen laughed. “Those are just rumors.”

“But didn’t your magazine just out his girlfriend as a lesbian?”

Yoshi knitted her brow in puzzlement and didn’t ask what she had

originally intended. Hadn’t Tucker said Keith was engaged to his

girlfriend Jennifer?

Karen chuckled. “That was good, wasn’t it? I put that in. I wrote

that.”

Velvet shook her head in bewilderment. “Wasn’t that Rosemary’s

piece? It had her byline.”

“I put her name on it,” Karen said gleefully. “She was so busy, she

wasn’t even in the ofÞ ce the week we went to press.”

Velvet understood that was the busiest time for a publication and

it could be particularly grueling for the staff if the editor in chief wasn’t

in the ofÞ ce during that hectic period.

• 208 •

BLIND CURVES

Karen leaned forward, her blouse falling away from her pert

breasts. She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “I’d heard that Bend

had a source on record saying that some of the girls on The Isle of

Lesbos are gay. I just ran with it.”

“So you know the spy. Who was it? It was Liz Claiborne, right?”

Karen laughed and shook her head. “It’s funny how Rosemary is

the face of Womyn. Even when she’s not in the ofÞ ce, everyone thinks

she runs, ran, the place. Nobody knows me from Adam. Nobody even

notices me. But I’m the spy, Velvet. I’ve been snooping on you and

Marion for months.”

Velvet was horriÞ ed. “You? How could it be you? I’m so careful.

I mean—”

“Who are you kidding? You’re so predictable. You go to the Coffee

Klatch all the time. You always sit at the same table. I pay one of the

waitresses to eavesdrop.”

Velvet felt violated. “Where else? Did you tap my phone?”

“No, no. Nothing that elaborate. Mostly, I just talk with the Bend

interns. They have, like, three or four at any one time, and they love to

talk about what they do and what they’re covering. I’m just the friendly

lesbian at the bar who’ll buy one more round to keep them talking.”

“But wait.” Velvet was still trying to piece it together. “I saw

Rosemary at the park, picking up an envelope.”

“Yes, this one.” Karen pulled a manila envelope out of her purse

and slid it across the desk.

Velvet opened it. Several thousand dollars in a thick stack of bills

fell out onto her lap. “Whoa. What the hell?”

“It’s a down payment from Ryan Esterhaus, the director.” Karen

looked smug.

“Ryan Esterhaus,” Yoshi echoed.

“Down payment for what?” Velvet asked.

“He wanted Rosemary to stop sleeping with Keith.”

Velvet scoffed. “You’re just making things up now, aren’t you?

Why would Ryan Esterhaus care who Keith Ridger sleeps with?”

Karen smirked. “Long story. Keith had agreed to star in Ryan’s

next project, but he decided to back out. His excuse was that he’s about

to get married and he wants to spend more time with his new family,

but Ryan knew Keith was blowing smoke up his ass so he got pissed

and did something about it.”

“All the gay rumors,” Velvet mused aloud. “The Star interview?”

• 209 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Everything. He thought he could ruin Keith’s career.” Karen

shrugged as if she had no mea culpa for her own part in the media blitz.

“Then he gets Jody Williams—she played that drag king on Lesbos— to

tell Bend that Jennifer is a dyke. Only, Bend won’t print the allegation

because they—”

“Have morals?” Velvet offered.

“Are afraid of being sued,” Karen corrected.

“Because they’re already being sued by Rosemary!” Velvet said

in defense of Marion.

“Right,” Karen conÞ rmed.

Her Þ ngers trailed back and forth along her arm, and Velvet

wondered if the scratching was a nervous tic. She glanced at Yoshi,

who seemed oddly quiet, her face intent as she listened. “So you’re

saying that the Jennifer Garcia story was totally planted. That it wasn’t

even true?”

“Oh, I don’t know. It might be true. Who cares?”

“That’s libel,” Velvet pointed out indignantly. She hated journalists

who didn’t follow an accepted code of ethics.

Karen laughed. “Whatever. That’s on Jody. It’s all over now

anyway.”

“What’s over?” Velvet asked.

“Womyn.”

Velvet was shocked.

Karen smiled. “You think I’m going to run that stupid magazine

without Rosemary? Please. I hated that rag. I’m thinking about selling

it. OutNation.com is very interested.”

“OutNation wants to run a lesbian magazine?” Velvet was surprised

that the behemoth would want to delve into that publishing niche.

“No.” Karen took a dainty sip of tea. “I think they want to gut it

for their online site and the subscriber list.”

“You want to destroy the magazine? Were you always trying to

wreck it?”

Karen waved the question away. “Rosemary did a good job of that

on her own.”

“There is one thing I don’t understand,” quipped Yoshi. “If

Rosemary was in love with Keith, why would she accept Esterhaus’s

money to stop seeing him?”

Karen shrugged. “I’m sure she never really intended to break it

• 210 •

BLIND CURVES

off. She just took his money anyway. And why not? Who’s he going to

tell?”

“How did you determine that Keith was the actor Rosemary was

romantically involved with?” Yoshi asked. “Did she tell you?”

Karen harrumphed. “Yes, actually, but only after I’d already caught

her in the act. I followed her one time when she said she was going to

be away for the weekend on a press junket. I didn’t believe her, and as

it turned out I was right. She was with some blonde at the Villagio Spa

Resort in Napa’s wine country. I couldn’t get a good look. But I did

see the vehicle they drove off in. One of those distasteful Hummers. It

turned out to be Keith’s vehicle. When I confronted her, she admitted

everything.”

“I am still not clear on who murdered Rosemary and why,” Yoshi

said. Her tone suggested that she had found none of Karen’s revelations

all that astonishing.

Karen looked irritated by this. “I’m amazed I would need to spell

it out to a private detective. Aren’t you people supposed to be students

of human nature?”

“Indeed,” Yoshi conceded. “One never stops learning about the

depths to which people will sink. Do you know who did it, or are you

merely wasting our time?”

“Keith Ridger, who else?” Karen’s voice was thin and high

pitched, and it shook slightly as if she wanted to scream the information

but contained herself because she needed to appear calmer than she felt.

“You see, he was ready to give it all up for her, then he found out what

she was really like.”

“As you did?” Yoshi asked softly.

“Yes, only I lived with it. Apparently he wasn’t so…tolerant.

He found out about her latest toy and he lost it.” She directed a brief

triumphant look at Velvet. “That’s Liz Claiborne, by the way. A toy, not

a spy. Spies have brains.”

“Thank you for clarifying all of this, Karen.” Yoshi rose abruptly.

“I believe we’ve heard all we need. But I do hope you will have us back

later, if we have additional questions?”

Karen looked stunned like a deer caught in the light of an

approaching car. Velvet shook her head. They couldn’t leave now, not

when Karen was giving them the kind of information that might extend

her freedom, which was quickly slipping away as the clock ticked down

• 211 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

to her surrender deadline. Velvet resisted when Yoshi tugged at her arm,

and she was then poked in the ribs.

“I do apologize, but we really must be off.” Yoshi turned to Velvet,

“Have you forgotten about our next appointment?”

Confused, Velvet gave up the Þ ght and allowed herself to be herded

from the room, conscious of Karen staring after them with a mixture of

smugness and bewilderment. Velvet had no idea why Yoshi was making

vague references to a meeting that didn’t exist instead of solving the

case, but she’d learned long ago that her dearest friend didn’t explain

herself as she went along. Yoshi’s style was less Matlock and more,

well, Buddhist. She gathered endless information, observing, sorting

data and emotions, and Þ ltering it all quietly and internally and never

really commenting on a case until a decision had been made. When she

had all the facts, all the evidence carefully weighed, Yoshi rendered a

decision with such thoughtful precision that her analysis was presented

like a straightforward verdict, without the meandering explanations and

self-aggrandizing “ahas!” that other detectives delivered. To onlookers

it was both comforting and oddly disconcerting.

“What was that all about?” Velvet demanded as the Toyota’s tires

crunched on Karen’s white oyster shell driveway.

“To the ofÞ ce, Jeeves,” Yoshi commanded. She still felt awkward

about Velvet chauffeuring her about instead of using her time to

further this investigation. “You do have those photographs with you,

don’t you?”

“Yes, I told you—”

“Please examine them for me and tell me which vehicles are at the

scene and whether you have clearly captured all the license plates.”

“You want me to pull over right here?”

“Brieß y, yes.”

The car slowed. “At least tell me why we had to leave,” Velvet

said, shifting in her seat, then noisily foraging in her purse. “She knows

the whole story. Why not hear her out?”

“If you had paid attention, you would have recognized that Karen

had already revealed enough to clarify our next step.” Yoshi didn’t have

time to deal with Velvet’s pique now. “The pictures?”

Velvet sighed. “We have Rosemary’s Jaguar. A Hummer. A

Mercedes SUV. And a VW bus. Decent tail shots of everything. Is this

going to keep me out of jail?”

“It will certainly help. You may start driving again.” Yoshi

• 212 •

BLIND CURVES

reß exively grabbed the door’s armrest to maintain her upright position

as they peeled out onto the road. She located her cell phone and called

Bud.

He answered with his usual grudging respect. “Yeah. What can I

do for you?”

Yoshi was quite sure he was gallivanting about, probably reading

porn at her expense so he would not have to come into the ofÞ ce. She

ignored this behavior because between his episodes of time wasting, he

delivered results. Hoping he had one for her now, she said, “I got your

message. It sounds important.”

“I picked up the autopsy report and I’ve Þ gured out the murder

weapon.”

“Really?”

“Strangulation was with a narrow wire or cord, and guess what

maintenance just dragged out of the porta-potty?” He paused, evidently

seeking something from her.

Yoshi delivered a compliment. “If it’s the murder weapon, you

may have cracked this case wide open.” She refrained from inquiry as

to whether he would like a gold star for his mundane efforts.

Evidently satisÞ ed with the lavish praise, he revealed, “An iPod.

Pink. I’m guessing she was done with the speaker wires.”

“Do you have the iPod in your possession?”

“No, the maintenance stiff wouldn’t hand it over. But I got

photos.”

“I am certain those will be of interest to Detective Fleishman.

Where are you presently?”

He sidestepped her question by mumbling something else about

the autopsy report.

Yoshi had him go through the general details, then said, “There is

one more task I have for you, then I want you to come in.”

“To the ofÞ ce?” He sounded incredulous, as though that were the

most absurd thing he had heard all day.

“It is time that we coordinated the next stage of the investigation,”

Yoshi said Þ rmly. “Velvet and I are on our way there now.”

“What’s the job?”

“I want you to interview a movie director named Ryan Esterhaus.

He has been implicated by Karen Friars. Find out what type of vehicle

he drives, as well.”

“Is he our perp?”

• 213 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Not necessarily.”

“What’s the angle?”

“Revenge against Keith Ridger. Karen claims he is the one

behind all the gay rumors. We need to know if that is true, and why he

would perpetrate such a hoax. And, naturally, his whereabouts when

Rosemary was murdered.” She didn’t go into further detail. Bud would

ask his usual questions and elicit both Esterhaus’s version of events,

and the nonverbal cues that could support or undermine his statements.

Afterward, they would determine if his story was supported by facts.

Bud complained but said he would try his luck getting to see

Esterhaus and get back to the ofÞ ce in a few hours. Yoshi thanked him

and ended the call.

Velvet said, “Well?”

“We haven’t yet solved this case, but we are close.”

“What’s next?”

“We must rule out our remaining persons of interest as quickly as

we can.”

v

Leaving the Burger King drive-through, Bud exited onto El Camino

Street and then immediately turned into the next business driveway. He

pulled into an open handicapped parking space, hung his blue DMV tag

on his rearview mirror, and pulled out the autopsy report. Dodging the

medical jargon and the indecipherable Latin, he read it again, this time

slowly. The gist was just as Chico had relayed verbally—death due to

strangulation.

“Lividity Þ xed in the distal portions of the limbs. Petechial

hemorrhaging is present in the conjunctival surfaces of the eyes.”

That was the big picture, but there were interesting tidbits secreted in

the smaller details. For example, the angle of the marks on her neck

indicated that the victim had been strangled with a ligature below the

mandible, forming a V on the posterior of the neck, consistent with a

hanging or strangulation from above with a force that likely lifted the

victim off her feet. She had a broken hyoid bone, a fractured occipital

bone, and a nearly severed windpipe.

The Finney woman being a lesbian and all, Yoshi said their primary

suspects were all women. Bud shook his head. It couldn’t have been a

woman. Not when the perp needed the physical presence to stand over

• 214 •

BLIND CURVES

the 5’7” victim and lift her 125-pound-body off the ground. No way.

Bud read further, looking to see if there were defensive wounds that

indicated Rosemary had fought back.

Although there weren’t many contusions, there was a strange

crescent moon bruise on her thigh, scratches on her neck, and skin

under her nails. Probably her own, Bud thought, from clawing at

the noose around her neck, but they wouldn’t be sure until the DNA

tests came back. The Þ ngertips of her right hand were cut, as though

she’d managed to wedge them between the ligature and her throat for

a moment. The scratches on her arms, where the long-sleeve hoodie

sweatshirt was pushed up, were most likely from the bushes at the

crime scene, but the ME wasn’t sure about the etiology of the patch of

red bumps on her arm.

There was leaf litter collected from Rosemary’s person, and a few

hairs of various color and length. Although those could turn out to be

critical, nothing sprang immediately to mind. And there were cuts on

the soles of her feet. Oh, right, because the perp took her shoes—as

a trophy? He wondered. He bet nobody even thought to cross-check

the speciÞ cs with other unsolved murders to see if this was the work

of a serial killer. No, that’s right, they’d already pinned this on Velvet

Erickson.

Bud called Tucker and asked her to track down his subject,

Esterhaus. When she called him back, they spent some time on the

phone while she regaled him with superß uous details about the guy: his

box ofÞ ce track record, his famed sexual proclivities, even his choice

of boxers over briefs.

By the time they were done, Bud was disgusted. He made the drive

to Ryan Esterhaus’s upscale Spanish manor in Los Altos Hills planning

what he was going to say to a guy rumored to like pretty young boys.

To his surprise, Esterhaus was not only at home but agreed to speak to

him. Bud thought he probably wanted to appear cooperative. People

with something to hide often thought they could outsmart investigators,

and often assumed that refusing to answer questions made them look

guilty.

Esterhaus led him into a sunroom with a wall of ß oor-to-ceiling

windows that was half opened to expose a terraced pool garden. The

guy shared Bud’s 6’2” height and middle-aged build. His soft features,

blue eyes, and full salt and pepper beard gave him a friendly jovial look

that seemed at odds with his high-octane action ß icks, but probably

• 215 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

endeared the son of a bitch to children. As they spoke, he punctuated

Bud’s statements with phony laughter until Bud wanted to punch him

with a similar staccato. He wanted to leap out of his chair and pummel

the guy senseless. When Esterhaus started hooting over a comment

about the victim, Bud did the next best thing. He threw his drink at the

man.

Although splashed by the contents, Esterhaus, apparently more

nimble than he appeared, avoided the crystal shot glass that continued

on its trajectory and crashed to the ß oor. No longer snickering, he

shook the wet off himself like a dog and stepped toward Bud, who

raised his Þ sts in a protective motion. Esterhaus retaliated with his hand

outstretched in shake formation.

“Nice throw,” he said with no trace of malice as he bumped his

palm against Bud’s still-closed Þ st.

Bud, a little confused, reluctantly acquiesced to the handshake.

“What was so fucking funny?” The hot blood in his veins still cried out

for an answer.

“Oh, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at what you said.”

The director rushed to explain. “I mean about Rosemary Finney being a

helpless broad.” He chortled again and wiped his eyes. “That’s fucking

funny, man.”

Bud, who still didn’t understand what was so amusing, realized

he’d never seen a guy do that eye-swiping move, except in movies. He

wondered if the guy was one of those perps who had no real emotions

and just acted how he thought he was supposed to.

“Let me tell you about Rosemary Finney.” Esterhaus threw himself

backward in a trust fall to his chair. “She’s a bitch, with a capital B. There

was nothing, I mean nothing, helpless about her. I thought I’d already

met the toughest cutthroat women. They’re all in Hollywood. But she

could put any of them to shame.” He looked at Bud expectantly.

“So what?” Bud knew when he was being played. He made sure

to project doubt, right down to the steely-eyed stare his buddies used

to kid him about.

Esterhaus sighed with resignation, and as though he now hoped to

win Bud over with testimonial, he announced, “Rosemary Finney was

blackmailing me.”

“Oh, really? That’s not what I heard. My sources say you were

paying her to help you ruin Keith Ridger’s life.”

• 216 •

BLIND CURVES

“Sure, I was dicking with Ridger, you could even go so far as to

say I was trying to break him Þ nancially. But it wasn’t personal.”

Bud rolled his eyes.

“Really. I wanted him for my movie. I wrote the fucking script

with him in mind for the character, and he promised me he’d do it.

Now he’s backing out, telling me he’s getting married and wants to

spend more time with his family?” Esterhaus made quote marks with

his Þ ngers as he said the last word and spat, “Bullshit.”

Bud displayed his disbelief. “I’m not hearing a story worth shit,

Mr. Esterhaus. If that’s all you’ve got, no one is going to believe

Rosemary was blackmailing you. Maybe it’s not the best story to tell,

anyway. It gives you a motive. See what I’m saying?”

“A motive. You think I killed that bitch? Oh, please.”

“Can you account for yourself that morning?”

“I can’t account for myself two hours ago!”

Bud said, “I’ll be sure to pass that on to our associates at the

PD.”

Esterhaus gave Bud an icy stare. “If you must know, I was at

Wonderland Park. I saw her not long before it happened.”

“Strange time of day for a social occasion.”

“It was business. As I said, she was blackmailing me. I gave her

money and left. Next thing I know, it’s all over town. Couldn’t have

happened to a nicer piece of work.”

“All right.” Bud was getting a headache thinking this through. “If

you want me to buy that sob story, you’re going to have to ß esh it out.

I need to know what Finney had on you.”

In response, Ryan Esterhaus surprised Bud by blushing. What kind

of man blushes, Bud wondered. This guy was making San Francisco

fairies look downright masculine.

“Somehow, I don’t know how, that bitch found out…” He cleared

his throat, turned away, and blurted, “Twenty years ago I was arrested for

soliciting a minor. That’s just what they called it. I would never…!”

Of all the criminals he’d dealt with over the years, Bud had the

most contempt for child molesters. He looked around the room. They

were alone. Maybe he should make this guy pay, right here, for what

he did to some kid.

Esterhaus put up his hands, palms out. “I swear. I thought the kid

was eighteen.”

• 217 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Sure,” Bud said. “That’s what they all say.”

Ryan’s words came out in a rush now, as though the dam that held

them in all these years had just broken. Bud wanted to cram something

in the man’s mouth and block it off again. “It turned out he was sixteen,

or Þ fteen. Who knows. I’m not a fag or anything, I swear. I’m all man.

We were Þ lming on location in Pittsburgh, and this hustler, you know,

he used to stand out near our set. He was there every fucking evening,

offering to blow me as I walked by. He had the biggest lips I’d ever

seen.”

In Bud’s experience, the men who most insisted they were “all

man” were the furthest from it. It was his wheelchair. Bud thought, that

made a man like Ryan Esterhaus feel comfortable enough to spill his

guts. He thought Bud wasn’t all man either, and he Þ gured Bud couldn’t

do anything about his appalling confession. Bud grimaced as he inched

it closer to the babbling pedophile. He thought about bashing Esterhaus

over the head with the bottle of Scotch, saw the man reß exively lick his

own lips, and coughed to keep from gagging.

“This one day, I’d had a really bad day, problems on the set and

Þ nding out my major backer was pulling out. And just that once I

thought, why not? Wouldn’t you know it, the cops were on us before

the guy even put his mouth on me.” He paused, his eyes aimed at the

ceiling, as though recalling that day. Then he looked at Bud, seemed

surprised to Þ nd him there in the middle of the room, closing the space

between them. He held his hand out in the universal sign of stop. “The

charges were dropped, I swear.”

“Sure. Because you paid him off?”

“It was entrapment,” he said indignantly. “Once they realized who

I was, they knew it was an isolated incident. They gave me a warning

I’ll never forget.” He tried a rueful chortle, like they were two drinking

buddies comparing notes on visits to strip joints.

“Don’t bullshit me, Esterhaus. If that was true, what would

Rosemary have to blackmail you with?”

“The cops had it on tape. I watched them destroy it, but I guess

one of them must’ve made a copy, because somehow Rosemary Finney

gets a hold of it and twenty years after the fact she e-mails me a MPG

movie clip. Can you believe that shit? Over the Internet.”

“Have you told Woodside Police about the blackmail?” Bud had

to ask. He braced himself for the answer.

“No way. They’d never have helped.”

• 218 •

BLIND CURVES

“So what happened that morning?”

“I’m stupid,” Ryan Esterhaus proclaimed. “I was there, dropping

off the blackmail payment. The bitch had me on a monthly cycle. Then

I left. But news travels quickly. The woman next door, her husband is in

the Þ re department and she’s a big gossip. She tells me about Rosemary

the minute I get home. I tried to act nonchalant but I rushed back there

as soon as I could to see if the money was still there, in her car. My

Þ ngerprints are all over it.”

Esterhaus glanced at Bud for feedback, but Bud just stared at him

without commenting. He wondered where the Þ lm of Esterhaus was—

probably at the Friars-Finney mansion.

“So there I am in the Wonderland parking lot, and who do I run

into but the bloody mayor of Woodside. He lives just down the road.”

Although Bud hadn’t known that, he nodded anyway.

“I guess I was acting suspicious,” the Hollywood director

continued. “Because the next thing I know he’s threatening to have me

taken downtown and I’m blurting out the whole story.”

“But not all of it,” Bud reminded him. Esterhaus was sure to have

left out the part about liking young boys.

“True. Instead of saying I was being blackmailed, I told the mayor

I was bribing Rosemary to take down Keith Ridger. I assured him I had

nothing to do with her death and, yes, I pointed him toward that reporter.

I mean, here I was worried that she was onto me, and taking photographs

of me, but it turns out she’s after Rosemary. What a relief.”

“So you told him she had a camera?” That explained a few

things. Like the PD smashing up Velvet’s place, looking for the Þ lm.

Bud wondered where the buxom temptress had it stashed. Maybe at

Tucker’s place. She seemed pretty thick with the kid. Bud didn’t want

to speculate on why that might be.

Esterhaus was still trying to talk his way out of trouble. He said, “I

had to stay out of this mess, so we talked about the city’s nine million

dollar budget shortfall. I was actually quite glad to help, and I made the

arrangements right there. The mayor saw the big picture right away.”

Bud squinted slightly, trying to see the big picture himself.

Esterhaus spared him the effort. “Joe Ordinary can be in the wrong

place at the wrong time and so what, who gives a shit? But for people

like me it’s different. We don’t have the right to privacy. We’re not

allowed to make a mistake.”

Bud was now at arm’s length from the self-serving pervert and

• 219 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

ready to take a swing at the bastard when the doorbell gonged loudly,

reverberating down the long corridor to where the two men were

speaking.

Esterhaus’s demeanor immediately changed. He no longer

appeared willing to share his thoughts. The oversized vault doors

protecting his secrets sealed closed with a loud thud. “I think it’s time

for you to leave,” he suggested coldly.

Damn, what was wrong with this guy? Other than his personal

desire to beat the crap out of Esterhaus, Bud didn’t mind leaving now.

On his way in, he had stopped by the garage and taken down the details

of Esterhaus’s rides, a Mercedes SUV and several sports cars. He now

had the guy’s admission to being at Wonderland Park around the time

of Finney’s murder, plus a blackmail motive. He had also assembled a

collection of physical evidence from the site, just in case there was key

trace, and he had the autopsy report.

Well, shit, he was actually ready for the group hug at Blind Eye.

• 220 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Can you really see Rosemary being with a man?” Yoshi posed

the question as they drove north.

It was supposed to be rhetorical, but Velvet quipped, “No.

Although, these days, what with all the hasbians…”

“The what?” Yoshi wasn’t familiar with the term.

“Has-bi-an. Former lesbian. Once a dyke, now with men. Surely

you’ve heard of such a thing.”

“Of course I am familiar with the concept, just not the terminology.

I thought that was what we called bisexual.”

“No.” Velvet stopped her. “Totally different concept.”

“I simply am not plugged in to lesbian pop culture the way you

are, Velvet.”

“Don’t you even watch Isle?”

“No, I don’t watch the show.”

“What kind of lesbian are you?”

Yoshi ignored her question. “We will be making a quick stop at

the Four Seasons before we continue on to the ofÞ ce. Tucker informs

me that, according to an Internet blog, Keith Ridger and Jennifer Garcia

are currently guests at the hotel. It would be quite useful to interview

them prior to our strategy meeting. Unfortunately, it seems that the

couple uses aliases when registering to avoid obsessed fans and tabloid

paparazzi, and I do not know what names they are using.”

“Why didn’t you just ask me?” Velvet said. “I’ve got a girl on the

inside. Hold on, I’ll call her right now.”

Yoshi heard her ß ip open her cell phone. She hit her speed

• 221 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

dial and held the phone to her ear. Yoshi listened to one side of the

conversation.

“Hi, is Tameeka available? Thanks. Hey, girl. Velvet here. I’m

great, how’ve you been? I’ve missed you too, babe, maybe we could

get together sometime soon, if I’m not in jail. Oh, long story. Actually,

you can. I’m trying to track down Keith Ridger and…Really? Great.

Okay, 302. You’re fantastic.” This was followed by giggling and frank

exchanges about recent sexual activities.

Yoshi whispered, “Wednesday morning.”

Velvet patted her, then quickly resumed steering the car. “Were you

at work Wednesday morning? Can you ask around? If anyone noticed

them Wednesday morning I’d be very interested.” Velvet laughed. “No,

a C-note, if it’s reliable. Thanks, doll. I’ll call you next week.” She

closed the phone with a click and returned it to her purse.

“Tameeka?” Yoshi inquired pointedly. “Aren’t your hands full

with Tucker? Should you be using this other woman?”

“Using Tameeka?” Velvet spluttered with laughter. “Are you

kidding? No one uses that ebony goddess. She uses you. And good

too.”

Disco beats interrupted their conversation. Yoshi jumped in her

seat and began fumbling with the vehicle’s dials. The radio wasn’t on,

and as Velvet reached for her purse again, Yoshi realized that must

be the new ring tone on Velvet’s cell phone. Last month it was Ozzy

Osbourne’s “Crazy Train,” and the volume had been set at a deafening

level. Every time it rang Yoshi imagined Velvet tossing her hair in head-

banging rhythm while holding her hand aloft, middle Þ ngers tucked

against her palm, forming horns with her Þ ngers. She smiled to herself.

Velvet was nothing if not colorful.

“It’s Tameeka,” Velvet hissed as the call progressed. “She found

someone that saw Kennifer Wednesday evening.”

“Kennifer?” Yoshi shook her head.

“Keith and Jennifer? You know, like Brangelina. Anyway, they

got together for dinner after Keith arrived back in town. The bellhop

got photos. Those guys sell shit to the tabloids whenever celebrities are

in town.”

“Dinner. And anything from the morning?”

Velvet asked her ebony goddess then ended the call. “Only Jennifer

in the Hummer, coming back from her Þ tness training. That’s all.

Anyway, they’re at the hotel now, if we want to go bust in on them.”

• 222 •

BLIND CURVES

Yoshi thought carefully. She was not perfectly ready to interview

the couple, but it was unlikely that a more judicious moment would

present itself. Velvet’s news conÞ rmed Yoshi’s darkest suspicions about

Karen. Eager to conÞ rm that Velvet had drawn a similar conclusion, she

announced, “Rosemary was not dating Keith. I think she was having an

affair with his Þ ancée.”

“But Karen said—”

“And you’ve never known her to lie?”

“Her story was a little far out, but what would her motive be?”

“She’s hiding something.”

“Yes, but—”

“I imagine that an inheritance is more attractive than a divorce

settlement,” Yoshi afÞ rmed.

“She’s trying to frame Keith for the murder using jealousy as the

motive, when she’s the one who was jealous?” Velvet sounded pensive.

“That’s ironic.”

“Your photographs might prove Keith’s car was at the scene,”

Yoshi said. “But not that he was driving it.”

“Jennifer Garcia was there.”

“As was Liz Claiborne,” Yoshi said. She avoided mentioning

Artemis McDermid’s name despite her knowledge about the

psychologist’s presence at Wonderland that morning. “It seems that all

of Rosemary’s dirty secrets were there at the same time, which must

have made for a quite volatile situation.”

“And yet they arrested me!” Velvet’s disgust was palpable. “What

do you suppose actually happened?”

“I won’t be certain until I have spoken with Bud. But we do know

one thing. There are enough suspects and enough physical evidence to

provide reasonable doubt. Perhaps even enough to get the case against

you dismissed.”

v

“Well shiiit, if it isn’t Bud Williams!” San Jose Police Chief Jesus

Hernandez stood from behind his large chestnut desk as Bud rolled up

to the open door. “Come in, come in.” Jesus rushed over, pumped Bud’s

hand a couple of times, and then darted back into his ofÞ ce, shoving

seats against the walls to make room for Bud’s chair. Once he was sure

his old partner was comfortable, and shut the glass door, Jesus parked

• 223 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

himself down into his executive chair. “What the hell brings you to San

Jose?”

“I need a favor.”

“Of course you do,” Jesus laughed.

“Let me show you something.” Bud fumbled around in his

jacket.

“I don’t want to see it,” Jesus joked.

“Here.” Bud pulled a small package out and passed it across the

desk.

Chief Hernandez picked it up. “It’s a tape recorder,” he said,

stating the obvious. “I’ve seen one of these before, Bud.”

“Listen,” Bud insisted.

“It better not be fart jokes.” The tape was already rewound. He

pressed the Play button. A man’s voice crackled from the box. “Who is

this?” Jesus asked.

“Ryan Esterhaus—the director,”

“This a new movie idea of his or something?”

“Just listen.” Bud played the tape through to the end, occasionally

rewinding it to listen more intently to a section.

Jesus no longer made jokes. “Wow. Did he know you were taping

him?”

Bud shook his head.

“Who’s your client?” Jesus knew Bud well enough to know that

there would be a client involved in this.

“Velvet Erickson, she’s a reporter with the San Francisco

Chronicle. She’s been charged with Rosemary Finney’s murder.”

Jesus cleared his throat. “Well, honestly, Bud, I don’t think this

proves anything.” Bud started to cut Jesus off, but the police chief held

up his left hand and kept talking. “He never says he did it. Okay, so he

claims he bribed the police to ignore him, but that doesn’t clear your

client. He witnessed her at the scene of the crime.”

Bud shook his head. “Amigo, I’m not here to clear Velvet

Erickson, I’m here about the kid. I want Esterhaus for doing the kid in

Pittsburgh.”

Jesus Hernandez stared at his friend for a long time. “Does your

boss know what you’re doing?”

Bud shook his head impatiently.

“Fine, I can see you don’t really want my advice. What do you

want?”

• 224 •

BLIND CURVES

“A search warrant for Rosemary Finney’s house, to Þ nd the Þ lm

of Esterhaus with the kid.”

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” the chief swore. “And you think I can

pull that kind of thing out of my ass? In case you didn’t notice here,

we’re in San Jose. You’re talking about a Woodside residence. That’s a

whole other county, for chrisssake.”

“You expect me to go to Woodside PD and tell them their mayor

elicited a bribe? I was a visitor in Woodside’s fair police station just the

other day, and let me tell you, they don’t want to see me again.”

“Okay, granted. But what about San Mateo County?” Jesus asked,

suggesting the sheriff’s department.

“Oh, sure that’s great,” Bud complained sarcastically. “The sheriff

is a good buddy with Woodside’s mayor. And I know the San Mateo

DA personally called San Francisco about pulling Velvet in.”

“Fine, what about a San Mateo judge?” Jesus pondered.

“Yes, exactly, that’s what we could do.”

“We? ” Jesus rubbed his brow. “Shit. No way. Do you have any

idea what kind of political hailstorm this could unleash? We’re, like, a

week away from the elections.”

“I can’t do it, Jesus,” Bud said. “No one’s going to listen to a

washed-up detective with a stake in the situation. I need you.”

Jesus sighed. “You always pull this kind of shit. Just tell me

straight out exactly what your crazy plan is. All of it. I don’t want to be

surprised by anything in Þ ve minutes. Got it? Spill.”

“Fine.” It was their history that Bud was relying on to pressure

Jesus into going along with his plan. But it was the same history that

led to situations like this. Jesus knew all of his tricks. “We go to Judge

Weinstein—”

“Weinstein?” Jesus chuckled. “Let me see if I’ve got this right.

You think that because Harold Weinstein is friends with Jeffrey Travis,

who is running to replace the current San Mateo sheriff in next week’s

elections, he’ll be open to this? Didn’t you used to always say ‘Don’t

mix politics and police work’?”

“Sure I did, but don’t you see, it’s already mixed together. You got

the Woodside police chief and the mayor deß ecting interest away from

a suspect in a murder. Then you add all that money.”

“The money that was donated to Woodside for its new life ß ight

helicopter? Even if Esterhaus did donate that money, that’s far from

proving bribery.”

• 225 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Yeah, but don’t you see?” Bud pointed at the tape recorder. “If

you listen to it, Esterhaus says that the mayor told him it was a nine

million dollar shortfall, right?”

“Right.”

“But look.” Bud spread open a newspaper he’d picked up earlier

in the day. He pointed at a headline about the anonymous seven million

dollar gift. “See?”

“If that’s right, where did the other two million go?” Jesus had

obviously drawn the same conclusion as Bud.

“Right? I’m wondering if it has anything to do with those slick

campaign commercials. All of a sudden, they’re interrupting the news

every Þ ve minutes so that jerk can tell us how to vote.”

“Okay.” Jesus could Þ nally agree with Bud’s assessment. “So

they’ll need to put a special prosecutor together. You’re talking about

weeks or months.”

“That’s why I need you to help speed things along. If you approach

the right judge and explain that some of the evidence is in jeopardy and

throw in the Woodside mayor and San Mateo sheriff, that could speed

things up. Especially if you already had an investigative team in mind.”

Bud pushed a scrap of paper at his friend.

Jesus glanced down at the short list of names jotted there and

chuckled. “Um, Bud? I think they’d notice that Chico’s my son.”

“I Þ gured. That’s why there’s a question mark after his name. Add

a San Jose detective.”

“What makes you think they’d take this list?”

Bud shrugged. “It could work.”

Jesus stared at the list, shufß ed the recorded tape around his desk,

and didn’t speak. Bud let him think. Jesus would have to decide for

himself that this was a good idea before he’d pursue it.

Finally Jesus got up. “First I’m getting the techs to make a copy of

this tape. Just in case. Then we’ll go see if I can get myself Þ red.”

v

Keith Ridger answered the door of the presidential suite. He

seemed surprised and then immediately pissed off at their presence.

Even while angry he was gorgeous. Velvet had wondered if he would

be, in person. But there was no doubt, with those striking blue eyes

framed by the longest lashes she’d ever seen. His blond hair was tousled

• 226 •

BLIND CURVES

and his high cheekbones were touched with a brush of opaque pink. If

any man could turn her, she laughed to herself, this would be it. He was

the new Brad Pitt and everyone knew it. But he looked off, and Velvet

wondered if he had been Þ ghting with his Þ ancée.

Sensing his retreat, she jammed a size seven foot in the doorway,

sacriÞ cing precious Manolo Blahnik footwear to stop the door from

being shut in their faces. “Listen, Keith, we’re here about the murder

of Rosemary Finney.”

“Sorry. Don’t know her.”

“Oh, I think you do. You and Jennifer both. You can talk to us or

we can go to the police and tell them about it. See, we know all about

the romance.”

Yoshi elbowed Velvet to keep her from wasting all their

ammunition before they were even out of the hallway. She pushed a

business card through the cracked doorway. “We are here representing

Blind Eye Detective Agency,” she said. “I am sure we would all be

more comfortable speaking about this inside.”

Keith glanced nervously down the hotel corridor as if checking for

rabid fans or paparazzi. “Does anyone else know we’re here?”

“Just the hotel staff. For now.” Velvet made it a veiled threat.

Reluctantly, he ushered them in and led them through a formal

entry, past a dining area and pantry into the suite’s living room.

The walls were a shade of butter with hints of gold highlights. The

furnishings were suitably decadent: ebony sitting chairs, eucalyptus

lounge chairs and matching love seat surrounding a glass-topped gold

leaf coffee table. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered an impressive view

of Yerba Buena Gardens.

Keith pointed them toward the plush ottoman as Jennifer Garcia,

wrapped in an oversized white bathrobe, stepped into the room. “Who

was that?” she asked before noticing the women. She shot Keith a

disapproving look but he made no effort to introduce them.

Velvet said their names and held out a hand that was received with

an icy glare from Jennifer. Velvet covertly directed Yoshi toward the

sofa and sat down next to her.

“So you were saying?” Keith prompted.

Neither he nor Jennifer sat. They remained standing in opposite

doorways.

Yoshi nodded. “We’re here regarding Rosemary Finney.”

Velvet thought she heard Jennifer inhale sharply, but it happened

• 227 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

so quickly that she couldn’t be sure. Maybe she was a better actor than

Velvet had given her credit for. Neither Jennifer nor Keith responded.

They just stood in their respective locations, blithe smiles undermined

by the glint in their eyes.

“Rosemary was murdered two days ago,” Yoshi said.

“What?” Jennifer gasped as if she lived in such a rareÞ ed realm

she had not seen news of this real-world event. “I mean, I’m not sure

what this has to do with us, but how dreadful. Murder.”

“Let me step in here.” Velvet opened her bag and, as she and Yoshi

had discussed, pulled out the manila envelope she’d been guarding all

day. Slowly, theatrically, she dumped the envelope’s contents onto the

coffee table in front of her. The pile was topped off with the color shots

she’d gotten from the bellhop. As Jennifer craned slightly to see, Velvet

drew one of the black and whites from the stack and held it up.

“This is a picture I took Wednesday morning. I think that’s your

Hummer, right?” She held it out to Keith, who accepted it reluctantly.

“This was taken at Wonderland Park around the time Rosemary was

killed.”

He glanced at the photo and then walked it over to Jennifer,

handing it to her without comment.

“Here’s a close-up.” Velvet drew another image and raised it.

“See? You can see the license plate in this one.” She held up another.

“Oh look, here’s a photo of Rosemary. It looks almost like she’s talking

to the driver of this Hummer.”

“What do you want?” Keith’s voice had a hard edge.

“Even if you can prove that’s Keith’s car, you can’t prove who

was in it,” Jennifer said ß atly.

“We want the truth,” Yoshi said. “Once we leave here, I will be

meeting with a detective who is quite interested in these photographs.”

Velvet picked up some of the color images. “Now, these were

taken right outside the hotel here. See, that’s you, Jennifer, getting out

of this Hummer. Oh, here, I bet if we blew this one up we could see the

plate again. There’s this time stamp here—huh, this is just an hour after

Rosemary was killed. You don’t look very happy.”

“What do you want?” Keith asked again, angrily.

“The truth,” Yoshi answered.

“I think it’s time we called our attorney.”

“That’s up to you,” Yoshi said. “But you will leave me with no

• 228 •

BLIND CURVES

choice but to go public with this. My client wants the murderer caught,

so if I have to resort to such tactics to smoke her out—”

“Are you saying this can be kept quiet?” He sounded wary, like a

man who had been bitten too many times.

Yoshi said, “If either of you is guilty of the murder, or of being an

accessory, I won’t be able to help you. But if you are innocent, it would

be wise to speak to me before this is all over the Internet. We know for

a fact that one of you was involved with her sexually. Now Rosemary’s

partner, Karen, claims it was you, Keith.”

“But—” Keith started.

Velvet interrupted him. “But we know better, don’t we? You’ve

been up in Canada. So that leaves you, doesn’t it, Jennifer?”

“I don’t know about you,” Yoshi said to Velvet, “but I would be

rather perturbed to discover that my Þ ancée was cheating on me with

another woman.”

“Did that threaten your manhood, Keith?” Velvet asked smugly.

“Fuck off.”

Velvet pulled a copy of the recent Womyn magazine from her bag.

“I suppose you’ve seen this?”

Neither Keith nor Jennifer reached for the offending publication.

Jennifer put her head in her hands and started to cry. Keith put an arm

around her and pulled her close to him.

“I love Jennifer,” he said. “We love each other.”

They paused for a tearful hug. Velvet watched carefully. They

were both better actors than she thought. Or they weren’t acting.

“Sure, she’s had some experiences…with that woman,” he went

on. “People experiment. She’s playing a lesbian character. This just

started out as research. You probably don’t know this, not being in the

business, but for actors, the line can get blurred between reality and

Þ ction when you really get into a character. You become that person,

but that doesn’t make it real.”

“It was nothing,” Jennifer said emphatically. “I broke it off, but

Rosemary didn’t want it to end. And then she had the nerve to publish

that.” She pointed at the magazine as though it were kiddie porn.

“She didn’t, actually,” Yoshi corrected. “It was Rosemary’s partner

who ran that story. Apparently there is some type of smear campaign

against Keith.”

“Against me?” Keith snorted.

• 229 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Yeah,” Velvet interjected. “Orchestrated by Ryan Esterhaus.”

“Ryan? No way.”

“I guess,” Velvet continued, “he felt like you’d breached a verbal

contract?”

“You see?” Jennifer exploded, waggling a Þ nger at Keith. “I told

you he was behind that Star shit. And you wouldn’t believe me. I can’t

believe you wouldn’t believe me. Is it any wonder that I had to…”

Jennifer swallowed her words as though she had just thought better of

what she was saying.

“I’m sorry, baby.” Keith shook his head. “I just can’t believe he’d

do something like that, I mean, hurt you to get at me.”

“Anyway,” Velvet prodded, “it’s a whole lot of motive.”

“I didn’t kill her,” Jennifer insisted. “I swear. And neither did

Keith. He wasn’t even in town. We didn’t even know she was dead.”

Keith nodded again. “We don’t watch the news. It upsets Jennifer.

We were booked all day yesterday doing press stuff. This morning we

slept in and then just hung around together. We haven’t had a lot of time

together lately.” He pulled his bride-to-be closer to him.

“Maybe it was Esterhaus,” Jennifer suggested. “Maybe he killed

Rosemary to frame us.”

“Why were you at Wonderland that morning?” Yoshi asked.

Jennifer sighed and took Keith’s hand. In a low voice she said, “I

was trying to protect him. If people think he’s marrying a lesbian, it’ll

be the end. So far, he’s had the beneÞ t of the doubt from his studio,

but you can’t imagine what it’s like. I just wanted to reason with her. I

thought I might be able to get her to print a retraction.”

Keith kissed her. “Thank you, baby. God, when I think about what

could have happened. It could have been you killed down there…”

They cried some more and Velvet felt Yoshi shufß e impatiently.

She said, “Keith’s right. Weren’t you worried about being down there at

dawn, with no one around?”

“I had no choice. I knew I had to go somewhere like that, where no

one would see us. She told me that’s where she goes jogging.”

“Did you get to talk to her?”

“Yes, but only for a moment, then she got angry and walked away.

I waited for a while, then I just gave up.” She stared at Velvet. “Maybe

I could have saved her if I’d walked down the trail.”

“You don’t have anything to feel guilty about, baby.” Keith placed

• 230 •

BLIND CURVES

a protective hand over her belly. “Anyway, you had two people to think

about.”

Velvet wasn’t sure what to say to the idea of a little Kennifer. A

love child or a smoke screen for two actors who needed one? She had

no idea.

Yoshi had it covered. “I assume I can call you to conÞ rm any other

information?”

“Yes.” Keith’s drawn face relaxed. “I’ll authorize my publicist to

put you through.”

The two women left as gracefully as they had entered.

“Do you believe them?” Velvet asked Yoshi as they walked down

the corridor from Kennifer’s suite.

“That they didn’t kill Rosemary? Yes. That they’re a happy

couple? No.”

• 231 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 232 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Several hours later, after a meeting Yoshi described as fruitful

despite the absence of Bud, who had phoned in with his most

feeble excuse yet—a ß at tire—Velvet, Yoshi, and Tucker drove up the

long crushed-shell driveway back to the Friars-Finney estate. There

were no other vehicles parked there, in particular no baby blue Impala

and no sign of Bud as they neared the house.

“So where is he?” Velvet wondered aloud. When neither woman

responded, she asked Tucker directly. “Tucker, when he called, did it

sound like bullshit?”

“No, I don’t think so. I mean, he sounded excited, like he was

going to show you something.” Tucker twisted in her seat and pressed

her face against the small side window in the car’s cramped backseat.

“Horses!” she exclaimed, sounding much younger than her years.

“You didn’t tell me she had horses.” She touched the window with her

Þ ngertips. “Can we stop?”

“No, we can’t stop, Tucker.” Velvet laughed.

“Why not?” Tucker demanded like a kid in a candy shop.

“Didn’t you have horses growing up?” Velvet asked, knowing

Tucker was raised in a rural environment.

“No, we couldn’t afford anything like that,” Tucker lamented.

“But I used to do odd jobs at the Green Pasture Stables, so I was around

them a lot. Why can’t we stop? Bud isn’t here yet. Come on, can’t we

just for a minute?”

Velvet slowed the car to a near crawl.

“Wait,” Tucker insisted. “There was a horse at the murder scene. I

saw it in Bud’s notes. The ranger saw fresh hoof tracks.”

• 233 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Yoshi laughed. “Sure there was a horse on the trail, but—”

“You see? There was a horse there, and Rosemary’s wife just

happens to own a horse? What’re the odds?”

Yoshi turned around in her seat so she was facing Tucker.

The younger woman wasn’t looking her way, still entranced by

the horses.

“Do you know where we are—the town?”

“Woodside?” Tucker answered. “So?”

Yoshi sighed.

Velvet placed a comforting hand on Yoshi’s shoulder and

whispered, “She’s not from here.”

Yoshi nodded. “Okay. Tucker, Woodside is a town as famous for

its many horses as its rich residents. It has the nation’s highest number

of equines per person. In fact, until about ten years ago there were

more horses in Woodside than there were people. Horses are a dime a

dozen.”

Tucker sounded dejected. “Let’s just go.”

“It wouldn’t hurt to look, would it?” Velvet asked, squeezing

Yoshi’s shoulder a little to ask her friend’s permission.

“Fine,” Yoshi sighed in resignation. “Go, have a little Þ eld trip if

you must. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Tucker was out of the car before Yoshi had Þ nished speaking,

darting across the dry grasses to the split redwood log corral.

“Thanks,” Velvet said. “Where’d you put that camera? I might as

well take it with me, just in case.”

Yoshi pulled the small digital camera from her purse.

“Oh, right. It’s digital. Damn. What do I do?”

Yoshi laughed at her Luddite friend. “Slide open the lens, look

through the viewÞ nder, and press the button down a little bit until it

focuses. Then push the button down all the way.”

Velvet held the device as though it were ticking.

“A child could do it,” Yoshi joked.

“Today’s kids could program a cruise missile. That means nothing

to me.” Velvet pushed open the car door. “Wish me luck.”

She turned toward the horse corral, where Tucker was now sitting

on top the fence. Two brown horses sauntered toward the country girl.

Velvet held up the camera and snapped what she hoped would be a

• 234 •

BLIND CURVES

photo. Maybe a technician could decipher it even if it was fuzzy, Velvet

thought, before reminding herself that Blind Eye didn’t have its own

CSI-like forensic lab.

“Velvet!” Tucker called, waving. “Come quick.”

v

As Velvet trotted off toward Tucker, Yoshi’s cell phone buzzed

and vibrated on the ß oor near her foot. She must have dropped it out

of her bag earlier. She fumbled around on the ß oor, relieved when she

found it and located the Talk button before the caller hung up. It was

voice activated, Yoshi knew, but she took pride in memorizing the key

locations and only occasionally had a mishap like deleting a client’s

voice mail message instead of just hanging up.

“Yoshi Yakamota,” she said professionally into the phone.

“Good morning, Yoshi Yakamota.” Karen Friars’s waspy, pinched

voice startled her. How had Karen gotten her phone number? “Are you

waiting for an invitation?”

“Excuse me?”

“Come on now, Ms. Private Eye, we both know you’re sitting in

my driveway. Why don’t you come up to the house and join me? I so

enjoyed your previous visit.” Karen’s voice dripped with sarcasm.

“Well.” Yoshi wondered if she should call Velvet.

“Leave your friends,” Karen said ominously as though she’d read

Yoshi’s mind. “I’d rather speak to you alone.”

What the hell, Yoshi thought, wondering what Karen was up to.

She agreed to walk to the house. It was time for her to push through

her fears and regain a modicum of independence. During this entire

case she had relied far too much upon the others. Velvet and Bud were

talented investigators, and Yoshi was trying hard to appreciate her new

role in facilitating a team effort. Still, she could not deny that she felt

envious and wanted a chance to pull her own weight. Blind Eye was

her agency, after all. On some level this felt like a showdown, but she

wasn’t sure who the other person was behind their mask with their ninja

stance. Was her foe Karen Friars or her own limitations and fear? There

had been enough excuses; now it was time for her to fully integrate

and employ her investigative instincts and her ß edgling sensory skills.

• 235 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Yoshi sensed danger, but she welcomed the feeling. In her own way,

she knew she could be a match for this woman, and she concealed a

power Karen would not be expecting.

Her opponent was standing in the doorway when she arrived.

The private eye wondered how long she’d been there. Had Karen

monitored her the whole way up the driveway, weaving back and forth

and employing her cane to avoid wandering into the narrow creek that

ran alongside it?

“It’s so nice to see you.” Karen offered her hand but not her

sincerity.

“My pleasure,” Yoshi replied with equally fake sentiment.

Karen led the way down the long hallway, passing the lounge

where they had spoken earlier.

Yoshi paused at that doorway, a little nervous. Risking that she

might sound paranoid, she asked, “Isn’t this the room?”

“I’m taking you somewhere more intimate,” Karen offered, doing

nothing to ease Yoshi’s concern.

As Yoshi was led farther along the hallway, her feet shifted from

hardwood ß oor to a long expansive rug. From its musty smell she

imagined that it was likely from the same period as the other furnishings,

but rather than feeling threadbare under her shoes, it was quite cushiony.

It probably had a thick pad underneath. As they penetrated the depths

of the palatial house, the rug ended and the natural light faded away,

replaced by shadows and lights strung from the ceiling. Although Yoshi

could only see the changing light, she had some sense of the house’s

architecture from the sounds and smells of the rooms they passed.

“Would you like to feel around and familiarize yourself with the

room?”

Yoshi couldn’t tell if the woman was being facetious or genuinely

hoping to put her at ease. “I’m Þ ne,” she said, using her cane to locate

the furniture and her hand to Þ nd an appropriate seat.

Karen took a seat next to her and lit a cigarette.

“I didn’t know you smoked.” Yoshi thought it was strange that she

had not smelled the distinct smell of tobacco smoke earlier. It could

quickly permeate every material and was one of the most difÞ cult odors

to get out of a room or clothes.

Karen sucked on the cigarette and then coughed. “I don’t. I quit

Þ ve years ago.”

• 236 •

BLIND CURVES

Yoshi knew that stress could start a person smoking again. But

was it the stress of losing her lover or of killing her lover? She still was

not absolutely positive.

She heard Karen scratching through fabric, apparently still itchy.

This conÞ rmed Yoshi’s initial suspicions. “I know why your arms itch

so much,” she offered.

“It’s just a rash.” Karen scratched again.

“No, I am pretty sure that it isn’t. You’re making it worse by

scratching.”

“Are you stalling? Where’s Velvet?” Karen asked suspiciously.

“She’s looking at your horses.”

“Why? What does she want with them?” There was a change

in the tone of Karen’s voice. What was it? Yoshi wondered. Was she

nervous?

“I am very interested in your rash,” Yoshi corrected. “Especially

since it suggests you were on the trail where Rosemary was killed.”

“You’re making that up.” Karen asserted.

Yoshi heard distant chiming and wondered if it was the grandfather

clock they had passed or the doorbell. Maybe Velvet and Tucker were

here. “Actually, Karen,” she continued, “it’s an allergic reaction to

poison oak. Scratching it is merely spreading the oil around. You get it

under your nails and the next thing you know, you’ve spread it to your

face.”

If it was the door, Karen made no move to answer it. “So I picked

up poison oak. Big deal.”

“You encountered it on Huckleberry Trail,” Yoshi said. “The trail

where you attacked Rosemary.”

“Nonsense. When Rosemary was killed, I was putting Paisley

through her paces.”

Yoshi chuckled at the alliteration. “I presume that’s your horse?”

She could practically hear the wheels clicking into place in her head.

“That’s why you don’t want them looking at your horses. You were

there. You were on Paisley when you killed Rosemary! That’s why

the lacerations angled up. Because you were so far above her.” Yoshi

snapped her Þ ngers. The crescent moon bruise Bud had mentioned.

It was all coming together now. It was a hoof imprint! “Your horse

kicked her or stood on her during all the commotion. That’s the type of

evidence juries Þ nd memorable.”

• 237 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Karen was suspiciously quiet. Then Yoshi heard the ß oorboards

creak. She leapt to her feet, her hands out in front of her, not knowing

what to expect next.

v

When Velvet got close to the horse run, Tucker jumped down from

the fence and ran up to her, her eyes wide. She grabbed her sleeve and

began pulling Velvet along.

“Look. She’s hurt.” Tucker pushed Velvet against the rough wood

poles and pointed at the closest horse, whose dark black eyes were

shaded by shaggy maroon bangs.

Velvet was surprised at how big the creatures were up close. She

decided to call the horse Tucker was pointing to Star, not because the

stripe on the horse’s forehead was shaped like one, but because she’d

always liked the name but was sure she’d never be able to give the

name to a kid. On a person, Star was a stripper name. You just couldn’t

get around it. But on a horse…

“Do you see?” Tucker indicated the scratches and black welts on

Star’s foreleg.

“What is that?”

“Dried blood.”

Before Velvet could respond, Tucker vaulted the fence and landed

on her feet with a soft thud. Star didn’t seem to notice. She’d pushed her

nose through the bars of the fence and was nibbling on Velvet’s blouse,

her lips tickling Velvet’s skin. Velvet nervously reached out to touch the

horse, moving her hand slowly until she brushed against Star’s cheek.

Wow. She was surprised at how soft the horsehair was against her hand.

Maybe $800 horsehair weaves weren’t such a bad thing. They didn’t

have to kill the horse to get the hair, right?

Star abandoned the blouse, leaving it damp but not torn, and

mouthed Velvet’s hand. Velvet jumped back. “She tried to bite me,” she

warned Tucker. “Be careful.”

“She was limping earlier. I just want to look at her foot.” Tucker

stepped up to the horse and brushed her side.

“Are you crazy? You’ll be kicked. Get away from there, Tucker,

I mean it.”

Tucker chuckled. “Calm down, Velvet. You like it calm, don’t you,

• 238 •

BLIND CURVES

yes you do,” Tucker said to the horse in a cooing voice. “I know what

I’m doing,” she assured Velvet.

Apparently animal husbandry was the one arena in which Tucker

showed absolute conÞ dence. As she continued whispering baby talk

into the horse’s ear and kept a hand on the horse, she gradually moved

down the horse’s belly, onto the ß ank, and down the leg.

“I can’t look,” Velvet muttered, covering her eyes with her hand.

She was sure Tucker was going to be kicked or trampled. When her

lover didn’t scream in pain, Velvet ventured a peek through parted

Þ ngers.

Tucker was holding Star’s back leg bent, with the hoof resting on

her knee.

“Are you crazy?” Velvet whisper-screamed.

Star stared at her through the fence, seemingly oblivious to

Tucker.

Upside down as the hoof was, Velvet could see now that the horse

wore metal horseshoes. She’d played horseshoes in the park but never

thought about them really being worn by horses. Velvet looked down at

her own fashionable shoes and was glad she didn’t have to wear metal

clunkers secured to her feet with nails.

Velvet peeked again at Tucker, who was now holding a pocketknife

in her right hand while holding the hoof, which was the size of her Þ st,

with the other. Velvet recognized the knife. It was one of those red army

knives that boys seemed so fond of. Tucker carried the thing with her

all the time. So much so, in fact, that it had worn a spot in her jeans,

like a guy’s wallet. Velvet had made fun of it at Þ rst, wondering what

a girl needed a knife for in the city, but Tucker insisted that she needed

to be prepared. The young nonsmoker carried a Zippo lighter for the

same reason.

In a move that made Velvet gasp, Tucker seemed to plunge the

knife into Star’s hoof, inside the area not covered by the shoe. Tucker

ß ashed her a look and returned to her task, scraping at the hoof with

her knife.

Now Velvet could see that Tucker had something on the ground

below her—maybe a paper bag from the car—and stuff came off the

hoof and rained onto the paper with a rustling sound. It looked like

Tucker was cleaning the mud out of the horse’s shoes. Oh, cool. Velvet

remembered the camera in her hand and snapped pictures of Star,

• 239 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Tucker, and the scratches on Star’s leg. She was glad the ß ash didn’t

go off, thinking that was the kind of thing that would make an animal

mad.

“Snap!” Tucker exclaimed, holding something aloft between her

thumb and Þ rst Þ nger.

“What is it?” Velvet queried.

Grinning triumphantly, Tucker folded her knife together, picked

up the paper bag of dirt, and bounded to the fence. “It’s an earring!”

She passed it to Velvet, who carefully took it and held it in her palm

until Tucker climbed the fence. Then she handed it back to Tucker.

“You found it,” Velvet said. “Besides, it’s not my type. I don’t

wear studs.”

Tucker tucked it in her front pocket and patted her thigh as though

verifying that it was there in her jeans. “I don’t think the horse does

either. How about Rosemary?”

“Hmm?” Velvet was saying good-bye to Star. “What about

Rosemary?”

“Did she wear studs?”

v

Yoshi stood in a defensive stance, her feet shoulder-width apart,

knees slightly bent and left leg back. Her arms were outstretched in

front of her, held out nearly half an armsbreadth from her chest. Her

father had made her take years of defensive moves, so Yoshi hadn’t

just learned karate. She’d learned karate and kickboxing and judo and

jujitsu. For her, that meant she knew a little about a lot of martial arts

but had never become a master in any of them. She wondered if she

could defend herself now with her eyesight nearly gone. Certainly

her instructors would have insisted she could. The art of hand-to-

hand combat entailed many of the same skills she was employing to

complement her dwindling sight.

She saw a shadow move and braced herself.

“Ms. Friars?” A Latina voice radiated from the doorway.

Yoshi didn’t waste much time sighing in relief. She immediately

sprinted toward the doorway and bumped full speed into a table.

Shooting pain in her shins doubled her over at her waist.

“Ah, mi Díos. ” The woman rushed to help Yoshi.

“What is it, Selima?” Karen demanded.

• 240 •

BLIND CURVES

“The door, ma’am, visitors.” She sounded frightened. At this

moment, Yoshi didn’t blame her.

Karen sighed heavily. “I’ll go handle it. Get our friend some ice,

Selima, and do stay put, Yoshi.”

Yoshi had no intention of staying put. As soon as she’d regained

her composure, she limped after Karen. She had nearly caught up with

her when she heard the door open and Karen inhale in surprise. It was

not Velvet and Tucker.

“Good evening, ma’am,” said a masculine voice with the

ofÞ cious tone that suggested a badged member of the law enforcement

community. “I’m sorry to bother you, but we have a warrant to search

this house.”

“A warrant? What for?”

It was a question Yoshi wanted answered as well. What was

happening? Had Bud found reason to call the police? Was this why he’d

asked them to meet here?

“It’s all in the warrant, ma’am,” another gruff voice chimed in.

“Please step aside.”

From the commotion, it didn’t sound like Karen was complying

with the request. Yoshi wondered if they would physically push Karen

aside.

“How dare you!” Karen hollered. “Wait until my lawyer hears

about this!”

“Feel free to call, ma’am. In the meantime, we’ll get started.”

Yoshi heard heavy footsteps in the hall and doors opening as the

search began.

“All this might go faster, ma’am, if you’d just tell us where to Þ nd

what we are looking for.”

“What are you looking for?”

Yoshi heard the rustling of paper as someone consulted the warrant

itself.

“Well, see, this isn’t even me,” Karen Friars insisted. “It says right

here that you’re looking for some kind of Þ lm belonging to Rosemary

Finney. That’s not me. I’m Karen—”

“We’re aware of who you are, ma’am. Your name is on the Þ rst

page.”

As another set of footsteps started down the hall toward her, Yoshi,

who’d been leaning against the wall listening, hurried toward the front

door.

• 241 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Just show them Rosemary’s ofÞ ce,” a familiar voice muttered.

Yoshi smiled. It sounded like Bud was behind this after all.

“Yoshi? Damn, girl, you okay?” Footsteps rushed forward and

strong hands closed gently around her arm. “Did she hurt you?”

It was her lady cop in shining armor.

“AJ!” Yoshi exclaimed, letting her weight fall against AJ’s stalwart

body. She inhaled AJ’s reassuring scent. “I am delighted it’s you. But

what brings you here?”

“That’d be a long tale, enough to call it Bud’s doing. Come, my

lady, let me get y’all a seat. I want to check your leg.”

• 242 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Just as Yoshi and her police escort reached the living-room door,

Velvet and Tucker rushed into the house. “What’s going on?”

Velvet asked, breathless.

“Some kind of search,” Yoshi said. “I’m hoping AJ or Bud will

explain better.”

“AJ? What’re you doing here?” It was Tucker’s turn to ask.

AJ smiled. “Bud—” she started to say in her Southern, honey-

dipped, husky voice.

“Bud?” Velvet asked. “Where is Bud? For that matter, where is

Karen Friars?”

“I’m in here,” Bud called from the living room. “Wondering how

long it’d take you to get here.”

The four women hurried into the room to Þ nd Bud casually helping

himself to the Friars-Finney liquor cabinet. He was noisily searching

through the bottles, no doubt hoping for the type of Scotch he would

never purchase for himself.

“Bud!” Yoshi chided.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“Put that down!” Yoshi demanded.

“Who told?” he asked, looking around accusingly. The other three

women shrugged in unison.

“What is going on?” Yoshi was all business.

“Karen’s giving some ofÞ cers a tour,” Bud offered. “Have a

seat.”

“Just talk.” Velvet insisted.

“Uh-uh,” Bud insisted. He lowered his voice. “First things Þ rst.

Is there anything you’d look for—you know, if you were searching for

evidence to tie Karen to the murder?”

• 243 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Bud!” Yoshi exclaimed in the same tone she had employed in

regard to the alcohol. “From what I gather, this warrant is not for us, it’s

not even related to the case.”

“Right,” Bud agreed. “I can explain.”

“Riding boots,” Tucker said. Bud looked at her and raised his

eyebrows.

Velvet nodded. “She’s right. Riding boots, especially if they’re

muddy. And a single stud earring.”

“Yeah.” Tucker pulled the earring out of her pocket and held it

aloft. “I found this stuck into the horse’s hoof. Awesome, huh?” She

held it out to Bud.

Not accepting it, Bud shook his head. “AJ, you should probably

get going, before you get in trouble.”

“Ya got that right, T Spokes. Catch y’all later.”

Bud ignored the nickname but thought to himself it wasn’t too

bad. “Tucker, go with her,” the retired detective directed.

“No, Tucker, don’t,” Yoshi demanded.

Tucker hesitated, looking back and forth between the two, not

knowing what to do.

“Don’t I still run the agency?” Yoshi asked. “Or did something

change?”

“We don’t have time for this,” Bud insisted.

Velvet could see the anger rising in Yoshi’s expression. She didn’t

envy Bud making Yoshi mad. AJ stooped and whispered something

in Yoshi’s ear, which seemed to soothe the private eye. “Go ahead,

Tucker,” Yoshi said, a half smile on her face.

Tucker looked at Velvet as if still unsure.

Velvet nodded her assurance. “C U,” she signed.

Tucker smiled and followed AJ out of the room.

“What the hell is going on?” Yoshi demanded as soon as the two

left the room.

“Long story short, this afternoon San Mateo County Judge Harold

Weinstein created a special task force to investigate allegations of

Woodside ofÞ cials accepting bribes.”

“Fascinating.” Velvet scribbled notes. What a great story.

“What does that have to do with a search here?”

“Well, one of the bribes was from a director. Ryan Esterhaus,” Bud

moved closer and lowered his voice conspiratorially. “He claims he

bribed the Woodside mayor to keep his name out of this investigation,

• 244 •

BLIND CURVES

right? But then he admits to being involved in this sexual assault of a

juvenile. It was twenty years ago, but—”

“But they’ve changed the statute of limitations on sex crimes,”

Yoshi concluded.

“Right. Anyway, Esterhaus claims that your friend Rosemary,

somehow, got a copy of the tape showing the assault. I convinced the

judge that the videotape is part of the larger case against the Woodside

ofÞ cials.”

Yoshi wasn’t sure she entirely understood, but she wanted to bring

the conversation back around. “How does this help us do our job, which

today is to clear Velvet’s name? You remember Velvet, right?”

“Hi, Bud.” Velvet waved.

“Yeah, how dare I care about anything else?”

“Does this have anything to do with us?”

“Yes, Yoshi, it does. I managed to get your friend AJ assigned to

the task force so we could have a man on the inside.” Bud emphasized

the word as if he deliberately got it wrong. “Now she and Tucker are

using the cover of the search to do a little searching of their own.”

“But won’t that disqualify any evidence they Þ nd? Fruit of the

poisonous tree and all that?” Velvet asked, concerned about the

possibility of going to trial now that her deadline was creeping ever

closer.

“It would,” Yoshi agreed, “if the police do it. But if a private

citizen, like Tucker, were to wander off on her own and accidentally

stumble upon something… But you sent AJ with her.”

“Just to get her upstairs past the other cops and point her in the

right direction, I swear.”

“Shouldn’t we join her?” Velvet wondered aloud.

“No,” Bud said with conviction. “Karen would recognize you

two.”

“And having an accused murderer Þ nd the evidence that exonerates

her really doesn’t look good,” Yoshi pointed out.

v

“Well, isn’t this cozy,” Karen muttered, walking into the living

room to Þ nd Bud, Yoshi, and Velvet conversing there. “Is this the whole

gang? Are you all the reason for the brutes tearing up my place?”

“The jig is up, Karen.” Velvet smiled.

• 245 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“I don’t think so. The ofÞ cers assure me this has nothing to do

with Rosemary’s murder.”

“You’re right, I suppose,” Bud said. “But that could all change in

the blink of an eye if someone stumbles on evidence of another felony.

You are aware of the plain-sight rule, aren’t you? The exception to the

search warrant requirement that says if you see it, you can collect it?

You know, I think I might have mentioned exactly what that evidence

might be, in this case.”

“Like what?” Karen hadn’t yet fallen for it.

“Um, I don’t know.” Bud continued the attack. “Say, muddy riding

boots.”

“Right.” Karen smirked. “What am I supposed to fear you’ll do

with my boots?”

“It’s not the boots so much,” Yoshi explained. “We think the mud

might place you at the scene of the crime.”

“Oh, sure.” Karen rolled her eyes. “I’m supposed to believe

that you can prove when and where I have been from the dirt in my

shoes? I hate to rain on your parade, but the Wonderland Park is just

down the road, and I’m sure its dirt isn’t any different than that on my

property.”

“Actually,” Yoshi continued, “we are expecting the mud collected

from your boots to be exceptionally telling. We expect that it will match

the dirt from your horse’s hooves.”

At the cue, Velvet held up the paper bag and shook it lightly to

show it wasn’t empty. It was sealed with a strip of red evidence tape, so

she didn’t worry about it spilling.

“You wondered what they were doing with your horse,” Yoshi

reminded Karen, pointing toward Velvet.

Velvet smiled and theatrically waggled the bag at their suspect.

“I don’t believe you.” Karen didn’t sound as sure this time.

“You know,” Yoshi continued, “I found out that the parking area

of Wonderland is covered with gravel that was brought to the site from

the quarry down off Stevens Creek Reservoir. So it’s rather unique in

this area. Still, I think Karen might be right…”

Karen looked relieved.

“I think the dirt itself might be less important than a pollen

analysis of the material in it. When we have that sample analyzed”—

Yoshi pointed toward Velvet again—“I bet we’ll Þ nd Kings Mountain

manzanita. You know, it’s a threatened species that occurs only in

• 246 •

BLIND CURVES

elevations much higher than your backyard. Our assistant, Tucker—

you haven’t met her, have you?” Yoshi paused for effect, not really

waiting for an answer.

“She spoke with the people at Woodside Parks and Recreation,

and they informed her that there are only two patches of Kings

Mountain manzanita in Wonderland Park. By a strange coincidence,

one of them happens to be where Rosemary was killed. Well, it’s not so

strange, actually. See, Rosemary was attacked on a blind curve, where

the bushes had obscured the trail. Those bushes are Kings Mountain

manzanita, which the parks department did not realize when they Þ rst

built the trail, but now they cannot even trim it back without a permit

from the state.”

“Manzanita?” Karen laughed. “I have manzanita in my

landscaping.” She pointed out the window.

“But not the Kings Mountain variety, Karen,” Yoshi continued

her lecture. “That type is notoriously difÞ cult to propagate; apparently

even native plant nurseries struggle to grow the plant. And they are

simply unavailable for commercial landscaping.”

“Got what ya need.” AJ’s husky voice sounded from the doorway,

where the police ofÞ cer was holding up a pair of mud-splashed riding

boots.

“So I was at the park,” Karen admitted in light of this new evidence.

“Sue me. I went there yesterday to mourn my wife.”

Behind Karen’s back, AJ winked at the Blind Eye team. “Y’all

excuse me while I stow this evidence in my trunk. Don’t be letting her

leave.”

“Nice try, Karen.” Yoshi shook her head. “The rangers closed the

trail down right after the incident, and they didn’t completely open it

until this morning.”

When AJ’s burly frame left the doorway, Karen’s eyes followed

as if the suspected murderer was thinking about darting out after her.

Her unspoken hopes were dashed when Tucker replaced AJ in the

doorway.

“Oh, hi, Tucker,” Velvet called, “Come in and join us.”

Tucker came in looking sheepish. “Um, I—”

“Excuse me?” Karen snapped.

Tucker’s eyes widened. “Gosh, sorry. Did you guys know

Rosemary had an iPod?” Tucker waited for the appropriate timing for

the delivery that Bud had requested by way of AJ. “We found an empty

• 247 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

charger, but no iPod. You wouldn’t happen to know where it is, would

you, ma’am?” She directed the question to Karen.

“I don’t know, I think it was stolen,” Karen said belligerently.

“Oh, did you Þ le a police report?” Bud asked.

“They’re so cheap we thought we’d just get another.”

“So it must have been stolen recently?” Yoshi asked. “Because she

hadn’t replaced it yet?”

Karen, who had been standing near the doorway, came farther into

the room and collapsed onto a chair.

“Did you ask about the earring?” Tucker asked.

“What earring, dear?” Velvet asked, hoping Tucker would play it

up as well.

“Well, see, when I was cleaning the mud out of that horse’s hoof?

I found this earring. It’s like she stepped on it? And then stepped in

some more mud, so it was down a layer? Anyway, I thought maybe it

belonged to Miss— I’m sorry, I don’t know your last name.”

“Friars,” Karen spat.

“But I can see that you like to wear hoops, like Velvet. This is a

stud, more like what I might wear.” Tucker Þ ddled with the earring,

twirling it between her foreÞ nger and thumb.

Velvet was impressed with Tucker’s performance. Maybe those

hours together with Law & Order playing in the background while they

were screwing had paid off. Either that or this AJ was one quick teacher

and had infringed on her territory.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Bud interjected. “The medical examiner

mentioned an earring in her report. I think she said Rosemary only had

one in. Yeah, that’s it, she was missing one.”

“That is interesting,” Velvet agreed. “But not as interesting as

this.” She hoisted a cell phone over her head. “I picked this up during

all this commotion—”

“That’s mine,” Karen screamed and snatched at it. “You have no

right.”

“Probably not,” Velvet agreed, holding it out of reach. When the

enraged widow lunged at her, Tucker rushed in and pulled Karen away.

Tucker, holding a kicking and screaming Karen with arms wrapped

around the woman’s abdomen, looked positively horriÞ ed. Still, the

butch’s reaction thrilled Velvet, who smiled at the protective move.

“But you know,” Velvet got back on point, “I was Þ ddling with

• 248 •

BLIND CURVES

this phone while we’ve been sitting here and I think I’ve just stumbled

on your call history. For example, look, this says you received a phone

call the morning Rosemary was killed, just about the same time, too.”

Velvet pointed the small screen at Karen, as though the sight of

the LCD numbers would be the key to disarming her. She was pleased

to see that Karen did stop kicking Tucker’s shins, even though her eyes

were still bright with rage.

“She phoned you?” Yoshi was intrigued. “She called to ask you to

pick her up, didn’t she? Because Liz Claiborne had just stolen her shoes

and she was upset. But you rode over on your horse instead of taking

your vehicle. Was that because you wanted her to drive her Jaguar back,

or was it because you already planned to kill her?”

“So I was there,” Karen suddenly admitted, to Yoshi’s delight.

Once a small admission was made, it was a crack in the veneer and it

was only time until the rest of the façade crumbled. “But I didn’t kill

her.” Karen now hung in Tucker’s arms like a rag doll.

Tucker dragged her over to an empty seat and dropped her in it.

Yoshi waited for Karen to mention taking a pair of shoes with her;

Rosemary must have asked. Asking a leading question would only alert

Karen to the revealing hole in her account, so Yoshi remained silent. If

Karen did not take shoes, that spoke volumes of her intentions.

“So, what was it, Karen?” Velvet asked. “You see Rosemary

talking with Keith Ridger? Or should I say Jennifer Garcia? Was that it?

You realized she was lying to you about the whole straight thing?”

“It was Keith, not Jennifer, that Rosemary was fucking,” Karen

insisted. “It’s his fault she’s dead, you know,” she posited. “He might

as well have killed her himself—or maybe he did. I don’t know. I swear

she was alive when I left.”

“Why don’t you explain everything to us,” Yoshi urged softly.

Karen nodded. “You’re right, she called me. She was really

upset.”

“About Liz?” Velvet asked.

Karen waved the suggestion aside. “About Keith. He’d just broken

up with her and she was devastated.”

Velvet and Tucker shared a look of disbelief. If there was any

chance that Karen was innocent, she was disproving it with every lie

she told.

Calmly, Yoshi said, “You can stop lying now, Karen. Keith was

• 249 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

not in town when Rosemary was killed, and that can be proven. So,

please, just forget the Þ ction and tell us what happened.”

“You might not believe this,” Karen continued, accurately gauging

the mood of the room. “But I was still in love with her, even after all

she’d put me through. And all I wanted to do was comfort her.”

“So you killed her,” Bud interjected grufß y. “That’s comforting.”

Yoshi waved at him to shut up.

“She was completely despondent.” Karen started along a

fresh track. “She hated herself. Work. Personal stuff. We’d stopped

communicating, so I don’t know much more than that. She was very

depressed.”

“Are you saying this was an assisted suicide?” Velvet was

incredulous. Was Karen a compulsive liar or just desperate to try any

story in case one of them struck a chord?

“Yes, that’s exactly what I’m saying. She begged me to kill her,

but I just couldn’t. She even suggested that I use the wires from the

iPod she was wearing. She was completely hysterical, and I couldn’t

calm her down. She begged me until I Þ nally said I’d do it. And I tried,

I squeezed the wires around her neck, but I just couldn’t keep at it. I

was crying and begging her to let me stop, and I guess I must have cut

off her air a little bit because she passed out.”

“She died,” Bud offered.

“No.” Karen looked up belligerently, her eyes red from crying. “I

swear she was still alive when I left. She was still breathing, it was just

like she was sleeping. She was so beautiful. So I laid her down by the

side of the trail and I left. I Þ gured she’d wake up and she’d put this

whole nonsense behind her. The only thing I can think”—she wiped

at her eyes and snifß ed—“is that after I left, someone else must have

come…maybe it was Jennifer, maybe she was jealous of Rosemary, or

her plaything Liz. One of them must have come back and killed her. It’s

so awful.” She hung her head and sobbed. “I feel so guilty.”

When she stopped speaking Bud clapped his hands together.

“Brilliant! That’s the best fucking story I’ve ever heard!” He stopped

clapping, and his voice turned serious. “What a load of bullshit.”

Karen looked up, stunned, as though not believing what she heard.

She reached a hand out toward Velvet. “You believe me, though, don’t

you?”

“Sorry.” Velvet shook her head. “I’m going to have to go with Bud

• 250 •

BLIND CURVES

on this one.” She held up her hand as though quieting objections. “I

know, it seems wrong to me too, for me to side with Bud, but there you

go. I did believe some of what you said, Karen. But you went a little

overboard there at the end. Yoshi?”

Yoshi paused. Reß ectively, she said, “I am curious about

something. What happened to the spare pair of shoes you took out there

with you?”

“What shoes?”

The reply was quick and automatic, telling Yoshi all she needed to

know. “Yes, it is as I thought. Why would you take a pair of shoes to a

woman who would not be needing them?”

Yoshi heard a small gasp, then Karen reiterated shrilly, “I said I

didn’t kill her. You know I couldn’t do that.”

“I’m sorry, Karen, but that’s not what the evidence is telling us.

See, there was only one set of horse prints on the trail because it is

ofÞ cially closed to equestrians for the season. One of the only methods

someone could have used to strangle Rosemary and leave behind the

markings on her neck that angled up would be for them to be above

her. For example, on a horse. I think you were on Paisley and when you

got to Rosemary, you just grabbed the headphone wires and twisted.

Something a psychologist said—I believe she may have been speaking

to you, telling you something, and you just wanted to shut her up.”

Yoshi shook her head. Even when the life of an annoying woman was

snuffed out, it was a terrible waste.

“Well,” Karen snorted. “You don’t have to believe me. You all

have no right to be here, and I want you to leave.” She stood up, her

cheeks blazoned with anger and marked with streaks from crying. She

pointed at the door as if demanding Blind Eye’s departure.

“Maybe so.” San Francisco Detective Ari Fleishman’s stern voice

sounded from the door as he stepped in from the hallway. “But I have

the right to be here, and from what I’ve heard there’s more than enough

for us to take you in.”

“Who are you?” Karen’s mouth was agape. “You’re not with the

Woodside PD.”

“No, no, I’m not. I’m Detective Ari Fleishman with the San

Francisco Police Department,” Ari said, closing in on the suspected

murderer. “Thanks to our friend Bud here, bribes from a Hollywood

director, a couple of San Mateo justices, and several apprehensive

• 251 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

politicians, this case—like the one in connection with the videotape

the boys upstairs are looking for—has been severed from Woodside’s

jurisdiction due to fears of political corruption.”

Facing the wealthy woman, Ari pronounced, “Karen Friars, you

are under arrest for the murder of Rosemary Finney. Please put your

hands behind your back.” He began reading her the Miranda rights.

“No!” Karen insisted, stepping away.

A tall, good-looking Jewish man with a mop of black curls,

Detective Fleishman easily placed Karen into a restraint hold and began

cufÞ ng her, all the while reciting the litany of rights.

Velvet was having a hard time not dancing around and chanting the

rights with Ari. She was beginning to think her nightmare was over.

Once he Þ nished cufÞ ng the suspect, Ari smiled and addressed

the Blind Eye team. “Well, gang, I always knew you weren’t to be

taken for granted, but I’d never expected you’d take down an entire city

government.”

He laughed heartily and, pushing Karen Friars ahead of him,

directed her out the door to his waiting squad car.

“Not bad for a day’s work,” Yoshi agreed.

Velvet sang out, “Free at last!” and hugged Tucker.

“How about you, Bud,” Yoshi called out to the retired detective.

“Your thoughts? Are you pleased with the way this day has wrapped

up?”

“Not yet,” Bud grumbled.

“You will be,” AJ offered, sauntering into the room with a broad

grin on her face.

“They found it,” AJ added gleefully.

“What?” Yoshi asked in Bud’s stead when he didn’t answer.

“They found the videotape,” AJ explained.

“Really?” Bud rolled closer. “They found it?”

“Yep, one of them other ofÞ cers, under loose ß oorboards in a

bedroom. Guess y’all lucky he stepped down on that spot and creaked

the board. When they done yanked up that board, they found the tape

an’ a stack of Benjamins.”

“And you’re sure it’s the one?” Bud demanded.

“Yeah, they say they sure.”

Bud was so excited he practically skipped his chair out of the

room.

• 252 •

BLIND CURVES

Velvet turned to Tucker. “Do you want to go after him with me? I

want to get the scoop on this story.” Velvet leaned in and whispered in

her ear, “This could be my Pulitzer.”

Tucker nodded.

“Or just my excuse to get you upstairs into a bedroom.” Velvet

licked Tucker’s ear.

Tucker turned red in embarrassment.

“You ever do it in a mansion before?”

“Velvet,” Tucker said insistently. “Stop it.”

With her arm around the younger woman, Velvet walked toward

the door. “Come on,” she said, “it’ll be a celebration of a job well done.

You really impressed me today.”

A moment later the living room was left to Yoshi and AJ. AJ

offered Yoshi her hands and pulled her out of her sitting position.

“Nice.” AJ offered a word of congratulations.

“Thank you.” Yoshi blushed. “You were pretty handy yourself.”

“Y’all done here?” AJ asked.

“I believe so,” Yoshi admitted, reluctant to leave.

“I just got dismissed for the night.” AJ cleared her throat.

“Wondered if ya might want to go out with me. Dinner or the like?”

Yoshi smiled from ear to ear. “I think I would like that, AJ. Do

you like sushi?”

“Never tried it.” Sounding nervous, she asked, “Ain’t that raw

Þ sh?”

“You have much to learn.” Yoshi smiled and tugged on AJ’s

shirtsleeve. “Will you wear your uniform?”

“You’d like that, huh?” AJ laughed. “No, I got a shirt in the squad

car.”

On their way out, Yoshi jotted a note and dropped it inside Velvet’s

car. From the way Velvet and Tucker were conspiring, Yoshi assumed

it might take them some time to make their way back to the car. When

they did, Velvet would Þ nd a small, delicately handwritten note that

said, “Any advice for dating a cop?” and Velvet would smile, knowing

exactly what she meant.

• 253 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

• 254 •

BLIND CURVES

CHAPTER TWENTY

Yoshi blew out the candles on the vegan chocolate cake that

Tucker had brought from the Rainbow Grocery Co-Op in honor of

Yoshi’s nonbirthday. It was not that Yoshi didn’t want to celebrate

another milestone year, but she understood that ofÞ ce parties were

more about Blind Eye coworkers and professional friends than the

celebrating individual. As Yoshi’s exhalation extinguished heat from

the ß ames, Tucker shoved a rectangular package into her hands and

squealed, “Open it!” sounding more like a Þ fth grader on Mother’s Day

than an employee.

It was almost as though the Rosemary Finney case had brought

the Blind Eye team, and its honorary members, closer than ever. Bud

seemed to have softened somewhat and was being less gruff than normal.

AJ and Velvet had been around the ofÞ ce so much in the weeks after

the case was solved that they were acting like full-ß edged members of

the team. Although AJ’s presence was not purely professional, Yoshi

enjoyed the attention immensely.

“Open it, my lovely,” AJ needled Yoshi, who was carefully

removing the Scotch tape from her birthday package so as to not tear the

paper. Just because she couldn’t see the design did not mean that it had

been chosen haphazardly. She would later obtain a visual description.

When Velvet could stand it no longer, she muttered, “Let’s get on

with it,” and reached over Yoshi to give the paper a good, strong tug. It

tore in half and made everyone, even a rather stunned Yoshi, laugh.

She shook her head. Count on Velvet to be the impatient one.

Yoshi Þ ngered the lightweight rectangular box and discerned that it was

most likely some kind of software. They all seemed to come in similar

packages. She shook it and heard the conÞ rming rattle of CD-ROMs.

“It’s Dragon Naturally Speaking,” Tucker said rather proudly.

“What’s that?” AJ asked.

“It’s speech recognition software for your computer,” Tucker

• 255 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

explained to a rapt audience. Yoshi did not spoil the moment for

the young woman by mentioning that she was well acquainted with

recognition software. “It’s really cool. It means you can just talk into

your headset normally and the computer will automatically type what

you say. And you can use it for the case reports or e-mail or the budget

spreadsheets, even IMs.”

Yoshi raised her eyebrows. Although she could not read others’

facial expressions, she’d learned that they still looked for hers.

“Instant messages,” Velvet Þ lled in the blanks.

“Tucker, I don’t know what to say,” Yoshi admitted. She had

wanted the software for some time but hadn’t justiÞ ed its expense. She

banished the critical voice in her head that asked why she required taking

care of and why she was no longer able to receive light or entertaining

presents. “Thank you.” She made sure none of her mixed emotions

tainted the expression of gratitude.

“Hello?” a voice from the outer ofÞ ce sang out, and there was

a shufß ing of feet as those gathered around the large desk strained

to see who was coming. AJ remained standing by Yoshi’s side, and

with the others distracted, she caressed Yoshi’s shoulder. Yoshi smiled,

appreciative that AJ respected her disinclination for public displays of

affection.

“We’re in here, Artemis,” Velvet called and a ß irty little skirt

rustled in the breeze of the central heat as Artemis strode in. Another

person, whose perfume pegged her as a woman, trailed in more slowly,

as if she were apprehensive.

Artemis made the introductions. “After all you did to put Karen

away and make it safe for Liz to return to the city, she just wanted to

meet you in person. She’ll be there in court to testify when it comes to

trial.”

“I appreciate that, Artemis, and thank you for your insight on the

case, it was quite helpful.” Yoshi extended her hand in the women’s

direction and Artemis grabbed it but pulled Yoshi in for a hug instead.

“Thank you so much,” she whispered.

Yoshi stiffened uncomfortably. The intimacy was disconcerting,

and she couldn’t wait to get out of the embrace. “So, this is the enigmatic

Liz Claiborne.” She held out a hand.

“Miss Yakamota?” Liz’s voice was barely audible. She had

a delicate and hesitant handshake that seemed to Þ t naturally with

• 256 •

BLIND CURVES

what Yoshi had come to know of her. “I’m so sorry for the trouble I

caused.”

“It’s Velvet you should apologize to,” Tucker interjected without

tact. There was a soft thud and a yelp that Yoshi imagined was Tucker’s

response to a well-placed kick by Velvet aimed at improving the young

woman’s social skills.

As Tucker and Liz stumbled over apologies, Yoshi raised her voice

and asked if the others could give her and Liz a moment alone in her

ofÞ ce. It took a few minutes for AJ to strong-arm the reluctant partyers,

who were eventually led away with promises of cake and ice cream. As

soon as the door closed behind them, Liz Claiborne began to talk. And

talk. And talk. Apparently she had been talking all day and the Blind

Eye ofÞ ce wasn’t her Þ rst stop.

“The police were really nice,” Liz said. “I told them I’d testify.

The thing is, I saw everything up there that morning. I was just so

scared, and I was quite a long way from where it happened. I wanted to

stop Karen but I didn’t know how to, so I just hid. When she left, I ran

to help Rosemary but…she was dead.”

Liz began to cry softly. Yoshi wouldn’t have known except she

had begun to suck in her breath for long moments of time then heave

slightly, each time letting out a sentence or two. Yoshi felt for her, this

sweet, corn-fed young Midwesterner caught up in Rosemary and Karen’s

twisted world and resorting to manipulation as the disempowered often

did.

Artemis was quick to assist her patient. “Liz has been in hiding

at her grandmother’s house this whole time. She was afraid she’d been

seen by Karen and thought she might come after her as well. Then when

she was trying to meet with me and saw the police, she was convinced

that Karen was intent on framing her for murder. Not to mention the

terrible psychological trauma of witnessing the crime.”

“I can certainly understand that, Liz,” Yoshi said calmly. “What

convinced you to come forward?”

“I love Rosemary. Loved Rosemary. I know everyone thinks that’s

deluded but I think she may have loved me, too. I just didn’t want there

to be no one in court to tell her side of the story.”

Yoshi wanted to accept this at face value. Through this whole

ordeal, she had never considered that there would be someone who

really did love Rosemary unconditionally. It must take a special person

• 257 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

to have that in her. Of course, Liz was very young. But Liz had also

made certain choices that spoke of more complicated motivations.

Obviously she was conß icted about Rosemary, and jealousy could

drive people to uncharacteristic behavior.

“You phoned Velvet the night before Rosemary was killed,” Yoshi

said. “Why did you do that?”

Liz was silent for a long time, then she sounded ashamed. “I had

this idea that I could make her give up everything and be with me. It

probably sounds stupid to you, but I thought if I talked to Velvet and

she did a story about Rosemary…you know, exposing her and Jennifer

Garcia and the stuff I knew she was doing to destroy Bend…then she

would change her life.”

“You thought you could be a part of that change?”

“I just wanted her to realize she couldn’t keep on treating people

like she did.” Impulsively, she added, “And I suppose I kind of wanted

her punished, too. I mean, for what she did to me.”

Yoshi thought through the young woman’s revealing words. One

small but important detail was missing. “Do you carry a cell phone?”

“Yes.”

“Then why didn’t you call 911 when Karen attacked her?”

An edge of defensiveness slid into Liz’s tone. “I don’t know

exactly. The police asked me about that, too. It’s hard to explain. It

was like it wasn’t really happening.” As if trying to convince herself

as much as anyone else that she was a helpless witness, she explained,

“I was standing there watching, and it seemed like a bad dream. I just

didn’t think about making a phone call.”

Yoshi tried to imagine seeing a person being murdered and

doing nothing. Shock could have immobilized a young woman like

Liz. Yet there were other possibilities. Yoshi’s thoughts returned to

Liz’s admission about wanting Rosemary punished. The complicity

in her one-time lover’s death could certainly have been unwitting and

unconscious. Or darker emotions could have been at work that morning.

Yoshi suspected they might never know the entire truth. Rosemary had

played with Þ re when she used and misused other people. Arrogantly,

she had imagined she would never be burned.

Yoshi asked nothing more of her unexpected visitor. There would be

a trial, and perhaps some of her remaining questions would be resolved

when Liz and Karen testiÞ ed. She exchanged some parting words with

• 258 •

BLIND CURVES

the two women, and after they had left her ofÞ ce, she welcomed the

others back in, hoping to Þ nally get a piece of that vegan cake.

“I have something for the Blind Eye team as well,” Yoshi

announced and handed a small stack of envelopes to AJ to distribute.

There was one each for her, Bud, Tucker, and Velvet.

“What is this?” Velvet asked without opening it.

Tucker ripped into hers and gasped audibly. “Wow. This is

awesome!”

AJ pressed her envelope back into Yoshi’s hands. “I ain’t be

needing this from y’all. I was just doing my job.”

Yoshi explained, “We received a substantial reward for solving the

Finney murder.”

“From who?” Velvet demanded suspiciously as though she thought

Yoshi was making this up to cover for her own generosity.

“From the Finney family, of course. They were delighted that

Karen’s arrest means she will not be entitled to the whole of Rosemary’s

estate and inheritance.”

Velvet chortled, and Yoshi knew she would feel that taking Finney

money was some small recompense for all Rosemary had put her

through.

As they worked their way through the remaining cake, Velvet

mused aloud, “It’s weird. I thought I was going to Wonderland Park

that day to catch Rosemary red-handed in the ultimate case of corporate

lesbian espionage, but it was so much worse.”

“A murder like that, it’s personal,” Bud said.

Velvet sighed. “She was a viper, but she also helped pioneer

lesbian publishing. She didn’t deserve what happened.” In response to

the silence that followed, which had less to do with lack of interest

and more to do with a skilled bakery, she changed the subject abruptly.

“Have you guys ever heard of Pioneer School? It’s this ex-gay school

that is right here in the Bay Area—can you believe that? They’ve had a

couple of kids run away from the program and just disappear. Probably

living on the street at Haight Ashbury or something. Anyway, my editor

wants me on it, so, I’ve gotta run. Gotta chase a new story.”

Soon they’d all be chasing something new, Yoshi thought—a

different career, a deeper relationship, a fresh case that could change

them more dramatically than they’d ever imagine.

• 259 •

About the Authors

Diane Anderson-Minshall has been writing as long as she’s

been reading. Her Þ rst work, published when she was eight years old,

was printed in Highlights magazine. It was about a circus. Since then

she’s covered everything from the mundane (regional dog shows and

Egyptian irrigation procedures) to the sensational (Hollywood’s A-list

and female serial killers). Diane’s writing has appeared in dozens of

magazines including Passport, Bust, Bitch, Venus, Utne, Seventeen, and more, and she is the executive editor of Curve magazine and

the founder and former editor of Girlfriends and Alice magazines.

A journalist since she was thirteen (her Þ rst job was covering the

school beat for the Independent Enterprise in Payette, Idaho), Diane

has received a handful of honors for her work including a 1998 Visa

Versa award for her celebrity journalism, a Þ nalist for the Women in

Periodical Publishing’s Woman of the Year Award in 2000, and Power

Up’s Ten Amazing Gay Women in Showbiz Award in 2006. Some day

she hopes to write a true crime novel that looks at infamous lesbian

murders and a sensational novel as great as her three favorites: Punish

Me With Kisses, The Grounding of Group Six, and Fear of Flying.

Jacob Anderson-Minshall has been many things: farm boy,

carny, artist, activist, park ranger, and lesbian. He grew up on a small

farm in southeastern Idaho, where his mother fostered his love of

reading and mystery with bedtime stories like Edgar Allen Poe’s Pit

and the Pendulum and 5,000-piece puzzles obscuring the dinner table

for weeks at a time. His grandmother, a librarian, sent boxes of books,

which he consumed during long winter months and years without

television. For nearly four decades Jacob was a girl named Susannah.

During that time he received a M.A. in Rhetorical Criticism, cofounded

Idaho State University’s LGBT student association, ran for homecoming

king, cofounded the lesbian magazine Girlfriends, and began his life’s

romance with his wife Diane, who has been his partner for seventeen

years. Jacob writes the syndicated weekly column TransNation, which

runs in queer publications from San Francisco to Boston, and is a

frequent contributor to Bitch magazine. As a former park ranger and

law enforcement ofÞ cer, Jacob is familiar with both the parks and open

spaces of the San Francisco Bay Area and the procedures involved in

enforcement duties. His interest in crime was intensiÞ ed with the 2000

murder of his brother-in-law, Tom Sherwood, in Pocatello, Idaho. To

this date the case remains unsolved.

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desperate struggle for survival. (1-933110-01-5)

Love & Honor by Radclyffe. The president’s daughter and her lover are

faced with difÞ cult choices as they battle a tangled web of Washington

intrigue for...love and honor. (1-933110-10-4)

Honor Bound by Radclyffe. Secret Service Agent Cameron Roberts

and Blair Powell face political intrigue, a clandestine threat to Blair’s

safety, and the seemingly irreconcilable personal differences that force

them ever farther apart. (1-933110-20-1)

Above All, Honor by Radclyffe. Secret Service Agent Cameron Roberts

Þ ghts her desire for the one woman she can’t have—Blair Powell, the

daughter of the president of the United States. (1-933110-04-X)

BLIND LEAP

A BLIND EYE MYSTERY

by

Diane and Jacob Anderson-Minshall

2007

Blind leap

© 2007 By Diane anD JacoB anDerson-Minshall.

all rights reserveD.

isBn 10: 1-933110-91-0e

isBn 13: 978-1-933110-91-2e

This ElEcTronic Book is PuBlishEd By

Bold sTrokEs Books, inc.,

P.o. Box 249

VallEy Falls, ny 12185

FirsT EdiTion: ocToBEr 2007

This is a Work oF FicTion. naMEs, characTErs, PlacEs, and

incidEnTs arE ThE ProducT oF ThE auThor’s iMaGinaTion or

arE usEd FicTiTiously. any rEsEMBlancE To acTual PErsons,

liVinG or dEad, BusinEss EsTaBlishMEnTs, EVEnTs, or localEs

is EnTirEly coincidEnTal.

This Book, or ParTs ThErEoF, May noT BE rEProducEd in any

ForM WiThouT PErMission.

creDits

EdiTors: JEnniFEr kniGhT and sTacia sEaMan

ProducTion dEsiGn: sTacia sEaMan

coVEr dEsiGn By shEri (GraPhicarTisT2020@hoTMail.coM)

Acknowledgments

We’d be nowhere without the wonderful women of Bold Strokes

Books, including our patient publisher Len Barot, our copy editor Stacia

Seaman, cover designer Sheri, consulting publicist Connie Ward, and

our even more patient editor Jennifer Knight, without whose watchful

eye we’d be writing bad TV screenplays and trying to Þ t them into novel

format. Our family and friends get our deepest thanks for sustaining us

in each of their own ways. We extend our gratitude to those pioneers

who came before us—queers, lesbians, and trans folk who paved the

way. And as always, we honor the real-life individuals living with

disabilities—those we know personally and those we don’t—who serve

as role models for our Þ ction and our lives.

Blind Leap was inß uenced by the work of Þ lmmakers Jenni Olsen

and Eric Steele. Jenni, whose The Joy of Life is a living tribute to her

good friend (and our acquaintance) Mark Finch, who committed suicide

by jumping from the Golden Gate Bridge. The Blind Leap character

Jeff Conant shares a number of similarities with Mark, including his

involvement with San Francisco’s Frameline Film Festival. We sincerely

hope the outcome feels more like homage than creepy exploitation. We

were also deeply moved by Eric Steele’s controversial documentary

The Bridge, which (inadvertently) captured Golden Gate suicides on

tape and explored the impact bridge deaths have on those left behind.

Our research is indebted to the meticulously crafted seven-part

San Francisco Chronicle series “Lethal Beauty” on the Golden Gate’s

dubious distinction as one of the world’s top suicide destinations.

Dedication

For Stephanie Tarnoff, Denny Nelson, Gladys Stratton, and

Jeremy Stevenson, and all the friends and family who have

left our lives too soon. In the LGBT community and beyond,

we lose far too many friends and family to both suicide and

substance addiction. We don’t have the answers, but we’re

glad that others are starting to dialog about what that means.

And to all of those who’ve been left behind by someone who

could no longer bear the pain of living: Hang in there. It’s not

your fault.

BLIND LEAP

PROLOGUE

December 18

Golden Gate Bridge

By the time Jeff Conant’s waterlogged body washed onshore

nine miles south of the Golden Gate Bridge, he was nearly

naked and a ghostly apparition of his former self. A streak of black

amethyst bruising marred his once sun-freckled face, and what was left

of his swimmer’s physique was distended so much he looked like a

hellish human version of Moby Dick.

At least that’s how it had seemed to Velvet Erickson when the

police ofÞ cer shoved a photograph under her nose a week ago and

asked if she knew the man in the picture. She hadn’t wanted to see her

childhood friend that way, and now, every time she closed her eyes,

the image of his rotting, water-beaten corpse came unbidden again and

again.

How could this have happened?

She pressed her body against the rust-colored railing on the

northeastern edge of the Golden Gate Bridge and stared out into the

Bay, where she could see Angel Island and the infamous Alcatraz.

The wind whipped her long, dark brown hair across her face, pushing

strands between her chapped lips and plastering damp locks to her tear-

stained cheeks. The splendor of the surroundings was undeniable but

Velvet saw nothing but Jeff’s accusing eyes, somehow staring up at her

from the empty sockets in his pale, bloated face.

Why hadn’t she prevented this? How could she have been friends

with him for most of her thirty-six years and not known he was

desperate enough to take his own life? Had Jeff stood here, on this very

• 9 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

spot, considering the view? In the darkness of that night on the bridge,

he wouldn’t have seen the beauty before her now. He would have seen

the lights of San Francisco. Jumpers chose this side to make their swan

dive with the ocean to their back. The ocean was cold, uninhabited, and

unending. Too reminiscent of death. But the lights of the city were full

of life and spoke of community and other people. Suicide might be an

antisocial act, but bridge jumpers did not turn away from the city in

their Þ nal hour. It was as though in death, they hoped to exchange the

alienation that haunted them for the warm embrace of the city.

Velvet slumped against the railing. Her sunglasses were less to

protect her eyes from the haze and more to hide her tears from passing

tourists. She wanted to understand what had happened. What could

possibly have led Jeff to leap to his death? No one saw him jump. Jeff’s

black Saab was discovered a month ago, on November 19, abandoned

in the Vista Point, just north of the Golden Gate Bridge. There was no

suicide note.

Velvet and her best friend, Yoshi Yakamota, had parked close to

where Jeff’s car had been found. Yoshi had elected to stay in the car

while Velvet took her painful stroll along the bridge. Velvet wondered

if Jeff had sat behind the wheel weighing his options for a long time

that fateful night, or whether he’d gotten right out and rushed to the

bridge’s apex.

The California Highway Patrol ofÞ cer who found the unattended

vehicle in the early hours of the morning had asked San Francisco

PD to do a welfare check on Jeff. He wasn’t at home in his Castro

apartment and his boyfriend, Tyrone Hill, hadn’t seen him since the

previous morning. Tyrone was anxious but not in a way that invited

suspicion. Jeff’s coworkers at the Frameline ofÞ ce had last seen him

there the previous evening.

With no sign of foul play, there wasn’t much the cops could do.

Adults were allowed to disappear. It was a common enough occurrence:

someone got tired of their life, pulled up all stakes, and took off to

start up somewhere else. Plenty of people escaping from their lives

didn’t tell friends and family their plans, and police suspicions were not

raised automatically. It made Velvet wonder what the statistics were, if

so many people disappeared on their own accord. Where did they all

go? Did they return to their old lives eventually, or were they like those

fugitives from the seventies who disappeared and became entirely

new people, never once contacting the loved ones they left behind? Or

• 10 •

BLIND LEAP

people in witness protection. How did anyone just do that—vanish and

never look back?

The honk of a passing car drew her from her thoughts. In just a

few hours’ time, the Golden Gate Bridge would be packed with cars

squashed against each other like sardines in a tin can. Commuters

would inch slowly toward the city only to crawl back to the northern

feeder towns in Marin and Sonoma counties eight hours later. At night,

the trafÞ c thinned out and vehicles would cross the span at irregular

intervals. If a jumper didn’t want to be seen, he usually made his date

with the bridge after dark.

Velvet knew more than she wanted about what it meant to jump off

the Golden Gate Bridge. Just eighteen months ago, the San Francisco

Chronicle had published the last of her four-part series on suicide and

the bridge. During the months of research that went into the article,

she’d interviewed emergency personnel, medical examiners, family

members of suicide victims, and even one of the few survivors of the

fall and its aftermath. The Golden Gate had the dubious distinction

of being one of the world’s most popular and reliably lethal suicide

destinations. Velvet suspected the natural beauty of the surroundings,

the architectural wonder of the bridge itself, and the special cachet that

came with making a newsworthy leap probably drew people who’d

never made a splash in their lives.

Jeff’s body was spotted by Þ shermen nine miles south of the

bridge, three weeks after he went missing. He was short one hand and

his limbs were badly damaged, but despite the weeks submerged, he

was still vaguely recognizable. The cops had told her it was a ß uke

they’d found his body at all. Bodies ß oat, but only while they’re buoyed

by gases formed in the process of decay. Once the Þ sh start munching

through the remains, they break into the body cavity and let out the gas.

With nothing to keep it aß oat, the body sinks to the ocean ß oor, joining

every other skeleton to be broken down.

The working theory was that somehow Jeff had gotten hung up

on something, perhaps caught in the Þ shing lines of an old trawl and

tethered, ß oating just under the surface for a week or two until whatever

he was caught on broke loose when his hand came off. This horrible

thought was enough to make Velvet sob uncontrollably every time she

thought of his lonely death.

With Jeff missing, she’d spent Thanksgiving Day as she’d spent

nearly every free moment since he disappeared—searching. She’d

• 11 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

posted his picture on telephone poles and in businesses from San

Francisco to Russian River to the north, and as far south as San Jose.

She’d walked the beaches of Marin, San Francisco, and San Mateo.

She’d hired a boat to speed her around the edges of the Bay. When the

searching had taken her to places only a jumper’s body would end up

and she’d found nothing, she’d brieß y convinced herself that Jeff was

vacationing in some exotic locale and would call her one day and laugh

about the trouble he’d caused. She was angry with him for the journey

he’d chosen instead.

Her psychologist, Artemis McDermid, ever the spiritualist, had a

theory she thought would comfort Velvet: that dying amidst spectacular

geography reminded people of their Creator and would help them merge

with their God. Bullshit. The bridge had been convenient. No need to

buy a gun or access prescription medication—the bridge was its own

murder weapon. All you had to do was close your eyes and step into

the void.

Suicide by bridge was horriÞ c. Anyone who thought going off the

Golden Gate was a coward’s way out hadn’t read the Chronicle series.

You pull a trigger, and you expect life to end in an instant. You take a

ß ying leap off the bridge, on the other hand, and you know you’ve got

moments of sheer terror as you fall. And it’s not the fall that will kill

you, it’s the impact. At eighty miles an hour, the speed of the fall, water

is like concrete. When she’d written her piece Velvet had actually gone

around saying how jumping was incredibly ballsy. Now she found the

act reprehensible in its selÞ shness. Suicide was so unfair to those left

behind; Velvet was mad as hell that Jeff could have done this to her.

She’d always thought of him as bright and courageous, and

somehow she couldn’t see Jeff settling for his Þ fteen minutes of fame

post-mortem. His life had seemed too full of promise. Was he trying to

make some kind of point? Hadn’t he read her articles? He’d always told

her he read her work, but maybe he’d just been shining her on, being

polite. Asshole. Once he’d gotten something in his head he’d always

been so damn resolute. He couldn’t have become a successful clothing

designer, then changed careers to become executive director of the

world’s largest lesbian and gay Þ lm festival without that determination.

Was his death another Þ nal act of stubbornness?

Why hadn’t he told her what he was considering? She’d just

reconnected with him, for godssakes. Who reconnects with one of their

• 12 •

BLIND LEAP

oldest and closest friends and then takes a ß ying leap off a bridge? Did

he intend to say good-bye? Velvet desperately wanted to talk to him one

last time. She wanted to tell him all the things she’d never said about

how much she loved him and needed him in her life. She shouldn’t have

let Tyrone drive her away. She wanted to know why Jeff jumped— and

why he didn’t leave a note?

He’d phoned her the day before he vanished, leaving a message on

her voice mail. She’d thought he was just conÞ rming their next lunch

date or wanting to pick up their last conversation where it had left off:

Chase Devlin, the producer he was working with. Jeff’s message was

vague, almost uncharacteristically so. What if he’d wanted to tell her

something that was weighing on his mind? If she’d gotten back to him

right away, would he still be alive?

When the ß owing of her tears slowed to a gentle stream, Velvet

turned from the Bay and the cold wind. Pulling her jacket tighter around

her, she strode back along the pedestrian walkway to the Vista Point.

• 13 •

• 14 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER ONE

Five Weeks Earlier

Yoshi Yakamota felt hot. Hot, cramped, and uncomfortable.

AJ Johnson had talked about this concert for weeks, so Yoshi

did not want to express her discomfort. She and AJ had been dabbling

in courtship, a will-they-won’t-they two-step that had established solid

ground for a friendship…or more. Tonight Yoshi hoped to clarify, once

and for all, which one was meant to be.

As a private investigator, she noticed subtle clues; it was her

job. So she’d recognized that the LGBT hip-hop concert held great

signiÞ cance for AJ. Her excitement about the event was more than a

subtle clue. With nearly a year of policing the San Francisco Bay Area’s

East Palo Alto neighborhood under her belt, AJ was longing for a return

to her hometown of New Orleans. Her post-Katrina dislocation and

subsequent move west had left her somewhat brokenhearted. Yoshi

hoped the concert would lift her spirits.

Perhaps the rare outing would do the same for her. She spent far

too many nights at home, alone with the ghost of her father. It had been

his home and he still seemed to inhabit the residence and her dreams.

He was hungry and yearning. He wanted justice. One day she hoped to

give it to him.

Soft Þ ngers grazed lightly across her forearm and Yoshi felt

someone’s breath on her neck. Velvet Erickson. She could always

recognize the journalist’s unique scent, even in this crowded room.

Velvet said something, but Yoshi could barely hear her over the

cacophony. She dipped her head, sending her hair sweeping across her

shoulders.

• 15 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Are you okay?” Velvet asked.

“Yes.” Yoshi was not entirely certain she was being honest. The

truth was, this situation was all a little overwhelming and she was

feeling more than just prickled by the heaving crowds.

Her eyesight, which had been slowly degenerating for a decade,

had all but ceased to exist. Just a month ago, she had still been able

to distinguish large objects: this tall, dark blob a person; that low

and long one a couch. But now the encroaching darkness had all but

eclipsed the world around her, and here she was packed into the El

Rio with numerous other queer folk, yet she felt entirely alone. It was

disconcerting. She was glad Velvet and Tucker had joined her and AJ

for a double date.

Velvet, an investigative reporter for the San Francisco Chronicle,

had been Yoshi’s best friend for years. They had also been lovers, once

upon a time. Yoshi adored her, even if she frowned on Velvet’s love-

them-and-leave-them dating style. She was particularly concerned

about her friend’s interest in the much younger Tucker Shade, the

receptionist at Yoshi’s private investigation Þ rm, Blind Eye Detective

Agency. It had never turned out well when Velvet dated one of Yoshi’s

employees. But Velvet and Tucker had seemed so smitten, there was no

point in trying to separate them.

The crowd tightened around Yoshi, jostling her as they did. She

could almost feel them sucking the oxygen from the room. She was

just becoming claustrophobic when the Þ rst performers came on,

announced as the Deep Dickollective, a men’s troupe. Yoshi could tell

that Velvet and Tucker were already in their own little bubble, and AJ

was transÞ xed.

Yoshi could understand why the New Orleans native was thrilled

to be in a familiar environment, and even more so after discovering

LGBT artists performing the musical style she loved. There was no

equivalent for Yoshi, even in San Francisco, no lesbian performers

specializing in Japanese kayo-kyoku. Kayo-kyoku was a type of

Japanese pop music blending Western and Japanese scales. The

melodies of these pentatonic scales mixed the trills and grace notes

common to traditional folk songs and shamisen of earlier times with

the sophisticated rhythm and strong beats of Western pop.

The crowd screamed with delight, leading Yoshi to conclude that

• 16 •

BLIND LEAP

this audience was primarily composed of members from a younger

generation. They intoned a deep, baritone whoop that was probably one

of those “holler backs” AJ had told her to expect. The emcee introduced

a performer named “Katastrophe,” and Yoshi was subjected to another

swell of the crowd, then near-deafening noise. The ß oor vibrated. Was

the audience stomping their boots? Yoshi couldn’t tell. The pulsating

staccato steps of low, sustained booming sounded like a Japanese Taiko

drumming troupe.

She smiled and let her mind drift to San Francisco’s Taiko Dojo.

Her body responded as she recalled the feeling of every molecule

vibrating to the unparalleled sound of the prized O Daiko drum, a

round rope-tension drum carved from a single piece of wood. The tree

trunk that spawned the O Daiko must have been enormous. The one-

ton, twelve-foot-high drum, the largest in the Western hemisphere.

dwarfed its drummers. Some accountant, who had not understood

the remarkable spiritual and cultural value of the O Daiko drum, had

assigned it a monetary worth of half a million dollars.

Another rush of the crowd slammed Yoshi backward, knocking

her toward the ß oor, and snapping her consciousness rudely back to

the El Rio. AJ’s arm was around her waist immediately, keeping her

on her feet.

“He’s tight, huh?”

Yoshi supposed the comment was in reference to the rapper who

had just performed. Not a hip-hop fan, she remembered “Katastrophe”

as a transgender man called Rocco Kayiatos. She’d met him once at a

book signing for his novelist girlfriend, Michele Tea. They were local

celebrities in San Francisco.

The next act, Kritik, initiated a litany of purple prose. Yoshi only

understood every third lyric, but what she did get made her alternately

smile and cringe depending on the singer’s sexual frankness.

Velvet, who had drawn close to Yoshi again, whispered in her ear,

explaining that Kritik’s entourage was a cute, chubby drag king troupe

known as the Bois of Boise—which Yoshi assumed was a tongue-in-

cheek reference to the infamous Þ fties roundup of gay men that had

disgraced that city. If she recalled correctly, the event had been dubbed

the “Boys of Boise.” The reference appeared to be wasted on this

audience.

• 17 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

She nearly shouted her reply but still her voice was all but drowned

out. “Thought-provoking, if this generation was aware of anything that

occurred before a Bush was in the White House.”

“I know. And the song they’re lip-synching is an old Conway

Twitty ditty.”

Yoshi ran a ß attened palm above her hair. It was a motion she had

used since college, a pantomime that indicated something went over

the subject’s head.

“Where’d AJ disappear to?” Velvet asked.

Yoshi shook her head. She did not voice her thoughts: Perhaps to

regale one of the performers with testimonials as to how righteous or

tight she found them. She berated herself immediately. She had difÞ culty

understanding modern urban slang, but knew full well that when AJ

spoke the street dialect, she was not doing so out of ignorance. What

Yoshi always found funny was hearing white youths from suburbia

adopt urban slang without any awareness of its racial heritage.

“Feel old yet?” Velvet asked.

It took Yoshi a minute to realize Velvet was referencing both

the music and the audience. “Please. I felt old before these kids were

learning to drive. Tonight I feel positively Paleolithic.”

“Guess who Tucker and I ran into?” Velvet said. “Jeff and the

boyfriend.”

“Jeff Conant? How is he? I haven’t spoken to him in ages.”

“I know. It’s been too long for me, too. Seeing him made me

realize how much I’ve missed him. We haven’t seen each other as much

since he started dating Tyrone. I don’t know why Jeff even fell for him,

he’s such a dirtbag.”

Before Yoshi could comment, Velvet rushed on. “I know it’s not

just Tyrone. We’ve both been so crazy busy the last few months—Jeff

with the Þ lm festival, me with the whole Rosemary Finney Þ asco. But

Tyrone just seems to monopolize all of Jeff’s time and energy. It makes

me so mad.”

“Gosh, I have no idea what that would be like,” Yoshi remarked.

Velvet apparently heard the sarcasm in her voice. “Tucker and I

aren’t that bad.”

“Of course not,” Yoshi responded with mock sincerity, still raising

her voice to be heard over the crowd.

“Tyrone’s just going to have to get used to me. Jeff and I have

been friends forever,” Velvet said, as though Yoshi could have forgotten

• 18 •

BLIND LEAP

their history. Velvet loved to reminisce. “We’re family, damn it. He

was my Þ rst boyfriend—when we were both fourteen—and we’ve been

friends since we were in grade school together.”

Yoshi often wondered what it would be like to have family. She

supposed all only children tried to imagine a life with siblings and their

offspring. Her mother had passed away when Yoshi was Þ ve. After

that, her father had been her best friend, and then he, too, was taken

from her, killed several years ago. Aside from Velvet, she did not have

family, not even in the queer sense of the word. She wondered when she

would really adjust to being so alone.

“Anyway,” Velvet rattled on, “we made a lunch date. I’m thinking

BlowÞ sh. Their sushi is to die for.”

AJ tumbled into them, so breathless with excitement she could

barely string together a complete sentence. “Yoshilicious!”

Yoshi was surprisingly fond of AJ’s recent moniker for her.

“There’ll be another concert next week!”

Wonderful. If this was modern music, Yoshi was having serious

doubts about her interest in attending future concerts. Her idea of an

ideal musical experience was classical string and percussion orchestras

at the conservatory, operatic theater performances, and the Twelve

Girls Band on National Public Radio. The instrumental sounds of a

dozen Asian women playing traditional instruments were so haunting

Yoshi was nearly breathless every time she heard a performance. That

was music.

She had also attended a few memorable concerts with Mai Lee, an

elder in San Francisco’s close-knit Japanese community. Yoshi’s father

might have failed to recognize his tendency to treat her like a son, but

he had acknowledged his failures to properly enculturate her and had

all but handed her over to community grandmothers like Mai, who

schooled her in Japanese culture and tried to shame her into behaving

like a proper Asian lady.

Very little of this education stuck. Yoshi’s heart hadn’t been in it.

She had found something intriguing in the feminine accoutrements of

fashion, skin-care products, and enticing aromas, but she rejected the

traditional Asian notions of femininity. Now, after spending time with

AJ, who had come up in the entirely African American neighborhood

of New Orleans’s Ninth Ward, she was beginning to wonder if she had

missed something.

The next performer was an emcee from Minneapolis whose name

• 19 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Yoshi did not catch. As this person took the stage, the crowd let out a

collective bark. What were they saying? Dog meat? Do me? Doughy?

Dougie? She could not decipher the noisy acclamations for the life of

her. When she was knocked into again she tugged on the pocket of the

nearest trousers, thinking they belonged to AJ. They did not.

After sincerely apologizing to a bemused owner and her irate

girlfriend, Yoshi bumped into a man’s broad chest. He smelled of a

spicy mix of clove, menthol, and camphor.

“Yoshi? Yoshi Yakamota?” The voice hinted at a Latino heritage.

Thank God. Someone who knew her. At this point she did not

even care if she knew him.

“It’s Detective Chico Hernandez with the SFPD. My dad was Bud

Williams’s partner.”

Yoshi assumed Hernandez had provided his professional

information not because he was on duty but because she had encountered

him in the context of his work. Chico’s father, Jose Hernandez, was the

chief of police in San Jose. He owed Bud Williams a debt of gratitude

that sometimes proved to be useful. When they were both detectives,

Bud had taken a bullet meant for Jose. He had been paralyzed below

the waist and was a reluctant retiree of the San Francisco Police

Department.

Yoshi had inherited Bud when her father passed away and left her

in charge of his PI Þ rm. Some people adjusted well to a change in their

abilities. Bud had not. Yoshi surmised he had always been sexist, surly,

and heterosexual, but his personal tragedy had made him bitter and hard

to motivate. He was the Blind Eye Detective Agency’s own grumpy old

man. Bud’s tactics could be a bit unorthodox. But when he got it in his

mind to solve a case, he could not be deterred, and this made him an

invaluable resource. Unfortunately, the cases he became obsessed with

were not always those Yoshi was paying him to investigate.

Chico Hernandez was Bud’s main source inside the SFPD.

Evidently the young detective was vulnerable to guilt trips and reminders

of the personal debt his family could never repay. Yoshi shook his hand.

Although she had met him before, she tended to coordinate with a more

senior detective in the SFPD, Ari Fleishman. She had never encountered

Chico Hernandez at a social event.

He introduced her to the man with him. “This is my partner, Rick

Pallin.”

• 20 •

BLIND LEAP

A warm, beefy hand closed around Yoshi’s. “Charmed to meet

you,” Rick said. “FYI, that’s romantic partner. What?” The latter

comment seemed directed at Hernandez rather than Yoshi. “I don’t

want her to think I’m another cop. Don’t try to put me in some kind of

cop closet, Chico. I won’t put up with that.”

Rick dipped his head close to Yoshi’s so she could hear without

him shouting. “I’m teasing him. When you’ve been together as long as

we have, you don’t care who knows what.”

Yoshi hinted she was feeling a little claustrophobic in the tight

quarters of the club and Rick gallantly escorted her outside, keeping

one arm around her waist as they exited. She was certain he could have

whisked her into the air without the slightest exertion, and yet he was

far from brutish. Once outside, he entertained her with witty banter that

helped her relax. The humidity hinted that storm clouds were passing

above them, waiting for the warmth of the next day’s sun before they

could let loose their rain. She shivered in the cool night air and Rick

removed his jacket and hung it around her shoulders. If she were straight

and he had been her date, she would have swooned into his arms.

Why wasn’t AJ this attentive? Were they not on a date? Yoshi

sighed at the thought. Perhaps lesbian dating was not as exciting as

Velvet liked to think. Or perhaps Yoshi was not built for dating. She

did not favor Velvet’s one-night-stand approach, yet she found dating

rituals cumbersome and awkward. Generally, she avoided romantic

entanglements. She had not been in a serious relationship for nearly a

decade, not since she and Velvet called it quits and agreed to go back

to being friends. She had taken a chance with AJ. They had a certain

chemistry between them, a spark she had not felt in a very long time.

Perhaps she should have allowed that feeling to pass. They always did.

Eventually.

Hernandez’s partner entertained her, regaling her with elaborate

stories detailing the adventures they had encountered in their Þ ve years

together. His intriguing tales and droll observations distracted her from

the chill and facilitated the passing of time.

“There you are.” AJ’s statement suggested she had spent some

time searching for Yoshi inside the club, an assertion Yoshi did not

quite believe. AJ smelled of sweat and she was breathing heavily,

presumably from singing, dancing, and ignoring Yoshi. She made no

effort to apologize for interrupting Rick’s latest tale.

• 21 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Yoshi introduced the two of them, thanked Rick for his kindness,

and returned his jacket. Much to AJ’s consternation, Rick insisted on

escorting them to the safety of AJ’s recently acquired Escalade before

he returned to the club.

“Your dawg there, he think I can’t take care of my breezy?” AJ

asked, turning the key in the obscenely adorned vehicle she cherished.

Yoshi responded with a noncommittal monosyllabic reply and

settled into the comfort of the Escalade’s bucket seat. The vehicle was

a recent acquisition, Þ nanced through a police auction. While it was

clear that AJ enjoyed Yoshi’s company, it was equally obvious that her

feelings for Yoshi paled in comparison to those for her Escalade. The

vehicle was a greater status symbol than an attractive woman, and AJ

did not need Yoshi. As a new butch in town, she was in high demand.

The lesbian community in San Francisco fell victim to the same

demographic pitfalls as a remote island population. There were only

a limited number of available partners, and within the population

relationships became quite incestuous, with exes dating exes. When

new arrivals drifted in on the metaphorical tide, they offered all the

thrills that those overly familiar exes did not. AJ could have a dozen

new suitors before she arrived back at her Hayward studio apartment.

They were not headed to that apartment now, but to Yoshi’s

single-level home in the Richmond district. After they exchanged a

few niceties, AJ ß ipped on the CD player. Heavy chords and rapid-Þ re

rhyming echoed off the oversized vehicle’s windows. Yoshi did not try

to make conversation; AJ had announced her listening priorities.

After a while they came to a halt and AJ said, “We’re here.”

Against her better judgment, Yoshi invited AJ inside. She did

not want to face her father’s ghost alone. Not tonight. Unlocking the

door and stepping over the threshold, she was back on familiar ground

and no longer at the mercy of strangers. Here she knew exactly where

everything was, where the gold-quilted settee was to toss her coat on,

how to throw her house keys and land them on the bird’s-eye maple hall

table without even a pause. Here she was no longer disabled.

In the home she had grown up in, and in the Blind Eye ofÞ ce,

it was as if Yoshi were no longer blind. She was strong, capable, and

independent. She was a private investigator who, despite her failing

sight, had continued to manage her business with a modicum of

assistance. Over the past few years she had found methods to work

around her gradually increasing blindness, but tonight, at the El Rio,

• 22 •

BLIND LEAP

she had been incapable of extracting herself from a situation she found

difÞ cult to cope with. Worse yet, although Rick Pallin had not let on, it

was clear that he had seen her fear and neediness. Hers was no longer

just a private shame, tonight it was a public humiliation. A humiliation

made all more sharp because others could plainly see that not only

could she not care for herself, but she had to be rescued by a man.

Yoshi felt like she had single-handedly set the feminist movement back

twenty years.

Slumping on the divan, she fought off tears. She wished she had

told AJ to go home. Then she could cry all she wanted, without anyone

witnessing her at her weakest and most vulnerable.

AJ slid next to her and stroked her hair. “Ma chérie, don’t cry.

What say you?”

“No.” Yoshi rolled her head from side to side to reiterate her

unwillingness to converse, even when AJ Þ ltered her questions with

Cajun dialect. She had been bottling up her fear and isolation for years

now. She worried that once she popped the cork on those emotions, she

would no longer be able to control them.

AJ’s sweet breath warmed Yoshi’s face, and her calloused Þ ngers

traced invisible patterns on her cheeks. She allowed herself to soften

under AJ’s touch. Her body ached to be held and soothed. And below

the surface of that need, another swam impatiently; it was a darker

desire that whispered promises about becoming lost in physical passion,

subverting her emotional pain and rigid posturing by surrendering

herself to another.

Hungrily pulling AJ atop of her, Yoshi caressed her face, her

Þ ngertips relaying data to her brain that translated into a more complete

image forming in her mind’s eye. The bump on AJ’s strong nose was a

relic of a rough-and-tumble past, as was a scattering of small scars on

her forehead, cheeks, and chin. Yoshi traced AJ’s parted lips and was

surprised when AJ gently captured her wandering Þ ngertip with her

teeth. AJ’s tongue darted out and tickled the sensitive webbing where

Yoshi’s Þ ngers joined her palms.

Yoshi prickled with excitement. She drew her noncaptured Þ ngers

over the back of AJ’s hand where the prominent veins crisscrossed

like the sinewy hoses Þ re Þ ghters lugged over their shoulders to douse

hungry Þ res. AJ had the opposite effect on Yoshi, stoking a Þ re that was

racing down her body like a wick dipped in gasoline.

Yoshi pressed her lips against AJ’s. Their tongues entwined. One

• 23 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

of them moaned. AJ removed Yoshi’s cardigan and Yoshi felt a button

on her oxford shirt pop off as AJ hurriedly pulled it open and pressed

her face between Yoshi’s small breasts. Her nipples were pert under

her bra. AJ freed her arms from her own oversized sweatshirt, and let

Yoshi pull the Beefy-T over her head. Below that AJ wore a men’s tank

undershirt. Yoshi imagined how the stark white of the shirt must look

against AJ’s dark skin. She smiled and ran cupped hands down AJ’s

muscular arms.

When she lifted the bottom of AJ’s undershirt, AJ pulled her hands

away. Yoshi nodded, understanding that to mean AJ wanted to leave it

on. It was cute, how the butchie girl wanted to cover herself even though

Yoshi could not see. Yoshi unhooked the belt around AJ’s loose-Þ tting

jeans, which immediately fell to her ankles. AJ’s rough hands pushed

aside Yoshi’s bra and cupped her breasts as she nibbled the nipples.

There was no protest this time. No third-date plan. No safe words.

Yoshi wrapped her Þ ngers in AJ’s short hair and pressed her down.

It had been a long time between lovers for both women and within

seconds, like greedy vines climbing an Ivy League dorm, their limbs

were woven so tightly it was hard to remember where one ended and

the other began. When Yoshi did orgasm, she was nearly unaware of

her surroundings, unhinged by need, lost in pleasure. Their bodies were

soon drenched in sex and they hydroplaned, sliding across each other.

By the time her back arched in Þ nal upheaval, Yoshi’s mouth was dry

and her breathing ragged. Exhausted, she slipped into sleep almost

immediately.

In the morning when she awoke, she and AJ were still heaped

on each other on the living-room ß oor, clothes half on, half off. She

untangled herself and quickly pulled on clothes before AJ stirred. What

they had had belonged to the night and it should stay there. When

they’d fallen asleep together, Yoshi had understood, as clear as if AJ had

whispered it in her ear, that this would be the extent of their romantic

relationship. It was not that they were sexually incompatible. It was

not that at all. There was just this sense that they had given each other

something they both needed and they might never need each other that

way again.

Yoshi was a little relieved.

• 24 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER TWO

Velvet circled the block around the postmodern brick building

that housed BlowÞ sh, the Mission District’s chic, urban

sushi restaurant. Passing one more Þ lled parking spot, she muttered

curses under her breath. With more vehicles on the streets than parking

places, San Francisco’s parking situation had gone from merely bad to

simply God-awful. She should just get rid of her beloved Celica, but

she couldn’t bring herself to part with it.

A true Los Angeleno, Velvet saw her car as far more than a

conveyance. It symbolized her freedom to up and leave whenever

she wanted. It reß ected her self-determination and independence.

She didn’t have to be at the mercy of cab drivers or the schedules and

limited routes of public transportation. She could come and go on her

own terms. Even after a decade away from her home city, Velvet wasn’t

willing to let all that go. She might not have the patience to circle the

block endlessly searching for an open space, but she most assuredly did

not have the patience to depend on her ability to ß ag down a cab.

She was just about ready concede defeat when she hooked a

parking space on her fourth time around the block. Walking west on

Mission Street, she spotted Jeff Conant sauntering her way. He cut a

dashing Þ gure with his trim, muscular body and fashionable business

suit. He was so grown-up.

When they met up at the corner, Velvet could see that Jeff was

practically glowing, a wide smile on his handsome face. The other

night at El Rio, the lights had been so low she’d barely gotten a look at

him. Now she could see him in all his glory. Although his once ß owing

locks had succumbed to male-pattern baldness, Jeff kept what was left

trimmed close to the scalp, and the style accented his features. His

• 25 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

white teeth were offset by a deep golden tan. The pudginess that had

plagued him in his twenties had given away to a gym-toned body. He

exuded conÞ dence.

They hugged, holding each other almost too long, perhaps giving

passersby the mistaken idea that they were a hetero couple.

“It’s so good to see you,” Velvet drawled in a perfect Valley Girl

twang. The speech pattern she’d been cursed with since growing up in

Southern California resurfaced in the company of Jeff, her parents, kids

from her old neighborhood, and people she’d known in high school.

“I know!” Jeff swooped her curvaceous body into his arms, easily

lifting her feet from the cement. He swung her around like she was a

little kid or they were replaying that ubiquitous image of the Times

Square, post–World War, civilian-kissing, returning solider.

Velvet was a little light-headed when he set her back down and

she clung to his broad shoulders for balance. Jeff slung an arm around

her waist and they ambled together, up the street and through the doors

of BlowÞ sh.

The restaurant was the type of place San Franciscans took their

New York friends to prove the West Coast had culture. Low-slung

wooden beams and hanging miniature lamps vied for attention with

two video displays showing Japanese anime, and prints from Asian sci-

Þ animation movies that graced the walls.

Their cheeks had barely graced the bench seat cushions when

Velvet, no longer capable of holding in all of her questions, burst

out with, “So, how’s life? Is it treating you well? How’s work? Life?

Love?”

“Ah, love. Despite your many complaints, I am still in love

with—” Jeff paused to let the waitress Þ ll their glasses with water

from a stainless steel pitcher. He took a drink, furtively watching

Velvet’s face as though monitoring potential expressions of emotion

or unspoken opinion.

She tried to keep her smile pleasant and her eyes projecting an

objective interest she did not feel.

Jeff repeated, “I am still in love with…my job at Frameline.” He

smiled deviously. “Seriously, I had no idea I could be treated this well

by a job. Frameline’s really the most amazing organization, and all the

staff—they’re just awesome.”

“I’m so glad, Jeff. You deserve it.” This time Velvet’s smile

• 26 •

BLIND LEAP

was genuine. “I love what you guys are doing this year with the free

community-center screenings. It’s such a great opportunity for people

to see the Þ lms. Every time I’ve gone to a screening it’s been packed

to the gills.”

“That’s great to hear. My assistant, Davina, has really taken off

with that project. She’s managing it so I don’t have to. You know, we

started holding the free screenings to increase interest in our home

DVDs.”

“You just launched those, didn’t you?”

Jeff nodded and they both glanced up as their waiter approached.

Young and hip, she sported a hummingbird tattoo on her right wrist and

eyebrows pierced with mismatching rings. She wore a white T-shirt

with BlowÞ sh’s smiley punk puffer-Þ sh logo plastered in the center and

exuded a disdain bred from the comforting knowledge that an endless

supply of restaurant patrons were clamoring for the chance to Þ ll her

tip jar.

Lowering her eyes from the girl to the laminated menu, Velvet

wondered when she’d become a stodgy old broad. Although this was

a lunch break and she would have to avoid slipping into an afternoon

coma, she ordered her old standby, a triple-dirty vodka martini. Jeff

chose a sake Bloody Mary. Bloody hell. In her head, Velvet heard the

adorable Brit actor Hugh Grant say the words, and pictured a scene in

About a Boy, but the phrase could just have easily come from any of

several hundred British Þ lms.

“Quit stalling and spill,” Jeff demanded. “Tell me about the girl

from the other night—Tucker? Have you turned cougar on me? She

looked a little young.”

“Yes, Mother, she’s ten years my junior.”

“Oh, my God. You’ve got a girl toy!”

Velvet smiled. Nobody got her quite like Jeff did. “Girls my age

just can’t keep up with me.”

“You mean lesbians your age are all settling down and having

kids, and that terriÞ es you.”

Velvet didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. He knew her better

than she knew herself. She had met Jeff when they were both eleven

years old. Velvet’s mother had made a play date with Annie Carroll, a

sweet towheaded girl from around the block with a slight overbite, a

smattering of freckles around her nose, and a scoliosis brace that all

• 27 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

made her, ironically, Velvet’s Þ rst female crush. Annie had a crush, too.

Hers was on Jeff. He had feathered blond bangs, piercing blue eyes, and

even more freckles. He wore a retainer that seemed to get lost every

time they ate lunch, but even then, Jeff was trendier than Velvet ever

could be, left to her own accord.

Fortunately, Jeff had taught Velvet everything he knew about style

and grace. The rest she gleaned from movies, glamour magazines, and

Sex in The City. For a few months in high school, they’d played at being

lovers, a word much too sophisticated to describe their futile attempt to

be teen sweethearts. Velvet was almost a member of the Conant family

by that time. She adored his parents, Charlie and Charlene, and knew

the family secrets.

As time went by, she and Jeff had danced in and out of each

other’s lives with jobs, lovers, and moves that sometimes stretched

their contact from daily to monthly. Still, they were close enough to

rarely see each other and yet feel deeply and permanently connected.

Every time they reunited, it was as though they’d never been apart; they

slipped right back into reading each other’s thoughts and completing

each other’s sentences. Though she hated to sound ß aky and what she

called “new-agey,” Velvet liked to think of them as soul mates. Very

queer soul mates.

“So,” Jeff continued, “you get them when they’re young and too

naïve to recognize one-night stands for what they are, an opiate to keep

them oblivious of the world around them until it’s too late.”

“Whoa. When did you become such a nihilist philosopher?”

Velvet swirled the skewered olives around her vodka and olive juice

concoction.

“It’s not nihilism, dear. And you’re avoiding the subject. Again.”

“I’m afraid the shock might kill you. She’s Yoshi’s assistant—”

“That’s hardly shocking, although I thought you weren’t going to

do that anymore.” It was a statement, not a question.

She punched him lightly. “That isn’t the shocking part, you jerk.

We’ve gotten kind of serious.”

“Really?” He narrowed his eyes at her, dubious. “DeÞ ne

serious.”

“I’ve been seeing her for a couple of months and I’m still not tired

of her.” Velvet raised her hand and bent her Þ ngers over one by one,

ticking off her main points. “She has not only spent the night, but she

does so regularly.”

• 28 •

BLIND LEAP

Jeff, well aware that Velvet generally sent her conquests packing as

soon as they Þ nished their sexual transaction, looked fairly impressed.

“And…” Here came the real shocker. “Since our Þ rst week

together I haven’t slept with anyone else.”

“You’re having a monogamous patch?” His mouth was attracting

ß ies. “God, Velvet, that is serious.” He shook his head as if he still

didn’t believe what he had heard. “Velvet Erickson has a girlfriend?

Go Þ gure.”

“I know. It’s the weirdest thing. It’s not like I ever said I’d be

exclusive, but it’s just worked out that way so far. I haven’t wanted to

be with anyone else.”

“Are you feeling well?” he joked.

Velvet bit one of the olives off its toothpick, took a drink, and

swilled it around in her mouth like a wine taster, allowing the bouquet

to settle on her taste buds. “I’m not sick. I feel as horny as ever. I just

always seem to want to express it with her.”

“You haven’t gotten bored?” She knew he asked not because he

equated monogamy with boredom, but because he knew she did.

“We haven’t run out of positions.” Velvet grinned.

Jeff plugged his ears with well-aimed foreÞ ngers. “Blah blah…”

Then he got serious. “Well, tell me about her. If she’s going to be my

sister-in-law, I might as well hear all the dirt.”

“Are you ready yet?” Their waitress was back.

Velvet still hadn’t even glanced at the menu. She didn’t need

to. She knew it by heart. She ordered for both of them. A handful of

signature rolls including her all-time favorite, the Ménage à Trois,

which combined salmon, salmon skin, ikura, and tobiko. When the girl

left with their order, Velvet attempted to adequately describe Tucker

Shade.

“She’s from Idaho, of all places. She’s kind of a weird farm girl

and she’s got some emotional baggage—”

“Don’t they all?”

“But I’m, like, totally smitten. She’s whip smart, a little naïve…”

“I know how you like that.” Jeff smirked.

She acknowledged him with a smile. Ticking off the high and

low points, she regaled him with colorful stories of her last couple

of months: meeting Tucker, Yoshi’s failing eyesight, being accused

of murdering her nemesis Rosemary Finney, the headway she was

making with her shrink, and the investigation she was doing for the San

• 29 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Francisco Chronicle into an ex-gay camp from which two kids had run

away. Her contention so far was that the kids were still in the Bay Area,

probably living on the streets in the Haight-Ashbury neighborhood.

Their rolls arrived. Velvet Þ nished off her martini and dug in.

Between bites, she continued bringing Jeff up to date. There was the

latest celebrity gossip, news from back home, even those cute kitty

shoes she got at Torrid last week. When they were done with the rolls

Jeff insisted they split an Angkor Wat for dessert.

One bite of the banana, rum, and ice cream confection and Velvet

pleaded her case: “I’m way too full to eat any more. So, what’s new in

your life?”

In between bites, Jeff answered, “I have to say, I’m really looking

forward to next year’s Þ lm festival. It’s going to be great.”

“Really? You can tell already?”

“Yes. I’ve screened some of the early submissions, and I have to

say, if they continue in this vein, our program director is going to have

a hell of a time picking this season’s lineup.”

“Do tell.” Velvet, a Þ lm buff herself, was intrigued.

“Oh no, you don’t.” Jeff wagged a Þ nger at her. “I’m not going to

be your source inside Frameline so you can break the news. You’ll have

to wait for the program like everyone else.”

Velvet pouted.

It did not melt his resolve. He changed topics. “Tyrone and I are

still together. It’s going well, even though we do have our ups and

downs.” He paused, looking sideways at nothing in particular. Velvet

wondered if he was deciding exactly what not to tell her and how much

to disclose.

Jeff had two obsessions, his new job and Tyrone Hill. The model

turned actor had enchanted Jeff, the auteur, so much he seemed

oblivious to the drama Tyrone brought to every situation. A clothing

designer by trade, Jeff had fallen into the world of Þ lmmaking—as he

seemed to fall into a lot of things in his life while Velvet worked her ass

off for hers—after he designed all the costumes for an independent gay

Þ lm. Being on the set, Þ tting costumes and designing on the ß y, Jeff fell

in love, both with Þ lm and the star, Tyrone Hill.

Tyrone’s roots in San Francisco’s indie Þ lm world were deep, and

by hanging out with him and his friends, Jeff had absorbed the ins and

outs of new queer cinema. Within a year he’d sold off his haute couture

• 30 •

BLIND LEAP

line and used the proceeds to fund his move into gay Þ lmmaking. First

Jeff picked up a bulky and antiquated old-school camera from the Bay

Area Video Coalition, a guerrilla nonproÞ t organization that trained San

Francisco’s indie Þ lmmakers in production methods. Later, as his skills

grew, he purchased new equipment and began exploring the medium

through collaborations with other Þ lmmakers and the producer Chase

Devlin.

After his Þ rst Þ lm, Loving Randall, went to festivals across the

country and sold out to audiences at Frameline, Jeff found his name

started to open doors. When the executive director position came up at

Frameline, the country’s largest Þ lm festival for LGBT Þ lms, he applied

immediately and was delighted when they picked him for the job.

“But all couples do—at least those that stay together more than a

few days. Once you get past the honeymoon period with Tucker, you’ll

see what it’s like.”

Velvet hadn’t thought of her relationship as being in a short-lived

phase that would soon be superseded by routine and compromise. The

idea disturbed her.

“What’s Tyrone doing now?” she asked.

“Well, he hasn’t really worked for a while. He thought he had a

gig in New York, so he ß ew out there for a couple of weeks, but he had

to come back because it fell through. He’s mostly just meeting with

people, going on auditions and stuff.”

“You don’t sound happy about that. Is something wrong?”

“No, no. It’s just really tough being an actor, you know. He’s

having a difÞ cult time with all the rejection.”

Velvet thought the answer was bullshit, but she played it cool. She

didn’t want to drive Jeff away after having just reconnected. Not being

the kind of woman to hold her tongue, she had made no secret of her

dislike for Tyrone and her opinion that Jeff deserved something better.

The Þ rst inkling she’d had about Tyrone’s problems was at a cocktail

party in honor of Loving Randall.

Jeff’s closest friends and new Þ lm buddies converged on the

Foreign Cinema restaurant in the Mission District, gathering to toast

Pinot Noir and imagine the future of queer cinema. The Foreign Cinema

offered French cuisine in a theater setting. Loving Randall played in a

continuous loop on the restaurant’s large movie screen. When glasses

began to run dry, Tyrone had volunteered to go out for more wine.

• 31 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Hours later when he still had not returned, the party Þ zzled out. By

the time Velvet left for home, Jeff was still making excuses his guests

didn’t believe.

A few months later, Velvet had happened upon Jeff and Tyrone at

The Café. While she and Jeff caught up, Tyrone made his boredom clear

by Þ dgeting and rolling his eyes. Clearly he thought that a conversation

that was not about him wasn’t worth listening to. He excused himself

to go to the restroom, and when he hadn’t returned thirty minutes later,

Jeff went looking for him. Velvet thought the boy toy was probably in

the men’s room getting high. But, as it turned out, instead of blowing

smoke, Tyrone was blowing something else, or more precisely, someone

else.

Since then Velvet had turned down a number of offers to get

together with Jeff and Tyrone for social events. She always cited her

workload but the truth was, she didn’t relish the idea of spending time

with Tyrone, or worse, listening to Jeff ramble on about what a great

guy his partner was. But she loved Jeff dearly, and when he insisted that

he and Tyrone were in love and begged her not to judge him harshly or

interfere in their relationship, she had decided to follow the old adage:

If you can’t say something nice, don’t say anything at all. All the same,

she’d been relieved when Jeff mentioned Tyrone would not be joining

them for their lunch date at BlowÞ sh.

Steering toward a less personal topic, she asked, “What are your

plans for Thanksgiving? Are you going down to L.A.?”

“Maybe next year. This year we’re going to a friend’s. How about

you?”

“Tucker claims to know how to cook. I’m putting her to the test.”

She glanced at her watch. “Damn. I hate to say this but I have to get

back to work.”

“I know, me too. But it’s been so great to see you again.”

They paid the check, embraced, and promised to get together

soon. Outside, they found that gray storm clouds had drifted in from

the ocean and were snacking on the midday sun.

As Jeff walked Velvet back to her car, he asked, “Vel, have you

ever met Chase Devlin?”

“Your production partner?” Velvet recalled that Devlin and Jeff

were currently working on a new, as yet unannounced, Þ lm. “No,

why?”

• 32 •

BLIND LEAP

“Just curious. I thought you might have run into him some time.”

There was a slight quaver in his voice.

Velvet searched his face. His features suddenly seemed darker

than they had earlier. The glow she’d seen earlier was gone, or was it

just the change in the outdoor lighting?

Trying to lighten the mood, she teased, “You’re not trying to set

me up with a boy again, are you?”

Jeff humored her with a smile. It brought some light back to his

face. “God, no. It’s nothing. We’ll talk more later.”

“Okay, text me to set up lunch sometime between now and

Thanksgiving. Cool?” Velvet was suddenly melancholy about their

parting, not entirely trusting that they would catch up again as soon as

she hoped.

They hugged one last time and whispered into each other’s ears

like they had since they were thirteen.

“Love you.”

“Back at you.”

Getting in her car, Velvet teared up. It had been way too long

since they had last talked. She promised herself that she wouldn’t let

as much time go by without seeing Jeff. Despite her Þ rm intentions, as

she pulled away from the curb and watched him grow smaller in her

rearview mirror, she felt disheartened.

She had no idea that her unease was a premonition of terrible

things to come.

• 33 •

• 34 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER THREE

December 18

Golden Gate Bridge

Yoshi was no stranger to heartache. Jeff Conant was just the

latest in a trail of loss that stretched back to her childhood. As

she waited for Velvet to return from her sorrowful walk on the bridge,

she thought, At least Velvet knows the person lost to her.

Yoshi could barely remember her mother. The face she imagined

when she thought of her was not her mother’s actual face; it was an

invention, Yoshi’s guess at what her mother might have looked like.

She did not know for sure. She recalled her mother’s smell, the touch of

her hand, the sweet, soothing sound of her singing Japanese lullabies.

But even though she had her sight as a child, she could not conjure up

a memory of her mother’s face.

Her father had not been the kind of man to capture his wife’s beauty

with a camera. He had expected her to be there in their home when

he wanted to see her face. Nanako was only twenty-four. Too young

for cancer, she had never had a mammogram. By the time they made

their diagnosis it was too late. The cancer had already metastasized

and spread throughout her body. She was gone six months later. In his

grief, Yoshi’s father could not even bear to hear her name, and he cut

off contact with their extended family back in Japan.

It was three years now since a stranger had stolen Hiroki

Yakamota’s life, and Yoshi still hadn’t recovered, not really. A

consummate professional, she had been careful to keep her emotional

wounds well hidden. It did no one any good to know the depth of the

fear that had stalked her ever since Hiroki lost his battle with a six-inch

• 35 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

blade; her friends and coworkers would not understand her anxiety.

They would assume that her job put her in proximity to the kind of

perpetrator who had stolen her father’s life, and therefore brought up

the horror of her loss. But that was not it. Not at all.

Yoshi feared that without someone like Hiroki in her life, she

would not longer function when the last light in her eyes faded and

she was plunged into an eternal darkness. Her father had been her

rock, her best friend. He had also been her caregiver when she needed

one, and her cheering section when she had doubts. He had been

her reason for working hard, the reason she was even in this Þ eld

of private investigating. That fate would take him from her as well,

even though it was twenty-Þ ve years after the death of her mother,

seemed anything but fair. And now that she had lost both Hiroki and

her eyesight, she wondered if it was time to admit defeat and hang up

her PI credentials.

The sound of footsteps interrupted her thoughts and the driver’s

side door cracked open, letting in the cold and humid winds of San

Francisco’s December. Without a word, Velvet slid into the Celica.

Yoshi detected the scent of salt water. It was probably a combination

of tears and the coastal breeze pregnant with seawater molecules. She

covered Velvet’s hand with her own and did not interrupt the silence by

verbalizing her sympathy. Velvet’s skin was chilled from the elements.

“Why?” Velvet demanded, as though Death hovered nearby,

willing to give up his secrets when properly queried.

“I’m sorry,” Yoshi said, knowing it was not enough.

She squeezed Velvet’s hand before releasing it like one of the

rehabilitated birds of prey that wildlife specialists regularly set free from

the hills above the Golden Gate Bridge. She imagined hawks soaring

over the bridge and the ocean. Circling on once-broken wings, they

offered hope that Velvet would recover, too. Her emotional wounds

would heal and she would ß y again. But it would take time.

As Velvet accelerated rapidly away from the parking area, the

G-force pressed Yoshi hard against the back of her seat and gave her

stomach the sensation of roller-coaster rides. She imagined Velvet’s

foot slammed on the gas pedal, pressing the lever until it kissed the

ß oorboards.

Yoshi gripped the door handle. She understood Velvet’s need for

acceleration, and she knew that when Þ rst exiting the scenic turnout a

driver had the advantage of an extra lane. But this wouldn’t last long;

• 36 •

BLIND LEAP

in only four hundred feet it turned into an exit ramp for Sausalito. She

mufß ed her concern; it seemed unwise to utter a panicky sound when

Velvet would need all her concentration to keep them on the road.

Given the steep incline leading to the Waldo Tunnel, which linked

them to the rest of Marin County, revving the Celica up to speed in the

short distance was a tremendous feat. Leaning forward in her seat as

though her weight would propel the vehicle forward, Velvet coaxed the

car to 45 m.p.h. and, just as she was running out of pavement, swerved

sharply into the freeway slow lane. A horn blared behind them as an

irate driver was forced to reduce his speed.

“Fuck you, too,” Velvet yelled, releasing her pent-up emotions by

pounding on her own horn. It echoed off the walls of the tunnel and

elicited responses from other drivers.

She glanced sideways and saw Yoshi tighten her grip on the door

handle. For a split second, Velvet worried that inertia would propel

her friend over the emergency brake and she would slam into Velvet,

making her swerve into the path of a big rig, and they would both die.

But Yoshi was clinging to the door frame like she had the same idea in

her head, too.

“He’s gone,” Velvet said. “Relax. We’re Þ ne.”

Yoshi let her relief out in an exaggerated sigh and released the

handle.

“Why couldn’t he have been the one to jump?” Velvet asked, not

expecting an answer.

Yoshi did not try to give her one.

v

International maritime law dictated that wherever a ß oater Þ rst

touched land, that would be the jurisdiction responsible for the case. In

most Golden Gate suicides, the Coast Guard pulled the body from the

water and hauled the victim to Fort Baker. This meant that the Marin

County coroner’s ofÞ ce was assigned the unenviable task of identifying

jumpers, notifying family members, and performing the autopsies.

Marin County doesn’t have a morgue. They contract out with a funeral

home to hold the deceased and subcontract a pathologist to perform

autopsies on site, next to the embalming room.

Velvet pulled into the shining white gravel lot of the Russell and

Gooch Funeral Chapel in the town of Mill Valley. She parked by the

• 37 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

side of the building. It was not nearly as creepy as she remembered it

from a late-night visit during her research for the bridge suicide piece.

On that occasion, she’d been summoned to the Fort Baker beach, where

she’d joined Guardsmen holding silent vigil over the Golden Gate

Bridge’s latest victim. The body was transported to the funeral home

in a Mercedes station wagon instead of a hearse, a fact that for some

reason had dismayed Velvet. She’d watched the gurney being loaded

into the back, acutely conscious of the lack of ceremony. Somehow the

routine nature of the removal seemed an ignominious end for someone

who’d chosen to make a dramatic departure from life.

The funeral home had given Velvet the creeps that night. In the

ethereal light of dusk, hulking oak trees hovered threateningly overhead.

Their branches had reached out like hands to grab her under the pale

light of a half-moon. They quavered in the breeze and sent shadows

scurrying across the gravel. She had wanted to follow them, running

away from the eerie building.

Now, in the light of day and with Yoshi by her side, the place

didn’t seem nearly as dark and foreboding as it was in her memories

or during the nightmares that plagued her for months after writing the

bridge series. Back then, she had gotten access to an actual bridge

autopsy. Her presence had only been tolerated because she had not

known the victim and Marin County supervisors had wanted her there.

They did not appreciate that their county was the Þ nal destination for

Golden Gate jumpers and wanted her to share the gruesome details with

Chronicle readers so the good citizens of the San Francisco Bay Area

would understand that the bridge did not promise an easy death. In fact,

quite the opposite. It was like one of those “scared straight” programs

where kids visit morgues to see the bodies of people killed by drunk

drivers.

Velvet had arranged today’s meeting with the Marin County

medical examiner so that she could verify the cause of Jeff’s death. She

still couldn’t quite believe he had killed himself. She needed an expert

to tell her there was no doubt.

“Are you sure you want to come?” she asked Yoshi.

“I think I should hear the facts, also.”

Velvet tucked her tiny digital voice recorder in her bag, stepped

out of the Celica, and slung the brightly hued satchel over her shoulder.

She waited for Yoshi to get out on the other side of the car and they

walked together around to the front of the building. It took both of

• 38 •

BLIND LEAP

them to force the heavy ornately carved wooden door open. Inside, the

funeral home was as quiet as a church.

Velvet pressed a button on the wall next to a leather love seat

whose duplicate graced the opposite wall like a mirror image. Although

the call button elicited no discernable noise, she assured herself that it

would summon the funeral director and she sat down next to Yoshi to

wait. A satin burgundy curtain covered the doorway into the funeral

home proper and helped mufß e sounds from the other rooms.

It had taken investigators from the Marin County coroner’s ofÞ ce

several days to conclusively identify Jeff’s body. It came into the morgue

without identiÞ cation and they hadn’t had much to go on. Velvet knew

the standard protocol was for an investigator to meet with California

Highway Patrol ofÞ cers and compare notes. The length of time Jeff had

been in the water might have complicated things. Although the CHP

had found his vehicle in the Vista lot, that had been several weeks prior

and might not have come to mind instantly. Eventually the investigator

had compared notes with the SFPD and made the connection.

The remains of jumpers were often in a condition that made

visual identiÞ cation difÞ cult. Jeff’s driver’s license descriptors would

have been compared those with the unidentiÞ ed body, but medical

examiners also liked to have identiÞ cations conÞ rmed in person by a

family member. None of Jeff’s lived nearby, and they would not ask

his parents to come up from L.A. until they were all but certain the

body was his. He didn’t have any tattoos or piercings that could have

enabled a positive identiÞ cation.

Instead the photograph of Jeff’s swollen body had been shown

to various people who knew him well. Velvet, Tyrone Hill, and Jeff’s

Frameline coworkers had all conÞ rmed his identity. The investigator

then obtained a DNA sample for comparison. Tyrone had already

provided San Francisco detectives with Jeff’s toothbrush and strands

of hair from his comb. Velvet had the impression from the cop who’d

shown her the photograph that they were just working their way through

the formalities, as they did with every suicide. She’d pressed him for

more information and he said there was nothing to suggest foul play.

The state of Jeff’s apartment aroused no suspicions, and the lack of a

suicide note was no big deal. Some people never left one.

Velvet had trouble believing Jeff would have signed out without

telling anyone why. The man made movies. Surely an unscripted exit

would have been too untidy for his liking.

• 39 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Her reverie was interrupted when a tall, brooding man pushed

aside the burgundy curtain and stepped toward her with his hand

outstretched. “May I help you?”

Velvet stood and shook the proffered palm. “We’re here to see

Pamela Carter. She’s expecting us.”

The man nodded solemnly. “Right this way.”

He held the drape open while Velvet and Yoshi ducked under, then

he stepped around them and led them down the hallway. At Þ rst, Velvet

thought he was leading them to the morgue room, where rows of white

crosses and Stars of David hung from the wall like decorations. Instead,

he directed them to a small vestibule.

“Dr. Carter will be right with you,” he intoned before disappearing

behind another curtain.

Velvet couldn’t help but think about the last time she’d been here.

The memory started like a photograph, a still image of a naked man

stretched across the metal table. The smell was unforgettable, an aroma

of rotting meat mixed with soggy, mildewed clothing and the antiseptic

scent of hospitals.

The medical examiner had made the Y incision with her whirling

saw and Velvet had thought she was going to faint. Or throw up. There

was blood everywhere. Dr. Carter explained that a broken rib had

punctured the heart and caused massive internal bleeding. When she

noticed Velvet gulping like a Þ sh, she politely provided a trash can for

her to throw up into. Velvet closed her eyes, trying to neutralize the

memory. The man on the slab suddenly had Jeff’s face. He stared up at

her with big eyes and mouthed something that looked like, “Help me.”

The ME yanked her hand from his chest and triumphantly hoisted his

still-beating heart.

Velvet swayed on her feet, unable to switch off her imagination.

Yoshi caught her before she fainted.

Yoshi was so strong. And not just physically. But Velvet wasn’t,

not today.

“I can’t do this,” she said. “I thought I could, but—”

“It’s all right,” Yoshi assured her. “This is why I came with you.

I am capable of managing the interview alone. Would you like to meet

me back at the car?”

“Yes,” Velvet said before ß eeing from the room.

v

• 40 •

BLIND LEAP

“Hello?” The woman spoke in a hushed tone appropriate for the

funeral home environment. “Oh, I’m sorry, I was expecting Velvet

Erickson.” She strode briskly into the room and lifted Yoshi’s hand.

“Pamela Carter, Marin County Medical Examiner.”

Yoshi could feel the rough wrinkles and elevated veins on the back

of the woman’s hand. They bore evidence of the stress of a long career

steeped in death and tragedy. With her palm against Carter’s, she also

felt a smooth dustiness that was probably talcum powder from inside

latex gloves. Tools of the trade.

“Velvet needed some air,” she explained. “She requested that we

meet without her. I am her friend, Yoshi Yakamota. Also, I am a private

investigator.”

“Have you been hired by Mr. Conant’s family?”

“No. This is a personal matter. Jeff was a friend of mine, also.”

“My condolences to both of you,” Dr. Carter said. “I know this is

difÞ cult.”

“Yes. Thank you.” Yoshi appreciated the ME’s concern. The

woman sounded sincere.

“How can I help you?”

“Velvet is having difÞ culty accepting suicide,” Yoshi conÞ ded.

“She was wondering if there was anything out of the ordinary about

his autopsy.”

“Does she have reason to suspect foul play?” Carter asked.

“Not anything signiÞ cant. There was no suicide note, and Jeff

did not seem the type to have ended his own life.” Yoshi paused. “I

recognize that disbelief is quite usual for friends and family. You must

hear these sentiments expressed often.”

“Yes.” Carter acknowledged. “Suicide is hard for surviving family

and friends to accept. Most can’t believe that their loved one was so

desperate yet didn’t reach out.”

“Velvet has always had sharp instincts,” Yoshi said. “If she is

concerned, I’ve learned to listen. So I would appreciate anything you

can tell me, Dr. Carter.”

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“In my profession, I am quite accustomed to the frankness of

autopsy reports.”

“All right. It’s not pretty. Death by bridge never is.”

“I understand.” Yoshi braced herself.

“The good news is that it looks like he died on impact.”

• 41 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Velvet would be relieved. Yoshi veriÞ ed, “COD was multiple

blunt-force trauma?”

“That’s right. The lung weight and blood strontium comparison

appears to rule out drowning. The absence of mucus bubbles around the

mouth and nose further suggest the subject did not survive impact.”

Yoshi nodded. It was something of a relief to know he had not

suffered further after the fall. “Anything else?”

“Do you want me to walk you through it?” Carter waved something

that sent a small breeze toward Yoshi.

A Þ le folder, Yoshi surmised. The autopsy results. “Please.”

Carter opened the Þ le.

“There was extensive bruising, signs of massive trauma, and

several compound fractures. A purple discoloration covered the

abdomen and midsection. The third and fourth left ribs were fractured

by the impact and propelled through vital organs. Aside from the usual

lacerations associated with this kind of death, his organs were healthy.

The subject’s sternum, skull, clavicle, and pelvic bones splintered and

lumbar disks three, four, and Þ ve ruptured.”

The list sounded typical for the effects of a human body impacting

the San Francisco Bay at eighty miles an hour.

“Those injuries are consistent with a fall from two hundred Þ fty

feet,” Carter shared her conclusions. “What is atypical is the jagged

traumatic amputation of the right hand just below the wrist, and the

shattered bones of the proximal and distal rows that all appear to be

postmortem injuries. From the decomposition and the rate of formation

of adipocere, I feel conÞ dent in stating that something prevented the

body from completing the typical cycle of sinking to lower, cooler

depths. This DB remained in more shallow waters.”

Yoshi frowned. “So what does that mean?”

“I believe your friend’s body was hung up on something that kept

him ß oating near the surface for seven to fourteen days. It seems likely

that when his hand was severed, it freed his body from whatever he’d

been entangled in.”

“I see.”

“Additional postmortem scrapes and scratches most likely

occurred when emergency personnel recovered the body. Subject was

HIV negative. The tox screen came back clean.”

Yoshi took a moment to process the information. “Was there

anything at all that could suggest this wasn’t a suicide?”

• 42 •

BLIND LEAP

“Being in the water so long means most trace evidence washes

away. I did look for unusual wounds or evidence that might indicate

whether this was an accidental fall or homicide. The injuries sustained,

although they could have originated from some other force, were

consistent with a bridge suicide. So, at this point suicide is my ofÞ cial

conclusion. If there were other indications of foul play I might

reconsider. But so far the evidence indicates your friend jumped off

the bridge. In my opinion, no one does that unless they intend to kill

themselves.”

Yoshi found the ME’s logic convincing, but would Velvet? “I recall

reading a statistic, something akin to eighty-Þ ve percent of Golden Gate

Bridge suicides have had previous attempts. I understand that there was

no evidence that Jeff…”

Pamela Carter shufß ed through the report again. “No, you’re right,

neither my physical examination nor the background investigation

found any indication of previous attempts. Still, we get a fair number

of newbies.”

Yoshi suspected that despite the compelling evidence of suicide,

Velvet would still be dissatisÞ ed. Jeff was her oldest friend, after all,

and Yoshi sensed Velvet needed to understand what led to his untimely

death. She wanted to believe he had been a victim of something more

than a secret suicidal impulse.

“Oh, there was one odd discovery,” Carter said.

“What’s that?”

“We found some unidentiÞ ed debris in his lungs, with traces of

sodium tripolyphosphate.”

“That hardly seems unusual.” Yoshi wrinkled her brow. Jeff had

probably inhaled water before he died. “Where would the chemicals

have come from if he died on contact?”

“It sounds more peculiar than it is. With bridge suicides we have

actually found much stranger things. Sodium tripolyphosphate is used

in dishwashing detergents. It gets into the storm drains somewhere

around the bay and works its way into the bay itself. There was likely

a pocket of the chemicals that your friend may have ß oated through or

bobbed along with.”

“Interesting.” Yoshi was not sure what else to say.

“But not helpful,” Carter concluded. “Because it does nothing to

prove it was not suicide.”

Yoshi nodded. She thanked Carter for her time and slowly made her

• 43 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

way out of the mortuary. She understood the ME’s quandary. Without

evidence of foul play, or pressure from the police to rule Jeff’s death

suspicious, or some injury inconsistent with a fall from the bridge, there

was no reason to assume anything but another tragic suicide.

But Yoshi also knew that when Carter said “consistent with a

bridge suicide,” that did not rule out all other possibilities. Of course, it

was not likely that Jeff had been dead before he went over the bridge. If

blood had not been pumping through his veins at the time of the fall, you

would expect the injuries to be different. All in all, Yoshi thought as she

left the building, Jeff’s death was probably no more complicated and

painful than it appeared to be: the unexpected suicide of their friend.

• 44 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER FOUR

Sighing, Yoshi pressed the buzzer again. She should have made

the cab wait until she was inside the door. A vehicle was in the

driveway but no one was answering her announcement. Maybe Velvet

had walked to the nearby market. It didn’t sound likely, but Yoshi

decided she would sit on the steps and wait for a while just in case. She

turned her back to the door and had just slid into a seated position when

she heard footsteps darting along the hardwood-ß oored hallway. She

had never known Velvet to be so light on her feet.

The door pulled open and the sweet aroma of sex and perfume

wafted through the screen door.

Someone inhaled sharply. “Oh, Yoshi, I…I…” Tucker Shade

stammered. “I didn’t expect you.”

Yoshi could detect the embarrassment in Tucker’s voice. Even

though Yoshi was well aware of her employee’s sexual entanglement

with Velvet, sometimes Tucker acted like she was still in the dark. Her

young protégé’s shyness was kind of cute, but Yoshi could not help

wonder why Tucker reacted nervously whenever she was nearby.

The rustling of fabric suggested Tucker was hurriedly tucking in

her shirt and smoothing out the wrinkles of clothes that had probably

been recently crumpled on the ß oor. No wonder Velvet had not rushed

to the door. She was probably still getting dressed.

Yoshi swallowed a chuckle. “Good evening, Tucker, is Velvet

there?”

“Uh, yeah.”

“Are you going to invite me in? Or do I have to wait out here on

the steps all night?”

• 45 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Oh, God, I’m sorry. Of course.” Tucker helped Yoshi to her feet,

held the door for her, and then followed behind her.

Yoshi trailed her hand lightly along the wall, locating the arched

entrance to the living room.

Tucker paused at the closed bedroom door across the hall, cracked

it open, and called softly, “Velvet? It’s Yoshi.”

Yoshi heard her friend Velvet’s unmistakable voice purr in

response, “I’ll be right there.”

Yoshi was almost to the couch when Tucker darted past her and

returned pillows that had been discarded during the lovers’ recent tryst.

Yoshi caught herself wondering where else the two had consummated

their relationship. Was Tucker Shade a kitchen table kind of girl?

The bedroom door open and Velvet waltzed into the room in a

rustle of ß owing garments. When she planted a kiss on Yoshi’s cheek,

she smelled of mint, cocoa butter, and sandalwood.

“What brings you by?” She sat down on the couch so close to

Yoshi that their thighs touched.

“There’s a board meeting of the Golden Gate Bridge, Highway

and Transportation District this evening.”

“And?”

“It’s a special public meeting for members of the public to make

comments about the possibility of a suicide barrier. Or maybe it’s just

about the possibility of starting a study to analyze the feasibility of

thinking about a suicide barrier,” Yoshi joked. “You know bureaucracies.

I thought you might want to go with me.”

Velvet was quiet for a moment, as though considering the idea.

Then Yoshi heard the faint jingling of dangling earrings as Velvet shook

her head. “No, I don’t think so. Thanks anyway.”

“I’m sorry, did that sound like a request? I meant to say that I

am here to accompany you to the meeting and I am quite willing to

drag you kicking and screaming if that is what is required. You simply

must address what happened, Velvet. I think this meeting is the perfect

environment to allow you to feel like you are making an effort to change

the situation.”

“Why? It’s not like that’ll bring Jeff back.”

“No, but it might prevent other people from meeting his fate.”

“I don’t care about other people,” Velvet offered as a weak

defense.

Yoshi slid her arm across the back of the couch and wrapped it

• 46 •

BLIND LEAP

around Velvet’s neck, gently coaxing Velvet toward her. Velvet laid her

head on Yoshi’s shoulder and wept. Yoshi stroked her hair.

Tucker came into the room and set drink glasses on the coffee

table. She didn’t say anything. Yoshi imagined the younger woman

glaring at her and wondered what gave her that impression.

“What did you say?” Tucker demanded. “She was doing Þ ne until

you showed up. Here I am working hard to keep her mind off…things,

and you’re here for two minutes and she’s crying?”

Yoshi was surprised by Tucker’s accusation and the tone of her

voice. As her boss, Yoshi had never heard Tucker speak that way

before.

Velvet wiped her eyes and snifß ed. “It’s okay,” she assured Tucker

with a forced lightheartedness Yoshi was familiar with.

Yoshi shook her head. “Tucker, you do realize that it is acceptable—

even necessary—for people to grieve? Velvet has every right to cry.”

Tucker ß opped down on the La-Z-Boy recliner. “I know,” she said

contritely. “It just tears me apart seeing my honey suffering like this.”

“That is one reason why it might actually be wise for just Velvet

and I to go to the meeting.”

“She’s probably right, honey,” Velvet said to Tucker. “It might be

nice for you to have a break from taking care of me. And I don’t know

that I’ll be able to speak, but I would kind of like to see what they say

at this meeting.”

“Fine.” Tucker’s voice implied a pout. “Just go.”

If Velvet hadn’t made a feeble attempt at a chuckle, Yoshi would

not have realized Tucker was teasing by acting offended.

“If Velvet comes home miserable,” Tucker announced, “I’m going

to blame you.” She directed the comment at Yoshi and laughed at the

end as though the threat was just a joke.

Yoshi wondered how it was that being around Velvet gave Tucker

the self-conÞ dence to speak her mind so directly, when at work she

acted shy, nervous, and unsure of herself. Maybe she was showing off

in front of Velvet, like a little boy acting tough for Mommy’s friends.

v

Every bridge suicide seemed to inspire renewed demands for the

construction of a barrier along Golden Gate’s pedestrian walkway that

would prevent future suicides. The debate had been simmering since

• 47 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

1937. Over the years, there had been seven attempts to design a structure

that would quell the Golden Gate Bridge Highway and Transportation

District board’s concerns. Board members had argued for decades that a

suicide barrier would be too expensive, unsightly, or ineffective. Their

detractors accused the board of valuing aesthetics over human life and

insisting on a standard no design could guarantee: one hundred percent

effectiveness. Before the board would even consider a barrier, they

required a two-year feasibility study likely to cost millions of dollars.

The board had repeatedly said that they would not divert bridge funds

for such a study, effectively stymieing any progress.

In response to renewed public pressure to reconsider their decision

against the barrier, the GGBHTD board had reluctantly scheduled

several public meetings to hear comments. The Þ rst of these was taking

place in the Golden Gate Bridge Administration Building. The building

sat at the periphery of San Francisco, right at the very brink, on a cliff

top overlooking the Golden Gate where the ocean met the Bay, mere

yards from the Golden Gate Bridge Toll Plaza.

Yoshi and Velvet found a couple of seats near the front of the

boardroom and listened to various speakers discuss actual case histories

and research statistics.

After someone spoke about the Kevin Hines case, that of a

nineteen-year-old jump survivor who realized he didn’t truly want to

die, Yoshi heard the noise of a chair pushed back.

“I’m Jenni Olsen,” a woman said. “You might be familiar with my

Þ lm The Joy of Life?”

From Velvet, Yoshi knew that Jenni Olsen was an “institution” in

San Francisco LGBT Þ lm circles. A former Frameline employee, the

soft butch white woman had made a Þ lm that helped renew the debate

about the Golden Gate Bridge suicide prevention barrier.

Olsen offered to set up a private screening of her Þ lm or provide

DVD screeners for the Bridge Authority board members to view. They

declined the offer.

Not to be daunted, she continued, “I made this Þ lm in part as a

tribute to my friend Mark Finch, who committed suicide on the bridge

twelve years ago. Mark was a lot like the most recent victim, Jeff

Conant. In fact, they both held leadership positions at the LGBT Þ lm

festival organization, Frameline. They both died on rainy nights and

no one saw either of them jump. Mark left his leather briefcase leaning

against the pedestrian railing, but his body was not found for six weeks.

• 48 •

BLIND LEAP

His family and friends had to wait six agonizing weeks, six weeks of

hoping he had run away or been abducted, or…” Her voice cracked

and trailed off. “Mark was my friend, but he was so much more than

that. He was a pioneer, the Þ rst person to organize a gay and lesbian

Þ lm festival. He developed the format every LGBT Þ lm festival uses

today.”

Yoshi had not known Mark Finch, but she was stunned by how

similar his story was to Jeff Conant’s. She knew Velvet shared her sense

of déjà vu; she could feel her Þ dgeting nervously and could sense the

tension radiating from her body. Yoshi thought it would help Velvet to

stand and bear witness to her story, her loss, but she also knew it would

be a difÞ cult thing for her to do. Just when Velvet seemed about to

stand and speak, a deep baritone voice beat her to it.

Velvet let her plentiful ass sink back onto the uncomfortable chair

as a barrel-chested, bearded man cleared his throat theatrically and

addressed the board. He wore dark blue jeans and a navy suit jacket

over a light blue dress shirt with no tie.

“My name is James Harden. I’m also a documentary Þ lmmaker.”

He glanced toward the back of the room.

Velvet followed his gaze and was surprised to catch sight of a black

woman with long braids hoisting a large Þ lm camera to her shoulder.

“Over the last year, I’ve been Þ lming the Golden Gate Bridge.

And I’ve…” Harden shufß ed nervously. “I’ve captured more than a

dozen suicides on tape.”

A moment of silence passed as his statement was processed, and

then chaos erupted. It seemed as every person in the room was speaking

at the same time and they were all asking, “What?” and “How?” and

“Why didn’t you step in to stop this?”

The board’s director, Eric Wideman, slammed something hard

against the long table, banging it like a gavel and shouting “Order” as

though he were a judge. When the noise Þ nally lowered to a murmur,

Wideman—who, Velvet noted, wasn’t as broad as his name might

suggest—said, “Excuse me, sir, but that sounds like an issue better

addressed with us in a private venue rather than this public hearing.”

“No!” The whole audience seemed to respond with one loud

voice.

“With all due respect,” Harden replied, “my project is completely

aboveboard. I was issued a permit from the Golden Gate National

Recreation Area to install four remote digital movie cameras and

• 49 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

download images for a documentary Þ lm. Having unexpectedly borne

witness to these tragic events, I feel I must speak out on behalf of the

victims and add my own voice to those here tonight,” Harden swept his

arm around to indicate those gathered in the room, “in asking you to

install a barrier and end this tragic loss of life.”

The board members shifted nervously in their seats. Director

Wideman’s face turned a darker shade of red. The man to his right

turned sideways in his chair with a cell phone raised to his ear. Velvet

wondered whom he was calling. When the call was over, he set the

phone on the table and leaned over to whisper in Wideman’s ear. The

director nodded and stood.

“As managers of the Golden Gate Bridge, we share the public’s

concern about the people who kill themselves on our structure. Our

deepest sympathies go out to the families and friend of those so

determined to end their lives. Unfortunately, there will always be

depressed individuals. If the bridge were unavailable, they would

simply Þ nd another location or method of killing themselves.

“It seems,” he continued, “that every decade or so, interest will

pique and we’ll review designs for a suicide barrier. We have had to

reject all of the architectural designs because they threaten to ruin the

beauty of the landmark while failing to provide a foolproof deterrent

to bridge suicides. Best estimates for cost of a barrier are in the

neighborhood of twenty million dollars. Now, I’m sure you’re all aware

that Bay Area motorists are unwilling to pay a ten-dollar toll simply to

cross the Golden Gate—even if it was guaranteed to reduce deaths—

and we have no way of knowing whether it would.”

Velvet couldn’t sit still any longer. She stood. Her voice cracking

with emotion, she insisted, “According to the San Francisco Suicide

Prevention, nearly 1,250 people have committed suicide on the bridge

since 1937. Are you saying that their lives weren’t worth a hundred and

Þ fty thousand dollars each? When you personally make—what is it—

sixty thousand a year or more just to sit on this board? My friend, Jeff

Conant, was the bridge’s most recent victim. He was thirty-six years

old. He had his whole life ahead of him. In less than three years he’d

make what you’re saying his entire life wasn’t worth!”

Several people applauded. Velvet was just getting warmed up, but

before she could say anything more, she heard the door open behind her

and saw Wideman glance up and smile.

“Thank you all for your compelling testimony,” he said in a voice

• 50 •

BLIND LEAP

that expressed more relief than appreciation. “I’m afraid the public

portion of our meeting has now come to an end.”

The disappointment in the room was audible.

“We’re adjourning the public hearing early in order for the board

to deal with an unexpected, urgent matter that has just came up.”

Grumbling, the attendees slowly stood and shufß ed toward the

exit. One protested, “Don’t think this is over!”

The door opened wide to expose two uniformed police ofÞ cers

standing in the foyer. So that’s who the board member called.

Velvet bent down to Yoshi and whispered in her ear. “I’ll be right

back. Wait for me.”

She pushed her way through the ß ow of the crowd to get to James

Harden. The Þ lmmaker was shrouded from view by a throng of people,

probably the family and friends of people who had died on the bridge

this past year. They were swarming him, all asking the same thing. Like

Velvet, they wanted to know if a loved one’s Þ nal moments had been

caught on camera. Had someone witnessed their swan dives after all?

The two police ofÞ cers stepped into the meeting room and began

asking members of the public to leave. Velvet sighed. She returned to

Yoshi and helped her to the aisle. There Yoshi extended her white cane—

probably more for the police’s beneÞ t than her own, Velvet thought.

They pushed their way out of the room and through the crowded foyer

to the crisp evening air. They walked the short distance to Velvet’s car,

which was parked in sight of the main door.

“Do you mind if we wait here for a while?” Velvet asked.

“I insist on it,” Yoshi said. “We have to talk with that Þ lmmaker.”

Velvet smiled and squeezed her friend’s hand. Yoshi always

understood.

“I don’t know if you recognized any of the board members,”

she said, watching the door like a hawk, looking for the Þ lmmaker or

camera woman amidst the dispersing crowd. “But I did. I had no idea

Tom Ammiano sat on the board.”

Yoshi nodded. “Ammiano supports a suicide barrier—earlier this

year he accused other members of ‘nickel-and-diming human life.’”

“Really? How do you know that? He didn’t say anything

tonight.”

“It was in the paper,” Yoshi replied snarkily. “You should try

reading it—what with you working there and all.”

Velvet was offended. “I do read the Chronicle.” She lowered her

• 51 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

voice and spoke her admission from the side of her mouth. “I just don’t

read it cover to cover.”

Yoshi tsked.

“I’m amazed that Ammiano got on the bridge board,” Velvet

remarked.

She recalled that the nineteen-member board was drawn from the

six counties that originally put up bond money to build the bridge.

Of San Francisco’s nine seats, three went to city supervisors like

Ammiano. Various counties like Napa, Mendocino, and Del Norte

had one seat each. Velvet was surprised they got to have a say on

bridge management, being so far away. Surely no one commuted to

San Francisco from Del Norte. That was one of the primary criticisms

of the board—that too many members represented counties that didn’t

use the bridge.

“Are the board members elected or appointed?” Yoshi asked while

they were waiting for Harden to exit.

“They’re appointed by each county’s board of supervisors, or by a

conference of the county’s mayors.”

“So they are insulated from public criticism?” Yoshi noted.

“Yes. No threat they won’t get reelected.” Velvet sighed. “I hate

that kind of thing. It seems so undemocratic.”

They spoke occasionally over the next half hour as they waited

for their quarry to emerge. The camerawoman exited Þ rst, went to a

nearby van, and loaded her equipment. She returned to the entrance,

leaned against the outside wall, and lit a cigarette. Shortly afterward,

James Harden joined her and two immediately began an animated

discussion.

“Let’s go see what kept him so long,” Velvet said.

They caught up with him on the sidewalk. Yoshi waited while

Velvet introduced them, then stuck her hand out. Harden shook it.

“So what did they want?” Velvet asked.

He snorted. Yoshi imagined him rolling his eyes.

“They Þ led an injunction preventing me from airing the Þ lm,

continuing the project, or even talking about it—can you believe

that?”

“When did that happen?” Yoshi asked.

“Apparently the guy who interrupted the meeting was actually the

Bridge Authority’s lawyer.”

• 52 •

BLIND LEAP

From the slight change in the direction of his voice, Yoshi

ascertained that he’d turned to address her. As her eyesight had

deteriorated, she’d learned how to tell a lot from the sound of a person’s

voice. The Doppler effect aided her efforts. Sounds changed depending

on their direction and how close or far away they were. She was learning

to think like a bat.

“Didn’t you get a permit?” she asked.

“Yes. But they’re saying that I misled the permit department about

the purpose of the Þ lm.”

“Did you?” Velvet asked bluntly.

“Not intentionally. The truth is, I originally imagined this

project as one in a series exploring the interaction between a national

monument and nature—the fog, ocean, sun, moon—but now, with the

footage of suicides, I feel I have to honor that in Þ lm. I’ve started

interviewing family and friends of people who died, and I want to give

voice to their loss.”

Yoshi put her hand on Velvet’s shoulder. “Our friend—”

“Yes, I heard. I’m so sorry.” He sounded authentically

empathetic.

“Have you…” Velvet’s voice was husky with emotion. “Did you

see him? It happened in November. His car was found at the bridge on

the nineteenth.”

“Myself? No.”

“Are you sure?” Velvet sounded crestfallen.

He responded quickly. “I may have captured his…the event. I’m

working with four cameras and ten months of Þ lm. I’m nowhere near

caught up to date.”

Yoshi withdrew a business card and handed it to Harden. “Will

you contact us if you Þ nd anything we should be aware of?”

“Sure. I mean, assuming I resolve this issue with the board.” He

took the card. “Blind Eye Detective Agency. Was the death suspicious

or something?”

“We have some concerns,” Yoshi said.

“I wouldn’t have imagined one could be a blind detective. That’s

amazing. You must have an interesting story.”

Yoshi shrugged. She didn’t think her story was all that compelling.

“It’s what I know how to do.”

He chuckled. “I know what you mean. Filmmaking is in my blood,

• 53 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

I don’t think I could stop even if I wanted to. Which reminds me.” He

turned to Velvet. “Would you be interested in speaking with me? For

the Þ lm? I mean, when all this legal shit blows over?”

“Of course.” Velvet’s answer surprised Yoshi.

“Let me get your number.”

After the two exchanged numbers and Harden departed with the

camerawoman, Velvet explained, “Maybe he’ll be more eager Þ nd out

about Jeff if I’m willing to appear in his Þ lm.”

Yoshi nodded. It was hard to believe that Jeff’s last moments

might have been captured on Þ lm. Velvet would probably do anything

to see that tape—but was that the wise thing to do? Surely it would be

even more traumatic to actually witness his jump.

As Yoshi climbed into the Celica, she told herself that it was

premature to worry. For all they knew it could be months before the

legal issues were resolved and the injunction lifted. Perhaps the Bridge

Authority would win and prevent the Þ lm’s release. She could certainly

think of arguments for doing so.

v

“What can you tell me about why people commit suicide?” Yoshi

asked Dr. Artemis Jones.

They were in the psychologist’s second ß oor ofÞ ce, sitting in the

private room where Artemis conducted her counseling sessions. Yoshi

couldn’t come here without recalling how she had angered Artemis

the Þ rst time she’d been in this ofÞ ce. At the time, Yoshi would never

have thought that Artemis would become a friendly collaborator. But

after providing information that helped the Blind Eye detectives solve

the Rosemary Finney murder, she had become a resource. Yoshi found

her insights useful in shedding light on motives and behavior. Facts

could speak for themselves, but sometimes, when data was not easy to

interpret, a good PI used her own instincts or those of someone who

knew a great deal about the type of crime under investigation.

Artemis had Þ rsthand experience working with suicidal

individuals, particularly those who had been dissuaded from preceding

Jeff off the Golden Gate. Yoshi wanted to obtain her specialized

insight.

“No one really knows why people commit suicide,” Artemis said,

• 54 •

BLIND LEAP

immediately reducing the likelihood that Yoshi could check what she

knew of Jeff against list of symptoms and determine if he was the

“type.”

“Sometimes, the person least aware of why,” Artemis continued,

“is the victim him or herself, at the moment of the decision. Suicide

is the eighth-leading cause of death in this country—and the third for

Þ fteen- to twenty-year-olds. Around three percent of American adults

will attempt suicide in their lifetime.”

“Are all these people depressed?” Yoshi asked. Velvet was adamant

that Jeff had never been treated for depression and had never spoken of

such feelings to her.

“That’s debatable,” Artemis said. “Physiologists will argue that

low serotonin levels prejudice a person to commit suicide, while

sociologists point to forces outside the individual.”

“I had not realized that sociologists studied suicide.”

“Oh, yes, absolutely. In fact the very Þ eld of sociology was founded

in part on the discovery that suicide rates had a sociological base.”

Yoshi had expected to learn something today, but had not expected

to be surprised by the information. Artemis went on to explain that a

French sociologist had discovered that single people were more likely

than married individuals to take their own lives. She reeled off various

facts unfamiliar to Yoshi. Protestants were more likely than Catholics

or Jews, urban residents more likely than rural folks. Men were three

times more likely to complete a “successful” suicide, while women

were three times more likely to make “unsuccessful” attempts. People

with children were at the lowest risk, and the predominant age group

was 20–35.

Jeff had been thirty-six. He did not have children. Yoshi wondered

if he had wanted them. She had never had that kind of conversation

with him. Velvet had always said that if she ever planned to conceive

a child she would do it with Jeff’s contribution. Yoshi wondered if Jeff

had made the same assumption.

“Those who are socially isolated are more likely to kill

themselves,” Artemis said.

Again, this factor did not jive with what Yoshi knew about Jeff.

His family, while far away geographically, was close emotionally. He

had a partner, friends, and a social life.

“Unrelieved sleep disturbances and insomnia may lead to suicidal

• 55 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

action.” Artemis ticked off other factors. “And we believe that drugs

and alcohol also play a role and may even unleash latent depression and

suicidal urges that were otherwise controlled.”

Jeff consumed alcohol regularly and had casually used recreational

drugs. Could his use of these substances have led him to kill himself?

Yoshi thought there would have been previous signs of mood change

if these substances affected Jeff profoundly. She continued to compare

the factors Artemis listed against what she knew about Jeff. He had not

made any earlier attempts and there was no history of suicide in his

family, as far as she knew, but she would have to ask a family member

to be sure.

“Stress?” Yoshi queried.

“Recent childbirth, or a recent loss of a loved one, job, money, or

anything that affects prestige and self-esteem can be factors,” Artemis

said.

Yoshi intended to speak with Jeff’s other friends, family, and his

partner Tyrone to develop a full understanding of his mental state in the

weeks leading up to his disappearance. She hoped to have a chance to

do so at Jeff’s memorial service.

“Is there a formula?” she asked. “Say those with eight out of ten of

these factors will kill themselves. Only Þ ve and they won’t?”

“I wish it were that simple, but no, I’m sorry.” Artemis sounded

slightly amused. “People in my profession look for certain clues.

Something like eighty percent of all suicides exhibit warning signs

about their intent.”

Yoshi wondered if Velvet had noticed any of the clues Artemis

identiÞ ed: expressing suicidal thoughts, being overtly anxious or

overwhelmed with guilt or shame, rigid thinking, impulsive behavior

“They don’t seem capable of creative problem-solving,” Artemis

mused aloud. “Sometimes their behavior is very impulsive, as though

they have no sense of possible consequences.”

Yoshi paused to reß ect. A moment later, as a new direction

presented itself, she asked, “Can you tell me what kind of perpetrator

might try to cover up a murder as a suicide?”

Artemis took her own moment before answering, “You mean

instead of making it look like an accidental death?”

Yoshi found the question interesting. Artemis had just identiÞ ed a

key point. If a murderer was going to cover up a crime by fooling the

• 56 •

BLIND LEAP

authorities, he or she was faced with a conscious choice: make it look

like an accident or like a suicide. Why choose suicide?

“I suppose suicide is more personal,” Yoshi murmured.

“Yes. Loved ones will be hurt,” Artemis said. “The person who

commits suicide can be discredited, and the method or location could

hold special meaning for the perpetrator.”

“The bridge would be a particularly dangerous location to kill

someone, or dispose of a body,” Yoshi said.

“It would be easier at night, without all the trafÞ c, of course.”

“But there are security guards, especially post nine-eleven.” Yoshi

was deep in thought. Someone would have to pay close attention to

the security if they wanted to pull off a fake bridge suicide. Yoshi

contemplated asking Velvet but decided to keep her thoughts to herself.

Velvet was having enough trouble accepting what had happened without

Yoshi validating her doubts.

Besides, why would anyone want to kill Jeff Conant? If Yoshi

wanted to explore alternative theories around his death, the Þ rst factor

she would need to examine was motive.

• 57 •

• 58 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER FIVE

Sitting at her desk at the Blind Eye ofÞ ce, Yoshi was happy to

hear Velvet in the reception area. She had worried that Velvet

would be too depressed to come and she would have to attend Jeff’s

memorial by herself.

“You ready?” Velvet asked from the doorway.

“Yes, of course.” Yoshi turned off her computer, cleared her

desktop, and hustled from her ofÞ ce, closing the door behind her.

She had assigned Tucker to stay behind and complete some

research. Bud should arrive soon to monitor Tucker’s work and do

some of his own.

Velvet led the way into the hallway. A moment later, as the doors of

the historic Flood Building’s ornate elevator closed behind them, Yoshi

shared the news she had saved to distract Velvet from her deepening

depression.

“I have offered AJ a position as a private investigator with Blind

Eye.”

“Really?” Velvet’s voice was ß at.

“Are you surprised?” Yoshi had expected more of a response and

had planned her argument accordingly. “I have previously expressed

my need to bring on another investigator, and we have both witnessed

AJ performing proÞ ciently in that arena.”

“Won’t it be a problem?” Velvet attempted interest. “I mean,

because you two are hitting it together?”

“We did go on several dates and—” Yoshi did not share the

details.

The elevator doors opened on the ground ß oor and they crossed

the wide foyer.

• 59 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

When Velvet did not make a shrewd but lascivious comment,

Yoshi knew her best friend was even more depressed than she had

originally thought.

“That night of the concert it became obvious we are not a good

Þ t.” Yoshi listened to the echo of their voices off the high ceilings.

“So what was it?” Velvet asked, sounding a little more like herself.

“Was it that trans woman asking AJ if she was FTM?”

“I beg your pardon?” Yoshi scoffed. “Of course not. Why would

I care about that?”

“Uh, because you’re a big old dyke and you don’t want anyone

thinking you’re dating a dude—even one who used to be a girl.”

“That is utterly ridiculous.” Yoshi shook her head. “I know AJ

is a woman. I believe I am fairly progressive when it comes to issues

of gender. I think my own performance of gender, in fact, has to do

with…”

“I know, I know,” Velvet interjected. “Your conscious rejection of

your masculine upbringing, your missing mom, yada yada.”

“Thanks, Velvet.” Yoshi sighed halfheartedly. “I always appreciate

your thoughtfulness.”

“Okay then, what’s wrong with AJ?” Velvet prodded.

“There is nothing wrong with her.”

“Is it the age thing? Because I know with Tucker and I—”

“It could be our ages,” Yoshi acquiesced, knowing she deÞ nitely

did not want to hear the details of Velvet’s physical relationship with

the Blind Eye receptionist. “Or the chemistry between us, or perhaps

the quandary that we’re from different cultural backgrounds and it can

be challenging to surmount those dissimilarities.”

“Hmm.”

They crossed the street to the parking garage and entered another

elevator.

“Here is an example: the outÞ t she wore that night?”

“Her thug chic?”

“I am entirely serious about this, Velvet. Does that make me a

terrible person?”

“Unfashionable, at least. You do know that look’s totally hot right

now, don’t you?”

“For lesbians?” Yoshi found that hard to believe. “I thought it was

• 60 •

BLIND LEAP

exclusively the apparel of teenage boys. It strikes me as unprofessional.

What adult lesbian wears her pants down around her knees?”

After the short elevator ride, they exited and walked around the

corner where Velvet fed the fee machine. “I’m sure the look wouldn’t

pass a lot of ofÞ ce-attire regulations, but it’s the casual style these days,

and a lot of women like it.”

“Well, I am not a fan,” Yoshi said as they entered the third elevator.

“I prefer women with more of a classic style of fashion. Suit coat,

tailored shirts.”

“Maybe I should set you up with Marion Serif—if she weren’t still

love-crazy about that pilot of hers. Marion’s a classy dresser. So does

AJ always dress that way off-duty?”

“She does not always wear the droopy drawers, but she does

dress more urban ghetto than I would prefer. She is so attractive in her

uniform, it is a shame she has to take it off.”

“And yet you’re thinking about taking her cop job. Have you

talked to her about it?”

“God, no.”

On the third ß oor of the parking garage, they stepped off the

elevator and walked through the cavernous parking structure, their

voices echoing against the distant walls.

“You do realize that most butches don’t know the Þ rst thing

about dressing themselves, right?” Velvet said. “You have to help them

develop style. Take Tucker. Surely you’ve noticed she’s better dressed

these days.”

“Could we possibly go longer than Þ fteen minutes without your

bringing up the topic of my employee?”

“I’m just saying that her fashion sense didn’t just happen. Are you

really going to break up with AJ because of the way she dresses?”

“We have not been serious enough to break up. It’s not that I

am not fond of her. I am. She is intelligent and sexy and it has been

considerably stimulating to be with her. She has certainly introduced

me to a distinctive world. I simply may not Þ t within it.”

“What about expanding your horizons?”

Velvet unlocked the passenger door of her Celica and stood there

as Yoshi settled into the seat.

“I may have assumed the two of us would share commonalities,

• 61 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

as we are both lesbians of color. I realize now that was an incredibly

naïve presumption. Do you know that all these years I have never had

a genuinely close African American friend? I believe I now understand

why.”

Velvet shut the door without responding. She took a long time to

round the vehicle and open her own door.

“I did not mean that in the way it sounded.” Yoshi rushed to correct

the seemingly un-PC sentiment. “I merely meant that my path did not

cross with those of African American lesbians. Certainly Bay Area

demographics played their part—I am certain you’ve noticed that the

neighborhood where I reside is primarily Asian American. But despite

AJ and I both being minority women, where we do have differences,

they are quite extreme. We are from such different worlds.”

“Yeah. Africa and Asia.”

“You think you are being funny,” Yoshi retorted. Unlike Velvet,

she found this topic very serious. “Our communities are marked not

only by our ethnic heritages but by how our ancestors came to be in this

country and how they have been treated since their arrival. While it can

be tiresome to be a model minority, I have always been securely middle

class and I cannot truly comprehend what life is like for a working class

black lesbian—especially one who, like AJ, is routinely mistaken for a

black man. Racial proÞ ling carries deeply disparate consequences for

each of us.”

“Yeah, it sucks for me, too, you know.” Velvet sounded serious

this time. “First off, I’ve got this lily-white name and I was adopted

by the Waltons. I had to Þ gure out on my own what my heritage is.

And then, when you say you’re a Native American, everyone thinks

you belong in a museum or something. It’s like one day I’ll Þ nd my

birth parents and they’ll be on display at the Natural History Museum.”

Velvet paused. “This conversation is getting way too heavy. AJ would

be a great addition to Blind Eye. And she’d probably jump at the chance

to get out of East Palo Alto PD.”

They drove through downtown San Francisco in silence. Rush-

hour trafÞ c stalled their progress, and Yoshi could feel Velvet’s stress

levels rising with every annoying honk. The trafÞ c-light changes

resulted in no forward motion. Yoshi’s sense of time told her they were

probably running late.

“I’m still having a hard time believing Jeff killed himself,” Velvet

• 62 •

BLIND LEAP

said when they were several blocks from the Castro Theatre where

Jeff’s memorial was to begin shortly.

Yoshi was not surprised to hear Velvet express her reservations

once more. She had been through enough grief cycles to understand

that denial was just part of the process, and she wanted to be patient

with Velvet. Still, despite her willingness to consider other possibilities,

she had found no reason to believe Jeff’s death was anything but self-

inß icted.

“It is entirely understandable that you are struggling with this,

Velvet,” she said. “It is hard to imagine that someone we cared about

could choose to end his or her life. In retrospect, none of the person’s

struggles seem worth dying for. But depression is a powerful motivator.

You know yourself that it’s easy to live with depression without anyone

around you recognizing the mental-health issues you’re dealing with.

Perhaps that was what was happening for Jeff.”

“But why wouldn’t he tell me? Why would he lie and tell me

things were great? We made plans to get together again.”

“I don’t know. Perhaps he did not want anyone to prevent him

from carrying it through.”

“Maybe.” Velvet sounded doubtful.

Yoshi remained silent as Velvet parked the car. The grieving

process could not be rushed. Each phase would take as much time as

it needed to.

v

In the darkness of the Castro Theatre, music signaled the close of

Jeff Conant’s Þ lm Loving Randall and accompanied the Þ lm credits

that were undoubtedly scrolling up the screen. That the instrumental

refrains quavered with aching sadness served as Þ tting closure to both

Jeff’s life and the memorial itself.

From the scufÞ ng of feet on the cement ß oor and the sound of

seats snapping closed, Yoshi deduced that the house lights had just

illuminated the grievers, who responded by exchanging their tears for

meaningless chatter, as though embarrassed by their grief and wanting

to deny it. This might be a memorial, but the Castro Theatre was no

house of worship or stilted funeral home. Although it had seen its

share of tears, shed at gut-wrenching dramas or escaping through eyes

• 63 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

squeezed tight from giddy laughter at campy classics like Vegas in

Space, when the house lights came on, they signaled time to dry your

eyes and return to the stickiness of real life.

Beside Yoshi, Velvet scrunched down in her seat as though she

hoped it would swallow her whole. Her low sobs were audible. She

took Yoshi’s hand and squeezed it wordlessly, indicating she was ready

to relinquish the safety of her seat. For Yoshi, the noise that echoed

throughout the room slowly resolved into clumps as mourners drifted

together into small social groups. She sensed someone shufß ing up to

them as they stood.

“Velvet.” The voice was as silky as the soft fur on the bunny rabbit

her grade school had kept in a wire cage. Yoshi thought she heard a

subtle resemblance to Jeff.

“I’m so glad you made it.” Charlene Conant pulled Velvet into a

hug.

“Charlie.” Velvet used the nickname that made Jeff’s mother and

father sound like a doppelganger gay or lesbian couple who shared the

same name. “I’d like you to meet my friend Yoshi. She’s the private

investigator I told you about.”

Yoshi remembered seeing pictures of Charlene. She was a Þ ery

redhead who had retained her looks well into retirement. A former model,

she must have bent down to shake Yoshi’s hand, and Yoshi wondered

if the diminutive intelligence of some models was the consequence of

thin air from their higher elevations. In Yoshi’s grip, Charlene’s hand

was small and frail, the skin cool and papery. The kind of hands that

suggested she had spent a lifetime avoiding physical labor.

“Your eyesight doesn’t hamper your investigations?” Charlene

was straight to the point.

“I manage,” Yoshi replied.

“She does more than manage,” Velvet said in Yoshi’s defense.

“She cleared me of murder and saved my ass from jail.”

“If Velvet trusts you, that’s good enough for me. I’d like to hire

you to investigate my son’s death.”

Charlene’s straightforward manner was a welcome characteristic

in a potential client. Particularly if she would be equally frank about

her son.

“You don’t think it was a suicide?” Yoshi asked.

“No.” Charlene was vehement. “He wouldn’t do that to me.”

“You were close?”

• 64 •

BLIND LEAP

“Yes.”

Whether Yoshi accepted Charlene’s case depended on how the

older woman answered the next question. “How well did you know

your son?”

“As well as any mother can know a gay son who wanted to spare

her the details of his casual drug use and the particulars of his sexual

proclivities.”

Yoshi nodded. Charlene had been honest—even with herself. It

was safe to take her case. “I would be willing to look into it un ofÞ cially,”

she offered.

“I want it to be ofÞ cial,” Charlene insisted.

“You might not fancy what I discover. It could be worse than not

knowing.”

“Are you saying you won’t do it?” Velvet sounded hurt.

“No, I would be honored to investigate the case. I just want to be

sure you are prepared—”

“I am,” Charlene insisted.

“All right,” Yoshi said. “We can set up a meeting in a few days,

when you are up to it.”

“I want you to start now,” Charlene said. “I know who did this.”

Yoshi raised an eyebrow.

“It was that shiftless boyfriend of his, Tyrone Hill. Tyrone was

ruining him. He had already bled Jeff dry. Charlie and I offered to help

out—Þ nancially, but Jeff wouldn’t agree to our terms. He always was

such a stubborn boy.”

“What terms?”

“They wanted him to break it off with Tyrone.” The voice of Jeff’s

brother, David, closed in on them as he approached.

“It was for his own good,” Charlene said.

Before David could blame his parents’ meddling for Jeff’s death,

Yoshi changed the direction of the conversation. “Allow me to play

Devil’s advocate here. Was there anything that might have caused Jeff

to be depressed?”

“Just the opposite,” Charlene assured her. “He was so excited. He

had just found out he was going to be a daddy.”

“A daddy?” Velvet asked, her tone conveying You’ve got to be

kidding.

“Oh yes,” Charlene said. “I’m so sorry they had to leave early, I’d

like you to meet Theresa and Isabelle.”

• 65 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Who are Theresa and Isabelle?” Velvet sounded impatient.

“They’re Jeff’s baby mommies,” David joked. There was no

humor in his voice. Yoshi imaged that his eyes were without shine, the

matte orbs of dark grief she had seen so many times staring from her

father’s face.

“Maybe you saw them sitting behind us?” Charlene said. “They’re

a lovely mixed-race couple. Isabelle—the mother—is from the

Caribbean. Very beautiful. They worried about the impact of all this

stress on the baby and decided to leave early.”

Yoshi felt Velvet stiffen next to her.

“It’s the one good thing in all of this,” Charlene murmured. “At

least a part of Jeff will live on.”

Velvet gripped Yoshi’s arm tightly as though to keep from falling

over. That was my sperm! The exclamation sounded in Yoshi’s head as

clearly as if Velvet had spoken it aloud. She had not.

Yoshi squeezed Velvet’s hand to show she understood. As long as

Yoshi had known her, Velvet had been dedicated to her career success

above all else, but there was also a part of her that longed for children.

She kept postponing, waiting for a more appropriate time when she

was in a long-term partnership and they could provide their child with

Þ nancial stability and a stay-at-home parent. Despite being a modern

career woman and feminist, Velvet believed it was best for a child to

have a primary care provider during the Þ rst three years, which had

been found so critical to healthy development. The truth was, Velvet

had imagined she would be the stay-at-home mother, perhaps moving

into freelance writing so she would not have to sacriÞ ce her career.

Yoshi knew Velvet had always assumed that Jeff was the built-in father

for the baby she would have one day. Now he was gone and another

lesbian couple was carrying the child that rightfully should have been

hers.

“I need to sit down.” Velvet clung to Yoshi’s arm like a frightened

child but still managed to direct them to a quiet corner of the theater.

She collapsed into a fold-down seat and began to sob.

Yoshi stood behind her with a hand on Velvet’s shoulder. She did

not attempt to soothe her friend. She remembered how utterly annoying

mourners had been at her father’s wake, so driven to keep her from

shedding tears. It was as though her grief caused them such pain that

it had to be prohibited at all cost. Yoshi would not do the same to her

friend. She allowed Velvet to cry without intrusion.

• 66 •

BLIND LEAP

Now that Blind Eye had been ofÞ cially hired to investigate Jeff’s

death, her approach could become far bolder. Although Yoshi had little

reason to believe Jeff’s death was not a suicide, out of loyalty to Velvet

she had already set her minions to work, digging into the circumstances

around his passing. In any suspicious death, the Þ rst person of interest

was the person closest to the victim. In this case, that was Tyrone Hill.

Earlier in the day, Yoshi had conned East Palo Alto PD ofÞ cer AJ

Johnson into tailing Tyrone Hill tonight. She had heard enough from

Velvet to recognize that Tyrone’s relationship with Jeff had been less

than smooth sailing.

Yoshi slipped her Braille cell phone from her purse and quickly

typed in several text messages. The Þ rst was directed to AJ. “The

shadow is now ofÞ cial, please get close.”

She addressed the next to Tucker instructing her to wake Bud, roll

up their sleeves, and prepare to get dirty. They would need to dig much

deeper.

v

Velvet’s sobs shuddered to a stop and she snifß ed one last time,

like a vehicle exhausting the last of its fuel. “Let’s see what else Jeff

didn’t tell me about his life.” She lowered her voice. “Do you think I

knew him at all?”

“Everyone has their secrets, Vel.”

Yoshi’s remark did not seem to soothe Velvet’s concerns.

They wove through the throng of mourners who milled about in

the theater’s screening room and lobby. Every few minutes someone

would recognize Velvet and come speak with her. By her friend’s

mannerisms, Yoshi quickly deduced which of these old acquaintances

Velvet believed had information relevant to the case. Mostly she spoke

with clipped, no-nonsense language, sharing quick condolences and

choking back tears. With other memorial attendees, however, Velvet

played prison interrogator.

Yoshi shook hands with someone Velvet introduced as “Robbie.”

He had smooth, slight hands, a solid handshake, and a gossipy nature.

“I can’t believe he has the nerve to be here,” he whispered loudly

as though he had a secret he wanted the world to know.

Yoshi felt the movement of air as Velvet whipped around to see

where Robbie was pointing.

• 67 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Isn’t that Chase Devlin?” Velvet asked.

“Yeah, that’s right.”

“Why shouldn’t he be here? Jeff knew him.”

“Not as well as Tyrone.” Robbie drew a dramatic breath. “Tyrone

knew Chase in the biblical sense.”

Yoshi could hear the smirk in his voice.

“While Tyrone was with Jeff? That bastard!” Velvet exclaimed.

“Totally.”

“How is it you came by this knowledge?” Yoshi asked, hoping to

determine the validity of his claim.

“I saw them going at it.” Robbie gave the smug sniff of a man

who had enough dirt to guarantee himself an audience. “I was at Martin

Cohen’s Tarts and Vicars party. I was a tart, of course, they have the

best costumes. I was in this whole sort of Dr. Frankenfurter two-piece

and…”

Yoshi interrupted by clearing her throat, hoping to nudge Robbie

back on track.

“Anyway, I walked in on them doing it in the coatroom, along

with a half dozen other people. No one stopped. Devlin was on top, of

course, and Tyrone was stoned out of his mind.”

“That’s the kind of thing what happens when you’re always

partying.” Another man expressed his moral judgment. Yoshi recognized

his voice immediately. It was her friend, Detective Ari Fleishman of the

San Francisco PD.

“That’s true.” Robbie sounded less like he agreed with Fleishman

and more like he recognized Fleishman’s law enforcement background

and did not want to look like a meth user himself. “Tyrone’s become a

total tweaker.”

“Are you familiar with Tyrone? Professionally?” Yoshi asked

Fleishman as Robbie drifted away.

“He was busted six months ago on possession. Judge gave him a

slap on the wrist, Þ rst-time offender and all. Since then he’s managed to

keep his nose clean—I mean, we haven’t busted him—but it’s probably

only a matter of time.”

“You think he’s still using?” Yoshi asked.

Velvet remained unusually silent.

“Yeah. Jeff was worried Tyrone had become more than a casual

user.”

• 68 •

BLIND LEAP

“He spoke with you about Tyrone’s drug use? When was that?”

Velvet queried.

“Just a few weeks ago. He said Tyrone’s behavior had become

increasingly erratic and he was using more and more. And it wasn’t just

conÞ ned to PNP.”

“PNP?” It was not an acronym Yoshi was familiar with.

“Party and play,” Velvet said before Fleishman could answer.

“Gay guys use meth and then have sexual marathons. Jeff and I talked

about it sometimes. He said he couldn’t imagine going to a club without

it. Tyrone must have really gone overboard for Jeff to get worried.”

“So there is a good deal of crystal meth use in the gay men’s

community?” Yoshi asked.

“Absolutely.” This time Fleishman responded. “It’s a huge

problem. Especially as meth use is becoming linked to increasing HIV

rates.”

Velvet walked away as Detective Fleishman rambled to Yoshi

about the hazards of meth. She thought of the movie Salton Sea. Val

Kilmer played a guy who was willing to become a meth user and go

undercover in the tweaker underworld to Þ nd the guys who killed his

wife. Would she do the same to avenge Jeff’s death? Maybe with Blind

Eye on the case, they could Þ nally learn what had really happened.

Velvet glanced around the room and spotted Tyrone Hill standing

by the exit with a small group of friends. He was hard to miss, a

mahogany god, as the girls at her hair salon would say. He was tall

with almond-shaped eyes, a scruff of black facial hair, and a beautifully

shaved head. The Þ rst time she’d met him, Velvet nearly mistook

him for the supermodel Tyson Beckford. But now the difference was

striking. His skin, once so perfectly ß awless it looked like it had been

airbrushed, was spattered with tiny blemishes. Still, if he was a meth

addict, it certainly hadn’t ruined his looks. Not yet. He had none of the

scabs from picking at his skin, the sunken cheeks, or rotten and missing

teeth that characterized advanced methamphetamine use.

Not taking her eyes off him, she darted through the mingling

crowd until she stood in front of him. “You bastard, how could you?”

She smacked his chest with both palms, knocking him backward.

Surprise crossed his face. He regained his footing quickly and held his

hands out in front of him angled like a praying mantis. He crouched on

bent knees and Velvet remembered Jeff mentioning Tyrone had a black

• 69 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

belt in karate. Where was her friend Marion Serif when she needed

her? Marion had been a pugilist in her younger years, before she started

publishing her lesbian magazine, Bent.

Not one to back down from a Þ ght, even one where she was so

obviously outmatched, Velvet stood her ground. She’d learned how to

Þ ght dirty defending herself from Latina gang girls after inadvertently

wearing the wrong colors in the disputed hallways of L.A.’s high

schools. Tough situations had always been easier when it was the two

of them, Jeff and her, against all others. But the man in front of her had

ruined all that. He had taken Jeff away from her.

“You killed him!” She could hear the wail in her own voice, which

came out louder than she’d expected. Around them, people turned and

stared. She barely noticed them. She was intent on Tyrone.

Confusion crossed his features. He dropped his hands and stood to

his full height. “Hey, girl,” he said with a voice as soft as Fox News.

“You killed Jeff,” she said again and jabbed her foreÞ nger at his

chest. “How could you do that to him?”

He shook his head. “What’re you, mental? Jeff killed himself.”

“Is that right?”

He nodded.

“Then you’re the reason he jumped, you bastard.”

One of Tyrone’s friends stepped forward. “Come on, that’s

harsh.”

“Oh, that’s harsh? Your friend here is a cheating man-whore and a

drug addict. Maybe he’s a batterer, too.”

Velvet turned back to Tyrone in time to see pain ß icker across his

face. She didn’t care. She wanted him to hurt. She wanted him to feel

like his heart had been ripped from his chest and shown to him. That’s

how she felt.

“You use him as a punching bag?” she demanded, pushing into his

personal space. She kept her eyes on his face and saw something ripple

in the muscles of his jaw. Was that barely contained anger? “Did you

throw him off the bridge to cover the bruises?”

A low rumbling growl escaped from his throat. He grabbed her by

the shoulders and lifted her plus-sized voluptuous body as though she

were an undernourished model. She smiled through her fear. Wasn’t

this proof that Tyrone was violent? She kicked at his shins with her new

Emilio Pucci cork-heel sandals.

Before she could Þ nd out how far she’d pushed him, Ari Fleishman

• 70 •

BLIND LEAP

was there, peeling Tyrone’s Þ ngers from Velvet’s shoulders. When

Velvet landed on her feet, Yoshi hustled her away.

Velvet’s anger surprised Yoshi, but she reminded herself that

Velvet had a right to be angry. A right to be irrational. Still, she thought

it better not to mention that. She directed Velvet toward the source of

city air and street noises. They had almost reached the door when a

large body with a feminine scent blocked their exit.

“Velvet. Remember me? Davina Singleton? I worked with Jeff.”

“Of course,” Velvet replied.

Yoshi heard the clap of the woman’s hands around Velvet’s

outstretched palm. There was a moment of silence as though Davina

was attempting to covey emotions without words. She opted for a

meaningless remark. “It’s good to see you, Velvet. You look good—I

mean, I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. You do too, Davina.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“I know.” With a strained throatiness, Velvet said, “I mean, why?

Why would he have done that?”

“It’s a nightmare. I can’t believe it.”

Yoshi detected a note in each woman’s voice that explained the

slight change in atmosphere. The air seemed heavier. They had stepped

closer together, their scents mingling, their clothing clinging with

static in a couple of places. Yoshi was disappointed that Velvet did

not immediately put the kibosh on any ideas Davina might have by

mentioning Tucker. She hoped this did not mean the couple was having

troubles or that Velvet’s nomadic eye was wandering again. Before the

encounter could turn into a ß irtation, she interrupted.

“Davina, was there anything going on at work—anything out of

the ordinary?”

“Just the same old,” Davina replied after a few seconds. “Raising

money and screening Þ lms.”

“Did Jeff seem depressed or anything?”

Davina hesitated. “No. I don’t think so.”

“But?”

“It can be stressful, always working overtime on a shoestring

budget and dealing with producers and directors. Some of them don’t

take rejection well.”

“Really? Did you ever hear of anyone threatening Jeff?”

“Not physically. But some of them get very worked up, leave a

• 71 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

hundred voice mails, send angry e-mails saying they’re going to ruin

him. That he’s an idiot who wouldn’t know original creative thinking

if he stepped in it, that kind of thing. We had this one nut job who

camped out in front of our ofÞ ce yelling about how the whole system

was rigged and you couldn’t get your Þ lm screened unless you bribed

or blew the right guy.”

“Is there any validity to that?” Yoshi asked.

“There’s no casting couch at Frameline.” Davina’s response was

rote, as though she had been over the same ground many times. “We

screen Þ lms blind. We often don’t know who sent what. Of course,

sometimes it’s still obvious, but Jeff would never, ever have asked

Jennifer Morris to schedule a Þ lm he didn’t believe in, not even if the

producer offered an enormous donation.”

“Do you think I could get a list of people who might’ve held a

grudge?” Velvet asked, transparently eager to put names to anyone who

might have harmed their friend.

“You think someone drove Jeff to kill himself?” Davina asked.

“Or are you saying…no…You don’t think he was murdered?” She

spoke the last word in a whisper.

“I don’t know,” Velvet said. “I’m just looking for some answers.

Struggling to understand.”

“We all are. It’s crazy.”

“Davina, who will be taking over Jeff’s position?” Yoshi asked

“Jennifer Morris. She’s our program director. She’ll be taking

over temporarily until we can Þ nd a suitable replacement. We hope to

have his successor in place by the festival season.”

“Do you think it would be possible to speak with Jennifer in

person?”

“She already left, and I’m afraid I’m about to do the same. But

I’m sure she’d be happy to help, if she can.” Turning to Velvet, Davina

added, “Feel free to give me a call if you ever need to talk.” She

withdrew something from her pocket and handed it to Velvet.

Was it a business card with her number? Yoshi wondered.

Yoshi and Velvet said their farewells, and a few minutes later, as

they walked toward Velvet’s car, Yoshi mentally assembled a persons

of interest list:

Tyrone Hill, as the boyfriend, had to be at the top of the

list, with his drug use and philandering. Methamphetamine

• 72 •

BLIND LEAP

use could cause paranoia. Did it also lead to violence? Could

any of Tyrone’s drug connections have something to gain

from Jeff’s death? How bad was Tyrone’s addiction? Was

his behavior a Þ nancial burden as well as an emotional one?

Could this have pushed Jeff over the edge? She needed to

pin down Tyrone’s alibi for the time of Jeff’s death, and she

needed to locate his dealer.

Charlene Conant was desperate to disprove suicide. Was

there a life insurance policy that would not pay out for

suicide? Who was the beneÞ ciary? Had Jeff left a will?

Theresa and Isabelle, the lesbian couple expecting Jeff’s

baby. What had been their custody agreement with Jeff?

Was it amicable? Had they taken out an insurance policy

on his life, as some couples did when the donor was not an

anonymous party but might have some involvement? Would

they or their child beneÞ t from Jeff’s death?

Chase Devlin. What role, if any, did this producer and

business partner play in Jeff’s personal life? Was their

business relationship a good one? Did Jeff know about the

sexual encounter with Tyrone Hill? Was there more to their

liaison than a single encounter?

Thwarted Þ lm producers or directors. Davina Singleton

had revealed that some of these individuals were angry at Jeff

or hoped to inß uence his decision. Blind Eye could obtain a

list of names from Davina and consider if any of those with

that motive would have had the opportunity and means to

permanently retire Jeff. Could replacing Jeff alter the festival

lineup? Who stood to gain from that?

Frameline’s interim director, Jennifer Morris. Could she

have enough of a stake in Jeff’s death to be a suspect? How

was she chosen for the position? Did she know before Jeff

died that she would take over his job?

• 73 •

• 74 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER SIX

Do you party?” a bald white guy with a salt-and-pepper goatee

asked AJ. He held out a small mirror with two thin lines of

off-white powder.

They were standing in a darkened corner of the video dance

bar inside SF Badlands, a cruisy gay club Þ lled with mostly clean-

cut twentysomething white guys. AJ had tracked Tyrone here twenty

minutes ago and got in without a hitch. If the blond bouncer posted at

the door noticed that AJ was a chick, he didn’t mention it. She’d gotten

used to being mistaken for a guy but Þ gured it wouldn’t happen in San

Francisco, where everyone was so used to seeing butch women.

She’d been lost in thought at the time, musing on Yoshi’s offer

to work at Blind Eye Detective Agency. Guess the girl could separate

her personal feelings from professional ones. Could AJ? That night

together had been hot and Yoshi was an amazing lady, but in the end AJ

knew they weren’t right together. With Chantal they’d been two ß ames

meeting and burning brighter, but with Yoshi their Þ res burnt at odds,

putting each other out. Sure, the sex had been hot. But what would it be

like to work for the hottie you’d hit it with?

And then there was the work itself. AJ had problems as a cop,

being as how she’d been the only female ofÞ cer for almost a year in

her squad. But then AJ had worked a task force that took down some

heavy-hitting politicos and she’d racked up street cred, and now SFPD

had hit her up to put in for a lateral transfer. They talked like she’d be

short-listed for one of them bitchin’ spots on narco. Could be couple of

years away, but could she pass it up for PI work?

Yoshi had called her earlier, offered her the chance to get a feel

of rollin’ Blind Eye style, and she was tailing a brother. The DB’s SO

• 75 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

was their top POI. Though AJ thought in acronyms, using stand-ins for

“dead body,” “signiÞ cant other,” and “person of interest,” Yoshi had

not said it quite like that. She wasn’t sure what tracking Tyrone Hill

would uncover, but AJ had agreed to play along. Give her a chance to

try the job on and see how it Þ t. And Yoshi had agreed to pay her under

the table just this once, so the department couldn’t get riled about her

off-duty activities.

AJ had followed Hill inside Badlands not long after the Conant

memorial service, surprised the bouncer man took nothing more than

a cursory at her ID. He did notice her Louisiana driver’s license. Her

CO would have a shit Þ t if he heard that she still hadn’t gotten herself a

California license. They’d gone and given her a twelve-month deadline,

so she still had three months to decide if she was gonna stay so far from

her N’awlins home.

“You forced out by Katrina?” Blond bouncer asked her the question

everyone did when they found out where she grew up.

“Yeah,” she said. It wasn’t the whole capital-T-truth. She’d made

it through Katrina. It ain’t been Katrina that’d put New Orleans in the

ground. Bush and his cracker cronies were responsible for the breached

levees, for her dead peeps. Even them broken levies didn’t send her

packing, it’d been broken trust. Trust in her fellow police ofÞ cers. Trust

they hadn’t deserved. Trust they’d quickly betrayed for selÞ sh gain.

The bouncer had passed back her ID and AJ had bounded into the

darkness of the bar. Her eyes had since adjusted, but she still couldn’t

see Hill anywhere.

Tucker had told AJ a secondhand story about Hill blowin’ guys

in the john, so she ventured a peek through the men’s room door. She

didn’t see him there. Spying some guy with his trousers around his

ankles, she backed out. She passed a pool table and circled around to

the bar. There was Hill, accepting a mixed drink on the rocks in a short

glass. He was with two other guys.

AJ asked for an Abita beer, then settled for some local ale the

bartender recommended. She took a long swig. It’ll do. She worked

her way through the room, heading down the long corridor that seemed

primed for groping. When some guy’s hand bumped against her crotch,

she wasn’t sure if it’d been an accident or if she’d gotten cruised.

Whichever, she was glad she was trying out a packy; it’d pass manual

inspections.

“Pardon,” she said, sidestepping the errant hand and the guy’s

• 76 •

BLIND LEAP

gaze and continuing to the front lounge where the tank-topped throngs

had multiplied. Shit, she thought, this is a lot of dudes. She moved back

to the video bar, and seeing Tyrone, planted herself between his group

of friends and a trio of white dudes with seemingly matching goatees.

“Do you party?” The guy who asked earlier had found her again.

Turned out his name was Kirk and he was interested in chatting her up

and apparently getting her high.

“I don’t do coke, man.” AJ came up in the eighties, back when

crack was king and bangers ruled the hoods at home. Too many ß y

girls turned into crack hos, too many of her peeps gunned down, and

lots of fucking black men serving time in the big house. She knew there

would always be a market for drugs. But she didn’t want to buy into

it and so far she hadn’t and maybe she was stronger or maybe Jesus

helped her stay tough. Whatever it was, she hated what cocaine did to

her community.

“It ain’t cocaine, it’s crystal. Sure you don’t want a hit?”

She shook her head. These guys had a world between them and the

streets she’d come up in. Why’d they risk it all for a drug rots your teeth

out? Middle class gone and gotten so fucking bad they’d snort meth to

escape? What the fuck?

“What’s the attraction?” she asked.

Kirk snorted. “Hey, guys, we got ourselves a virgin! This kid’s

never gotten amped. He wants to know what’s the big deal.”

The guys snickered. AJ didn’t respond.

“You’re young enough for an all-night round of clubbing and

fucking, but some of us old guys need a little pick-me-up,” Kirk said,

winking at her.

“You’re missing out if you haven’t fucked while partying with

Tina,” one of Kirk’s clones insisted, as though using slang for the dope

would make it more attractive.

“Don’t listen to ’em, kid.” The words came from the left. “That

shit’ll fuck you up. Ruined my life.”

AJ was surprised to Þ nd Tyrone Hill sticking out his hand. She

shook it Þ rmly.

“Tyrone,” he said. He pulled out a wallet and passed her a photo

of Velvet’s dead friend, Jeff. “Me and my boyfriend.”

“He’s hot,” she said, as though qualiÞ ed to judge.

“He was.” Tyrone stroked the picture with his foreÞ nger. He kept

his head bent, but she saw the tears in his dark eyes.

• 77 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“He killed in Iraq?” AJ asked. Back home in the hood that’d be a

reasonable guess, if a death wasn’t gang related.

Tyrone looked at her like she crazy. “He was gay,” he said, like it

ruled out military.

AJ pretended like she got it. He slipped the photo away. She

wondered if she’d lost his attention. She remembered learning in police

academy: Sit back, listen, ask open-ended questions.

“Ya blame your tweaking?”

He nodded and pulled out a pack of Þ ltered Camels. He offered her

one. She hesitated. Back in the hood, everyone smoked. Once she’d got

to California she’d learned smokers were second-class citizens. She’d

been trying to give it up. But she liked pairing smoking and drinking.

The vices went together.

She accepted a Camel, jabbed it between her dry lips, and bent

over his lighter. Her lips had been chapped since she moved here. No

humidity. She sucked the smoke deep into her lungs like an asthma

patient inhaling from an oxygen mask.

Tyrone started talking like it was a relief to have someone

listening. “Started out where we’d just be speedin’ to keep up with our

homies at the club.”

“We?” AJ looked pointedly at the homies playing pool.

He shook his head. “We’d gone from using at clubs to sharing a

hit before sex.”

“Why? What’d it do for y’all?”

“Makes it so you can go all night long.”

Sounds exhausting.

“Then I started wanting it more and more. Jeff wouldn’t do it with

me, and it got so I’d do just about anything for a Þ x.” Tyrone lowered

his voice. He seemed embarrassed. “I’d pick up tricks online who could

offer me refreshments.”

AJ wanted to capitalize on his chattiness. She leaned forward and

kept her own voice low. “Ya cheatin’ on your boy? Keeping it on the

down low?”

“Cheating?” It caught on his tongue like a foreign language.

“What are you, a lesbian?”

She stared at him. What gave it away?

“You just come out or something?” Tyrone demanded.

Sure. She nodded.

“You’ll Þ nd,” he spoke slowly as though he’d just discovered she

• 78 •

BLIND LEAP

was a second grader, “a lot of gay guys just aren’t built for monogamy.

It’s just not in our natures. Jeff and I had an arrangement. We could

fuck other guys.”

“Bareback?” AJ asked about wearing protection. It seemed

reasonable.

Tyrone blushed. It could be hard to see the blood rising to dark-

skinned cheeks, but AJ’d had practice. She used to make Chantal blush

all the time. Back before the levees broke, before Hurricane Katrina,

before Chantal broke her heart.

“Like I said, crank ruined my life. When I’m high it’s like gay

sex isn’t unsafe. It’s such a relief. We got our family saying gay sex

is a Þ lthy, dirty sin. Then AIDS comes along and now gay sex can

kill you? That’s what it means to be gay? It’s soul crushing. That’s

just so depressing.” Tyrone stared at AJ intently as he was passing on

something critical. “I’ve always found bottoming difÞ cult, you know?

Childhood issues, I guess. But when I’m on crystal, I’m an insatiable

bottom. When I’m high, suddenly getting fucked is no longer unmanly.

It’s awesome.”

He offered to buy AJ a reÞ ll. She watched him closely until he

returned with their drinks. He wasn’t talking like a guy.

“You make meth sound spiritual.”

“It is. It is spiritual. I wanted it more and more and I started booty

bumping.”

Booty bumping? It sounded like another name for kicking it. Or

some kind of ass-bumping dance step.

“You dissolve crystal in water, then you shoot the solution up your

ass,” Tyrone explained.

That’s nasty. AJ hoped her face didn’t reveal her feelings.

Tyrone smiled as though happy to make her uncomfortable. “The

high hits you almost as fast as smoking, but it don’t fuck up your

lungs.”

AJ did not get men sometimes.

“Problem is, if you booty bump and then bottom, it can increase

abrasion, ’specially if you’re banging raw. I…well, I’ve done a lot of

things I’m not proud of. When you’re high you forget about everything

else.” He seemed to want to say something else but couldn’t bring

himself to do so.

She thought about what he was telling her and what she knew

about homies on the down low. “You positive?”

• 79 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

He nodded.

“Ya give it to your boy? That how he died?”

“No.” He was adamant. “Jeff was still HIV negative.” He hung his

head. “But he killed himself because of me.”

“’Cause of the drugs?”

“Yeah.”

“He leave a note or something?”

“No.”

“Then how d’ya…?”

“Day before he did it, he tells me he can’t live with me like this

anymore. Thought he was going to leave and I begged him to stay…But

then…”

“Damn, dawg, that’s tough,” AJ said with full genuineness.

They sat in silence. AJ Þ nished her beer. When Tyrone’s friends

returned from playing pool he turned his back to her. She jumped at the

chance to leave. She’d heard all she could take.

She’d tail Tyrone Hill when he left.

AJ crossed the street and hopped in her pimped-out Escalade. She

was still pumped about snagging such a tight ride. Probably seized

from some drug dealer before being sold at police auction.

From the comfort of the classy ride, AJ weighed Tyrone’s

statements. Did his meth use drive Jeff to suicide? What was it Tyrone

wasn’t proud of? Had he turned violent? AJ knew Þ rsthand about drugs

changing personality. Weren’t tweakers paranoid? Under the inß uence,

he could have seen Conant as a threat. Tyrone seemed so distraught,

though. Plus, AJ wondered aloud to herself, could she even trust his

memory? Meth does a lot of damage to user’s brains as well; maybe

Tyrone was Þ lling in the blanks in his head with what he thought was

likely.

Okay, so Tyrone said he’d had a open relationship with Jeff Conant.

Was that true? Had he been honest with Conant? Did the deceased know

about him riding bareback? Tonight she had a lot to think about. It was

far from over, especially if Tyrone was using and really could stay up

for days at a time.

v

Tucker was a little peeved at being left behind while Yoshi

accompanied Velvet to Jeff’s memorial. She was the girlfriend, after all.

• 80 •

BLIND LEAP

She should’ve insisted on being there. A sexy, voluptuous femme like

Velvet really shouldn’t go anywhere without a handsome butch on her

arm. Without Tucker’s presence, how would other butches know Velvet

was taken? A whole string of girls would want to take Tucker’s place.

She might’ve captured Velvet’s heart, but she wasn’t foolish enough to

forget about Velvet’s wandering eye.

Although Velvet was the one who had insisted she stay behind,

Tucker had no doubt Yoshi put her up to it. She’d hinted that Tucker

would be “collaborating” with Bud on Blind Eye’s hush-hush

investigation into Conant’s death. It sounded like an excuse. Yoshi

probably didn’t want Tucker at the memorial in case Velvet noticed

the distracting chemistry between them. Yoshi was too classy to let

anything happen, of course. Velvet was her best friend, and Tucker was

in the lowly role of receptionist.

But that wouldn’t always be the case. She’d begun taking night

classes at the Sam Brown School, a San Francisco institution that trained

private investigators, and when she was done there she could be a PI

herself. Then she’d be Yoshi’s colleague not her subordinate. Eventually.

For now Tucker was only 30 hours into the 212-hour program. And she

still needed to rack up another 5,000 hours working with a licensed

investigator. Thank God her day job counted as time served. That would

greatly reduce the three-year sentence she’d originally calculated and

make it so she’d get her own license sooner. Then she’d Þ nally be

Yoshi’s colleague and their attraction could blossom.

Bud’s cough intruded rudely on Tucker’s fantasy and she

immediately felt embarrassed about the way she’d gone from thinking

of Velvet to dreaming about Yoshi. Rationally, she knew her attraction

to her boss was absurd and would never come to anything. So why

couldn’t she get over it? Velvet was every girl’s dream. She was sexy

and smart, successful and fun, soft and curvaceous on the outside while

tough-as-nails assertive below the surface. And Tucker had really fallen

for the voluptuous journalist. So why couldn’t she banish thoughts of

Yoshi?

Bud coughed louder. “Yo, princess, you awake over there?”

“Yeah.”

“Your thingie’s going off.”

“My thingie?”

“Your cell phone.”

“Oh right. I forgot I had it.” Tucker hadn’t gotten used to the device

• 81 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

yet. She’d never had a cell phone until Yoshi assigned her a Blind Eye

one so they could talk business even when she was out in the Þ eld.

Tucker was kind of a country bumpkin, not used to having fancy

high-tech gadgets. She was from a small farm in an area of Idaho that

seemed immune to the advancements of technology. In junior high

she’d been sent home from school for wearing a T-shirt with the slogan,

“Welcome to Idaho, set your clocks back twenty years.” The principal

had never appreciated her sense of humor. Or her style of dress. He

didn’t think her suit, jacket, and tie combo was appropriate for a girl.

By high school plenty of kids had their own cell phones. Even

more of them had their own vehicles. But not Tucker. She’d had to

ride the bus all the way up to graduation. At least she’d Þ nally gotten

seniority over bus seats. That Þ nal year, when the orange bus pulled

over at the dirt road that led to her home, she could pick any bench seat

she wanted and, without a word, the littler kids would quickly vacate

it for her.

Tucker fumbled with the buttons on the phone. The ringing

stopped. Thinking she’d found the answer button, she said, “Hello?”

No one was there. Damn. She stared at the screen.

“Hey, I got a text message!” She wondered how long the message

had been waiting. Hours, probably.

Bud grunted noncommittally.

Just because the old sourpuss didn’t appreciate her excitement,

it wasn’t going to get her down. This was, after all, her Þ rst text

message.

“It’s from Yoshi,” she announced, sort of disappointed it had not

been Velvet sending her a little “miss you” note or something, but

Velvet was probably still too upset about her friend killing himself.

“Hey, the investigation’s gone ofÞ cial.”

Bud didn’t seem interested. “Yeah?”

“Jeff’s mom hired us. I guess she wants us to look into Jeff’s

death.”

“Really?” The sarcasm dripped from Bud’s voice. “And I thought

she’d hired us to Þ nd Jimmy Hoffa.”

Tucker made a face at him. “Now that it’s ofÞ cial, we should

probably get to work.”

Bud didn’t answer. He returned to reading the Playboy he’d

smuggled into the ofÞ ce under the cushion of his wheelchair. Just

because Yoshi insisted he work late didn’t mean he was going to break

• 82 •

BLIND LEAP

a sweat. Hell, he was probably only there to babysit the kid while Yoshi

and that steamy reporter, Velvet, were working the memorial.

This whole Conant case was a bunch of nonsense. Everyone knew

the fag offed himself. Even Yoshi didn’t think his death was suspicious.

She was just throwing Velvet a bone. Bone. He chuckled in his head.

He’d like to throw that brick shithouse a bone of his own. If he only

had one to throw. Ever since the hot lead of a bullet seared through his

spinal cord, he hadn’t been able to get a bone to save his life. Or his

marriage.

He shook the thought from his head.

Yoshi had probably just given them the assignment so the kid

would have something to practice on, playing investigator on a case

that wouldn’t matter if she fucked it up. Well, if the boss wanted to

throw good money his way to watch the kid play dress-up, who was he

to say different? But that didn’t mean he wanted to play along.

“Where should I start?” Tucker asked.

Bud sighed. Damn. Before the text message, the kid had been

content to quietly play make-believe all by herself. Now Yoshi’d

gone and suckered some grieving mother into funding an all-out

investigation, and for what? The guy had taken a swan dive off the

bridge. God knows, Bud understood what could send someone over

the railing. If he could get over the railings without legs, maybe he’d

have done the same. He wasn’t interested in pretending this was a real

case, but now that Yoshi had a bee in her bonnet, Tucker had gotten all

serious about doing the work. Wouldn’t you know it? Now she needed

her hand held or something. God forbid she do anything on her own.

Okay, granted, that wasn’t always the case. On the Finney murder,

she’d actually put her country-fried knowledge to good use, Þ guring

out how a horse played a role in the murder. But that was just a stroke

of luck. He wouldn’t want to turn her loose on real evidence in a real

case, not that this was a real case. That was the point, Bud concluded,

returning to his Þ rst thought. Yoshi was trying to train Tucker and

because of her own limitations, Bud could already see how that was

going to play out.

He grudgingly responded to Tucker’s query. “We start by Þ nding

out everything we can about the victim. Then we move on to looking

at the people close to him. The boyfriend, coworkers, whatever. Doing

that, we establish more elements of the case. We keep spiraling out

from there, clearing POIs as we go and narrowing in on suspects.”

• 83 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Fine.” Tucker obviously hadn’t noticed he was only explaining

all this because he had no choice. She looked thrilled. “Actually, I

already got some stuff on Jeff Conant.”

Tucker’s computer screen was open to Detective Magic’s Web

site, where they could access everything from a subject’s child support

payments to their police record. “Got a TRW report and checked out his

Þ nancials. Looks like he’s maxed out on some of his credit cards and

cleared out his savings a few months back.”

Bud stuck the Playboy under his seat cushion and rolled closer

to Tucker’s desk. “Okay, there are four main reasons why men need

money. Drugs, booze, women, gambling. So let’s look for evidence of

gambling or drug use.”

“I checked his online activity, there’s no Internet gambling.”

“How about drugs?”

“Jeff told Velvet he dabbled in recreational drugs, but it sounds

like his boyfriend Tyrone might be a regular.”

“Did you look into Tyrone’s background? The partner is always a

good POI to start with.”

Tucker entered Tyrone Hill’s information into the Detective Magic

database. Luckily he lived with Jeff, so they didn’t have to sort through

a dozen Tyrone Hills living in the San Francisco Bay Area.

“He doesn’t have a driver’s license. Isn’t that weird?” Tucker

asked naïvely.

“Not in San Francisco, it’s not. Plenty of people don’t drive, like

Yoshi.”

“Oh, right. What do they use for ID?”

“They get state ID cards.”

“That makes sense. Hey, he’s got a record.”

“For what?” Bud maneuvered his chair so he could see the

computer screen over Tucker’s shoulder. He was disappointed with

what he saw. “Is that all?”

“It says he was arrested for possession of controlled substances.”

“Yeah, but see he barely had enough for one hit, so he obviously

wasn’t dealing and they let him off with probation.”

“But if he’s using again, wouldn’t that get his probation revoked

and send him to prison?”

“Not likely.” Boy, the kid was green. It was like she’d lived her

life in a box. “Prison overcrowding being what it is, they wouldn’t

• 84 •

BLIND LEAP

waste their time with a small fry like that. Plus Þ rst-timers have to go

through a rehab program these days, instead of doing hard time. Cops’d

probably just try and ß ip him.”

“Flip him?”

“Turn him into a snitch, a CI? A conÞ dential informant.”

“Couldn’t that get him killed?”

“He’s so low on the food chain that doesn’t seem a plausible.

Move on. Is he broke, too?”

The kid took a moment to pull up Hill’s credit report. “It doesn’t

even look like he has a bank account. Closed six months ago. Couple

of past-due balances and his credit card accounts frozen. You think all

this is from his drug use?”

Bud nodded. It was a likely deduction.

“What’s his ’Net use like?”

Tucker maneuvered through a few windows. “Mostly porn sites.”

“Really?” Bud perked up his ears. Finally something of interest.

He glanced at the screen. “Eew.” Two guys were doing things they

most deÞ nitely should not do, unless maybe they grew up behind prison

bars.

“Gay porn sites,” Tucker said.

Bud wrinkled his nose and waved his hand in front of his face as

though she’d just cut one. The brat hid a smirk behind her hand. She

thought she was so funny.

“I’ll check for chat rooms.” Tucker typed at the keys and pushed

around the mouse.

Bud rolled away while she searched through Hill’s history.

He didn’t want to accidentally see the wrong popup and turn queer.

“What’d this guy do for a living?”

“I don’t think he has a job.”

“What about Conant?”

“He was the executive director of the Frameline Þ lm festival.”

“We’ll want to talk to some of his coworkers.”

“It looks like some of the chat rooms are places where gay guys

hook up.”

“Can you track what he wrote?”

“No, I can’t, not through this program.”

“Too bad. If he was picking up guys online, one of them could be

involved. I mean, if there was actually a crime.”

• 85 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“You don’t think there was?”

The kid was so wet behind the ears she probably didn’t think

anyone would kill themselves.

“When it looks like shit and smells like shit, I don’t think it’s a

chocolate bar.”

“Gross.” Tucker was silent for moment. “I don’t think it should

be illegal.”

“What?”

“To kill yourself,” she said, surprising him. “It doesn’t seem

anybody’s business but your own.”

“Yeah.” He tried to think of something else to talk about. “Let’s

put together a list of people to talk to. Write down Hill and the Þ lm

festival people. Write down their hours and phone numbers, too, in case

we need it while we’re driving around.”

“Is that what you’ve got planned for tomorrow?”

“I don’t know if it’ll be us, but yeah, someone will have to chat

with our POIs.”

Tucker opened a Word document and started typing, her hands

ß ying across the keys. They trained girls to do that kind of thing.

Nobody had taught him, and it showed. He was a hunt-and-peck man.

His aversion to computers might have something to do with the fact

that he’d never bothered to hone his keyboard skills. He didn’t trust

those machines. He didn’t trust anything he couldn’t stare in the eyes

of to get a sense of its character.

“What else we got?” Bud asked when Tucker stopped typing.

“You say Conant’s family is all from out of town?”

“Yeah, but apparently they’re really tight.”

“So, no animosity there?”

“Not as far as I know.”

Either that meant the Conant family had no dirty laundry or they

just didn’t air it in public. Maybe the boyfriend could tell them which.

Bud thought for a little while before mentioning some other ideas. The

kid happily typed everything he said into the computer. It beat having

to scribble his thoughts down himself.

“We ought to get someone to go through Conant’s apartment since

Hill lived there, too.”

“Won’t the police do that with a search warrant?”

Slowly, with exaggerated patience, Bud said, “They would if they

• 86 •

BLIND LEAP

thought this was a murder, but seeing as it’s a suicide, they’ve got better

things to do with their time.”

“Then how are we going to get in there? Do you think Tyrone will

let us search the place?”

“We’ll just have to ask, won’t we?” Bud replied in an irritated

singsong. “I’m guessing the bereaved boyfriend will want to help in

any way he can. Otherwise how would that look?”

“Guilty.”

“Catching on,” Bud muttered. “Going through their place will

give us a picture of both our victim and main POI. Kill two birds with

one stone.” He thought some more. “Didn’t Yoshi say she was going to

have that cop tail Hill?”

“AJ? Yeah, she’s on it now. He’s in a nightclub.”

“Perfect. That makes it a good time to check out his domicile,

while we got a tail on him. You got her number?”

Tucker’s forehead wrinkled like one of those butt-ugly shit-poo

dogs. “But isn’t that breaking and entering?”

“No, that’s Private Investigation 101.”

“Still—” She avoided his eyes.

“Where’s your sense of adventure? You worried about my legs or

something?” He smacked a thigh with an open hand. It was like hitting

someone else. He felt nothing.

She was cautious about answering. “Well, yeah.”

“Don’t worry.” He waved aside her concerns. When they got to

Conant’s house he would tell her the punch line—she was going to

have to do the breaking and entering all by herself. He had to smother

a chuckle when he thought about it.

• 87 •

• 88 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER SEVEN

As Velvet pulled away from the curb, Yoshi broke the silence

that had followed them from the Castro Theatre.

“What was that with Davina?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

That was the type of question suspects asked, stalling for time and

hoping the interrogator would tip her hand. Perps would hold back on

providing information until they believed the interrogator already had it

and maybe could even prove their malfeasance. Yoshi was disappointed

to hear the stalling question from her friend. But she did not back

down.

“You two were ß irting.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Velvet was defensive.

“Even if that’s true, what’s it to you?”

“I don’t want to see Tucker hurt.”

“It’s none of your business, Yoshi.”

“Actually, it is. I remember explicitly requesting that you not

become involved with yet another of my employees. You did anyway.

Now that you and Tucker are an item, I have a vested interest in your

staying together. I would be disappointed if your grief-muddled decision

making resulted in my having to recruit another employee.”

“And why would it?”

Yoshi sighed. “Because that is exactly what happened with my

previous receptionist. When you broke off with her, she spent work

hours pining until I had to let her go. And my administrative assistant,

Catherine Hildenbrand. She just left town…”

Apparently, Velvet had no intention of dignifying Yoshi’s snide

comments with a response. She was silent for a moment before

• 89 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

switching subjects. “If you were thinking Jennifer Morris might have

had something to do with Jeff’s death, you’re way off. I’ve known

Jennifer for years. She had nothing to gain from his death.”

“She’s Frameline’s interim director now,” Yoshi said. “Perhaps

the job will become permanent.”

“No. She doesn’t want it. Before Jeff joined Frameline, Jennifer

shared director responsibilities with Michael Lumpkin, and when he

left, they offered the full position to her. She turned them down, so they

created the director of programming position speciÞ cally for her.”

Yoshi accepted her friend’s assessment, knowing Velvet covered

the annual LGBT Þ lm festival for the San Francisco Chronicle and was

well versed in the inner workings of the Frameline organization. Still,

she could not depend on Velvet’s assurances alone. Someone would

have to speak to Jennifer Morris in person before her name could be

crossed off the POI list. Blind Eye would need to conÞ rm her alibi

and assess her truthfulness. In addition, Yoshi hoped to press Morris

for more insight into Jeff’s professional life and any problems he was

having at work.

“Davina mentioned irate Þ lmmakers and producers,” Yoshi said.

“Do you put any stock in the idea that someone associated with the

festival could have killed him? Perhaps a producer who believed that

his Þ lm would have a better chance of being added to the roster under

Jennifer Morris’s tenure?”

“No, I don’t buy it. As director of programming, Jennifer was

already in a position to actually choose the Þ lms to be shown at the

festival. OfÞ ng Jeff wouldn’t have changed the lineup or improved

anyone’s chances of having their Þ lm chosen.”

“Okay.” Yoshi accepted Velvet’s insight. She carefully chose her

next words. “Davina indicated that Jeff might have been under some

stress recently—”

“I keep telling you, he didn’t kill himself. Why can’t you just

accept that?” Velvet drew a sharp breath and released it with the shaky

deliberation of a woman struggling to control her emotions. “I can’t

believe you could be so damn hypocritical as to take Charlene’s money

when you’ve already made your mind up.”

Yoshi did not try to defend herself against her friend’s outburst.

She did not make a statement about the importance of critical thinking

in the Þ eld of private investigation. She did not say that most deaths that

appeared to be suicides were just that, not carefully concealed murders.

• 90 •

BLIND LEAP

She touched Velvet’s arm, trying to convey her sympathy, to connect

over this divide separating them.

Velvet shrugged her off. “It seems so obvious what happened.”

Yoshi had never known Velvet, the investigative reporter, to insist

on the “obvious” without completing thorough research to back up her

contentions. It was so strange, the way that grief impacted a person’s

very reasoning skills. From an evolutionary point of view, Velvet’s

response seemed entirely ineffective. After a lion killed a hunter-

gatherer tribal member, it would seem like survivors needed greater,

not lesser deductive reasoning so they would not suffer a similar fate.

Instead, Velvet seemed intent on clinging to faulty reasoning.

“That bastard Tyrone,” Velvet said. “He probably killed Jeff in a

meth-fueled rage and then dumped him off the bridge to cover it up.

The fall and impact would have obscured the injuries before death.”

“Do you have any reason to actually believe Tyrone had been

violent with Jeff?” Yoshi asked. The Þ rst she had heard of the accusation

was when Velvet confronted Tyrone at the memorial.

“You mean, how could I have missed the signs? What kind

of person wouldn’t notice their friend was being abused, is that it?

Or are you saying you think I’m making this up? That I’m what?

Delusional?”

“Of course not, I just—”

“If I’m so delusional, maybe you’d rather walk home than stay

here and ride with me. God knows what I’m likely to do next—in my

delusionary state, I might confuse red for green or a sidewalk for a

freeway entrance—”

“Velvet, don’t be ridiculous.”

“Oh, now I’m ridiculous?”

“I did not mean—”

Velvet yanked the wheel sharply to the right, hit the brake, and

ground to a stop. “Get out!”

“Velvet, please.” Fear clutched at Yoshi’s insides.

“No. I can’t deal with you right now.” Velvet began to sob.

“It’s all right.”

“No, it’s not! Why can’t you just support me? Is that too much to

ask?”

“You are asking me to just make a blind leap and accept your

hypothesis that Jeff Conant was murdered by Tyrone Hill, all without

the smallest shred of evidence that a murder was even committed.

• 91 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

You know that I don’t work that way. I will examine all possibilities,

including the possibility that no crime has occurred.” Yoshi touched

Velvet’s shoulder.

Velvet jerked away. “Oh, right. What was I thinking?” The sarcasm

dripped from her voice to the steering wheel. “I’m just an investigative

reporter and Jeff’s best friend. What would I know? You’re the brilliant

detective. Clearly I’m in your way. So just go.”

“If that’s what you really want.”

Yoshi pulled the car’s door handle. With the click of the releasing

latch, the door swung open, letting in a blast of cold air. Surely Velvet

would reconsider. She would not, when it came down to it, leave Yoshi

stranded, alone at night and unable to see.

Velvet did not try to stop her.

Yoshi vacated the vehicle.

Velvet did not speak.

Yoshi shut the door and Velvet pulled away from the curb. Yoshi

stood there listening to the Celica drive away. Velvet was just making a

point, teaching her a lesson. At the intersection she heard the Celica turn

a corner. She would just circle the block and then return, apologizing

profusely. Yoshi would admit she truly believed Velvet had abandoned

her. They would chuckle about the practical joke, and Yoshi would

make an effort to compliment Velvet on her ribbing: Good one, Velvet.

You really got me.

The minutes ticked by. Yoshi strained to hear the sound of the

Celica returning. With each approaching vehicle, she perked up and

waited for the vehicle to pull to the curb near her. One by one, the cars

continued past, their drivers oblivious to her growing panic.

Velvet was not coming back. She had truly abandoned her to the

darkness.

Yoshi extracted her cell phone, felt for the appropriate keys, and

entered one-one-one, the code for Velvet’s stored number. She ticked

off the moments in her head while the signal bounced to a satellite

dish and back down to Velvet’s mobile. The call went straight to voice

mail.

At the beep, Yoshi apologized profusely for her regrettable word

choice. She hung up and dialed Velvet’s home number. She got another

message and apologized again.

She called the Blind Eye ofÞ ces, where she had left Tucker a few

hours ago. There was no answer. After four rings, the message center

• 92 •

BLIND LEAP

picked up. Yoshi hung up, and from memory, typed in the code for

Bud Williams. Once again she reached voice mail. Likewise for Tucker

Shade. What was the point in supplying Blind Eye’s employees with

cell phones if they were simply going to turn them off or ignore them?

Not bothering to leave a message, Yoshi ended the call. She

started to enter the speed-dial code for her favorite taxi service, then

stopped. Oh, damn. She did not know where she was, and she could

not provide directions to a cab driver. Yoshi tried to recreate the drive

from the Castro Theatre. She had not paid attention. She had been too

busy angering Velvet. God. All she knew was that she was somewhere

between the Castro and the Blind Eye ofÞ ce in the Flood Building

downtown. What was she going to do?

Yoshi tried to Þ ght off the terror sneaking up on her. She hated

this. She hated being so damn vulnerable. Hot tears stung her eyes. She

swiped angrily at them. Get it together.

She was a smart, strong, independent Asian woman. She could

do this. A woman blind from birth had run the grueling thousand-mile

Iditarod through the Alaskan tundra. By God, the least Yoshi could

do was navigate her way to some place familiar. Then again, a half

dozen seeing-eye Huskies had accompanied Rachael Scdoris on her

adventure, and the only dangerous predators Scdoris had to contend

with were polar bears. They might be voracious hunters, but they were

nothing compared to the predators loose on San Francisco streets.

Everyone knew to stay away from polar bears; even Yoshi wouldn’t

ask a wild animal for directions. But human predators were much more

difÞ cult to detect. And defend against.

She should not travel downhill. Doing so might point her directly

at San Francisco’s shadier neighborhoods, the Tenderloin or Bayview.

Depending on where she was to begin with, strolling uphill should steer

her back toward the Castro neighborhood or to Nob Hill. Either would

be preferable to the other options.

Yoshi returned the cell phone to her purse and pulled out the white

telescoping cane. At least she had that with her. Remembering that

Velvet had pulled over to the right to let her out, she started walking

back the direction they’d come. She tapped her way to the end of the

block where her cane dipped off the curb.

Most of San Francisco’s intersections were not equipped with the

chirping jangle that indicated to the blind when to walk and when to

stop. This was just one reason Yoshi preferred a friendly cab service

• 93 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

that could take her directly where she wanted to go. These days, she

limited walking to situations where she had the advantage of familiarity,

having mapped them in her memory from years past.

Now Yoshi waited nervously at the corner of a street she did

not recognize, listening to the sound of cars driving through the

intersection. The trafÞ c parallel to her seemed to ß ow through the

intersection without stopping. This meant there was no stop sign. Yoshi

waited a little longer. She still had not heard cars slow or idle and she

determined, therefore, that there was no signal light either. Thus, the

trafÞ c on the street perpendicular must have a stop sign and would need

to come to a stop before continuing through the intersection.

Yoshi cautiously stepped off the curb. When no drivers responded

by honking or shouting warnings, she hurried across the street. It seemed

a very long time before her cane bumped against the far curb and she

stepped back on safer ground. When she did, she felt as triumphant as if

she had crossed the distance on a tightrope strung high in the air.

It was merely one lone street, and yet it served to restore her

conÞ dence. I can do this. Now the statement was made with conviction,

instead of as a positive-thinking mantra meant to reassure herself. She

could successfully traverse the streets of San Francisco, using her

senses to deduce when it was safe to cross. But, she thought as another

wave of trepidation washed over her, could she truly navigate? Just

because she could walk down sidewalks and cross streets did not mean

she knew where she was heading. And what if she was attacked? Could

she defend herself?

If her father were with her now, he would not tolerate her self-

doubt. Hiroki Yakamota had insisted she learn defensive moves in

preparation for just such a situation. He had enrolled her in karate,

kickboxing, judo, and jujitsu, hoping to Þ nd one at which she was

particularly skilled. An image came to her of her adult self shrunken

to age seven or eight, wearing her white karate gi, standing with other

children her age on a padded ß oor. Her father stood against the wall

of the gym, the look on his face clearly conveying an odd mixture of

disappointment, bemusement, pride, and love.

Yoshi could almost hear him speaking to another parent, his

Japanese accent still thick after a decade in the United States: See the

girl with the long dark hair? The one who lost every match? She’s my

daughter. I am so proud of her. She is simply awful. But she never quits.

I love that determination.

• 94 •

BLIND LEAP

She had never excelled at any one discipline, but she had mastered

speciÞ c moves. Eventually she had combined the moves she was good

at into an amalgamation of her own. But she had not practiced in many

years, and though practitioners of the ancient arts employed all of their

senses, she had not personally used the defensive tactics since losing

her eyesight. Who knew if she would lose her balance or lash out

aimlessly, connecting with nothing while her opponent danced around

her, easily overpowering her defenses? The prospect was frightening.

During the Rosemary Finney case, and again at the recent hip-

hop concert, she had been completely overwhelmed by the sense of

helplessness that had been stalking her for years. Yoshi had begun to

worry that she could no longer do her job alone. Perhaps her future

lay not in direct, hands-on investigation, but rather in administrative

support for her investigative team. She would give up the only job she

had ever loved.

But tonight, tonight she was beginning to think otherwise. Perhaps

Velvet’s abandonment was a much-needed wake-up call to shake her

out of her incessant reliance upon others. This could be the incentive

she needed to reconnect with her self-reliance and shed the tedious role

of the helpless disabled person.

She had heard about a new television program that featured a

blind man who designed houses. If he could do that, why couldn’t she

continue investigating?

After traveling several blocks paralleling the through street,

Yoshi realized that she had sensed neither an increase nor a decrease

in altitude. If she was going neither uphill nor downhill, the street she

was following must run perpendicular to the hills. If she continued

along the road she was on, she would most certainly bypass the Castro

neighborhood.

At the next intersection with a cross light, Yoshi continued striding

away from the main road she had traveled on. It did not take long

before her legs complained that they were marching up hill. This was

good news. Most likely, she was following one of the numbered streets,

and if she was correct about her location, Market Street would be the

main thoroughfare at the crest of the Þ rst hill. On Market, she would

Þ nd businesses, like the large Safeway grocery store. She would Þ nally

have a location to provide to the taxi dispatch.

Her fear having transformed into excitement, she eagerly

blueprinted the remainder of her evening. She intended to—once and

• 95 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

for all—reclaim her private investigator credentials and prove that

Yoshi Yakamota did not require assistance to collect the evidence she

needed to solve cases. Tonight would be the turning point in the Jeff

Conant case. She could sense it. And she was determined to be the one

who proved whether Jeff had truly taken his own life or if someone had

simply made it look like he did. Jeff could have been murdered. Velvet

was too hasty in her emotionally driven assumptions. Yoshi had not

ruled out the possibility at all. Nothing could be ruled out until all the

facts were in hand, and Yoshi intended to obtain them.

v

The house at 585 Castro was a lime green Victorian. Bud drove

past the address where Jeff Conant had lived with his drug-problem

partner and turned the corner on Seventeenth Street. He parked his 1960

baby blue Chevy Impala in the Þ rst empty spot he found and hung his

handicap-parking placard over the rearview mirror, so he wouldn’t be

ticketed for lacking a neighborhood sticker. It took him Þ fteen minutes

to get out of the driver’s seat, execute an ice-skating-like triple salchow

while holding on to the top of the open back door, yank the wheelchair

from behind his seat, ß ing his body around, and land his ass in the

chair.

Tucker hung back and didn’t offer help, even though she was

terriÞ ed that Bud would hurt himself or end up rolling backward down

the street straight into oncoming trafÞ c. From the few times she’d

ridden with him, she had come to recognize that Bud didn’t want her

assistance, even though she meant no harm in offering. After growing up

with two disabled siblings, she’d gotten used to being the able-bodied

assistant. She’d tried to help Bud on more than one occasion, but he

never seemed to appreciate her thoughtfulness. In fact, he seemed to

resent any move she made to offer support. It was as though he thought

she was belittling him, like she didn’t believe he was capable of doing

things himself.

She wondered if her siblings had felt the same way, if they’d

resented her help, too, but had just been too polite to mention it. The

thought made her stomach hurt. She’d always felt kind of guilty about

being the one healthy kid in the Shade household, having the life Hunter

and Anastasia deserved. Not to mention her namesake, the Þ rstborn son

who died as an infant.

• 96 •

BLIND LEAP

“Ready?” Bud asked, tipping back in his chair and popping a

wheelie to get up on the sidewalk.

“Yeah.” Tucker hadn’t Þ gured out how they were supposed to

break into a second-ß oor apartment with all these people around.

The streets were well lit and the sidewalks crowded with men,

their bulging muscles crammed into brightly colored skintight tees and

ripped jeans. Thinking about how uncomfortable Bud must be with all

the gay guys around, Tucker smirked. She didn’t know if he was really

homophobic or if he just thought he was supposed to act that way to

prove he was still a virile heterosexual man, even if he was paralyzed

below the waist.

The gated entrance with steps to the lime green Victorian was

sandwiched between a liquor store and a Thai restaurant. Bud stopped

at the restaurant and held the door for Tucker, even though his chair

made it awkward for her to squeeze past.

“Why, Bud, how nice. You treating me to dinner? Is this a date?”

“Cram it.” He glowered at her as though he was annoyed, but she

saw a sparkle in the irises of his brown eyes. He was just playing.

They waited by the door for the waiter. When a young East Asian

man came to seat them, Bud requested one of the small round tables at

the front of the restaurant, next to the large window that looked out onto

Castro. This didn’t seem like his kind of restaurant.

Tucker glanced around at dimmed lights and ß ickering tea candles.

Murmuring couples ate pad Thai and fancy curries. Her stomach

rumbled at the thought of what was quickly becoming her favorite

ethnic cuisine. Growing up on a small farm in southeastern Idaho, she’d

never been exposed to ethnic cuisine, aside from Taco Bell. Velvet,

on the other hand, was totally urbane and had taken it upon herself to

educate the country bumpkin. Due to her coaching, Tucker could Þ nd

her way around a Thai menu.

“How’s this going to help us get into Tyrone’s?” she asked,

thinking about the curry options.

Bud lowered his menu and grinned at her. Something in his eyes

made her nervous. She shifted in her seat.

“What?” she demanded.

He leaned forward and indicated for her to do the same. She

scooted her straight-backed chair closer and leaned in.

“Their place is right next door, right?”

“Yeah?”

• 97 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“These places are all the same. They’ve got little courtyards in the

back.”

“So?”

“So, this place probably has one.”

“And?”

“And a bathroom.”

“You asking permission to take a piss?”

He rolled his eyes like she was daft. “Restroom’s always in the

back.”

She still didn’t get the point.

He sighed. “You go to the bathroom. You climb out the window

into the courtyard.”

“Me?”

“You don’t expect me to do it, do you?” He pointed at his withered

legs.

“No, but—”

“I thought you wanted to be a PI. If you’re too afraid—”

“Fine.” Tucker ground her teeth. “So, let’s say I manage to climb

out the back window without getting caught. Then what?”

“There’s probably stairs, leading from the back of the apartments

down to the courtyard. You know, like some kind of shared backyard.

You just go on up to the second ß oor…and there you are.”

“There I am? How am I supposed to get inside? Did you think

about that?”

“Oh for godssakes, Shade, haven’t you learned anything yet?

What are they teaching you at that detective school anyway?”

“Silly them, not teaching me how to get arrested committing a

crime by breaking into someone’s house.”

“If you act like you belong, nobody’s going to notice. If they do,

just tell them you’re Conant’s little sister or something and you’re

staying there and got locked out. The neighbors would probably help

you break in.”

“How do you suggest I do that? It’s not like I learned how to pick

locks.”

“One of the windows is probably unlocked. I doubt if they think

someone’s gonna break in from their private courtyard. But if not, then

improvise. This is your chance to prove you’ve got what it takes to be a

PI. Or should I just tell Yoshi you pussied out?”

• 98 •

BLIND LEAP

Tucker imagined disappointment besmirching Yoshi’s beautiful

face. Damn . Bud was going to get her arrested.

“Fine,” she said. “But you owe me.”

A grin spread across his face.

“What am I looking for?” Tucker asked.

“Mostly a sense of who these guys are. Here.” He shufß ed

through a pocket on the wheelchair’s side and pushed something under

the table at her.

It was a throwaway camera.

“Take photos. If you stumble on a diary, suicide note, or murder

confession, bring them back with you. Oh yeah, and don’t be gone too

long.”

Tucker stalked through the restaurant to the bathrooms, the camera

tucked inside one of her jacket’s many pockets. The women’s restroom

was not at the back of the building as Bud had suggested. She looked

back at him, planning to make a nonverbal fuss about it, but he avoided

her eyes as he ordered food.

She looked at the men’s room, which did border the back wall, and

sighed. Improvise. She knocked and when no one answered, she ducked

inside and locked the door. The room reeked of urine. The burning

ammonia smell seemed to have soaked into all four of the walls—and

the ceilings. Boys were so gross.

Back home she’d caught the unneutered billy goats licking pee off

each other. Their pheromones smelled almost as bad as the bathroom.

Tucker’s mom wiped a rag on the stud buck’s head. The rag smelled as

bad as the goat. She kept it in a glass jar, with the lid screwed tightly

in place. When she wanted the does to come into heat, she’d take the

lid off that jar and let the nanny goats sniff it. They’d be ready to breed

within a week.

In the Thai restaurant’s grafÞ ti-brightened bathroom, Tucker looked

around, hoping to quickly escape the stench. The one dust-encrusted

window was about the size of the bamboo place mats out front. You’ve

got to be kidding. She wondered if she would even Þ t through the

damn thing. Only one way to be sure. She’d always been pretty good at

getting through tight spaces. The lava Þ eld behind her childhood home

had stretched for miles. It was crisscrossed with Þ ssures that plunged

Þ fteen feet or more to the ground. Some cracks were narrow enough

to easily step over, but others dominated the landscape, spreading like

• 99 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

wide canyons. Her mother made it clear that Tucker was to avoid those

broad Þ ssures.

As a teen, Tucker had ignored all warnings and advice. She used

to clamber up and down the slick black rocks, slowly Þ nding hand- and

footholds like a free-form rock climber. She had no ropes, kneepads,

or helmet to protect her if she fell. Once she reached the canyon ß oor,

she’d follow it as far as possible. Above her, the crack would narrow

progressively until it fused together over her head, becoming a cave.

She had squeezed through a lot of narrow spaces in her time and she

could probably get through this one, too. She stepped on the toilet seat,

then up to the top of the tank. The porcelain lid shifted under her weight.

She grabbed the top of the stall to keep her balance, and with one foot

on the ceramic tank and the other hanging in the air over the toilet bowl,

she reached for the window. It appeared to be painted shut. Still, she

unlatched the metal hook from its donut eye and gave it a shove with

the palm of her hand.

Tucker was surprised when it gave under pressure and swung

outward. Her hand went with it. The motion reverberated through her

body, pulling her toward the window. Her foot slipped off the toilet tank

and she scrambled, grabbing at the lip of the windowsill and narrowly

preventing her foot from a good soaking in foul toilet water. Clinging

to the edge of the windowsill, she could not hold the dead weight of

her legs for long. She jammed her sneakered feet into the corner and

pushed off. Somehow she shoved her head through the open window.

Cold air rufß ed aside her short locks and blew a chill onto her scalp. It

was no Idaho freeze, but winter was winter. Not her favorite season in

any climate. Except maybe New Orleans. There it’d be a frickin’ relief

after the brutal tropical summers.

Tucker paused to assess her position. She was half in and half

out of a men’s bathroom window. She was probably going to get stuck

here and have to be cut out by Þ reÞ ghters with huge saws that would

slice right through the siding and sheet rock as though it were butter.

Although her body mufß ed the restaurant’s racket, she could hear

someone banging hard on the restroom door. She wondered how long

it would be before they called the manager. She hoped she wouldn’t be

trapped in the narrow window when the irate customer eventually got

in.

The ground below her was littered with cement blocks. Not

wanting to land on them headÞ rst, she slowly and painfully rotated her

• 100 •

BLIND LEAP

body. A few minutes later, her back was pressed against the windowsill

and she was looking up at the night sky. The glow of the city hid

the stars she remembered from back home. She hoped none of the

neighbors would see her hanging there. After catching her breath, she

squeezed her torso out until she was in a sitting position, facing the

building, her nose brushing against the rough wood. She clung to the

edges of the siding, her Þ ngertips digging in. Preparing herself for

a fall, she shufß ed back so she could get one leg out, turned and sat

awkwardly astride, then freed the other leg. Hunched forward with only

her butt on the window ledge, hanging on with her hands behind her,

she stared down into the courtyard, took a deep breath, and jumped.

The ground was hard. The courtyard had no lawn-quality turf. The

wild grasses grew in clumps and their rough seeds scratched Tucker’s

legs and stuck in her socks as she shufß ed toward the target Victorian.

She was relieved to Þ nd the windows on the Þ rst ß oor dark. Above her

head she could see the balconies that hung over the courtyard from the

back. Buildings, all of which seemed to have residential apartments on

their upper ß oors, surrounded the square yard. She could see the bright

red glow of a cigarette as someone on the third ß oor across from her

stood on the balcony and enjoyed his smoke.

Tucker had smoked as a teenager, ducking out into the darkness

of the farm, not realizing how the strong odor clung to her clothes

and even overwhelmed the corral’s goat manure. She hadn’t craved a

cigarette for a long time but she wouldn’t turn one down now, if it were

offered.

Bud was wrong about the external stairway. The other building

overlooking the courtyard had wooden steps, but not Jeff and Tyrone’s

converted Victorian. Tucker tried the windows on the Þ rst ß oor thinking

that she maybe she could get access to the building’s indoor stairwell

and then Þ gure out how to break into the apartment. The windows were

shut tight and she looked up at the building again. As her eyes adjusted

to the darkness, she Þ nally noticed a Þ re escape above her. It was one of

those where the last leg of the ladder remained a ß oor above the ground

until it was released.

Tucker considered her options. There was no way she was going

back through the bathroom window. Nor was she particularly thrilled

with the idea of returning empty-handed and listening to Bud belittling

her. Bracing herself against a drainpipe and using the door frame of the

downstairs neighbors, Tucker reached the hanging ladder and climbed

• 101 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

it to the second-ß oor balcony. She peered through the back window into

Jeff’s apartment and made sure there was no motion or noise coming

from within. She tried the window. It was loose.

Tucker brushed slivers of peeled paint from her clothing and spent

the next Þ ve minutes jimmying the window. She managed to pry it open

it wide enough to slide a credit card through. Even she wasn’t that thin,

and she had to concede defeat. Frustrated, Tucker ß opped against the

back door.

It slid open behind her.

Mufß ing a scream, she scrambled to regain her footing, sure

someone must have pulled the door open. But she heard no noises

inside the apartment, and once she’d assured herself that she was alone,

Tucker pulled the cell phone from her pocket and dashed off a quick

test message: “I’m in.”

The porch opened into the kitchen. She found a light switch and

recoiled at the mess. Garbage overß owed the bin, and dirty dishes spilled

from the sink and spread across the counters like a black cancer. The

room reeked of spoiling food. She snapped a few photos and hurried

into the hallway. The apartment was designed like a New Orleans

shotgun, with a hallway on one side, rooms on the other. The long hall

led straight from the kitchen to the front of the house. It was cluttered

with a mishmash of discarded clothing, empty boxes, and what looked

like several full garbage bags, tied off at the top.

She stepped over heaping pile of clothing discarded at the front

door like a low-tech booby trap. She wondered if Jeff had been this

messy or was Tyrone just a slob? Another possibility was that someone

had trashed the apartment looking for something. Was that why the

back door hadn’t closed properly? She remembered when the police had

searched Velvet’s home in Bernal Heights, back during that frightening

period when she was suspected of killing Rosemary Finney. That had

also been a mess, but it had looked more…thorough than this.

The small bathroom was cluttered with expensive grooming

products that held no interest to Tucker. She ß icked off the light and

moved to the next doorway down the hall. In the center of the room was,

apparently, a bed. It was lost under several layers of strewn clothing.

Tucker was about to commence a search through the bedroom drawers

when the apartment door rattled.

Jesus. Tyrone. Bud was supposed to call and warn her if AJ reported

he was on his way home. Tucker stuck her head out into the hallway

• 102 •

BLIND LEAP

and heard a key slide into the lock. He was at his front door and would

soon discover her and think she was robbing the place. She glanced

down the hallway toward the outside porch. There wasn’t enough time

to get to the kitchen’s rear exit, let alone scramble down the Þ re escape.

She would have to hide. But where?

Tucker ducked back into the bedroom, stumbling over piles

of clothing on the ß oor. She felt under the bed for space. Her hand

bumped against plastic storage containers. There was no room for her

to squeeze in next to them. Panicking, she dove toward the open closet

and frantically burrowed into discarded clothing. Out in the hall, the

door swung open and closed.

Tucker froze. She held her breath. Don’t come in here, she begged

silently.

The hallway remained dark, as though Tyrone hadn’t switched on

the light. That struck Tucker as odd. Most people came into a dark

house and wanted to light their way. What if it wasn’t Tyrone at all?

What if Jeff actually had been murdered and the perpetrator was here in

the apartment because he had unÞ nished business?

From the hallway, she heard a loud crash and drew the obvious

conclusion. It was Tyrone, but he had come home drunk or stoned and

had fallen over the pile of clothing in front of the door. She pushed

aside the clothes and heard a mufß ed moan followed by a string of

curses. Japanese curses. In disbelief, she crept toward the door.

“I know you’re in there,” Yoshi called from the dark hallway.

“Come out slowly. I am armed.”

“Yoshi! Don’t shoot, okay? It’s Tucker.”

“Tucker?” Yoshi groaned again. “What are you doing here?”

Tucker ß icked on the hallway light and found Yoshi lying at her

feet. She fought off a chuckle and quickly helped her boss up from the

booby-trap clothing pile.

“Do you really have a gun?”

“What do you think, Tucker?” Yoshi raised her head, causing

Tucker to gaze into shockingly blue irises that stared right through her.

Yoshi didn’t turn away. She seemed to be pointedly holding Tucker’s

gaze.

“Oh, right,” Tucker said when she Þ nally got it. Yoshi was making

a point with her eyes. She couldn’t have a gun. They wouldn’t give her

a permit, not when she was legally blind. “How’d you get a key?”

“From Velvet,” Yoshi said, and then added, “Earlier today,” as

• 103 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

though answering some unspoken question. “I think a better question

is, how did you gain entry without one?”

“The back door was open.”

Yoshi raised an eyebrow.

“Bud made me do it,” Tucker blurted.

“Well,” Yoshi said, “we are both here now, so we may as well take

advantage. Let us discover what we can ascertain about Jeff and his

partner from elements in their domicile. If I may hazard a supposition,

does it seem as though the apartment has not been tidied recently?”

“Yeah, it’s a mess. How’d you know?”

“From the heap I stumbled over, for one thing. Jeff would never

have tolerated that. When I called on him in the past, I always found his

residences clean and sparse, with nothing out of place.”

“Well, it certainly isn’t that now. Looks more like a ß ophouse.”

“Where is Bud?” Yoshi asked.

“Next door at the Thai restaurant.”

“Eating dinner at my expense, no doubt.”

Tucker did not even allow herself a grin. Yoshi seemed to know

when she was chuckling. “The bedroom’s right here. I was going to

search it Þ rst.”

“Correct,” Yoshi said. “We are not searching for a speciÞ c item,

so we must evaluate everything Jeff or the persons of interest wanted

to keep private. These things are usually hidden in the most obvious

places.”

Tucker thought about her own most precious photographs and

documents. She kept them in a business envelope at the bottom of a

drawer full of socks. Obvious? She winced. She would Þ nd a better

spot when she got home later. If she was going to be a PI, it was time

she started thinking like one.

• 104 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER EIGHT

It took forever before Tyrone Hill Þ nally stumbled out of

Badlands. Parked across the street from the bar, AJ chilled in the

leather driver’s seat of her Escalade. She’d had to run the heater almost

the whole damn time. It was motherfuckin’ cold. It hadn’t snowed, but

San Francisco was only four hours from ski slopes, and that made it

straight up the closest she’d ever been to snow. She knew she didn’t

want to get any closer.

It’d dipped down to thirty degrees maybe a dozen times when she

was growing up in New Orleans. Each time it’d been an emergency

and the city had run warnings about keeping your tap water ß owing

so the pipes wouldn’t freeze. She’d like to be home right now. Or in

bed kicking it with a hottie instead of freezing her ass off tailing some

distraught brother. All so’s the lady she’d last hit it with could decide

whether or not to offer her a job.

The shit was messed up. AJ’s gut told her Tyrone wasn’t a

murderer. He was just like a million other brothers who’d made some

bad choices and let drugs destroy their lives. Same shit happened to her

older brother, and now he was doing ten to twenty in Angola.

AJ watched Tyrone weave back and forth with his homies, one on

either side of him, trying to keep him upright between them. She slid

out her cell and dialed Bud as she’d agreed to do when she seen the

bird ß y the coop. With Tyrone moving as slow as the federal response

to Katrina, she decided to follow on foot. She pulled on a black down

jacket she’d bought when she’d Þ gured out how frigid it was gonna get

and yanked the hood tight over her head.

Tyrone didn’t go to his apartment, though. Instead he stopped

across from the Castro Muni between the Hot Cookie bakeshop and

• 105 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Quicklys bubble tea. AJ ducked into Castro Smoke House and watched

from just inside as Tyrone pushed on an intercom buzzer, then bent

down to the box like he was conversing with it. A few seconds later he

hitched open the metal door and disappeared inside, alone.

Keeping an eye on his homies, still on the sidewalk, AJ bought

a pack of smokes, something she hadn’t done in months. She stepped

out and lit up, the perfect excuse for lurking around while she waited

for Tyrone. Passing time, she watched men hanging around the Diesel

Jeans store. Those that weren’t ducking into the alley for a quick piss

were smoking, and she could see glowing cherries rise and fall.

Keeping her head low so the hood shadowed her face, she shufß ed

closer to Tyrone’s boys, who were lighting up on weed. She ducked

into a doorway of a closed storefront. It stank. Probably some homeless

brother’s nighttime crib. With a roof and blocked from wind and rain on

two sides, it was a top-of-the-line sidewalk hotel. Lighting up another

smoke, AJ gave Tyrone’s friends their own cherry light to watch.

She’d gotten through three cigarettes and lost feeling in her

Þ ngers before Tyrone stumbled down the steps and slapped one of his

friend’s palms. The guy stuffed a rolled-up baggie in his front pocket. A

similar exchange happened when Tyrone high-Þ ved the other homeboy,

who furtively crammed his baggie inside his jacket. AJ didn’t know

if Tyrone was passing out pot or meth or something else, but she’d

seen enough drug buys to recognize one when it went down in front

of her. Whoever lived in the building was one of Tyrone’s suppliers.

That the homies hadn’t gone in suggested that the slinger didn’t know

them. Drug dealers were a paranoid bunch and weren’t about to sell to

someone they didn’t know.

Tyrone’s two friends slugged him on the shoulder and walked

away. He stood in front of his supplier’s door as though trying to decide

where to go. AJ hoped he’d go on home to his crib and get to bed

alone. But she knew he wouldn’t. He was like one of them crazy Cajun

crackers living out on the bayou and wrestling gators. Some men are

their own worst enemies, but some things aren’t supposed to be triß ed

with.

Tyrone was no psychic and he didn’t hear her warnings. He

turned and hurried toward The Café on Market Street. His drunken

stumbling was replaced by a quick shufß e. AJ would have arrested

the homo homie by now if she was on the job; she ain’t ever seen

• 106 •

BLIND LEAP

pot wake someone up. He gotta be trippin’ on uppers. She followed

him, hanging about ten paces back so as not to be seen. When Tyrone

glanced over his shoulder at her a few seconds later, she turned down

a side street, letting him get farther ahead. She knew where he was

headed after all. There was a line of men outside of The Café.

AJ slowed her naturally long stride and was halfway down the

block when she saw Tyrone bypass the line and keep going, scuttling

past it with his head down. Damn. She sprinted across Market, passing

the Escalade reluctantly. No time to get it without maybe losing him

down a side street. She left the Escalade behind and shadowed Tyrone

for ten minutes. He stopped at Club Eros, a beige stucco two-story

industrial building across from Safeway, and entered below the green

awning. From the line outside, AJ assumed it was maybe a dance club.

She got in back of the line outside. The men in front of her all seemed to

know each other. A bearded bouncer was checking IDs, collecting dead

presidents from some and looking at a card others offered up.

When she got to the door he asked, “This your Þ rst time here?”

She nodded.

“I’ll need to see your ID. Are you interested in one of our

membership packages? As a member you’ll only pay Þ fteen dollars a

night instead of the usual twenty.”

“No thanks.” Twenty-dollar cover? Fuck. Good thing Yoshi was

covering expenses. She handed him her driver’s license and a Jackson

from the wallet leashed to her back pocket and crossed her Þ ngers.

“Angela Joy—?” He began reading her name aloud.

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks. “AJ,” she corrected.

“Oh, I’m sorry. You’re FTM?”

Until the homo-hop concert she’d never even heard the term. A

tall sistah with big blond hair and a low-cut blouse had asked her the

same question and AJ hadn’t known how to reply. She’d wondered if it

was some kind of West Coast lingo, like another way of saying NWA:

nigga with attitude. Velvet had stepped in and introduced her, and she

wanted to ask about the term then but she didn’t get a chance, not with

the music starting and Tucker hanging on Velvet all night.

Plus, then AJ and Yoshi went home and had make-up and break-

up sex all in the same night. When she remembered the exchange a

couple days later, she’d slipped onto one of the computers at East Palo

Alto and punched the letters in a search engine. She clicked onto FTM

• 107 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

International and read maybe three lines before yanking the computer’s

plug from the wall to wipe the page from the screen. If the other cops

seen that shit she’d never live it down.

Still, she’d been intrigued about the idea of there being guys who’d

been born female. Like, how was that even possible? AJ Þ nally found a

local library and got online. An hour later she walked out with a better

understanding of female to male transsexuals, but even more questions

than she’d had when she’d gone in.

If this club’s bouncer thought she was a trans guy that was

cool, especially if it gained her entry to this boy’s club. He was just a

gatekeeper; she needed to get back to trailing her mark.

“That a problem?” she asked, sidestepping the question about her

gender identity.

He shook his head. “No, of course not. We have a number of trans

members, and we’re working to make our space more trans-friendly.

You might be interested in our Retool and Grind night.”

“What’s that?” AJ still pronounced it the N’awlins way, What

dat?

“It’s our special trans night, there’s an open mic where we

encourage transmen to share stories or whatever. Here…” He pulled

a postcard from the bottom of his metal money box and shoved it AJ’s

way. “This has more information and our Web site’s on it, too.”

AJ took the card.

“Just follow the signs to the locker rooms,” he directed as she

stepped through the door.

Locker rooms? What kind of club was this?

v

Most of the men were straight-up naked. Heat ß ushed AJ’s face.

Some guys had white towels wrapped around their waists. They reclined

on red leather sofas in a lounge with dark carpeting and erotic drawings

on walls the color of butter. A few of the homeboys wore nothing but

underwear. She noticed one guy sauntering ’round the room wearing

underwear and a white tank undershirt, with a towel draped over his

shoulder. AJ was relieved. She might be able to pull that look off—at

least long enough to Þ nd Tyrone in this two-ß oor sex club.

AJ stripped down to briefs and undershirt. Most of the homegirls

• 108 •

BLIND LEAP

back on the block in N’awlins favored bright colorful clothing, but AJ

had always preferred the more muted gangsta uniform of low-slung

jeans, white T-shirt, dope high-tops, and a zip-up hoodie.

Evaluating her appearance in the mirror, she nodded to herself.

She liked the way the bright whites of her underwear contrasted with

her rich chocolate coloring. Her breasts were small but still noticeable,

so she pulled a towel from a stack of folded ones and hung it ’round her

neck, the ends hanging down over her chest. She had strong thighs and

wasn’t one to shave the Þ ne hairs on her legs, so they’d probably pass.

And the packy in her molded briefs provided a realistic bulge.

Her stomach wasn’t washboard ß at, but ß at enough. She had the

round ass of a holler back girl, but her hips were slim. Her closely

cropped hair coiled tightly against her head. The short hair, sharp lines

of her face, and fuzzy upper-lip had gotten her mistaken as a man.

Before tonight she’d never tired to pull it off intentionally, and here she

was trying to do so in clothes that revealed her girliest features.

AJ took a deep breath to ready herself and stepped out from the

locker room into the sex club. It was clearly a white club, so she Þ gured

Tyrone’s skin tone would make him easy to Þ nd. In a tiled shower

room, it was just white men doing what they called water sports. Must

be a cracker thing. Like bondage. African Americans ain’t into that shit.

They’d too much history being chained up, degraded, and pissed on to

make it seem hot. AJ checked the men in the sauna. Weren’t none of

them black.

A place like this where everyone stripped down, they’d probably

all got to thinking it leveled the Þ eld and there was no difference

between rich and poor. But that was bullshit. Even naked they weren’t

naked; AJ could see class. Strip down a homeboy and you see scars and

tats. Addicts all skin n’ bones. These guys had sculpted muscles and

piercings and fancy tattoos—she ain’t seen no prison tats crafted from

soot or ballpoint ink, not here. No gang markings, neither.

AJ tried not to gawk at couples as she wove through the maze of

upstairs playrooms colored with reds and blacks. Scanning the room, she

noticed a Latino homie with ropey scars cupping his chest and tattoos

wrapped around his biceps. His face was bearded in the style of her

EPAPD coworkers, shaved but for circling the mouth. His eyes caught

hers and he titled his head as though in a nod of acknowledgment. She

didn’t recognize him and wondered if she knew him from somewhere

• 109 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

else. Not sure how gestures were coded in this place, AJ didn’t return the

nod in case it meant something, like colored handkerchiefs indicating

different sexual proclivities.

It got darker farther into the maze and she had to look harder to

determine skin tone. Finally, on one of the low red tables topped with

black leather cushions, she noticed the ass of a black man draped over a

white guy. It was hard to see his face without being forced to see more

than she’d ever wanted of gay guys kicking it.

“Tyrone?” she whispered.

He didn’t look up.

Though she was sort of relieved, she still had to know for sure it

wasn’t him. If it was her, it’d take lot more than some whispering to

stop her from hitting it with a ß y girl. Seemed like hours passed till the

brother threw his head back, the veins bulging out. He wasn’t Tyrone.

Fuck. Where was that crazy-assed motherfucker? She was tripping. She

had to get outta there quick.

AJ ducked into the shadows between a tangle of wooden bunk beds

slathered in red paint and crammed together. She barely glanced at the

guys coupling on it as she rushed past. She found Tyrone leaning against

a bunk’s ladder. His eyes were open but they didn’t seem focused. What

AJ saw next surprised her. Against good sense, and posted club regs,

the white boy hitting Tyrone’s ass wasn’t wearing no glove. She was

amazed at the intensity of her anger.

After a quick stop at the locker room to throw on clothes, she

stomped into the ofÞ ce and demanded to see a manager. When she

started ranting about one of their members barebacking and breaking

their hard-and-fast safe-sex rules, he asked if she was with the health

department or something. When she said no, she was an off-duty police

ofÞ cer, he told her to leave.

AJ went back to the Escalade and found a new parking spot at the

Safeway across the street. She reclined in the driver’s seat, but she still

had a sharp eye on the door to the sex club. Even had time to check in

with Yoshi. She didn’t go into detail about her night, just gave Yoshi

the short story and the address of Tyrone’s dealer hoping maybe Yoshi

would do something with it. Something more than ask the dealer for his

whereabouts at the time of Jeff’s death.

Her mind kept ß ashing on the club. It was like walking through

a live porno. She wasn’t turned on. She favored breasts and pussy, no

question about it. And big-assed girls. Not that Yoshi was built that

• 110 •

BLIND LEAP

way. Now Velvet, there was a Þ ne Þ lly. AJ had no idea how a skinny

little white child like Tucker managed a full-on woman like that. She

must have some hidden depths, ’cause she sure as shit didn’t exude the

kind of strength and personality it seemed like Velvet would need.

AJ thought about the guys at the club. Some of them were butt ugly,

but they still sauntered around naked, all comfortable with themselves

like they were at home in their bodies. She didn’t always feel that way

about herself.

Gay men seemed to have this devotion to Þ nding shit that felt

good, just for the pleasure of it. She’d seen that kind of thing back

on the block, people pursuing feel-good drugs without a care for their

kids or food. That was wrong, no doubt about it, but the way these gay

guys pursued pleasure kind of made her envious. Still, it seemed as if

Tyrone Hill was all about pleasure, and it was killing him. It was like

he wasn’t even all there anymore. Least it seemed that way to AJ, even

though she’d just met him. He had this aura like he was desperate for

something to sooth his pain but all the things he tried didn’t work no

more. He was like a man who’d lost his taste for cake but kept trying to

get back to the enjoyment he used to have. So he just kept on eating one

after another till he was choking to death on frosting.

Still, you had to value the pleasures of life. They made the rest

worth suffering through. Least that’s what AJ had learnt growing up

in N’awlins. The place was devoted to decadence: Mardi Gras parties,

riverboat gambling, sensuous music, rich foods, heavy drinking, and

lots of sex. Citizens knew how to enjoy themselves even through

hurricanes, ß oods, poverty. And her people had been through even

worse shit, but they still found joy in things. How else could they have

survived?

v

“Hold on, I see something.”

They were checking under Tyrone’s mattress for journals, private

letters, compromising photos, or contraband. Everyone had secrets.

After probing countless residential properties, Yoshi had concluded

that those secrets would often be harbored betwixt mattress and box

springs. More than anything, this suggested that Americans neither

turned nor replaced their mattresses with any regularity.

Bedrooms were the site of personal and private items. After all,

• 111 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

rooms that contained beds implied sex, and were therefore considered—

in American culture—spaces removed from the public sphere. Yoshi

could not conceive why anyone would chose to conceal their skeletons

beneath where they slept, dreamt, and made love.

Convinced that what Jeff or Tyrone wanted most to hide from the

world would undoubtedly be sequestered not just in the bedroom, but

somewhere in or below the bed itself, she requested Tucker’s assistance

in peeking below the Conant-Hill mattress. But now, as she felt the

weight of the mattress shift to her side, she worried that she had made a

mistake. Obviously Tucker was retrieving whatever was hidden.

Yoshi called out a warning. “Tucker! Do not touch anything.”

“Sorry. I’m touching it right now.”

Of course you are. Yoshi sighed. “What is it?”

Hand grenades were too bulky to effectively hide in the space. She

could picture Tucker standing there with a grenade in one hand and the

pin in another. “Oops,” Tucker would manage to intone, just before hot

shrapnel tore through ß esh and bone.

“I don’t know.”

Tucker’s admission did not ease Yoshi’s trepidation. “What does

it look like?”

“Drugs,” Tucker said, before hedging, “maybe.” She described a

baggie of white crystal-like substance that looked almost like broken

shards of glass and a “weird” pipe with a big glass bowl.

“Put it down immediately!” Yoshi commanded. She had no desire

to bear witness to an industrial injury.

“Why?” Tucker asked, fear in her voice.

Yoshi heard the methamphetamine crystals and freebase pipe

bounce a little on the box springs as Tucker dropped them. She let the

mattress fall, instructing Tucker, “You must cleanse your hand straight

away. It is essential that you do so, right this minute.”

“What was it?”

“Crystal meth. It can permeate layers of skin and gain access to

your bloodstream. Wash your hands with soap and water. Now. ”

“Okay, okay. I’m going.”

A moment later Yoshi heard the sound of running water as Tucker

rinsed her hands.

“What should we do?” Tucker asked when she returned. “Do we

need to call the police or something?”

“It was just one baggie?”

• 112 •

BLIND LEAP

“Yes.”

“That is not enough to be distributing,” Yoshi said. “It must be for

personal use. If either of us had arrived with an evidence collection kit

in hand, we could conceivably contain it and release it to the authorities

for proper disposal. However—”

“Can’t we just ß ush it?”

“No. The hazardous chemicals can attach to water molecules.

Those are not removed fully from the sewage treatment process. The

remainder eventually washes downstream to the ocean and contaminates

Þ sh.”

With the mattress back in place, they returned the piles of clothing

to the bed. Not that Tyrone would notice. Yoshi suggested that to more

efÞ ciently utilize their time, they split up and take different rooms.

She would examine the remainder of the bedroom and then move to

the bathroom while Tucker started with Jeff’s ofÞ ce, searching the Þ le

drawers for Þ nancial and legal papers. Yoshi directed her to take digital

photos of any papers of potential interest.

“I didn’t bring a digital camera,” Tucker admitted sheepishly.

“Just this throwaway one.”

“That’s perfectly all right, I have mine in my purse. Here.” Yoshi

held out the small rectangular camera.

“You carry a camera?” Tucker asked.

Yoshi sighed. She got so tired of explaining that, just because

she could not see, she was not incompetent. “It is a fully automated

camera. It automatically focuses and adjusts the light. It allows me to

take snapshots that I can relay to Bud or another investigator. Then

the photographs can be carefully examined for clues I might have

overlooked.”

“Oh, cool. You are so smart, Yoshi. I would never have thought

of that.”

Thank Goodness. It would be time to hang up her skates if a PI-

in-training receptionist outsmarted her.

Yoshi sorted through the clothes on the bedroom ß oor, snifÞ ng

the shirts. Some smelled like they had been drenched in sweat, maybe

from nights of frenetic meth-fueled dance marathons. Sweat elicited

by fear and anxiety smelled different from exercise sweat. Other

garments reeked of cigarette smoke and hard alcohol, and she could

distinguish nearly a dozen discrete fragrances, several of which coded

“Jeff.”

• 113 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

On the top of a dresser, under another layer of garment fabrics,

was an assortment of glass cologne bottles. Spraying a sample from

each into the air for a whiff, Yoshi slowly worked her way through

the variously shaped containers. In doing so she was able to match up

many of the clothing scents to cologne bottles. In fact, she found that

the colognes accounted for half the shirt aromas.

Shirts with scents she could not identify, she set aside. After she’d

Þ nished in the bedroom, she walked down the hall, trailing her Þ ngertips

along the wall until she felt the bathroom door framing. Once in the

small water closet, she bent down and felt around the bathtub until

she located plastic bottles. She unscrewed each lid in turn and inhaled

the content’s bouquet before tightening the cap and turning to the next

container. Paul Mitchell’s distinct brand of shampoo and conditioner.

A liquid soap using the puriÞ cation power of citrus. A foaming facial

cleanser with an olive oil base. Next Yoshi turned to the sink. She

quickly ascertained that there was no cabinet below the freestanding

porcelain bowl. A tube of toothpaste, shaving razor, hair pick, and a bar

of hand soap shared the sink’s broad lip.

Between the inset bathtub and the freestanding sink, she found

a collection of bottles crowding the toilet’s tank. Continuing to open

and smell the products, she distinguished a few more scents from the

bedroom’s clothing—including something called Bold for Men’s Dry

Shave Gel, which elicited a fond smile when she discovered that its

raised lettering could be read by her Þ ngers.

With only a few scents remaining to identify, Yoshi tugged open

the above-sink glass-fronted, aluminum-plated medicine cabinet. She

whiffed shaving cream, aftershave, mouthwash, lube, hand lotion, face

cream, and two cologne samples. Only one of the fragrances from the

clothing eluded identiÞ cation by the time she’d exhausted all options.

Perhaps the one remaining clothing scent had belonged to someone

other than Jeff and Tyrone. A visitor could have left the shirt. Or it

could be trace. Someone wearing the scent could have come in contact

with Jeff or Tyrone and transferred scent molecules to their clothing.

Yoshi called Tucker in and had her read aloud from labels on

two rows of prescription medication vials. Although Tucker stumbled

over pronunciations, Yoshi easily recognized several allergy and

pain medications. Others described brand and drug names that were

unfamiliar. Nearly all of these later medications were in Tyrone’s name.

• 114 •

BLIND LEAP

Yoshi asked Tucker to photograph the vials, taking care to include the

medication names. Later they could do research to determine what

ailments Tyrone might be receiving treatment for.

“Did you Þ nd anything interesting in the other rooms?” Yoshi

asked Tucker.

“I don’t know. I guess it’s nothing,”

“What is nothing?”

“Well, Velvet says gay guys like a lot of porn. They’ve got a whole

rack of it.”

“Not surprising.”

“She never said anything about Tyrone starring in his own.”

“Excuse me?”

“There’re two pornos in there with Tyrone’s picture on the box.

It’s not his name or anything, but I swear it’s him.”

“Interesting. Did you photograph the boxes?”

“No, I can, though. There’s also a stack of screeners for movies

I’ve never heard of,” Tucker said, using terminology she’d undoubtedly

picked up from Velvet.

Velvet. So far, she had not answered Yoshi’s many calls, not even

after Yoshi left a rather extensive message explaining that she was no

longer angry at being deserted after the memorial. After all, Yoshi had

successfully rescued herself and safely returned to civilization on her

own. In her self-congratulatory euphoria, she had easily abandoned her

previous umbrage.

As if summoned psychically, Tucker’s phone began to buzz on

vibrate. Yoshi held her breath in expectation. She was disappointed

when Tucker—rather than making the cooing noise that indicated she

was speaking with Velvet—announced, “It’s Bud.”

Yoshi felt her letdown physically. It was as though a bird had

leapt from her heart, springing into ß ight only to run smack into a glass

window and plummet to the ground in a daze.

“He probably couldn’t Þ gure out how to text me,” Tucker

murmured, before answering, “Hey, what’s up?” After a brief exchange,

she ended the call and informed Yoshi, “Tyrone’s on the move again.

Sounds like he’s going to another club.”

“All right, then. Let’s have you concentrate on taking the

photographs we discussed. I would also like us to gather those screener

Þ lms you mentioned seeing. I believe they may be the property of

• 115 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Conant’s employer, Frameline. We may as well return them when we

drop in on their ofÞ ce tomorrow.”

Yoshi was careful not to appear as though she was directing Tucker

to steal. What with the country girl’s moral code, Tucker would be

reluctant to violate the letter of the law, even if requested to by Yoshi,

whom she normally would do quite anything to please.

While Tucker was doing as directed, Yoshi stepped into the

kitchen, not knowing what she was hoping to Þ nd. Near the stove, she

discerned the faint scent of heavy chemicals hovering below the rank

smell of spoiling food and rotting garbage. She wondered if Tyrone

brewed his own methamphetamine at home. Thankfully, the scent was

subtle and did not seem recent. Perish the thought that she and Tucker

might have inadvertently stumbled into a hazardous environment.

This living space was so very different from how Yoshi recalled

Jeff’s prior apartment. When she had visited him—it was years ago,

now—his place had been imbued with a combination of pleasant aromas.

He had modern Scandinavian furnishings with clean lines, sprinkled

with chic, handcrafted tchotchkes like a Jonathan Adler giraffe-shaped

lamp, an Andy Warhol pillow, and an autographed vinyl 45 record of

Jimmy Somerville’s “Smalltown Boy” on the wall.

“Tucker?” Yoshi called. “We should leave now in case Hill decides

to change his plan and come home.”

Tucker joined her, and Yoshi could tell she was cramming items

into her clothing. As they exited down the indoor stairs leading from

Jeff’s apartment, Yoshi considered Tyrone Hill’s suitability as catalyst

for his partner’s suicide, and as a murder suspect.

From AJ’s reports and from the state of the apartment, the man

appeared to be losing a battle to control his drug use. His addiction

could, undoubtedly, have taken a toll on his personal relationships. Had

things gotten so dreadful that Jeff impulsively decided on suicide as a

way out? That scenario did not mesh with what she knew of Jeff. He

clearly cared deeply for Tyrone and had stood by his man, resisting

the pressure of family and friends who had hoped to break up their

relationship.

But then again, why had Jeff failed to obtain treatment for

Tyrone? Had Tyrone hidden the extent of his addiction until he cracked,

somehow killing Jeff in the process? Was Velvet right? Could Jeff have

gotten into a Þ ght with Tyrone over his drug use, inÞ delity, or porn

• 116 •

BLIND LEAP

appearances, and had Tyrone killed him? It was unlikely but possible,

and there was one thing Yoshi felt sure of: if Tyrone had killed Jeff, he

would have needed help to dispose of the body.

Even in the darkness of night, they would have had to contend

with the post-9/11 bridge security that thwarted ninety percent of all

would-be jumpers. Not to mention that it would have required more

than one meth addict to haul Jeff’s body up to the Golden Gate vista,

drag him out on the pedestrian walkway, hoist him over the low fence,

and shove him swan-diving over the edge.

v

Tyrone never stopped moving. It was like his whole body was

in a constant state of motion. He shifted from foot to foot, chewed

nervously at his Þ ngernails, talked real fast, and his eyes ß itted from

side to side. Sweat soaked through his tight tee. As soon as he walked

out of Club Eros, AJ could tell straight away he was all revved up again.

He’d probably taken another hit of meth. He pulled at a white dude’s

sleeve, and next thing they were heading toward the Castro with Tyrone

rushing ahead and back like a little kid.

AJ followed them back to Badlands on Eighteenth Street. She

avoided the dance ß oor, creeping in the shadows and using the cylinder

support pillars as cover. Purple ß oodlights sent lavender beams

bouncing off the mirrored disco ball rotating above. A large screen

on the far wall played the music video image that repeated on smaller

TVs dotting the bar. The club was dark, aside from the roving ß oods

lighting up different groups. Gay guys packed the ß oor in jeans and

tees. There were more brothers and homies here than there’d been at

the sex club and the place was even more crowded than it had been

earlier in the evening. From what she’d been learning about Tyrone, AJ

would say the brother wasn’t up for facing real life no more. Instead he

was blotting it out and losing himself in drugs, sex, and dancing. What

she ain’t be knowing for sure was if the homo homeboy was drowning

grief or guilt.

She watched him, dancing in close and then away like Muhammad

Ali. His feet never stopped moving. Something about him reminded her

of her older brother. She’d lost him to this. He wasn’t gay, and his drug

of choice was crack, not meth. He’d started using as part of a gang,

• 117 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

and then he’d gone to slingin’ to support his habit. He said he couldn’t

shake a drug that made him feel like he was in heaven. Until prison, that

was. He’d gone cold turkey when they put him in solitary for shivving

the inmate who’d been raping him.

AJ wiped her face with the back of her hand. She was hating the

heat. At Þ rst she’d been thrilled to leave the Escalade after an hour or

so of cold surveillance outside, but it didn’t take long before the small

club turned as hot as all those summers she’d spent in New Orleans

with no air-conditioning. Even without grinding on the ß oor herself,

she’d gotten thirsty enough to buy couple of forties. In three hours,

she’d only seen Tyrone with one beer and after a few sips, he’d put it

down and walked away.

While AJ kept him in sight, she was propositioned by more than

one guy. She supposed she should be ß attered; gay men had good taste.

But she wanted to get out of this place. Tyrone might’ve been fucked

up, high on uppers—but she wasn’t and she was beat. Her head started

dipping and her eyes drooped. The pounding bass reverberating through

the ß oorboards, the walls, and her own internal organs was the only

thing keeping her awake. Her watch said one thirty-seven, and she was

expected back on the job in East Palo Alto at seven a.m. She wondered

if she would make it.

When she looked up again she’d lost Tyrone in the crowd of a

hundred dancing men. With more brown and black faces in the crowd

it was harder to Þ nd him, but least there was only one room. Eventually

she narrowed in on his now familiar face. Looked like he would be here

for a while. AJ went outside for a slap in the face by the cold weather.

She lit another smoke, telling herself she’d quit tomorrow. If it ever

came.

She smoked and lost the feeling in her nose to the bitter cold.

She was wide-awake but couldn’t bring herself to go back into the

club. She walked to her Escalade, moved into an eye view of the club.

She jacked up the heater, rubbing her hands together while the engine

slowly warmed. She hadn’t been there long when she saw Tyrone exit

the club, leaning on some dude’s shoulder. AJ Þ gured she’d let them

get a head start and tail them in the comfort of the car. They were just a

half block away when Tyrone kinda slumped to the side, slowly sliding

down the white guy and crumpling at his feet.

AJ leaped from the Escalade and darted toward the two men. The

white dude pulled Tyrone to his feet and they started walking again. AJ

• 118 •

BLIND LEAP

slowed from a sprint, relieved. Then she Þ gured out that Tyrone wasn’t

doing any walking of his own. The white guy was half carrying, half

dragging Tyrone down the street. He looked nervous. He lost his hold

and Tyrone ß opped to the ground again.

“Stop, police!” AJ hollered. It was a gut reaction. She wasn’t

really police, not right now, off-duty and working for Blind Eye. She

wasn’t sure if Tyrone really needed police right now. He needed an

ambulance.

At her announcement, the white dude looked up at her gunning

for them, a dark Þ gure, face masked by a hoodie. He took off running

fast as he could. She sprinted across the empty street at a kitty-corner.

When she reached Tyrone he wasn’t laying still. His body jerked madly

like he was being electrocuted, like a wave started in his feet and rolled

up his body till it got to his head, banging his melon against the cement

sidewalk. He was seizing.

Like she’d smacked a ball outta the park, AJ slid home, dropping

to her knees next to his jerking body. She yanked the chained wallet

from her back pocket and jammed it between his teeth to keep him

from biting off his tongue. She cradled his head in her lap, preventing

it from striking the ground again. The back of his head was bleeding

from abrasions.

“Call nine-one-one!” AJ shouted at the top of her lungs into the

still night air. Ain’t no one respond.

She struggled to get the cell from her front pocket without smacking

Tyrone’s head. Adrenaline surged through her as she fumbled with the

dials. Her heart was racing, her hands shaking. She dialed nine-one-

one. Waiting for her call to get routed to a local operator, she checked

Tyrone’s vitals. His skin was hot to the touch, but dry. The pulse was

weak and his heartbeat was shallow—surprising for all the meth he’d

had and the dancing he’d done. That ain’t a good sign. Either he had

overdosed or he was severely dehydrated. Either could kill him.

AJ provided the San Francisco dispatcher with location and

Tyrone’s condition. The dispatch said an ambulance was on its way, but

they kept asking AJ one question after another. What’d Tyrone eaten?

When did he last use the bathroom?

Suddenly, AJ realized Tyrone’s body had stopped twitching. She

lost her hold on the phone and it clattered against the pavement. He

wasn’t breathing. She swore at him and fought the urge to cry. Instead

she started CPR. Just before she put her mouth over his, she remembered

• 119 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

he was HIV positive. She didn’t have a CPR mask on her, not even a

plastic bag to improvise. He’d die for sure if she didn’t breathe for

him.

Ya gotta do what ya gotta do. She lowered her mouth to his and

began the CPR count off in her head: one and two and three and…

• 120 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER NINE

Jeff clawed at her, his eyes wide and accusatory. A gash across

his forehead bled profusely, covering the entire left side of his

face in blood. A sutured chest wound fashioned a V-shaped zipper. His

hands were wraithlike and nearly opaque, his Þ ngernails were removed.

The edges of every appendage seemed rounded as though he’d been

in a rock tumbler. He leapt toward her, screaming. Suddenly he was

tearing at a bag over his head.

All at once, Velvet couldn’t breathe. She was screaming and crying

but no sound came out. Choking, she dug her nails into the waxlike

hands now around her throat. As she tore at his Þ ngers, trying to peel

them off her, the skin ß ayed, pulling away in her grasping claws.

She gasped for air, and her scream came out as only a whimper.

Tears ran down her face, drowning her in guilt and shame. Just as she

felt she was about to lose consciousness, she Þ nally found her voice

and began to scream loudly. A hand on her arm, not his but another,

shook her. Faint voices murmured in the background. Why weren’t

they stopping this? Did they think she deserved it?

One voice grew louder and louder as though drawing closer. She

Þ nally heard what it was saying. “Velvet.” The hand shook her.

She awoke with a start. Tucker was standing next to the bed, shaking

her and calling her name. “Velvet, you’re having a nightmare.”

Just a dream? What a relief. “So Jeff’s okay?”

“No baby, I’m sorry. Jeff’s…gone.” Tucker brushed the hair from

Velvet’s face and squeezed her into a tight hug.

Velvet rested her head on Tucker’s shoulder and tried to remember

falling asleep. She couldn’t. The last thing she remembered was swilling

her fourth—or was it her Þ fth?—triple X dirty martini: vodka dirtied

• 121 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

with extra, extra, extra olive juice There had been no bartender to cut

her off or slow her down by failing to get the mixture of ingredients just

right. She had avoided that possibility by mixing her cocktails from her

own well stocked bar. When you want something done right…

Tucker released her from the hug. “How are you feeling today,

honey? You were really out of it last night.”

Velvet rubbed her head, which seemed to have a train running

through it. Her mouth was full of nasty-tasting cotton balls. “Did

I invite you over?” She didn’t remember doing so, but she’d clearly

gotten…tipsy.

“No,” Tucker said. “I came over on my own. You left your phone

off the hook, silly. Nearly gave us a heart attack.”

Us? Velvet had a sudden vision of Yoshi standing alone in the dark

on a sidewalk. Damn. “Yoshi?”

Tucker smiled. “She said you guys had a Þ ght.”

“Is she—?”

“You know Yoshi. She’s Þ ne. She was worried about you. I’m glad

you’re awake now. She called a little while ago and wanted to know if

you’d want to go with her when she talks with Theresa and Isabelle.”

Velvet shook her head. She didn’t think she could face her best

friend, let alone the two women who’d stolen her only child.

Before she and Rosemary Finney had had their infamous falling-

out—which eventually made her the primary suspect in Rosemary’s

murder—Velvet had thought the lesbian magazine they’d created

together, Womyn, would be her legacy. When Rosemary’s legal team

stripped her of all the rights to the magazine, Velvet had felt as though

she’d lost her only child. Now she was feeling something similar. She

had never decided not to have children. She’d just assumed she had

time. She’d been shagging her way through San Francisco’s lesbians

with the assumption that, in doing so, she’d stumble upon Ms. Right.

They’d fall in love, get married, and in Þ ve years, when they were

settled down and economically stable, she would get pregnant.

Now here she was in her mid-thirties and, according to the

latest statistics in women’s magazines, closing quickly on the end of

her fertile years. While she wasn’t paying attention, she’d allowed a

sexual relationship with Tucker to morph into something more. Now

she wondered if the twenty-two year old was coparenting material. She

didn’t think so.

Her baby daddy had gone and gotten himself killed, or worse.

• 122 •

BLIND LEAP

If Yoshi was right, he’d chosen to kill himself, and to top it all off,

the bastard had spilled his seed for some lesbian hussy who’d already

found her co-mom. It wasn’t fair.

Yoshi should have known Velvet would never want to talk with

those two bitches, Theresa and Isabelle. She’d just invited her along to

torture her, to pay her back for ditching her last night.

Well screw her.

“I’m going to hook up with Bud,” Tucker was saying. “We’re

examining the evidence from a search.”

So now Tucker was going to abandon her, too? Velvet liked her

tricks and her one-night stands, but if she ever committed to somebody,

she wanted to know that the commitment was mutual. Did she need any

more proof that Tucker wasn’t the caregiving type? Screw her. Screw

all of them.

v

Isabelle Cocitaux and Theresa Thompson resided in San

Francisco’s Noe Valley, a lesbian enclave in which the population

was rising dramatically as couples rushed to acquire the de rigueur

accessory of the moment, a baby.

Perhaps she was too cynical. Yoshi sometimes felt that she

remained one of the few lesbians—or gay men for that matter—who

was not succumbing to the compulsorily heteronormative and neo-

conformative movement that had swept the LGBT nation. Suddenly

gays and lesbians seemed to have forgotten about Þ ghting for civil

rights or changing the system. Instead, like the Boomer generation that

had morphed from Vietnam protestors and sixties revolutionaries to

crooked corporate CEOs and business-as-usual politicians, they were

glorifying heterosexual marriage and raising children. Former Queer

Nation advocates were settling blissfully into consumerism and family

life.

She did not buy the argument that these LGBT parents were

continuing their activism, changing the world by changing the diapers

of the next generation. Not when the daughters of her generation’s

wonder women were forgoing careers to stay at home and raise babies.

These children weren’t the next LGBT generation; they would grow up

heterosexual. If the queer community really wanted to impact the next

generation, they should help raise their own youth instead of leaving

• 123 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

that task to hetero parents who had no idea how to provide the skills or

knowledge their children would need to survive as healthy adults in a

homophobic world.

If everyone insisted on raising children, could they not have the

decency to at least adopt? There were countless needy children in the

system. Even Velvet, who had been raised by adoptive parents, wanted

to bear biological children. Perhaps her adoption was actually why she

wanted to share a bloodline and genetic heritage with her own children.

When you’ve never seen your features or behaviors reß ected in those

of a relative, something was missing.

The shared sense of being severed from their own had been part

of what had drawn Yoshi to Velvet. They were both cut off from their

biological families and their ethnic and cultural heritages. At least Yoshi

had always known she was Japanese. Velvet did not share that kind of

certainty. Although she was fairly certain she had Native American and

Latino heritage, she did not know for sure. That must be difÞ cult.

Yoshi resolved to forgive Velvet for abandoning her the night

before and to absolve her of anything else she would throw her way

while she struggled with the ramiÞ cations of Jeff’s death. She was,

after all, the only family Yoshi had left.

The cabbie pulled over to the curb, indicating they were directly

in front of Cocitaux and Thompson’s address. He grudgingly accepted

her credit card. Yoshi would rather sign her name on the bottom right

than trust him with her cash. Unlike the currency of other countries,

United States bills were not distinguishable to the touch. Due to a

recent Supreme Court decision, the treasury would soon be required

to change all that and make currency blind-friendly. Although they

could do so by printing the various denominations on different-sized

paper, or raising Braille letters, Yoshi had heard they would prefer

to exchange dollar bills with coins—which would save the federal

reserve millions. While coins were rugged, paper bills could not

circulate for more than four or Þ ve years and therefore were more

expensive to maintain.

Until the reserve instigated a solution, visually impaired individuals

often relied on a core faith in humanity that Yoshi simply did not have.

She was not comfortable allowing a stranger to riß e around in her wallet

and conÞ scate whatever funds they elected. She had her bills carefully

arranged together by denomination, with paper clips located at different

• 124 •

BLIND LEAP

intervals to indicate their value, a task she currently entrusted to Tucker.

Bank tellers could shortchange you, too.

Credit cards offered more security and Yoshi provided a gratuity

large enough to compensate for the inconvenience. She stepped out of

the cab and prodded about with the telescoping cane until she located

the steps. Nearly every home in San Francisco had stairs leading to the

doorway. Yoshi wondered if this was an architectural side effect of San

Francisco being built upon sand dunes and small hills. The doorbell

was situated chest high on the door frame as though designed with only

male occupants in mind. Yoshi pressed the small button and the door

opened.

“Can I help you?”

“Isabelle Cocitaux?”

“No, I’m Theresa, her partner.”

Yoshi hadn’t expected Theresa to be home. It was a workday, after

all. Yoshi’s natural instinct was to schedule meetings, but this was an

impromptu visit. Her father had taught her early that subjects were

more forthright when they were caught off guard. Sometimes setting

up meetings seemed to provide people with time to practice their lies.

Or skip town.

“Theresa, I’m Yoshi Yakamota with Blind Eye Detective Agency.

I wonder if I can have a moment of your time?”

“You’re a detective?” Theresa did not invite her in.

“Yes, a private investigator. Charlene Conant hired me to look into

her son’s death.”

“But…” the woman stammered, “you’re blind.”

For some reason people always felt it necessary to point this out, as

though Yoshi would otherwise be unaware of her disability. How could

you be a private investigator? You are aware that you are blind, aren’t

you? Perhaps she should hang a sign around her neck that proclaimed

Yes, I know I am blind.

Ignoring the observation, she said, “I did not have a chance to

speak with you and Isabelle at the memorial last night. Do you have a

few moments to meet with me now or shall I come back?” Although

they were almost as reluctant to speak with private investigators as

police ofÞ cers, most people did not want PIs following them around.

Everyone had something they did not want caught on tape.

Once it was clear that she would not simply go away and not come

• 125 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

back, Yoshi suspected Theresa would feel internal pressure to get the

meeting over with. She had the polite tone New Englanders mastered,

and would be gracious despite her misgivings and annoyance at the

intrusion.

“We just got back from the doctor.” Theresa raised her voice, as

though now that Yoshi had acknowledged her blindness she had also

gone deaf. She would have to add another line to her sandwich board

sign: I am blind, not deaf. “I’m getting ready to leave for work, but I

guess we have a few minutes.”

She stepped back from the door.

“Doctor? Nothing too serious, I hope?”

“Just a checkup. Izzie?” Theresa called to her partner. “We’ve got

company.”

A faint smell of cinnamon and cardamom embraced Yoshi as she

entered the house. Using her cane, she could ascertain that the pathway

was clear of obstruction. She imagined it would not be so in several

years, as children’s toys cluttered the ß oor.

“Nice to meet you.” Isabelle sounded like Oprah Winfrey with a

faint Caribbean inß ection. First generation, perhaps.

A groan escaped from Isabelle’s direction, the sound of discomfort

common to pregnant women negotiating the newly gained girth. Yoshi

heard the sound of a lever being pulled and deduced that Isabelle had

sat in a recliner and was extending the leg support.

“I apologize.” Isabelle chuckled. “The doctor says I have to keep

my feet up, to reduce the swelling. My ankles, actually. It’s only my

second trimester but they’re the size of coconuts already.”

Yoshi smiled but got directly to the point. “I understand the child

was conceived with Jeff Conant’s sperm, is that correct?”

“Yes,” Isabelle answered without a hint of defense.

“Did you go through a local sperm bank?” Yoshi had done a little

research when she Þ rst got into the ofÞ ce that morning and learned that

most Bay Area sperm banks offered a service to women using outside

donors. They could bring in the sample to be processed, tested, and

inseminated on the premises or at their own residence.

“No, it was just between us. We’ve known Jeff for a year now. We

met him at a meeting for queers who want kids, held at the community

center. Afterward we hung out a few times, and when we were ready he

just seemed like the perfect choice.”

“What was the agreement?”

• 126 •

BLIND LEAP

Theresa rushed to answer. “It was just a donation. He wasn’t going

to be involved. He was willing to be known and that was all.”

“To be known?”

“We didn’t want to go with an anonymous donor,” Isabelle

explained. “We want our child to know who his or her birth father is.

Jeff was interested in passing on his genetic seed, so to speak, and was

willing to meet when our child turns eighteen.” Her voice trembled as

though stumbling over the last sentence.

“Which is good,” Theresa added. “Because we’re moving and he

wouldn’t have been in our child’s life anyway.”

“You are moving far away?”

“Northampton, Massachusetts.”

Yoshi nodded. Even she was familiar with the town National

Enquirer dubbed “lesbianville.”

“Do you have a copy of your legal agreement with Jeff? I would

like to take a copy for my records if that’s possible.”

Yoshi heard shufß ing feet. Neither woman responded quickly.

Could Jeff have been so foolish as to not have legal paperwork drawn

up clarifying his responsibilities regarding any offspring? Without

an agreement, Isabelle could legally demand child support. But then

again, Jeff could presumably challenge the couple for custody of their

child.

“We just had a verbal agreement.” Isabelle said. “We all trusted

each other. Theresa realized how stupid that was once I got pregnant, so

we’ve been working with a lawyer to draw something up.”

“Can I ask who you hired?”

The couple was quiet again, as though carrying on a nonverbal

conversation that she was not a part of. She could not compel them

to reveal the name of their attorney, and nothing would prevent their

attorney from claiming client-attorney conÞ dentiality and refusing

to reveal the details of the agreement. But Yoshi was interested in

discovering exactly what it was about their arrangement with Jeff

that had the couple so nervous. She would wager that things were not

exactly as they claimed. Perhaps Jeff had wanted to play daddy and was

not pleased with their pending cross-country move.

“Sorry, I don’t think that’s your business,” Theresa said, standing

abruptly. “I need to get to work. Can I show you out?”

“Of course. I just have one more question. Where were the two of

you on the night Jeff died?”

• 127 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“What are you implying?” Theresa growled. “Isabelle is pregnant,

for God’s sake. You can’t think we would…”

“She’s just doing her job,” Isabelle soothed. “We were home that

night, together. We’ve become homebodies since we got pregnant.”

“Can anyone else verify that you were both here all night?” Yoshi

asked, standing and collected her things.

“It’s just the two of us,” Theresa said.

That would be a no, then, Yoshi thought. She tried to imagine a

pregnant woman pushing Jeff off the Golden Gate Bridge. It did seem a

stretch. Still, mothers were known to have unusual strength, especially

if they thought they were defending their young. Perhaps Jeff had had

concerns or even a change of heart regarding the verbal agreement. If

he had, he may well have hired a lawyer. There was one person who

could tell her if Jeff had hired an attorney, and what his agreement

with Isabelle and Theresa really entailed. That person also remained the

most promising POI in a murder scenario—Jeff’s partner, Tyrone Hill.

As Yoshi left Noe Valley, she wondered how Tyrone was this

morning. When she’d spoken with AJ, the doctors were still stabilizing

him. Yoshi hoped they’d been successful. She would be annoyed if he’d

suffered some memory loss; she needed answers to questions.

v

Bud laid his palm against the Impala’s horn. That kid better not

keep him waiting. Just because he took her out for a drink the night

before didn’t mean he’d gone soft or suddenly turned into her good

buddy.

But boy, she sure showed him last night. He’d thought he was

playing a smart trick on her, telling her to break into that apartment

without any idea what she was doing. He Þ gured his ploy would give

him thirty minutes’ peace and a chance to eat dinner on the clock.

Instead, turned out the pup was more skilled than he’d given her credit

for. He wasn’t about to tell her, but he was fairly impressed. Who’d

have known the country bumpkin was a fucking gymnast?

After that, he’d Þ gured he owed the kid a beer. He would’ve treated

Yoshi to a cold one, too, if she’d been interested. Not that he could see

the Japanese princess swilling beer with him in some dive bar. Not her

cup of tea. Instead she’d insisted that she had the perfect job for him;

• 128 •

BLIND LEAP

he could watch a bunch of DVDs they’d found at Conant’s place. Yoshi

thought they might reveal something critical that would break open the

case. Like there was a case. No one was pretending the vic didn’t go

over the bridge. And it seemed obvious that if the Conant guy took a

header off the Golden Gate, then he meant to do it.

Watching those movies was probably some kind of ruse to get him

to voluntarily expose himself to four hours of queer propaganda. Joke

was on him. He was happy to have something he could do while sitting

on his ass. ’Course, she hadn’t warned him it was all gay shit. Probably

knew he wouldn’t have done the job if she had. He’d parked himself

in front of the TV with a six-pack and a remote control. That was the

only way he’d gotten through them—watching them on 6x. Bunch of

disturbing queer ß icks.

“Morning.” Tucker slid in on the bench seat.

He watched her carefully out of the side of his eye, all but daring

her to mention the black canvas bag that hung over the back of the

seat between them. It had a large section for Þ les, and big pockets

on the sides where he stored his cameras and snacks. There was the

slightest upturn of her lips, the same twitch he’d seen the last time she’d

ridden with him. He knew what the brat was thinking. But they had an

unspoken agreement. So long as she kept her trap shut about the bag,

he didn’t have to throw it out the window and drive back and forth over

it for good measure.

He’d been a surprised when Tucker gave it to him for his birthday

a couple of months ago. She’d only been working at Blind Eye a few

weeks and he hadn’t been nice to her once. He’d decided the kid had

serious daddy issues. He wasn’t about to accept that role, especially not

for some needy little daddy’s girl. He had his own problems. So he’d

tossed the damn thing in his trunk and planned to forget about it. But

the bag started haunting him. Like he kept thinking how useful it’d be.

He’d fought the urge to cave; he didn’t want to give the little sneak the

satisfaction of thinking she knew him, even a little.

Then Yoshi had insisted he had to start letting the kid tag along

with him and he’d had to make space for her on the front seat. That

was the reason, the only reason, he’d started using the gift. He’d stop

doing so in an instant if she mentioned it. He couldn’t let that kind of

thing rest.

“Your old lady get pissed about you coming home late?” He used

• 129 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

the euphemism even though he knew Velvet would kick his ass if she

heard him. She was one hot mama, with curves in all the right places

and a spicy temper to match. Probably a hellcat in bed. He wouldn’t

mind knocking boots with her.

That didn’t mean he envied Tucker. Velvet had that girl whipped.

He didn’t get it. He’d thought these so-called “butch-femme” couples

made more sense, because you could see which one was the chick and

which the guy. Leave it to girls to go and fuck it up. They were so

far from normal that even when they tried to mimic normal couples

they got it all wrong. Velvet might look all feminine and everything

with those curves and the provocative clothes she wore, but she was

one bossy bitch. It was clear who wore the pants in her and Tucker’s

relationship.

He snuck a furtive glance at Tucker. She was a little too dykey

for his taste but not a bad-looking chick. Velvet was a babe, but surely

Tucker could Þ nd a lesbo who wouldn’t insist on setting all the rules.

Unless she liked it that way. He narrowed his eyes and tried to read her

mind.

“Nope.” Tucker answered the question he’d already forgotten.

“She was, like, totally out of it when I got in. Apparently she went on

a bender.” Tucker shook her head. “She’s pissed this morning, though,

going on about how she never invited me over in the Þ rst place. That’s

the thanks I get for checking on her and putting her to bed.”

“That’s broads for you.”

“Yeah, I guess. So, did you Þ nd anything useful on those

DVDs?”

“You tell me. There was one called Tour de Pants that was

some kind of weird bicycle porno ß ick, and a way-too-long Þ lm

about this transsexual broad in the Ozarks running for state senate as

a Republican. They just kept getting wackier. Something about sex

slaves—international trafÞ cking and shit. Oh yeah, and there was one

disc that wouldn’t work at all, kept giving me an error message. Waste

of my time, if you ask me.”

• 130 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER TEN

Tyrone Hill’s dark eyes tracked across the hospital’s tiled

ceiling, as though he was trying to Þ gure out where he was.

AJ popped up from the uncomfortable straight-back chair where

she’d been trying to chill for hours, watching Tyrone drift through

unconsciousness, and waiting, prayin’ for this moment. “Hey dawg,

am I glad to see you wake your ass up.”

He blinked at her. She wondered if he even remembered her from

last night. He’d been through hell. And the worst was to come. He

opened his mouth and licked his dry lips. He’d had an IV of ß uids

in his arm for six hours, and still he was dehydrated. On breakfast

round, a nurse had left Tyrone a box of apple juice and told AJ he

could drink it, slow, when he woke up. She reached for the juice box

now and stuck the straw in his mouth. He sucked out enough to wet

his mouth.

“I remember you,” he croaked. “From The Café.” He winced as he

turned his head to scan the room. “What happened?”

“You were totally fucked up on meth and dehydrated. Just about

bit it and that’s a fact. Your body shut down and you was passed out

on the sidewalk.” She didn’t tell him if she hadn’t given him CPR he

would’ve died for sure.

“Maybe I should have,” he mumbled.

“Bullshit. Don’t pull that crap. You ain’t no use to anyone dead.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I know more’n you think. I ain’t some dumbass shortie you just

met last night. I’m police.”

“Shit.” He drew the word out.

“I ain’t here to bust your ass.”

• 131 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“So what, then?”

“I’m working with the Blind Eye Detective Agency investigating

your boy Jeff’s death.”

“What for?” He narrowed his eyes.

“We got reason to think it ain’t suicide.” Least she hoped they

would, and soon.

When she got on the phone and told Yoshi about the shit that went

down last night, Yoshi’d gone, “I ain’t convinced one way or another

about murder or suicide.”

But Yoshi still wanted to press forward. For her part, AJ hoped

Jeff’s death was a homicide. Guilt was breaking Tyrone and she didn’t

want to attend his funeral.

A funeral was still way better than what her homies had gotten

after Katrina. They’d been swept away in ß oodwaters or left in a rotting

pile of corpses at the convention center. Funeral pyres going all day and

no funerals; she’d never go on about being sick of funerals again.

“You think I killed him?” Tyrone lashed out at her.

AJ didn’t step back far enough for his Þ st to miss. The blow caught

her arm but didn’t hurt. Tyrone was still weak.

“I ain’t thinking you had a thing to do with it,” she said. “But

there’s some questions I gotta ask.”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Nope. I’m gonna stay right here till I get answers.”

“Whatever.” He acted like a man who’d given up. “Just go ahead,

then.”

“Ya know anybody who’d wanna hurt your guy?”

“No, everybody loved Jeff.”

“Folks say that, but it ain’t never the truth.”

Tyrone’s eyes focused on her face like that got him thinking.

“Who’d beneÞ t if he was gone?”

“Those bitches,” he answered right away. “The girls, he called

them. His baby mommas.”

“He was gonna be a baby daddy?”

“Yeah, we was.”

“Go on about it.”

“Jeff always wanted kids. He thought he’d end up coparenting

with his friend Velvet, but…”

Tyrone shrugged, as though he didn’t know what had changed.

• 132 •

BLIND LEAP

AJ could guess. Velvet probably thought Jeff was too good for Tyrone.

She sure as shit wouldn’t want a brother with a drug problem around

her baby.

“It just kept not happening,” Tyrone said. “So we went to this

meeting to learn more about adoption, surrogates, foster parenting.

That’s where we met them. We had sperm and no womb and they had

a womb and no sperm. We started having coffee. Most of the time was

just Jeff and the girls, ’cause that’s not my scene. Anyway, I guess they

tried sperm banks, but fresh sperm is supposed to be more effective.”

AJ nodded. She’d heard that from lesbian friends. The frozen stuff

didn’t work as well: the little guys were too sluggish or something.

“So they asked Jeff. He was excited about pairing up ’cause he

and Isabelle would make a mix-race kid like the two of us would, you

know, if we could. They wanted to look after the baby most of the time.

We were going to have rotating weekends and take the baby when they

needed a break.”

“Did y’all work this out on paper, like with a lawyer?”

“No, it was informal. Which I guess was stupid, since sure enough,

when Isabelle got pregnant, everything changed.”

“Like what?” AJ stopped herself from grinning. She was getting

somewhere. Yoshi was going to Þ nd this information very interesting.

“Like suddenly they didn’t want Jeff to have any parental rights.

We thought it was ’cause they found out about my bad habits and didn’t

want me around their kid.”

“Y’all ask them about that?”

“No, we weren’t having coffee anymore,” Tyrone said. “A friend

of ours, a lawyer, said we needed to get everything in writing before

the baby came. Especially since they started saying they were going to

Þ ght Jeff for full custody. That would bring up all my problems, and

with Jeff’s job, we didn’t need the publicity.”

“Damn, he must’ve been totally buggin’. Do you know if he

confronted them?”

Tyrone nodded. “He came home one day really angry. He’d just

found out they were planning a move out east without even telling him.

That was a week before he…died. He had a meeting scheduled to talk

with their lawyer that week.” Tyrone got quiet. “When can I get out of

here?”

“Ya trippin’? Honey, you ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

• 133 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“I thought you said—”

“Don’t be a hater, dawg. You can’t just go. Got to get over your

addictions Þ rst. I’m gonna get you in a bitchin’ program, but for now,

they think you’re a ß ight risk and they keeping you locked down.”

v

Once inside suite 300 at 145 Ninth Street, Tucker immediately

knew they were in the right place. Queer movie memorabilia and

quirky, spectacle-sporting girls were everywhere. She and Bud stopped

in front of the desk with a hanging plastic lanyard with a photo of a

cinema reel overlaid with the heading DAVINA SINGLETON, FRAMELINE

FILM FESTIVAL STAFF.

“Hi,” Tucker said. “We’re from Blind Eye Detective Agency.

We were told you’d be expecting us. We’re looking into Jeff Conant’s

death.”

An expression formed slowly on the woman’s face. It gave Tucker

the feeling that Davina had expected someone else.

“We’d like to speak with Jennifer Morris,” Bud added, as though

that would elicit a different response than Tucker could alone.

“Please have a seat.” Davina’s face went red and, glancing swiftly

away from Bud and his wheelchair, she stammered, “I mean, please

wait.”

Her reaction made Tucker want to laugh, but she hid her snicker

by brushing her hand across her face as though wiping crumbs from

her upper lip. She sat down on one of the straight-back metal seats with

pleather padding. There wasn’t really space for Bud to park his chair

next to her, so he simply stopped in front, leaving her with an excellent

view of the back of his slightly balding head.

“What is Frameline, anyway?” Bud never had much tact.

Davina looked up from her desk. “Well, sir, we’re producers

of an annual, international LGBT Þ lm festival. In fact, Frameline is

the largest and best known of these events in the world. We’ve been

an organization since 1977, and our festival has become one of the

most prominent and well-attended LGBT arts event in North America.

Nearly seventy thousand people attend each year.” Davina spoke as

though reciting words directly from a promotional brochure.

Tucker wondered if the answer came even close to what Bud was

• 134 •

BLIND LEAP

hoping for. Or maybe he didn’t care what she said or what Jennifer

Morris said or whether they learned anything at all. He didn’t seem to

believe that a crime had even been committed, and he didn’t accept the

typical judicial argument that suicide was a crime against the state’s

interests. Tucker thought Bud could probably understand why someone

would end it all, so he too easily accepted the suicide concept. Or

maybe not. She had no reason to believe Bud was more suicidal than

anyone else. Just because he was disabled didn’t mean he’d thought

about suicide. Neither did the fact that she’d thought about it in the past

mean he had, too.

They sat in silence for ten minutes before Jennifer Morris opened

her door. The acting executive director of Frameline was a short and

stocky butch who immediately reminded Tucker of Drew Carey because

of her buzz-cut blond hair and, admittedly smaller, black glasses. Velvet

had once insisted that the Carey was a lesbian icon in a man’s body.

Tucker didn’t get the analogy, which was a common occurrence when

Velvet theorized about lesbian iconography, but it made her feel better

about comparing Morris to Carey now. Velvet found lesbians in odd

places, and it was kind of nice reading popular culture that way because

then you didn’t feel so much like dykes were invisible. Morris’s choice

of professional attire was not unlike Tucker’s, jeans topped by a striped

shirt, black suit coat, and skinny black tie.

Tucker stood to greet Morris and tried to catch a glimpse of Bud’s

reaction. His chair came to her waist. All she could see now was the

crown of his head. She was getting really familiar with his bald spot.

He would undoubtedly call Morris a mannish dyke after they left the

building, but she wasn’t able to. “I’d be happy to speak with you now,”

Morris said in a calm, conÞ dent manner that Velvet would have called

swagger.

Tucker hurried after the woman, excited about tagging along for

her Þ rst real interview with a person of interest. She could feel the

weight of the recording device in the inside pocket of her suit jacket

and practiced asking permission to use it in her head. By the time Bud

rolled through the doorway, she had already shaken hands, introduced

herself, and was sitting opposite Jennifer Morris’s desk with her left leg

bent and her foot resting below her right knee.

“What do you do here?” Bud asked without any pleasantries.

Morris explained that as the acting executive director she had taken

• 135 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

over the Þ scal responsibilities but her primary job, as programming

director, was to solicit, review, and select the Þ lms to be shown at the

festival.

“Do you mind if I record our conversation?” Tucker asked quickly

before Bud could lob another question. “It makes things easier for our

boss.” This was only one reason for using the microrecorder, but she

thought the rationale sounded convincing. Anyway, if people thought

overt evidence gathering was happening, they might decline.

“Yes, of course.” Morris took a seat behind a neat and tidy desk.

“Where were you the night Jeff went missing?” Bud asked.

“I had a meeting with our marketing director, then I was with

some friends at Mecca for cocktails and then…I don’t know…It was

probably around midnight, I guess, when I left and went home.”

“Could you spell the names of the people you were with and

provide us with their phone numbers for veriÞ cation purposes?” Tucker

asked.

Morris hesitated only brieß y before doing so. She looked up most

of the information on her cell phone, but it seemed that one required

a glimpse at her computer. Or she was looking at something else.

Curious.

“What’s your security like?” Tucker asked.

“We’ve always felt pretty safe here. The building has its own

twenty-four/seven security. A guard does rounds every hour and the

outer door is locked between six p.m. and eight a.m., so you need a

key to get in during those hours. Our ofÞ ce has its own separate alarm

system—but, to be truthful, we don’t arm it very often anymore, since

the building’s security is so good. We’re open nine to Þ ve but I often

stay late, and Jeff did, too.”

“Yeah, actually, we stopped and talked with the building security

on the way up,” Tucker said. “We kind of hoped they might have

surveillance video, but I guess they don’t. Your computers, how secure

are they? Are they all password protected? Does everyone know each

other’s passwords? That kind of thing.”

“Well we’re just a nonproÞ t arts organization. We’re not protecting

state secrets here or anything.” Morris smiled at her own joke. “We

end up using each other’s computers far too frequently to tolerate

sophisticated encryption programs or secret passwords. Staff members

can access each other’s Þ les on the server and can open hard drives on

each other’s computers manually. Jeff maintains… maintained a few

• 136 •

BLIND LEAP

administrative Þ les that were password protected. Mostly individual

documents containing conÞ dential human resources information. We’re

rather transparent. The people in this organization trust one another.”

Bud asked, “Did you notice anything out of the ordinary around

the time Mr. Conant Þ rst went missing?”

A look crossed Morris’s features. She cleared it away by shaking

her head, like a human Etch-a-Sketch.

“There was something, wasn’t there?” Tucker asked more

sensitively.

“Possibly. I don’t know.”

“Whatever it is…” Tucker began.

“This is going to sound crazy. There was something going on. I

just can’t put my Þ nger on what.”

“That is crazy,” Bud muttered under his breath.

Tucker squinted at him in warning. “Go on,” she prompted.

“Okay. I don’t know if you knew Jeff, but he was incredibly

fastidious. He had a speciÞ c spot for everything. He kept all his books

and Þ lms—even the ones that had just been submitted—in alphabetical

order.”

“So he was anal,” Bud concluded.

“Yeah, in a good way. And that Þ rst morning, before I even knew

he was missing, I stepped into his ofÞ ce and something felt…” She

struggled for the appropriate word. “Something felt off.”

“Off?” Bud asked.

Tucker heard mockery in his tone. She could imagine his thoughts

about how that would never hold up in court: the witness felt off.

“I had a feeling something wasn’t in its proper place, as though

things had been messed with and put back neatly, just not as fastidiously

as Jeff would have arranged things. I told this to the detectives…”

Morris sighed. “Not that they cared.”

“How much have you changed his ofÞ ce since?” Tucker asked.

“Not a lot, I haven’t been able to bring myself to go through it.

I need to do that soon in preparation for his permanent replacement. I

sent a box of his personal items to the memorial with Davina. Photos,

clothes, knickknacks, that kind of thing. She gave them to Jeff’s

mother.”

“Do you mind if we have a look around before we go?” Bud

asked.

“No, not at all.”

• 137 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“And could you hold off from altering it further, until we complete

our investigation? It should only be another week or two.”

Morris nodded. “Certainly. We can do that. Aside from accessing

his computer Þ les and the Þ lm screeners, that is.”

“So you haven’t been through all the Þ lms that have been

submitted?” Tucker asked.

“Not yet, no. We’re accepting submissions for another three

months.”

“But Jeff had taken some screeners home,” Tucker said. “Was

that…how…”

“Was that unusual?” Bud Þ nished her sentence while she was still

trying to avoid sounding accusatory.

“No, Jeff liked to keep abreast of what had come in, and he’d let

me know what he thought, even though the decision was always mine

on whether to include a Þ lm or not.”

“Do people get mad when you reject their Þ lms?” Tucker asked.

“We try to keep the process a friendly one. Filmmakers usually

understand that a Þ lm just isn’t right for us or doesn’t Þ t in this year.”

“Some must be disappointed,” Bud said.

Morris conceded that likelihood with a wry nod. “Fortunately, I

don’t have to deal with any of that for another three months.”

“I was thinking.” Tucker hesitated, wondering if her idea made

any sense. “It might be good if you’d watch this year’s screeners just

to see if there’s anything strange in them, anything that might have

to do with Jeff’s death…” Bud was looking at her, and it made her

nervous. “It’s not important. I guess we’re really just pursuing every

line of inquiry.”

She ignored the sharp look from Bud at her use of detective-

speak.

“I have a particular system I like to use,” Morris said. “But I’ll

give it some thought.”

“Was there anything in Jeff’s behavior to indicate he might be

depressed or thinking about taking his own life?” Bud asked.

“No.” Morris shook her head adamantly. “In fact, it’s just so

unlikely Jeff would do something like this. You know, we started a

home DVD line earlier this year and our second release was Jenni

Olson’s The Joy of Life, which is partly about the death of a friend of

hers, Mark Finch. Ironically, he held Jeff’s position here at Frameline

ten years ago.”

• 138 •

BLIND LEAP

“Our boss mentioned something about that.” Tucker tried to recall

Yoshi’s comments about the Bridge Authority meeting she’d attended

with Velvet. The exercise had sounded like a waste of time. What did

those bureaucrats care about saving lives when there was money at

stake? “Mark Finch jumped off the Golden Gate Bridge,” Morris said.

Tucker was incredulous. “Are you saying this guy was in Jeff’s

job and he jumped off the bridge and now ten years later the exact same

thing happens? Can that be a coincidence? Really, I mean, what are the

odds?”

“I know,” Morris acknowledged. “But it wasn’t exactly the same,

I mean I believe Mark had several prior suicide attempts. But my point

here is that Jenni’s Þ lm was just heart wrenching. It was an incredibly

powerful Þ lm and Jeff was one of its greatest proponents. He really

pushed for us to pick it up for distribution. I just don’t see how he could

do something like that after he’d seen just how devastating suicide is

on family and friends.”

When people kill themselves, Tucker thought, they don’t do it to

cause other people pain. They do it to end their own. She wondered

if Jeff might have conÞ ded in a woman who must know a lot about

suicide.

“Did Jenni and Jeff know each other personally?”

“They were good friends,” Morris said. “Jenni’s just as mystiÞ ed

by this as we all are.”

So, maybe he hadn’t said anything. Secrecy made sense. If

someone really intended to take their own life, they probably avoided

dropping hints to friends who would stop them. She kept her thoughts

to herself as Bud closed their conversation, offered thanks, and asked if

they could see Jeff’s ofÞ ce now.

Morris led them to a small, reÞ ned ofÞ ce with a black lacquer

desk and white oversized square chairs with huge pillows emblazoned

with black-and-white prints. Tucker recognized the design as Pucci-

style from a magazine she’d ß ipped through at Velvet’s. On one

wall was a series of photos of Jeff with celebrities, Þ lmmakers,

and what Tucker assumed were friends and staff. On the other, a

small window overlooked the concrete cityscape. Giant stained-

wood bookcases, the kind with glass on three sides, were Þ lled with

DVDs, CDs, books, and binders. Each shelf was labeled with a small

leather-framed tag that read “Submitted,” “Viewed,” “Accepted,”

Rejected.”

• 139 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

The whole ofÞ ce shone, in stark contrast to the messiness of the

Conant/Hill apartment. Yoshi was right. Jeff’s home no longer bore his

fastidious stamp. She wondered if that had happened before or after his

death. It seemed like there were still a lot of questions that Tyrone Hill

would have to answer.

Bud pulled the digital camera from the side pocket of his

wheelchair and began snapping photos. Once he’d gotten the room

from every achievable direction, he focused on smaller details. Jeff’s

desk was as large as Yoshi’s and almost as sparse, even though more

of his was dedicated to objects like metal stacking trays marked “In,”

“Out,” “File,” and “Read.” There was a black waist-high countertop

and, parked below it, a mesh metal rolling cart with an all-in-one printer.

Next to this stood a steely gray two-drawer Þ ling cabinet.

Tucker did not know what Bud was searching for, and she was too

embarrassed by Morris’s presence to ask. She hadn’t learned enough

from her PI course to know what to look for besides the obvious:

blood, Þ ngerprints, trace. She’d gotten that much from episodes of CSI.

Not wanting to be outed as just a receptionist with PI dreams, Tucker

affected her best serious-detective air and carefully examined areas she

thought might be important.

She looked at the ofÞ ce door and saw no evidence that it had been

jimmied or tampered with.

“Did Jeff lock his door at nights?” she asked Morris.

“No, he wasn’t the paranoid type.”

Drawing on her understanding of TV detective work, Tucker

viewed the uncluttered areas of the bookshelves and counters. These

surfaces looked like they could hold a good print. She wondered why

they weren’t dusting; didn’t PIs do that kind of thing? Carefully, she eyed

the walls and carpeting for small rust-colored drops that might indicate

blood, or even the residual chemical odor of spot cleaning. Regular

cleaning staff had long ago sucked up and disposed of any evidence

like soils, hairs, or clothing Þ bers that could have been left by an unsub.

Tucker kind of preferred the terminology from Criminal Minds to Blind

Eye’s POI—person of interest—even though “unidentiÞ ed subject”

was probably less relevant to Blind Eye’s approach. Most of the time

someone was hiring them to investigate identiÞ able subjects.

Bud was opening the drawers of Jeff’s desk, snapping photos

of objects within. Tucker was about to suggest he rummage through

• 140 •

BLIND LEAP

them to see if anything was hidden, but a quick peek over his shoulder

proved the idea pointless. Everything was so intricately organized, all

in its place, that anything unusual would be in plain view. There was no

convenient little black address book of potential murder suspects sitting

open with a Post-it next to the name of the culprit.

Tucker wandered back over to the wooden bookshelf where the

screener Þ lms were divided into “Received,” “Watch,” “Chosen,” and

“Denied.” They were arranged in alphabetical order with A on the left

and Z on the right. Tucker wondered if that meant Jeff was right-handed

or whether everyone ordered things in the same way. Some were in tall

DVD cases with their titles printed on the spine so they could be easily

identiÞ able. Others were in the small square CD cases like those Yoshi

had sent home with Bud and didn’t want her to mention to Frameline

just yet, the ones that didn’t have names printed on the spine. She took

a few CD jewel cases from the shelf and ß ipped through them like a

deck of cards.

Most were the kind of nondescript DVD discs that you could buy

at any ofÞ ce supply or drug store, with titles printed in black marker

across the front of the discs themselves or typed on white address labels

and stuck to the front of the cases. She put the small stack of screeners

back up, careful to keep them in their original order.

As Bud was still taking photos of who knew what, Tucker

looked around the room again, hoping she’d see something important,

something she wouldn’t even think to look for until she saw it, but that

would impress Yoshi. She did not see anything like that, but what she

did see sent a shiver down her back. With Jeff’s personal items already

packed up and returned to his mother, the room seemed antiseptic and

bore no sign of the personality who had worked there only a few weeks

ago. Tucker found it disturbing that someone could so quickly be erased

from one of the most important places in his life.

She thought of how unpredictable life was, how death hid around

corners, and what it said about her as a person that she had escaped

her mother’s fortress but left her little brother behind, locked in the

dungeon of his own mind. His condition dramatically reduced his life

expectancy. Even if Hunter died, Tucker vowed she wouldn’t let him

disappear like that.

“So you don’t know what seemed to be different?” she asked

Jennifer Morris again as they walked to the door.

• 141 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

With her brow in a small knot, Morris halted and stared back into

the room. Her glasses couldn’t hide the sorrow in her eyes. “Maybe it’s

just that Jeff has gone. So nothing will ever look right again.”

On their way out, Davina stopped Tucker. “I put together a list of

Þ lmmakers and producers who’d been mad their Þ lm didn’t show or

their ‘donation’ wasn’t accepted.”

Davina made quote marks with her Þ ngers when she said the word

“donation,” Tucker wasn’t really sure why. She took the list, rolled it

up, and stuck it in her back pocket. Walking down the hallway away

from Frameline, Tucker couldn’t shake the feeling that, like Morris,

she too felt something was amiss in Jeff’s ofÞ ce. Something she just

couldn’t put her Þ nger on.

v

“You didn’t bring Velvet, did you?” Tyrone sounded nervous as

Yoshi made her way to his bedside.

“No.”

“Good. I thought she was going to deck me the other night. Thanks

for pulling her back.”

“So, you do remember me from the memorial.”

“Yes.”

“I am a private investigator with Blind Eye Detective Agency.

We’re investigating Jeff’s death.”

“You work with AJ?”

“She works for me, yes.”

“You have more questions?”

The truth was, Yoshi respected AJ’s investigative skills. She had

assigned AJ surveillance duty, after all. But not to ask questions. When

AJ spoke with her earlier, she mentioned the rapport she’d developed

with Tyrone Hill and what she’d learned of Jeff’s arrangement with

Isabelle and Theresa. However, AJ was neither a private investigator

nor a detective. There were things she might not have thought to ask

Tyrone, and methods of questioning that were more likely to elicit

truthful responses.

“I spoke with Theresa Thompson and Isabelle Cocitaux this

morning. They tell me Jeff never intended to coparent.”

“Bullshit! That’s a lie.”

“Did you two work with a lawyer?”

• 142 •

BLIND LEAP

“No. Like I told AJ, we arranged things informally. Big mistake.”

“Yes. Can anyone else verify the nature of your arrangements

with Isabelle and Theresa?”

“Jeff talked to his mom every week. He also called a lawyer,

you know, after Isabelle got pregnant. They were drawing up some

papers.”

“What’s the lawyer’s name?”

“I don’t remember.”

Yoshi heard the sound of Tyrone’s head moving back and forth on

the pillow. Then he moaned. The shaking of his head must have hurt.

“Where would Jeff have kept a record of his communication with

this lawyer?”

“Probably in the ofÞ ce at our apartment.”

Yoshi nodded. She did not inform him that she had been in his

apartment the previous evening. She did wonder if Tucker had taken

photos of a notepad beside the phone or anything else that would show

the lawyer’s information. After she Þ nished up here, Yoshi would drop

into the Blind Eye OfÞ ce and have her go through the digital images

taken at Jeff’s apartment.

“Would you happen to know if Jeff had a will or life insurance?”

“No, man. We didn’t talk about that kind of shit. You know, he was

only in his mid-thirties. Who knew he was going to die?” He was silent

for a moment and then added, “Except him, I guess.”

If he was telling the truth, a Þ nancial motive could probably be

ruled out. Yoshi needed to be sure. “I understand the two of you were

having Þ nancial difÞ culties,” she said, recalling what Charlene Conant

had told her.

“So?”

“Why was that?”

“’Cause I’m a loser…that’s what you want me to say, right? You

think my drug habit didn’t just cost Jeff custody of his kid and his

Þ nancial stability, but his life, too, don’t you?”

“Did it?”

“Maybe a little,” he muttered. “But it was more than that.”

“Your HIV meds?”

“You know about that?”

“Yes.” Yoshi had discovered Tyrone’s HIV status when she looked

up the medications from his bathroom cabinet. As a potential suspect

in this investigation, he might be less than thrilled by her subterfuge,

• 143 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

so she hoped he would not ask how she came to know that conÞ dential

information.

“Yeah, my meds. They’re fucking expensive. But he also just hired

a lawyer and started putting aside some money for the kid.”

“Is that why he asked his parents for money?”

“He asked Charlie-squared?”

“Charlie-squared?” Yoshi frowned, not sure what he meant.

“Yeah, his parents? You know, since his mom and dad both go

by Charlie, we called them Charlie-squared. It was our private joke.”

His voice trailed off and he was quiet again, thinking. When he spoke

next, there was a tightness in his voice as though he was physically

restraining emotions. “He was trying to get me into a rehab program.

They’re very expensive.” As though he really wanted her to understand,

he said, “It’s hard to quit crystal meth. You can’t just take methadone or

something. None of that works.”

“AJ has taken it upon herself to get you help,” Yoshi reminded

him.

“That’s great. She’s gonna get me arrested, conÞ ned to a program,

and force me to go cold turkey while they hold me here.”

“Give her a break. She saved your life.”

“You mean she will have, once I get clean.”

“No. Last night. You almost died. She was the one who performed

CPR and saved your life.”

“I didn’t know.” He sounded embarrassed. As he should. “Sorry.”

“I have to ask, where were you the night Jeff died?”

“Screw you.”

“It is a simple, routine question. I need to isolate anyone known to

Jeff who does not have an alibi for the night of his disappearance.”

He still didn’t answer.

“Maybe you simply cannot recall. Is that it? Were you too high

to know where you were?” She had it. “You were with another man,

weren’t you?” She wished she could see the truth on his face. She

could not. When she listened carefully, it sounded like his breathing

had changed. She would bet his heart rate had gone up as well. “Do you

even know his name?”

“I only knew his screen name,” he growled and spelled it out:

“hard4u.”

“Where did you meet?”

• 144 •

BLIND LEAP

“Online.” She could almost hear his eyes rolling at her

obtuseness.

“I meant IRL.” Yoshi used instant-messaging terminology. “In

real life? Did you go to your place?”

“No! I never brought men to our apartment. His place.”

“The address?”

“On Seventeenth Street.”

“You can do better than that, Tyrone.”

“Something like 1420 or 1430.”

“Wouldn’t Jeff wonder where you were?”

“No, our arrangement was I just had to be home by eight p.m. on

weeknights.”

“Is there anyone besides Theresa and Isabelle that you can think

of who might have reason to harm Jeff?” Yoshi lobbed another question

before he could have time to prepare, hoping to get his gut reaction.

“No.”

“Tell me about Chase Devlin,” Yoshi requested. “I heard the two

of you had an affair.”

Tyrone ß inched, physically, as though she had threatened him. “It

wasn’t an affair.” He spat the word out.

“All right, what was it, then?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“Try me.”

“Chase Devlin does not have affairs,” Tyrone replied. “He has

acquisitions.”

“Can you explain what you mean by that? Acquisitions?”

“When Chase wants something he doesn’t just get it, he acquires

it. He owns it in this incredibly intrinsic way. The way he talks about it

is bizarre, as if he chases down whatever he wants like he’s some kind

of lion.” He made a sound Yoshi took for a snort. “Guess that makes me

that one stupid gazelle that wandered off from the herd, huh. More like

I walked right up to him thinking, ‘Aw, what a cute little kitty cat,’ then

‘Roar,’ and I’m down with my neck broken and my guts hanging out,

wondering what the hell just happened.”

“In what manner did he acquire you?”

Tyrone sighed. He seemed to be tiring of their conversation.

“Let’s just say that my ‘participation’ was not voluntary.” He waved a

hand, the movement of it sending a light breeze toward Yoshi’s face.

• 145 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“In a manner of speaking, he raped me. In another it might be more

appropriate to say I was acting. I am an actor, you know.”

Before Yoshi had a chance to delve further into his enigmatic

answer, a nurse came in from the hall and informed her that Tyrone

needed his rest. Yoshi wondered if he had summoned the nurse by

prayer or the touch of a silent panic alarm. Whichever it was, she was

sure Tyrone was relieved to see her depart.

• 146 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Just as soon as AJ sauntered into the Blind Eye Detective OfÞ ce,

she could tell Yoshi wasn’t in. Rock music blared from small

computer speakers. Bud was chillin’, ß ipping the pages of a Guns &

Jugs. Tucker was grooving to the music, swaying and bouncing her

booty in her chair like some sorta white girl sit’n dance move.

“What up?” AJ asked.

“It’s Wild Strawberries,” Tucker said like she thought AJ had

asked about the band.

“Can y’all turn that down?” AJ hollered, illustrating her request

with a knob-turning motion.

Tucker replied with a few mouse clicks. “Hey, AJ, how’s it

going?”

“Yoshi ain’t in?”

“Nope.”

Bud put down his girlie mag. “So, you like that Tyrone fellow for

this so-called murder?”

“Naw, I think he’s clean.”

“Really?” Bud sneered. “I heard he’s a user.”

“That’s right,” Tucker piped in. “We found meth at his apartment,

and he’s been in porn.”

“So what? Y’all think anybody who does drugs or pornos is a

murderer? Maybe Tyrone ain’t a totally stand-up guy, but my gut says

he ain’t no murderer, neither.”

“Your gut, huh? Is that all you got?”

Bud was still butting heads with her like one of them young buck

shorties up on the block trying to prove they’s the Mac Daddy instead

of a punk-assed bitch.

• 147 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“You got any proof he’s guilty?” AJ asked.

“Maybe. What’s your evidence that he’s innocent?” Bud’s face

lit up like a bulb, like he’d just got a golden idea. “Is this because he’s

black?”

AJ shot him a hateful look.

Oblivious, Bud said, “I don’t get it. If it wasn’t a drive-by, it

couldn’t be this guy?”

Tucker, her cheeks ß ushed rosy, ignored Bud and addressed AJ.

“You’re the one who spent all that time with him. If you say he didn’t

do it, I believe you.”

Like a shortie screaming for attention, Bud jumped. “You girls go

have a love fest if you want to, but I’m a detective and I’m waiting till I

detect some evidence before I buy that the SO wasn’t involved.”

Although Bud used the shorthand for “signiÞ cant other,”

something about the way he said it suggested a sneer.

“Wait,” Tucker protested. “You said you don’t even think it was

a murder.”

“Yeah, I still think Conant just took a header off the bridge. But his

boyfriend was probably the extenuating circumstances.” Bud smirked

at AJ like he hoped to egg her on.

While she was glaring at him, the smirk just fell away and he ran

his Þ nger straight across his throat. Next he jammed his girlie mag

under the cushion of his wheelchair and sat up straight while Tucker

muted the music and got busy with the papers on her desk.

Just as AJ added the clues together, Yoshi entered the ofÞ ce.

“AJ?” She hung up her coat and telescoping cane. “I am quite

surprised to Þ nd you here. I thought you had to be at your place of

employment hours ago?”

“I…I…” AJ stammered like she just got caught ditching school

by her mama, and her ass was gonna get a big ol’ whuppin’. “I called

in sick.”

A look of concern crossed Yoshi’s face. Damn. Ain’t no way

to make a good impression with the lady she wanted to get with,

employment-wise. AJ was no good at Þ bbing. Her mama and her

Grandma Latisha had a bullshit detector that could read a Þ b at twenty

paces. And forgiveness? Lordy, child, a vengeful God was more

forgivin’ than Mama.

“Have you gotten checked out by a medical professional?”

• 148 •

BLIND LEAP

“Naw.”

“Why not?” Yoshi asked, steppin’ in front of her.

When that ß y girl got so close, AJ could remember why she’d

wanted to hit it with her in the Þ rst place. Her face stung with

embarrassment—from her sinful thoughts so soon after recalling the

wrath of Mama, and from getting caught up in a lie.

“I ain’t sick,” she admitted.

“Now you’ve done it,” Bud muttered gleefully.

“May I see you in my ofÞ ce? Privately.”

Tucker scrunched her eyebrows and Bud mimed laughter. AJ

ß ipped him off before following Yoshi inside the private ofÞ ce; she

could see one advantage of a blind boss.

Yoshi pointed in the general direction of the plush leather seat

in front of her desk and slid into her own executive chair. AJ sat and

thought about being called to the principal’s ofÞ ce.

“It is very important that you get proper medical attention, AJ.”

“Yo, I’m sorry I lied but it ain’t no biggie. I was just plain busted

from the all-nighter tailing Tyrone. But I straight up swear on the mass

grave of Katrina victims that I wouldn’t never do that working for

y’all.”

“AJ, this is quite serious. You must make arrangements to be

examined by a medical professional.”

“Honest, I’m Þ t as a Þ ddle. There ain’t nothing wrong with me.”

“Tucker and I searched Tyrone’s apartment…” Yoshi let the

sentence hang there like she was waiting for AJ to add something. AJ

wasn’t sure what she oughta be confessing.

Yoshi sighed. “We stumbled on Tyrone’s HIV medication.”

AJ didn’t wanna think about that. Thinking about it felt like rats

gnawin’ on her insides.

“The nurses tell me that Tyrone Hill owes you his life.”

AJ didn’t say nothing. Whatever Tyrone owed, it wasn’t to her.

“You performed live-saving CPR for, what was it—” Yoshi broke

off again. “Ten minutes?”

AJ shrugged. If Yoshi or Tyrone wanted to thank someone, they

should go directly to the Mac Daddy himself, our savior, Jesus Christ.

“That is quite a long time. You must have been exhausted.” Yoshi

sounded impressed. “However, you failed to utilize a protective mouth

guard.”

• 149 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“I didn’t have one on me.”

“I do not like my employees taking that level of risk.”

Good thing I ain’t your employee yet, AJ thought, a little taken

back. Yoshi might be one ß y grrl detective, but if this shit was her way

of saying “good job,” she sucked at it. Big-time.

Yoshi leaned forward across the broad desk. “AJ, I am simply

attempting to convey, with some level of urgency, that it is absolutely

essential that you undergo an HIV test. Posthaste. Now, I have spoken

with my attorney—”

“Ya talkin’ to a lawyer about me?”

“No. I asked a hypothetical question. I have already Þ led paperwork

to cover any on-the-job injury you may sustain while you volunteer

here, even if you never become a full-time employee.”

“You don’t got to do that.”

“Perhaps not. However, it could be critical to your care if…”

Apparently, Yoshi didn’t want to give voice to the idea neither.

“Ain’t nothing gonna happen. I’m Þ ne.”

Yoshi opened her mouth to protest.

“Yo, okay, here the four-one-one. I already got my blood take

when I was there. I totally get that HIV is serious, Yosh, but like ya

said, that boy woulda died without the CPR. So I got tested.”

Yoshi bit her lip and nodded. Her translucent blue eyes seem

misted with water.

“It’s gonna be okay.” AJ spoke low but with assurance. She refused

to have it any other way.

v

Tucker pulled her chair into Yoshi’s ofÞ ce, joining the circle

around the long dark-cherry desk. The high-gloss Þ nish reß ected the

Blind Eye team gathered there. It was so cool to be part of a group like

this. Just a month ago she didn’t feel like she was really even a part of

the team, and now here she was in the staff meeting, and not just to take

notes.

Carefully arranged on the desktop were three low-proÞ le brunette

platters, one chocolate leather velvet-inlaid tray, a clean black phone,

a recorder with microphone, and a slim iMac computer. It was never

more cluttered than at this moment.

“All right,” Yoshi said. Her voice was all it took to gain their

• 150 •

BLIND LEAP

attention and call the meeting to order. “Bud, why don’t you tell us

what you have uncovered on the Þ lm festival angle?”

“Sure. I think that line of investigation is dead in the water, no

pun intended. I mean, maybe somebody could be driven to suicide by

the weird shit in those Þ lms, but I can’t imagine anybody killing over

them. We did talk to the broad in charge since Conant bit it. Name’s

Jennifer Morris. Seems she’s the power broker in the place, makes all

the decisions about which Þ lms make it to the festival and all that. We

got this list of disgruntled individuals from the assistant, but I don’t

see that panning out. Nobody’s even been turned down yet this year,

so it doesn’t seem like anyone would have a motive for being mad at

the vic, ’specially not with Morris calling all the shots. There was one

thing…”

Bud caught Tucker’s eye and tipped his head to her. He’d

just thrown her a pass and told her to run with it. She smiled her

acknowledgment and thanks. When his face soured in response, she

quickly dropped the grin and played serious professional.

“Jennifer Morris said that when Jeff Þ rst went missing, she noticed

something about his ofÞ ce. It hadn’t been trashed or anything, but…”

She tried to draw out the suspense. “She said she felt like something

was off.”

Yoshi drew her naturally thin eyebrows together in perplexity. “In

what way, exactly?”

“That’s the thing. She couldn’t say, exactly. Just had this feeling

like things weren’t in their right places. I think I did, too.”

“You think you what?” Bud asked.

“I don’t know, like I also had this sense something wasn’t where it

should be, but I just couldn’t pinpoint what it was.”

“Maybe you’ve got a magic gut like AJ here,” Bud opined. “One

that can tell if a guy’s a murderer just by looking at him.”

Tucker made a face at him, screwing her features into a glare that

hopefully conveyed Stop that! She went on, “I downloaded the digital

images we got from Jeff and Tyrone’s place. You looked up those

prescriptions, didn’t you, Yoshi?”

“Yes, I located the information I needed.”

“Bud and I were looking at the photos of the legal papers I found.

He says they look like…what was it, Bud?”

“Power of Attorney.” Bud grunted. “And one of them Domestic

Partnership Agreements. Between the boys.”

• 151 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Right, and I also got a photo of this business card, I think it’s for

Jeff’s attorney.”

“Excellent.” Yoshi said. Her smile warmed the Þ re in Tucker’s

gut.

“Oh, yeah, and Bud?” Tucker added.

“Hmm.”

“I was thinking maybe you could let me look at that screener you

had that didn’t play, just in case I can get it to run.”

“Sure.”

“Cool.”

“So we heard AJ doesn’t think Tyrone could’ve offed our DB,”

Bud said snarkily. “Maybe she’d like to share her wisdom with us.”

AJ glared at him. “I already done my reportin’ to Yoshi.”

“True,” Yoshi said. “Can you summarize, for their beneÞ t?”

“Okay. Tyrone’s a meth junkie. I tipped SF Narcotics off to his

supplier, who turned out to be just a low-level player. Tyrone, he gets

around a lot with other guys, but he says it ain’t on the down low, ’cause

he and Conant had an arrangement so it ain’t cheating. But he didn’t

always wear a glove, and he’s got HIV-plus.” AJ glanced at Yoshi. “I

don’t know about whether he told his boy or not. But it so clear he

loved Jeff and he’s totally buggin’ over Jeff’s death. So, yeah, I don’t

think he coulda killed him.”

Bud mumbled something, but no one asked him to speak up.

“Another thing.” AJ barely paused long enough to take a breath.

“Tyrone swears Jeff was pumped about the baby and he picked a sistah

so it’d be like the baby he and Tyrone would have if they could make

one. Tyrone thinks them females was ditching ’cause they knew about

his drug problem. DB was supposed to have a meeting with their lawyer

right around the time he went off the bridge.”

Yoshi didn’t give Bud time to add any rude comments. “That is

correct, Hill maintains that Thompson and Cocitaux were lying when

they claimed Jeff had never intended to coparent. He thinks they had

planned to move all along. I am hoping we will be able to get to the

bottom of that disagreement. I also obtained Tyrone’s alibi. Which,”

Yoshi concluded, “we must locate and conÞ rm.”

“What is it?” Bud asked.

“That he was with someone he met online.”

“So,” Bud snorted. “Let’s say Tyrone’s alibi checks out, who’ve

we got left for suspects? Guess we better hope this Chase Devlin

• 152 •

BLIND LEAP

individual is a bad bad man, ’cause it’s hard to pin this one on a preggo

lady, even if she is a dyke.”

The way he glanced about after pronouncing the last word made

it clear to Tucker that he was hoping to get a rise from AJ or Yoshi.

Neither took the bait.

“If there even was a murder,” Bud muttered under his breath so

Tucker could barely hear.

Yoshi ignored his Þ nal remark. “I gather that Devlin is indeed

a shady character. Tomorrow I intend to speak with him directly.

I am hoping he will clear up a few things, for instance, what would

lead Tyrone to term their sexual relationship as alternately rape and

performance?”

The look that darted across AJ’s face like a Þ gure skulking in the

shadows struck Tucker as one of pain and anger.

“I wanna be there for that.”

“Do you think you will still be under the weather tomorrow?”

Yoshi asked, and, Tucker could have sworn, winked at AJ.

AJ, who didn’t appear to be ill, had a slight grin on her pouty lips.

“Ain’t no telling,” she said. “I’ll let ya know in the a.m.”

Tucker wasn’t sure she liked what she was seeing. Apparently

Yoshi and AJ had some kind of code or they felt so close they didn’t

need to express what they were thinking because the other one already

knew it. They’d only been on two dates, as far as Tucker could tell. And

now AJ was moving in on Tucker’s territory at Blind Eye, which just

wasn’t fair. Not when AJ had the advantage of already being a police

ofÞ cer whose investigative skills Yoshi clearly respected. How could

Tucker compete with that? She was already playing catch-up.

The whole time they’d been together, Velvet had been saying that

Yoshi could use another investigator at Blind Eye. Tucker was working

as hard as she could to Þ ll that role, but at only 40 hours a week, her

remaining 5,000 hours still seemed like an eternity. Especially when AJ

could probably just pass an exam and then march into Blind Eye, and

Yoshi would notice Tucker even less than she did now.

It seemed like having AJ on board was a test to decide about

offering her a job. Tucker might have had a chance to outshine Bud,

but she couldn’t compete with AJ, and if AJ and Yoshi just kept getting

closer they’d never ever break up. So much for Tucker’s plans to

become a PI to get Yoshi’s attention—and so much more. Damn.

Why did she keep thinking this way about her boss? Especially

• 153 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

when she was lucky enough to have a hottie like Velvet waiting at home

in bed for her? Tucker conjured up a visual and visceral vision of Velvet

with a sexy black and purple bustier cinched around her waist, her DD

breasts barely restrained by the lacy fabric and silk ribbon ties. Maybe

that’s how the garment got its name, because a woman endowed like

Velvet nearly busted out of the contraption.

“Tucker!”

The vision of Velvet vanished. Bud and AJ were staring at her.

God. She’d spaced off again. Still, she was a little embarrassed, as if

they had all read her thoughts just by looking at her face. “Yes?”

“I asked if you would accompany Bud tomorrow.”

“Uh, sure. Where we going?”

AJ hid a grin. Bud did not. Tucker could feel the heat in her cheeks

and she was glad Yoshi couldn’t see her blush. She wondered if Yoshi

could feel her embarrassment. Dogs could sense fear. Yoshi could

probably sense humiliation.

“I would appreciate,” Yoshi spoke as though this were the Þ rst

time she’d addressed the subject, “if you and Bud could interview

Jeff’s attorney, Vincent Broadwell. I want to know if Jeff had a will or

life insurance, and who the beneÞ ciaries are. I want to know what was

going on, legally, about the baby.”

“Okay, boss.”

“Let me just make this clear. I am not requesting that any of you

break any laws, practice any advanced investigation techniques, climb

up any drainpipes, or snoop in conÞ dential Þ les.”

“Okay?” Tucker heard the question in her answer even before she

saw Yoshi grimace. Shoot. She’d been working so hard on breaking that

habit ever since Yoshi had Þ rst expressed her disdain for the tendency.

She said it made Tucker sound unsure of herself. Tucker didn’t want

Yoshio to think less of her just because she sounded insecure.

Fake it till you make it. She couldn’t remember who said that. But

it was Velvet who showed a study that proved if you forced a smile,

eventually you would actually feel better. Maybe that could work with

conÞ dence, too.

Still, Tucker was worried. Yoshi’s unusual lecture seemed evidence

of her displeasure at the one thing Tucker had been proud of, her totally

cool Mission Impossible break-in of Jeff Conant’s apartment. If that had

not only failed to impress Yoshi but actually displeased her, Tucker was

even worse at this whole private investigator thing than she originally

• 154 •

BLIND LEAP

thought. One step forward, two steps back. Would she ever look like

more than a fuckup in Yoshi’s eyes?

As the meeting broke up, Yoshi asked Bud to stay behind. Tucker

thought the look on her face warned that a tongue-lashing was in the

works.

v

“What was that about?” Tucker whispered to Bud as soon as he

left Yoshi’s ofÞ ce.

He nodded toward the main door. “Walk me to the john?” he said

loud enough to be heard by anyone eavesdropping.

When they were several wheelchair lengths down the hall, and

presumably out of hearing distance of the closed Blind Eye door, Bud

reduced the speed at which he spun his wheels. He muttered, “Yoshi’s

got a hair up her ass. She read me the riot act about last night.”

“What’s up with that?”

“Fuck if I know.” He rolled his eyes skyward as if he’d Þ nd the

answer on the ceiling tiles.

“What’s she steamed about?” The kid’d gotten all worked up, her

face pinched in concern. It didn’t take a lot for the kid to buy someone

else’s opinion that she’d fucked up. She was going to have to learn to

let shit roll off her back if she was going to make it as a PI.

“She’s mad ’cause I had you break into Jeff’s apartment.”

Yoshi had stayed mad, too, even after he let her in on the joke

about how he’d never expected Tucker to succeed. How the break-in

was supposed to be a practical joke in which Tucker failed at a task

she’d never been trained to do. He’d get a break from babysitting, have

some alone time to eat a nice dinner charged off as a work expense, and

all while he showed the kid how difÞ cult the job could be. Plus, as an

added beneÞ t, he’d have a good laugh at her expense when a restaurant

patron caught her trying to crawl out the bathroom window.

Yoshi hadn’t found any of it funny. Women did have senses of

humor worth shit.

“I thought that was the kind of thing you guys do all the time.”

The poor girl was confused. He didn’t blame her. Yoshi’s reasoning had

seemed fucked up to him, too.

“Yeah.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

• 155 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“She was just pissed we broke in when she already had a key. She

says she wants us to explore all options before resorting to dangerous,

criminal activities.”

Bud didn’t see that kind of Þ eldwork as criminal activity, that’s

for sure. It was just part of the job and Yoshi should’ve been impressed,

not pissed, by the kid’s natural skills.

“Don’t take it personal, kid,” Bud said. “She’s just jealous ’cause

you got there before her.” That didn’t change the look on her face, and

he was starting to feel sorry for her. Goddamn. He sighed. He hated her

for what she was making him do. “The truth is, she was worried about

you.”

This perked her up. “Really?”

“Yeah. She was mad that I put you in a position where you might’ve

gotten hurt or arrested. She said I didn’t do a good job babysitting

you.”

He made it sound like a joke, masking what he really felt about

getting his ass handed to him like that. Against his better judgment,

he was growing fond of the kid and didn’t want her to feel bad. If he

wasn’t in his chair, he’d have tousled her hair like she was a child.

Instead he punched her in the arm for good measure.

She rewarded him with a crooked smile. “You’d better keep a

close eye on me later in case I get the urge to draw on the big man’s

important papers.”

Bud played along with the mock baby talk. “Now be a good girl

and bring your dolly along to play with while Daddy talks to the big

man.”

“Dolly?” Tucker reverted to her normal voice and affected

indignation. “For your information, I played with action Þ gures, not

dollies.”

Her eyes thanked him. He was relieved she didn’t verbalize her

appreciation.

With a grin and a slight swagger, she went back to the Blind Eye

ofÞ ce.

• 156 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER TWELVE

Chase Devlin’s ofÞ ce was in the forty-two-story Spear Tower,

part of the One Market Plaza that included a giant retail

pavilion. As she entered the lobby, Yoshi almost wished she could see

what she had read about, the eleven-story glass atrium pavilion with its

giant hexagonal metal sculpture ß oating on water in the middle.

In the material that Tucker had provided, Chase Devlin was

described as a fairly established Þ lm producer who’d recently moved

from L.A. to San Francisco and formed a production company with Jeff

Conant, purportedly to apply Devlin’s skill in producing mainstream

Þ lms to the gay Þ lm market. His ability to pay almost twenty grand a

month for rent for only 1,500 square feet could indicate he was either

extremely proÞ cient at what he did, or obsessively concerned with his

image and the suggestion of wealth, or he was a drug baron who needed

to launder cash.

Like many producers, Devlin had apparently gotten involved in

the entertainment world initially as a Þ nancial resource. He was said

to possess a unparalleled gift for wrangling money from traditional

studio heads and unlikely Þ nanciers. He often secured nonconventional

investments to Þ nance the Þ lms he was involved in, such as those

from Silicon Valley that had funded his last Þ lm, a thriller about

nanotechnology. This box-ofÞ ce smash was surprisingly intelligent for

what was, essentially an extended product-placement advertisement.

The instant Yoshi shook Chase Devlin’s manicured but clammy

hand, she knew she’d smelled his rather overpowering cologne before.

It was the combination of spicy scents, cedar, pepper, and ginger that

she had not been able to place on a clothing item at Jeff and Tyrone’s

apartment.

• 157 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

After the professional introductions and some polite conversation

about Devlin’s ofÞ ce, his latest Þ lm, and the chance meeting with Jeff

that eventually led to their partnership, but before Yoshi and AJ could

even begin their interrogation, Devlin confessed.

“I’m fairly certain what brings a private investigator by. I

understand you’ve been speaking with Tyrone Hill.”

Yoshi wondered if Hill had spoken directly with Devlin or how

the Þ nancier came by the knowledge. It was a little creepy to think she

or AJ might have been the target of surveillance.

Without pause, Devlin continued, “In which case he may well have

revealed the nature of our relationship and, perhaps, other information

of a more sensitive nature. Rather than beat around the bush, I’d prefer

to deal with this directly and confess my complicity in Jeff Conant’s

death.”

Yoshi’s mouth involuntarily fell ajar and hung open. AJ, too,

was completely silent. Yoshi could not even hear her breathing in the

museumlike stillness of the room. She had to admit in all of her time

as a private investigator, nothing of this kind had ever occurred, and

she was at somewhat of a loss as to how to proceed. Yoshi discovered

herself wondering if they were to leave the room alive.

“I am not sure that I understand,” she said, hoping he could not

hear the tremor in her voice, like she could.

Devlin made no attempt to explain himself or clarify in a manner

that made sense. “To truly understand, I’m afraid, requires a bit of

backstory, if you’ll indulge me?”

“Of course.”

“As you may know, I have made quite a name for myself in the

Þ lm business. But what you may not know is that I recently began a

foray into the adult entertainment industry.”

Devlin was full of so many shocking twists that Yoshi was

beginning to wonder if this was a scripted interaction intended to

completely invalidate the words he’d spoken just seconds ago, casually,

as if murder was of no concern.

“I’m expanding, in fact,” Devlin continued. “I’ve capitalized

on Kink-dot-com’s recent purchase of the old armory building in the

Mission.”

It was difÞ cult to avoid the media frenzy surrounding Kink.com’s

new headquarters. The porn company had bought the armory, built in

• 158 •

BLIND LEAP

1912 and listed on the National Register of Historic Places but vacant

since 1970, for nearly $15 million. A small coalition of community

groups had protested the sale, but since Kink was planning to use

the place as a dungeon and not make any structural changes, and the

location had been vacant so long, there was little ammunition for the

city to prevent the acquisition.

Kink.com had widespread support, too, although many proponents

kept their involvement low key and avoided public identiÞ cation.

Yoshi had been one of them. It was not that she supported the adult

entertainment industry per se, but she did feel that Kink’s architectural

plans for the space, which relied on restoring and maintaining the

historic armory, was one of the more intelligent designs to sidestep the

often unsuitable gentriÞ cation that had been occurring in the Mission.

Devlin continued, “I’ve acquired the New Mission Theater

and four neighboring buildings, and I’m currently working with an

architectural team to create the largest adult-entertainment complex

and porn playground in America.”

The New Mission Theater was the grand dame of famed San

Francisco theaters. Much like the armory, the theater had not been

an active Þ lm house since the early ’90s, but had been saved from

demolition more than once by inclusion on the National Register and

Þ erce protest from neighbors. Yoshi could not imagine turning the

theater, which could seat several thousand moviegoers, into a porn

playground. Nor could she conceive of what exactly a porn playground

might entail.

Yoshi couldn’t imagine that such ambitions reß ected Jeff Conant’s

interests and she wondered how they meshed with the production

company he was developing with Devlin. Still, there was nothing to

preclude Devlin from pursuing divergent paths.

AJ spoke before Yoshi could. “Jeff was dope to this?”

“No, no,” Devlin said with a hint of condescension. “That’s the

thing. Conant-Devlin Productions is an entirely separate venture. Jeff

wanted to develop big-budget, big-market, gay-themed Þ lms, and

producing adult-entertainment Þ lms held no interest for him. In fact,

he was troubled by my plans for the Mission Theater district, and was

talking about pulling out of our venture. He was concerned that being

even incidentally connected to the project might hurt our production

company’s image.”

• 159 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“So ya killed him ’cause he backed outta it?” AJ deduced.

“Oh, no. Of course not. But then Jeff discovered another element

of my adult-entertainment company that he found impossible to

ignore.”

“That ya messin’ with his lover?” AJ suggested.

“Yeah, he really didn’t like that one bit, despite their open

relationship.” Devlin paused long enough for Yoshi to hear the ß ick of

a lighter and inhale the pungent aroma of cigar smoke.

She wondered if he was not required to follow state regulations

against smoking in public buildings because this was a private ofÞ ce,

or whether he had simply bribed a government ofÞ cial to grant him

immunity. She would not be surprised. Not about bribery, at any rate,

but certainly Devlin’s morphing confession had her attention. She

wondered if he was so quick to share these details with other people.

“Jeff did nothing about it. However, he was less fettered in other

areas.” Devlin puffed happily at his cigar as though they were out at a

social event.

Yoshi was getting impatient with Devlin’s epic-style storytelling.

She could already tell he was a fairly classic narcissist, but she wanted

to get to the punch. “When was the last time you saw Jeff?”

“The night he was killed, of course,” Devlin said with such

nonchalance it surprised even Yoshi, who considered herself fairly

unß appable. He sighed. “Please allow me to continue, and all of your

questions will be answered presently.”

“Fine.” Yoshi agreed through tightened teeth.

“Although Jeff had begun looking for an investor willing to

buy out his shares in our partnership, we were moving forward with

development, meeting to discuss developing one of the screenplays that

came our way. Then things really heated up when Jeff learned that I

had imagined Tyrone playing a central role in my new porn empire.

That’s what we were discussing at his ofÞ ce the evening of the night in

question. Jeff made a rather generous offer if I would relinquish Tyrone

from his contractual obligations.”

“I had been led to believe that Jeff was having Þ nancial

problems,” Yoshi said.

“That could be. I did not inquire as to where he intended to get

the funds. To put it mildly, I was not interested. Though the offer

was generous, it paled in comparison to what Tyrone is worth to my

company.”

• 160 •

BLIND LEAP

“So then what?” AJ asked. “How’d it happen?”

“Then I left.”

“And ya came back later? Or did y’all wait for him outside?”

“No, quite the contrary, I went straight home. I never saw Jeff

again.”

“What the fuck? Are ya trippin’?” AJ sounded angry.

“As I recall, I said I was complicit in his death, which I’m afraid

I was. Clearly my conß ict with him weighed heavily enough that it led

directly to his decision to take his own life.” Devlin paused. “I’m sure

there’s no one reason for suicide, but explanations seem important to

loved ones, and in good faith, I’m attempting to provide one.”

Yoshi did not like his tone. Despite the appearance of plausibility

and the implication that Devlin was speaking from his conscience, his

speech seemed too rehearsed. Chase Devlin had far too many plausible

responses for her taste and she was certain of one thing: he would not

have been so direct about his relationship with Tyrone and his presence

at Jeff’s ofÞ ce that night unless he believed they could already place

him there.

Devlin thought he was very smart, but he had just placed himself

with a dead man only hours before his disappearance. He had also

provided them with Jeff’s whereabouts immediately prior to his death.

There must have been something, something they hadn’t yet realized

that would tie Devlin to the Frameline ofÞ ce. He was being very clever,

keeping one step in front of their investigation. It would be difÞ cult to

trip him up. Still, she would attempt to do just that.

“Tyrone does not have a bank account.” Yoshi remembered this

from Tucker’s credit bureau research. “How do you pay him? In cash?”

If Devlin was paying in cash, it might be to avoid paying taxes.

“No, Ms. Yakamoto. I see that you’re unfamiliar with adult

entertainment, but it’s a business like any other. We have payroll every

other Thursday just like other companies. I don’t know much about

payroll, as I obviously don’t do the company’s accounting. Simon?”

Devlin raised his voice toward what was probably an adjoining

room. Yoshi felt someone move through the ofÞ ce.

AJ leaned in and whispered in Yoshi’s ear. “That’s one scary

motherfucker.”

Yoshi couldn’t see the man who’d just entered but she could

smell him. It was a faint smell before—perhaps he was listening in just

behind the partition—but now Simon’s strangely odd combination of

• 161 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

scents was almost overwhelming. He smelled like diesel fuel, Þ sh oil,

and Mr. Clean. It was a very un-accountant-like smell. Yoshi wondered

if the others felt like gagging.

Chase Devlin didn’t bother to introduce this lackey. “Can you

obtain some records for me?”

Simon did not speak, but apparently assented in another fashion

because Devlin thanked him and the smell drifted toward the door and

became less toxic.

“He might be a minute. Do you ladies have other questions?”

Yoshi felt AJ tense beside her as though he’d just issued an edict.

“How’d y’all work ’round Tyrone’s HIV status?” AJ was blunt.

“I’m sure you know that the industry instigated strict safe-sex and

testing policies years ago.”

“I would have thought testing HIV positive ends an actor’s career,”

Yoshi said.

“Certainly not, although there has to be full disclosure, of course.

We collect signatures from any negative actors or actresses prior to

doing a scene with a positive actor, and positive actors are precluded

from certain scenes, like some money shots. Otherwise we simply

employ the same safe-sex requirements that we have for all of our other

actors and actresses.”

“How about drugs?”

“We’re employers, not parents. We can’t control what our actors

chose to do in their off hours, but when they’re on set they’re required

to stay clean.”

Yoshi didn’t respond. She was aware that some people employed

in sex work felt the need to alter their consciousness through drug

use in order to do their jobs. She could also imagine that actors were

expendable; there seemed to be an inÞ nite supply.

“Can you think of any reason why Tyrone would say that he was

not a voluntary participant in your relationship?” she asked.

Devlin laughed. “That’s my Tyrone. He’s always had a twisted

sense of humor.”

I think you are the twisted one, Yoshi thought. I cannot prove it—

yet—but eventually, I will.

“You could say I acquired him, I suppose. I bought out his contract

with Phantasm Video and I now have him on an exclusive contract.

But involuntary? I can’t imagine what he could mean by that. You can

• 162 •

BLIND LEAP

clearly see that he’s certainly not starring in any of my productions

against his will, if that’s what you mean.”

“Maybe y’all blackmailing him, or keeping him fucked up, snifÞ n’

Tina,” AJ said.

Devlin did not answer immediately. When he did, he seemed to

be speaking through clenched teeth. “I agreed to speak to you out of

respect for my Tyrone and regret at Jeff Conant’s untimely demise. I’ve

been more than forthright, and despite my courtesy, you have the gall to

accuse me of dealing drugs. Really. I think we’re done here.”

Irritated, Yoshi felt AJ rise to her feet. She did the same. On the way

down in the elevator, she examined her reasons for bringing AJ along

to the meeting. She wanted the security of a police ofÞ cer, and one who

looked sufÞ ciently frightening that Yoshi felt safe in her company. She

also wanted to see how AJ conducted herself in an interview. She had

a lot to learn about when to apply pressure and when to sit back and

listen. Even being fed phony information could reveal something about

the truth it was designed to hide. They might have gotten that far with

Devlin if they’d handled the meeting more delicately.

AJ said what Yoshi was already thinking. “He played us.”

Yoshi nodded. Devlin had learned exactly what he had hoped

to by agreeing to their interview, and more to the point, he had fed

them exactly the information he had intended to. What was he hiding?

She was almost positive he was afß icted with hidden perversions that

drove him to devote so much energy to his new porn company. Had

Jeff somehow threatened Devlin’s dream of a porn empire and paid

for it with his life? Did Devlin kill Jeff in order to have Tyrone to

himself? It was certainly creepy how Devlin referred to Tyrone as “my

Tyrone.” That spoke to just the kind of controlling relationship Tyrone

had alluded to.

Yoshi did not know what ß avor Devlin’s perversions were

and whether they, or his obsessive relationship with Tyrone, lay

behind Jeff’s death. This meeting, however, more than anything else

they’d learned so far, suggested that Jeff had died under suspicious

circumstances. And those circumstances had Chase Devlin prints all

over them.

v

• 163 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

At the Blind Eye Detective Agency, Tucker stared at her cell

phone, urging it to ring. Three luminescent bars taunted her, proving

the problem wasn’t a lack of service. She dialed her mailbox. Still no

new messages. Just like the last time she checked, Þ ve minutes ago.

Maybe she should call and leave another message. Just because Velvet

didn’t want to be bothered didn’t necessarily mean that she wouldn’t

appreciate Tucker checking in, did it?

They hadn’t gone this long without speaking since before the

Rosemary Finney case. They always called each other at work at least

once during the day, just to say hi or leave a message full of innuendo.

Tucker punched in seven numbers and hit Send. A moment later

she heard the phone in Yoshi’s ofÞ ce ringing, and the light for the

extension throbbed red. She ended her call and Yoshi’s phone went

silent. That proves it. There’s nothing wrong with my phone. So why

hadn’t Velvet called?

Tucker could tell Velvet’s home phone was still working because

she’d gotten Velvet’s answering machine each of the Þ fty times she’d

dialed. That probably just meant Velvet wasn’t home. But not being

home didn’t explain why Velvet hadn’t answered her work line or her

cell phone, nor called Tucker back in response to the many messages.

Tucker was beginning to get really worried. But she was in a bind.

Was it better to give Velvet the space she said she wanted or invade

that space to ensure she was okay? Maybe she should she call the

police. She could pretend Velvet was her frail grandmother who might

have fallen and ask them to do a welfare check by driving over to the

house.

But what if Velvet wasn’t home and was lying in a ditch

someplace? Should she pretend Velvet’s car got stolen so the police

would go out looking for it? That option seemed to be the kind of thing

that would land Tucker in hot water. With Velvet and the police. She

put away her phone, reasoning with herself that Velvet would be Þ ne.

This was Velvet Erickson, intrepid grrl reporter, after all, not some

anxious country girl afraid of the city’s dark corners. Velvet was just

taking time to grieve in her own way. Her not answering the phone

didn’t mean anything.

Later, when Tucker got off work, she could catch BART to

Sixteenth Street and ß atfoot it to Bernal Heights. If she came bearing

gifts, Velvet would be glad to see her. Tucker would just pop in,

make sure she was okay and didn’t need anything, and then go spend

• 164 •

BLIND LEAP

the night at her basement apartment in Oakland and let Velvet sleep

alone.

Tucker forced thoughts of Velvet out of her mind and focused

on the digital photographs Bud had taken of Jeff’s ofÞ ce. They didn’t

seem to tell her anything more than being in Jeff’s ofÞ ce had. Just the

same meticulously organized desk and alphabetized books on the big

bookshelves.

Tucker opened another image of two gray Þ le cabinets. The Drew

Carey–like Jennifer Morris had said one held paperwork about each of

the Þ lms that had played Frameline’s festival over the years. The other

cabinet, which was locked, apparently held more sensitive material

like employee Þ les, Þ scal records, and information about Frameline’s

Þ nancial supporters. Tucker had thought the contents of that cabinet

would be of most interest to an intruder, but Morris assured them that

the Þ le lock had not been tampered with and nothing was missing.

Tucker wasn’t sure if that was really proof of anything. Couldn’t

someone have forced Jeff to open the Þ le cabinet and photocopy

material they were interested in? Bud hadn’t insisted on Morris opening

the locked drawers, so Tucker couldn’t even look at Þ le names on the

chance one would be a clue. In her PI course, she’d learned that the

odds of solving a crime reduce dramatically after the Þ rst forty-eight

hours. She could see why. The more time passed, the more evidence

would be lost and people forgot things. Even now, the POIs they were

interviewing had to think back more than a month, and it wasn’t as if

Yoshi even knew what information they were looking for.

Pulling up another image, Tucker focused on the shelves that held

Þ lm screeners. She zoomed in to different places and back out again.

She stared at the photo for a long time. Whatever had been troubling

her about Jeff’s ofÞ ce started yelling, “Hot, hot, hot,” like she was

narrowing in on the problem. She looked at the rows of DVD and CD

cases and didn’t get it. Damn. She was never going to make private eye.

She was just too stupid.

She sighed and moved on to the next image, higher up on the

towering cherry shelves where the fastidiously organized books

replaced Þ lms. Tucker got the hot feeling again before she looked away.

She chased her mouse until the cursor hovered over a row of books.

Tucker clicked the zoom in three times. As she suspected, the books

were carefully arranged in alphabetical order based on title. Jeff was as

anal as Velvet was with her collection of Þ lms.

• 165 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Tucker remembered helping Velvet put her house together after the

cops ransacked it executing a search warrant in the Rosemary Finney

case. They’d knocked all of the movies—each and every one—off their

shelves. Hundreds of DVDs were scattered on the ß oor. Tucker had

volunteered to help put them back up on their ß oor-to-ceiling shelves,

but it wasn’t that simple. Velvet demanded that not only must every

thing be shelved, but in its speciÞ c spot on the shelf. Every Þ lm had

a correct location. Like Jeff’s books, Velvet’s DVD collection was

carefully alphabetized. Velvet had been really strict about that system,

too, making Tucker redo everything when she put something in the

wrong place.

Tucker froze with her mouse over books with titles beginning with

T’s and zoomed in. Her heart pounded and she wanted to run out in the

hallway and announce, Eureka! Feeling a little foolish, she stared at the

titles more closely. It wasn’t like she’d solved the case or anything, was

it? Probably not, but it would still be totally cool, if she was right.

She decided not to share her enthusiasm with Yoshi or Bud without

verifying her Þ nd Þ rst. Lord knows, she didn’t want to give either of

them fuel for teasing, or another reason to roll their eyes. Nothing like

telling folks you grew up on a small Idaho farm to get them thinking

you’re nothing but a rube. From her back pocket, she pulled the business

card she’d gotten from Jennifer Morris and dialed the number.

After Jennifer greeted her politely, she said, “Hey, Jennifer, I

don’t know if you remember me, but I’m Tucker Shade, from Blind

Eye Detective Agency?” Although Yoshi weren’t in the room, Tucker

immediately ß inched at her questioning tone. Yet again she’d sounded

uncertain and unprofessional.

“Of course, Tucker, what can I do for you?”

“You remember saying how most of Jeff’s ofÞ ce hadn’t been

messed with?”

“Yes.”

“What about the screeners, on the shelves?” The words came out

in a rush. Tucker held her breath and crossed her Þ ngers.

“No, you’re right. The screener shelves aren’t the way he left

them.”

“Oh,” Disappointment washed over her. Of course she hadn’t

been right.

“That wasn’t the answer you hoped for?” Jennifer asked astutely.

“I guess not. See, I’ve been looking through these photos we took

• 166 •

BLIND LEAP

of the ofÞ ce and I just thought I’d found something important, but I

guess I was wrong.”

“Really?” Jennifer sounded hopeful. “What’s that?”

There was no reason not to tell her now. “You know how Jeff liked

things alphabetized?”

Morris chuckled. “It was hard not to. He would pitch a Þ t if anyone

put things back in the wrong order. Why?”

“When we were there, I was ß ipping through some of the screener

Þ lms? At Þ rst I couldn’t put my Þ nger on what it was that bothered me

about them. You know, I was starting to think I was crazy.”

“Yes?” Jennifer’s voice sounded like Yoshi’s when she was saying,

“Get to the point.”

“Anyway, so then I’m looking at the photos Bud took? And then

I totally saw it.”

“Saw what?”

“That whoever last organized the Þ lms messed them up. See,

everything’s in alphabetical order until you get to titles that started

with The, you know, like The Last Supper?” Tucker didn’t pause for

Morris to answer the rhetorical question. “Well, someone Þ led those

titles in the T section. Now I don’t know about Jeff, but my girlfriend,

Velvet—”

“No, you’re right. Jeff would never have tolerated that.”

“He treated beginning A and The as silent?” Tucker clariÞ ed.

“Absolutely. So what does this mean? Oh, my God, you think

someone was here in his ofÞ ce looking for something?” Her voice

cracked. “You think it was something to do with what happened?”

“Wait.” Now Tucker was confused. “You just said the screeners

had been messed with since Jeff went missing. Couldn’t it just been

someone in the ofÞ ce?”

“No.” Jennifer was adamant. “Everyone here knows better. We’re

all extremely careful about returning things in Jeff’s ofÞ ce to their

proper order. All I meant earlier was that I’ve added new screeners to

the ‘Submitted’ shelf. I’ve also viewed several Þ lms and moved them to

the ‘Screened’ section. I don’t think anyone else has—”

“Really?” Tucker was excited again. Maybe she was right after all.

“Would you mind checking them again? Don’t touch them or anything,

and leave them in the order they’re in now, okay?”

“Of course. I’ll just put you on hold.”

“That’s awesome, thanks!”

• 167 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Tucker was put on a silent hold. She wondered if it cost a great

deal extra to entertain callers with music while they waited. Music was

better, because then you didn’t wonder if you’d gotten cut off somehow.

But you’d have to be really careful about choosing which kind of music

to use, making sure it Þ t with your audience. She thought back to the

hip-hop concert at El Rio before any of this had happened and tried to

imagine if Blind Eye greeted callers with Katastrophe’s “Let’s F*ck

and Then Talk about My Problems.” She hummed a couple of lines

and was having a good chuckle when Jennifer came back on the line,

breathing hard.

“Tucker?”

“I’m still here.”

“You’re right!” Jennifer exclaimed. “The Jammed and The

Estrogen Files are both Þ led under T. I would never have done

something like that. I can’t believe this. What should we do? Should I

call the police?”

No, no. Don’t steal my thunder. “We don’t have anything to tell

the police,” Tucker said. “We need to know a lot more about who might

have been in Jeff’s ofÞ ce before we can jump to any conclusions. Why

don’t you give me a little while to confer with Yoshi, my boss, and get

back to you?”

“But if they didn’t Þ nd what they were looking for and there is a

connection to Jeff’s death? Is my staff in danger?”

I don’t know. Maybe. Tucker tried to still the tremor in her voice

before answering. She wasn’t sure how to soothe Jennifer’s fears.

“I’m sure it’s all going to be okay,” she said. It was the kind of

thing she used to say to her sister, who’d been so sick as a kid. Over

the years she’d repeated, “It’s going to be okay,” over and over like a

prayer. She hadn’t believed it then and she wasn’t sure about it now, but

she said it anyway.

It seemed to work. Jennifer gave Tucker until the next morning to

talk with Yoshi and call back.

v

Before she had even hung up the ofÞ ce phone, Tucker punched

Yoshi’s number into her cell. Her boss was going to be so proud of her.

She was disappointed when the call went straight to voice mail. She

• 168 •

BLIND LEAP

didn’t want to share her good news with an automated system, so she

just asked Yoshi to call the ofÞ ce ASAP.

She wanted to call Velvet next, shout into the answering machine

that she’d proven Jeff didn’t kill himself, but she didn’t want to give her

girlfriend false hope. Right now all they had were two screener DVDs

out of alphabetical order. It was hardly a smoking gun.

Instead she called Bud. She was surprised when she landed in

voice mail again. Maybe he’d turned it off to interview hard4u, Tyrone’s

alibi for the Saturday night Jeff died. Tucker had insisted he handle that

important interview partly out of spite to pay him back for making her

crawl through that bathroom window.

They’d met with Jeff’s lawyer, Vincent Broadwell, that morning,

and Bud was pretty conÞ dent they could rule out anyone ofÞ ng the vic

for Þ nancial gain. The DB didn’t have any life insurance—in fact, Jeff

didn’t have a lot of paperwork on Þ le. Maybe he shared Bud’s less-

than-positive view of lawyers: nothing but a bunch of shysters, if you

asked him.

Broadwell said he was an acquaintance of Jeff’s, which probably

meant fuck-buddy. The lawyer said he’d only come to represent Jeff

recently, but it wasn’t like in the movies where the guy’s saying, if I get

killed, look at so-and-so for it. They were just putting together a batch

of standard material to do with the baby. Broadwell said they hadn’t

Þ nished hashing out the new will, so an earlier version would stand.

In that Þ ve-year-old document, Tyrone Hill stood to receive mostly

sentimental objects while any funds reverted to Jeff’s parents.

After the discussion Bud told Tucker his money was on the

Cocitaux broad. Broadwell had insisted that Jeff planned to play

daddy, and way more than just in name. The lawyer happened to have

both sides’ paperwork. Cocitaux and Thompson’s proposal would’ve

signiÞ cantly restricted Jeff’s involvement with the child and barred

Tyrone from any unsupervised contact. Neither side had managed to

con the other into signing, but with Jeff out of the picture, it looked like

everything worked out best for the two mommies. Even if Conant’s

parents sued for custody, the best they’d probably get was visitation

rights. Judges hated taking kids away from the biological mother, even

if she was a dyke.

Tucker left a message that would make Bud grind his teeth. “While

you were out, getting to know hard4u really well, I solved the case.

• 169 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Call me.” That ought to get his attention. Or maybe she should have

mentioned beer and naked women.

Tucker hung up and wondered what someone would have hoped

to Þ nd in Jeff’s ofÞ ce. Why they would have searched the screeners.

Maybe it was completely innocent. Some clueless new Þ lm director

might have sent in a wrong version and wanted to get it back and swap

it for the right one without admitting to his mistake. There could be

a boring, logical explanation for the disorder. She closed her eyes

conjured up the inside of Jeff and Tyrone’s apartment. The screeners.

He’d taken some of the screeners home to watch.

Tucker yanked open her top desk drawer. Damn, Bud had given

her the disc he couldn’t play on his DVD player. Where had she put

that? She wasn’t as organized as Jeff or Yoshi, or even Velvet, and some

of the drawers of her desk were crammed with an assortment of music

CDs, notes she scrawled down about Blind Eye procedure, sandwich

bags she’d forgotten to take home, loose tampons, lip balm, a family

picture of her, Hunter, and Anastasia, newspaper clippings of things she

found interesting, and dried ramen packets.

Finally, she found the disc she was looking for tucked into Rose

Beecham’s Grave Silence, the book she’d gotten to read on BART

trips under San Francisco Bay. The topic of a polygamous Mormon

sect distracted her from the fact that she was in a train shaped like a

metal hot dog that was rocketing through a tunnel like one of those

vacuum message delivery systems, and if that tunnel sprung a leak

they could all drown 135 feet underground. Tucker knew enough about

cultish religions to totally forget, during those BART rides, about being

sandwiched between the combined pressure of the Bay waters and its

muddy bottom.

She popped the disc into her Mac. When it showed up on the

screen, she left clicked and scrolled down to Get Info, hoping to Þ nd the

name of the person who created it, the way Microsoft Word documents

had this information listed. It didn’t.

She closed the window and double clicked on the disc to see the

menu of its contents. It wasn’t a Þ lm at all.

v

• 170 •

BLIND LEAP

hard4u was a bearded white guy tripped out in jeans and a leather

vest open across his hairy chest. Spiked pronglike bling glittered from

his nipples, looking like Texas longhorns piercing his skin. AJ threw a

stare back at Bud sitting on his ass in his Impala. When he up and smiled

at her, she ß ipped him off and turned back to hard4u. Motherfuckin’

Bud had gotten straight up giddy when he got here before and found

stairs leading to hard4u’s basement crib. That sure ’nough gave his

punk ass an excuse to sit in the car.

She shoulda known straight off that he wouldn’t go into no gay

guy’s crib and talk about sex. That’s why she was here. Bud called

Yoshi and said ain’t no way his chair gonna make it. AJ was getting a

damn good idea about why Yoshi wanted to bring her on. She needed

someone pulling their own weight round here.

Even though AJ was far from her jurisdiction, she ß ashed her

badge, slapping the leather closed before the POI noticed East Palo

Alto PD. Dude gave his name as Peter Colt. He tried to shake her hand

but she brushed him off and followed him into the dark and dirty living

room. He ß opped down into a La-Z-Boy and poked his Þ nger toward a

tattered couch piled with magazines.

When AJ knocked some aside, their slick covers slid right off each

other and fell to the ß oor, falling open and revealing naked homeboys.

Seemed like the guy was fond of brothers.

“Ya been kickin’ it with Tyrone Hill?” she asked, not wasting any

time.

He shrugged. “I kick it with a lot of guys.”

AJ pulled out a snapshot of Tyrone.

Colt glanced at it. “Yeah, him I know. He was a good fuck.”

“Ya get with him the night of November eighteenth?”

“What’s this about? He say I do something?”

“No. I just got to establish his whereabouts the night in question.

Was he here or not?”

“That was, like, a whole month ago. How the fuck am I supposed

to remember?”

“Y’all hook up online?” That was Tyrone’s story.

He consulted the photograph as though it would tell him. “Yeah,

sounds right.”

“Ya have some kinda archive on your computer?”

• 171 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Yeah, right. Totally. Hold on a minute, I can tell you.” Colt got up

and shufß ed over to a computer in the corner of the room. He clicked

a few keys and pushed the mouse around. AJ followed him and took a

look over his shoulder. There was his handle, hard4u, and a November

time stamp.

“That him?” she asked, pointin’ at the screen name

“HungNHorny.”

“Yeah that’s him. I remember. Said his old man was working late.

He was looking to PNP with a top who’d ride him hard.”

AJ read some of the text.

“Here it is. See, this is where I invited him over to my place. I

stayed online till he showed. He must have got here around 6:26, since

that’s when I signed off. He was here maybe three hours. I got back

online when he left.” Colt pointed at the screen. The login time noted

was 9:14 p.m.

• 172 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Damn it!”

Yoshi heard the muttered cursing while she was still in the

hallway outside the Blind Eye entrance. It was disappointing to hear.

Was this the kind of language her receptionist used when Yoshi was not

supervising in person? It was utterly inappropriate. If a potential client

were to step off the elevator and be accosted with gutter vocabulary, she

would not blame them if they turned right around and left without ever

making it all the way to Blind Eye’s front desk. That would certainly be

her response. Yoshi fretted that this irresponsible behavior might require

some sort of reprimand. Perhaps if Tucker was contrite and offered a

sincere apology, she could get away with a warning. This time.

Yoshi pushed the door open, stepped inside, and without a word to

Tucker, removed her soft suede jacket, and hung it on the coat rack. She

intended to go out again shortly to strike up another conversation with

Tyrone Hill, but in the meantime it would be too hot in the radiator-

heated ofÞ ce to remain bundled in winter garments.

“Hi, Yoshi,” Tucker said, bouncing out of her chair on legs made

of springs. The young receptionist oozed with exuberance.

“Good evening, Tucker. Am I to conclude that your colorful

outburst was in celebration of a notable discovery?”

“Oh yeah it’s fu—I mean totally awesome.”

At least the girl was learning to avoid such language in Yoshi’s

presence. Obscenity was the crutch of the lazy or those with poor

vocabularies. There were plenty of colorful phrases someone could use

that more clearly conveyed the message they intended to relay.

“I think it is really signiÞ cant.” Tucker made another attempt at

proper English. It was the least the descendant of British immigrants

could do.

• 173 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“What is it that you have found?” Yoshi asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Pardon me?” Perhaps Tucker intended to be funny. If so, it had

not translated appropriately in her voice. Some jokers made their

intentions known with body language—a wink, glimmer in their eye, or

whatever—that might not be apparent to the blind.

“I mean, I don’t know exactly what it is, but I do know what it’s

not. It’s not a Þ lm screener.”

“What, pray tell, is not a screener?” Yoshi was starting to feel

exasperated.

“This disc that we got from Jeff’s apartment, the one Bud couldn’t

get to play? It’s not a DVD, it’s a CD, and it’s got data burned on it.”

“Interesting. What manner of data?”

“Yeah, that’s where I’m stuck. I haven’t been able to tell. See, the

whole thing is password protected, and I’m not a hacker or anything.

I’ve tried a few things, but they’re the kind of things people use when

they want to make things easy. Passwords like one-two-three-four or a

simple return.”

Yoshi pulled a chair next to Tucker’s desk, sat down, and began

brainstorming possible passwords. She soon realized that not knowing

the disc’s owner made it far from likely they would correctly guess the

proper code. Still, she ticked off a few. Each time, Tucker’s Þ ngers ß ew

over the keys and then she verbally discounted the offering. Twenty

minutes later Yoshi had run dry of ideas and the disc’s security system

still resisted entry.

“Without knowing more about the person who created the disc,

our efforts are liable to remain futile,” Yoshi said.

“True, but the one good thing is that most people use something

fairly familiar. You know, because they have to remember it.” Tucker

sounded hopeful. “But at the same time they don’t want it so familiar

that anybody could Þ gure it out. Like birth dates are way too easy, but

another date might mean something.”

“Would you mind playing a brainstorming game with me?”

“Sure.”

“Let us pretend that the disc belonged to one of our POIs—say,

Chase Devlin.”

“You think it does? You think he killed Jeff?” Tucker jumped to

conclusions.

“I would not presume so much. In our interview with Devlin I

• 174 •

BLIND LEAP

sensed there was something more, something he was withholding. It

may be worth our time to attempt a few key words or dates that would

be likely suspects for possible passwords. I will provide the code and

you type it in, all right?”

“Cool.”

“Let’s start with his birthday. It is June 15, 1959.”

Tucker typed it in as six keystrokes. “That’s not it. Let me try it in

different formats.”

Yoshi listened as Tucker typed in various conÞ gurations of

Devlin’s birthday, and muttered, “Nope,” as she discarded each in turn.

“How about other important dates?” she asked. “Like when he started

his company or got married or had kids.”

“I do not believe he had either of the later two, but we can look up

when he Þ led for a Þ ctitious name.”

When that bore no fruit, Yoshi paused for a moment, mulling the

puzzle over in her mind. “Okay, try a bunch of things: money, Hollywood,

erotica, all of the less digniÞ ed words for female anatomy.”

“Nope,” Tucker said to the last suggestion Yoshi had made. She

had mentioned everything about Chase Devlin that she could think of

and none of them had worked.

Tucker had also offered a few suggestions, like Devlin’s

astrological sign of Gemini.

“I think we should call it a night,” Yoshi said, not admitting defeat

but willing to retreat and regroup in the morning. “I have a friend

with the SFPD who might be able to help. Still, I think this may be a

signiÞ cant discovery. Kudos, Tucker.”

“Oh, snap! I almost forgot,” Tucker babbled. “There’s something

else, too, something that might prove Jeff was murdered. Or at least that

there are suspicious circumstances.”

How someone in her employ could simply forget to mention a

discovery of that stated magnitude, Yoshi did not know.

Tucker scrambled through mouse clicks until she had found what

she wanted. “Right here,” she announced as though Yoshi could see the

evidence for herself. “Jeff was a stickler for order, right? His books are

all alphabetized, but the titles that begin with The are arranged in order

of the word that comes after.”

“Yes, that is quite a standard practice, Tucker. I do not see the

relevance.”

“Okay, well, the screener Þ lms in his ofÞ ce? They aren’t ordered

• 175 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

that way. Someone put the ones with The next to the other T titles.”

Tucker made it sound like she had discovered the Holy Grail, but Yoshi

still was not convinced of the signiÞ cance.

“Granted, it might not have been Conant who placed them in

that order, but surely, any number of people could have. You have no

evidence of when that may have occurred or who may have done it.”

“Maybe.” Tucker sounded crestfallen. “But Jennifer Morris says

the staff knew to put things back in the same order. Plus, don’t you see

how it ties in with this CD? What if Jeff accidentally got a hold of this

disc? And then what if someone went to his ofÞ ce to get it back? And

they went through all his DVDs, trying to Þ nd what they were looking

for and they tried to put everything back the way it was, so nobody

would know? Only they made a mistake.”

“That, my dear Tucker, is rather a lot of conjecture,” Yoshi said,

pushing back her chair, standing, and stretching out her arms.

She barely heard Tucker’s dejected “Oh.”

“But it is a reasonable working hypothesis. One of the best we’ve

had so far in this case.”

“Really?” Tucker bounced back quickly.

“Yes. But remember that a hypothesis is not proof. We need more

evidence before we can adequately evaluate its eloquence in explaining

the details of the case. You have done well, Tucker. Why don’t you call

it a night and go home? I will get this disc to Ari Fleischman and we’ll

regroup in the morning.”

Yoshi sensed Tucker move from behind the desk. She was

surprised when Tucker bounded up to her and wrapped her in an

impulsive hug. “Thanks,” she whispered in her ear.

Tucker’s warm breath unexpectedly excited her and sent a shiver

down Yoshi’s spine. Her whole body tensed. Then as quickly as Tucker

had invaded her space, she let her go and went back to her desk as

though nothing had happened. What was that about, Yoshi pondered.

Suddenly Yoshi felt certain she knew what Devlin’s password

was. “Wait,” she said, dancing toward Tucker’s desk. “I want to try one

last thing. Try Tyrone.”

Tucker typed in the name.

Yoshi held her breath, crossing her Þ ngers.

“I’m sorry. I tried it without caps and all caps and backward. It

was an awesome idea. Maybe it just isn’t something that obvious.”

“Captain Blackdong,” Yoshi said.

• 176 •

BLIND LEAP

Tucker burst into laughter. “It sounded like you said Black dong.”

“I did. That was the name of the Þ rst adult Þ lm that Tyrone starred

in. Just try it.”

“Aye aye, my captain!” Tucker clattered at the keyboard. “Oh, my

God.”

“What?”

Tucker pushed back her chair and jumped up. “You did it, matey.

We’re in.”

Yoshi was delighted. She just did not need to jump up and dance

around like Tucker, doing the Þ eld-goal two-step. She allowed her

trainee sixty seconds of jubilation before killing the mood. “Okay,

enough already. I want to know what is on this disc. You know, the

whole point of this exercise.”

“Oh, right.” Tucker collapsed back down in her chair, breathing

hard from the exuberance, ignoring Yoshi’s sarcasm. She rolled forward

and focused in on the screen.

“Okay, let’s start by going to Documents.” Tucker quoted a batch

of Þ le names. “BrightS, Mailan, Tress, Kisser.”

“Kisser?” Yoshi repeated. “Try that.”

Yoshi waited with bated breath, hoping that whatever came up

would be worth all the trouble they had gone to.

“That’s weird.”

“What is it?”

“It’s Greek to me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yeah. The words have all been Greeked or something. It’s not

English.”

“Is it a conversion issue or is it really another language? Try

another Þ le.”

To their immense disappointment, they soon discovered that all

of the documents had been encrypted. There was also a database Þ le,

but it required another password to enter and it was not the title of

any Tyrone Hill adult Þ lm. Another forty-Þ ve frustrating minutes later,

Yoshi convinced Tucker to call it a night and go home.

When the receptionist Þ nally left at a little after six, Yoshi called

Ari Fleishman.

“We need to meet,” she said.

v

• 177 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

It was only a phone call.

Velvet had not been to work since she’d accompanied Yoshi to

see the Marin County medical examiner. Her boss at the San Francisco

Chronicle, Stanley Wozlawski, thought she was wrapping up a piece

he’d assigned her, investigating a Bay Area residential de-gaying

program from which several troubled teens had gone missing. She had

pictures of the wayward kids and had initially planned to canvass the

Haight Street neighborhood, one of the Þ rst places queer runaways

congregated in San Francisco.

She wasn’t doing that either. She’d turned her cell phone off days

ago. If friends wanted to reach her they could call her home number.

She hadn’t been up for checking e-mail, either. By now there were

probably thousands of unread e-mails, and it would be easier just to

sign up for a brand-new address and start from scratch.

Velvet was lying in bed. Again. Or was it still? Unable to

concentrate on anything since they’d found Jeff’s swollen corpse, she’d

barely dragged herself up in the evenings to be civil to Tucker. Her

“girlfriend,” or whatever it was that Tucker had become in the last six

months, didn’t seem to notice. In fact, Tucker seemed nearly phobic

about discussing death or even mentioning Jeff’s demise. In the end

Velvet had said she needed some space.

Tucker kept calling and leaving messages. Most of them were

along the lines of Hope you’re feeling better, as though the death of

a close friend was akin to a passing stomach ß u and she should have

recovered by now.

No one seemed to understand why she was so insistent that Jeff’s

death was something other than suicide. She’d gotten so fucking mad

at Yoshi for refusing to accept that she might know Jeff well enough to

know he would never have taken his own life. Why couldn’t Yoshi just

trust her? That hurt. She was especially angry about Yoshi discounting

her instincts as clouded by emotion. Wasn’t that what sexist men always

said about women?

So, yeah, she’d lashed out, admittedly. But only momentarily.

She’d driven toward home alone that evening after the memorial, but

before reaching her Bernal Heights residence she’d turned around and

sped back to where she left Yoshi, only to discover that Yoshi had,

once again, failed to have faith in her. She wondered how long Yoshi

had waited before calling a cab. Had she even waited for Velvet to

• 178 •

BLIND LEAP

turn the corner? Or had she decided before she’d even gotten out of

the car, before they’d even left the memorial, or sometime even before

then—maybe when Velvet felt sick and had to leave Yoshi alone with

the Marin County ME—that she could no longer trust Velvet…not her

judgment, not her friendship, nothing?

After all these years of Velvet’s loyal friendship, how could Yoshi

do that to her? Yoshi had probably only called her that night so she

wouldn’t have to pay for a cab. Besides that Þ rst phone call in which

Yoshi hadn’t even apologized, she hadn’t bothered checking in to make

sure Velvet was okay since. For all she knew, Velvet could have gotten

in an accident on the way home and be lying in a gutter somewhere.

If things were the other way around, Velvet was sure she’d be

calling Yoshi every few minutes begging for forgiveness. She’d picked

up the receiver a dozen times today, ready to break down and ask Yoshi

to forgive her, even though it should rightly be the other way around.

But had Yoshi tried calling her even once? No.

It was only because Yoshi and Tucker had abandoned her in her

time of need that Velvet had even replied to yesterday’s sympathetic

message from Davina. Screw the both of them. They deserved each

other. There were plenty of other girls out there, girls who thought she

was hot and smart and accepted on faith that when she said Jeff didn’t

kill himself, she would be proven right in the end. Someone who would

help her feel better now. Someone like Davina, who understood the

depth of her pain and who actually seemed to care that Velvet was still

terribly upset, grieving the loss of her friend.

She and Davina had eventually talked for hours last night, recalling

those little moments with Jeff that had taken on greater meaning now

that he was gone. They fantasized about what things would be like if

Jeff hadn’t died. The amazing queer Þ lms he’d produce, the children

he’d parent. They bemoaned the fact that Isabelle and Theresa’s child

would grow up without knowing Jeff, a fact made worse because those

two women seemed to prefer it that way.

Davina had agreed that Velvet should encourage Jeff’s parents to

Þ ght for custody of their grandkid. She wanted to hear the stories about

the childhood Velvet had shared with Jeff, the kind of stories Tucker

had started wincing at because she’d already heard them once or twice

before.

Tucker had never appreciated her. Meanwhile, Davina was a huge

fan of Velvet’s writing. She was not only aware of Velvet’s impact

• 179 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

on lesbian history, she had experienced and could recall the good old

days when Velvet used to edit Woymn, the magazine she’d founded

with Rosemary Finney. She had actually read and could both reference

Velvet’s work and place it within the context of other lesbian writers.

None of which were things Tucker could do.

Unlike Tucker, Davina was closer to Velvet’s own age, and she’d

been a lesbian for over a decade. It had been kind of fun, at Þ rst, to

introduce Tucker to lesbian history and culture. But Velvet was growing

weary of being a tutor, as anyone would. It was just a relief to speak

with someone who understood Lesbian 101, to whom she didn’t have

to give a crash course in LGBT history every time she dropped a name

or phrase like “Joan Nestle,” “Queer Nation,” or “Stonewall Riots.”

Perhaps most important of all, Davina Singleton understood the

importance of Þ lm. She was a University of California Þ lm school

graduate and had cultivated an addiction to the medium that rivaled

Velvet’s own appreciation of cult B-movie favorites, highbrow

independents, lowest-common-denominator blockbusters, Oscar

winners, and obtuse foreign ß icks.

Velvet experienced her motion-picture obsession as a brand of

collector’s madness. Like fanatical PEZ dispenser owners the world

over, her passion spilled from one room to the next until it threatened to

engulf her entire home. Her living room housed three ß oor-to-ceiling

shelves packed tight with DVDs carefully arranged in alphabetical

order by title.

Davina had asked if she owned a particularly obscure Polish Þ lm,

Nothing. Velvet did. After they shared a good laugh, Davina mentioned

that she’d enjoy viewing the ß ick again. Perhaps sometime soon.

“Yes,” Velvet had said. “That would be nice.”

They’d moved on to other subjects. Davina mentioned she

was dropping by Blue Plate, Velvet’s favorite restaurant for comfort

food, and before she knew it, Velvet was accepting Davina’s offer to

bring by an uplifting pot of handmade chicken noodle soup and fresh

cornbread.

It’s just dinner, Velvet had told herself. Weren’t friends supposed

to bring meals to their grieving pals so they wouldn’t have to cook?

Tucker had called earlier and left a rather curt message saying

that if Velvet wanted to see her, all she had to do was call. It seemed

like a lot of work, calling. If Tucker really cared about her, wouldn’t

she have come by and talked to her in person? Especially since Velvet

• 180 •

BLIND LEAP

hadn’t answered her messages? She could be lying dead on the ß oor

and her so-called friends would just let her lie there, rotting, with rats

nibbling at her toes. Or wild dogs. She imagined the scene from Bridget

Jones’s Diary with the heroine lying on the ß oor with dogs circling

her corpse, part of her envisioned scenario of dying alone. If British

Bridget could use that image as an excuse to hook up with a wanker,

certainly it was reason enough for Velvet to accept a friendly dinner

from another dyke.

After all, it used to be when someone close to you died, your

neighbors took turns bringing over pots of food, picking up your mail,

and checking to be sure the rats weren’t chewing off your Þ ngertips.

But lately, in the city, Velvet had felt so alone, so distant from any

sense of community that she’d felt a shot of adrenaline when Davina

arrived. First, because the woman looked way too sexy to be schlepping

soup across town. Plus, she oohed and ahed her way through Velvet’s

apartment, delighted by the movie posters receiving Þ ne-art treatment

in framed and lighted displays that lined the hallway of her shotgun

house. Culled from Velvet’s private reserve, currently showing were

seventies sexploitation Þ lms with teasingly kitschy titles like The

Devil’s Playground, Chained Heat, and Barbed Wire Dolls.

Davina shared witty comments about the directors, actors, and

sometimes even stunt doubles from nearly each and every Þ lm. Velvet

had felt a kinship right away, but in Davina’s presence felt something

else, something more urgent. Desire.

When they’d ended up in Velvet’s bedroom, both women knew

what was going to happen. Velvet deactivated her guilt mechanisms.

Surprisingly, this time she had to work at it a way she’d never done

previously, assuaging her conscience with rationalizations: It’s only a

one-night stand. Another notch in the belt. Meaningless. I don’t just

want this, damn it, I need it.

Velvet had been hungry for an experience that would take her

beyond her current circumstance. Her need felt so base, so primal, and

Davina was clearly eager to acquiesce. The strange coincidence that

Davina looked slightly reminiscent of a high-school classmate Velvet

had desperately desired once upon a time only intensiÞ ed Velvet’s

craving. She was under Davina’s skirt, and between her legs, and out of

her mind in no time.

Velvet checked the time and dialed Davina’s number. They’d

talked about meeting after Davina Þ nished work today, if Velvet was in

• 181 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

the mood. Scoring with Davina had lifted her feelings, and today she

actually felt up for leaving her house. Velvet Þ gured they’d have one

more tumble in the sheets before she sent the girl packing. Then she

knew she would have to face up to her life and Þ gure out what she was

doing with Tucker and how to make amends with Yoshi.

Meantime, she deserved one more night for herself. And she was

going to enjoy it in the way only possible with a new playmate. For the

Þ rst time in weeks she wasn’t thinking about Jeff Conant at all.

v

Tucker pulled crumpled bills from her front jeans pocket, paid the

cashier, and accepted the plastic bag of square Styrofoam containers.

She smiled to herself as she exited the Thai Restaurant onto Mission

Street. Velvet was going to be surprised. The bag contained her favorite

Thai dishes, pad Thai and panang curry. In her other hand Tucker carried

a bouquet of yellow roses and a bottle of Napa Valley Chardonnay that

the liquor store owner said would go well with Thai food. Her well-

worn backpack bounced against her spine as she walked.

She was sure Velvet would be too tired to cook when she got home

from the San Francisco Chronicle. Obviously she’d been swamped

with work and that was why hadn’t been able to call Tucker back

during the day. When she came home to Þ nd her favorite meal waiting

for her, Velvet would be so relieved she’d forget she wanted space.

She shouldn’t be alone right now, anyway, not while she was still so

depressed about Jeff’s death. Besides, Velvet had accused Tucker of not

being spontaneous.

It could be true. Growing up with an autistic brother made her

whole family a little compulsive about maintaining structure. Hunter

demanded routines. They ate at exactly the same time every day. Hunter

always used the same utensils. He dressed in the same order. It might

have had rubbed off. But here she was, planning this dinner at the last

minute. That should show Velvet how spontaneous she could be.

The winter evening was already dark and the cold nipped at her

bare hands and exposed ears. Still, it wasn’t anything like Idaho’s

winters. Here it never seemed to even dip below freezing. Where they’d

have snowstorms from October to April back home, in San Francisco

there’d be a cold rain. Although it didn’t get as cold as Idaho, there was

• 182 •

BLIND LEAP

something about the humidity that made 45 degrees feel a lot colder

than it should.

The darkness made Tucker a little nervous about walking through

the Mission District alone. Back home she’d never been afraid of the

dark, but here— There was something about the presence of people that

made her nervous. She wasn’t afraid of the dark itself, but the people

who could hide in it. The kind of people who’d throw your baby off the

Golden Gate Bridge if something went wrong. People were scary.

Was there something on that CD that had cost Jeff his life, whether

or not someone else actually did the deed? Tucker wondered what Yoshi

was going to do now that they could open the Þ le. They were halfway

there. Maybe they could Þ nd a nerd who knew encryption or had some

software to unlock it.

At Cortland Avenue, Tucker turned left. In doing so she moved

away from the businesses that previously lit her path. Here there were

no businesses and the streetlights were scattered a block apart. A block

up the hill, she glanced behind her. There was no one there. Passing the

darkened store windows, she skirted their murky doorways and stepped

off the sidewalk.

At the sound of distant footsteps behind her, she felt her heart

catch. A surge of adrenaline made her walk faster. Doing so, she could

only hear her own footsteps. She stopped brieß y and could still hear the

footsteps. They were closer. She glanced around and saw a shrouded

Þ gure coming up behind her. She rushed around the corner and crouched

down next behind the wheel of a tall SUV, next to a white picket fence.

Her heart pounded so loudly, she was afraid the man could hear it and

pinpoint where she was hiding. She breathed in and out deeply trying

to calm herself.

Was this how Yoshi felt, being blind? It must be like walking in

the dark all the time. Tucker pressed herself down by the tire, clutching

her ß owers, and silently prayed the heavy footsteps would pass her by.

They did. Without pause.

She stayed still until the sound faded away, then stood and shook

out the kinks that had formed in her legs. She was glad she hadn’t set

off the car alarm and hoped the Neighborhood Watch hadn’t called the

cops on her. With her heartbeat returning to normal, she continued on

her way.

Five minutes later she was on the steps of Velvet’s shotgun-style

• 183 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Victorian. The windows were dark and Velvet’s Toyota Celica was not

in the driveway. She had beaten Velvet home. Tucker was happy. She

could set up a romantic dinner with candles and the works. She retrieved

the hidden door key from its hiding place tucked under the ledge of the

cement stairway, pulled open the squeaky screen door, and rattled the

key in the sticky lock. The heavy door opened inward.

Tucker pulled the key out, picked up the bag of takeout, stuck the

ß owers under her arm and held the wine bottle in her right. She stepped

inside and swung the door closed behind her. The hall was dark, but a

faint light shined in the kitchen. Tucker felt for the light switch with

the back of her right hand, the wine bottle bouncing lightly against the

sheetrock. She thought she heard something move in the back ofÞ ce.

Maybe Velvet had parked inside the garage.

“It’s me, Tuck!” she called loudly, not wanting to frighten her

lover if Velvet hadn’t heard her come in.

She paused. The noise didn’t repeat. Of course Velvet wasn’t home.

It was just Tucker’s mind playing tricks on her. She stepped forward.

Her knuckles found the edge of the light switch plate. A ß oorboard

squeaked behind her. Her heart in her throat, Tucker swung around, in

time to see the blur of motion. Someone had been hiding in the space

behind the door.

Choking on fear, Tucker opened her mouth to scream. Before she

could force a sound past the lump in her throat, a meaty hand blocked

its escape and she was grabbed roughly. The hand pressed hard against

her mouth, bruising her lips against her teeth. She tasted blood. The

Thai food slid from her hand. The ß owers ß uttered down after it. The

wine bottle slipped from her Þ ngers, hit the ß oor with a thud, bounced

off the wood and clattered against the closed door. Tucker yanked at the

hand at her mouth. She couldn’t pry it away. She scratched her short

nails against his skin.

“Goddamn,” a deep, raspy voice swore.

Another hand wrapped around her throat and pressed on her

windpipe. She gagged and kicked frantically.

“Stop struggling, bitch.”

She dropped her hands. Tried to breathe through her nose but it

didn’t seem enough. The grip on her throat loosened.

Down the hall a shadowy Þ gure stepped out of Velvet’s ofÞ ce.

“It’s not here,” the second man said, disappointed. “Is that her?”

• 184 •

BLIND LEAP

“The girl from the ofÞ ce, yeah,” the man holding her said. “You

want me to search her?”

Tucker tried to shake her head. She didn’t want to be pawed at.

The man in front of her stepped forward. With all the light behind

him, she could not make out his features. He seemed to be less than

four inches taller than her. He reached behind his back and produced

something dark, which he pointed at her stomach. Light reß ected off

the weapon. A knife? A gun? She wasn’t sure.

“Scream or try anything stupid and you’re dead. Got it?”

Tucker made a nod. The hand moved away from her mouth. She

took deep gasping breaths.

The man behind her smelled of sweat and Old Spice. He roughly

yanked off her knapsack and kicked it down the hallway to his friend

like it was a soccer ball.

He wrenched one of her arms behind her and twisted it until she

thought it would break. She cried out and bent away from the pain. He

ran his free hand across her shoulders.

She ß inched. “Please stop. I don’t have any money, I swear.”

They ignored her. Old Spice pressed his palm against her back

and slid it down toward her butt. The other man crouched down and

unzipped her knapsack, dumping out its contents. Her change of clothes

and forensic books fell to the ß oor with a thump, while loose papers

drifted slowly feathers on the wind.

“What are you looking for?” Tucker asked, afraid she knew

already. If she didn’t give them what they wanted, would they kill her

and dump her body off the bridge? Was that what had happened to Jeff?

Why didn’t he just tell them he had some screeners at his home? Had

he been worried about them hurting Tyrone? Did he know what they

wanted and where it was because he’d hidden it? What would be so

important that he would rather die than tell? Or maybe he had told them

and they’d killed him anyway.

The man searching her bag opened the smaller pocket in front.

Her keys clattered to the ß oor followed by her wallet and a handful

of pens. At each item he pulled from the bag, the man down the hall

seemed to get angrier. He shook the empty bag, threw it angrily to the

ß oor, and kicked it. When he stopped and stared in their direction, Old

Spice tensed again, as though he was afraid of his partner.

“Where’s the goddamn disc?” he snarled at Tucker.

• 185 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

If she told them where it was, would they let her go? They would

probably kill her anyway. As long as she knew where it was and they

didn’t, they wouldn’t kill her, would they?

“What disc?” Tucker feigned ignorance.

“You know damn well what disc.” He waved the weapon and

moved menacingly toward her. “The one you took from that dead fag’s

place.”

How did they know that? Had they been watching her? Following

her around?

“Where’s Velvet?”

“Shut up.” He was almost in her face now. Up close she could

tell he was wearing a dark ski mask. She was relieved not to see his

features. Maybe they wouldn’t kill her if she couldn’t identify them.

“I don’t have any disc, I swear.”

“Hurry up,” he commanded the guy frisking Tucker. “The other

one could be home any minute.”

She sighed in relief, then immediately tensed again when Old

Spice cupped her ass. She jerked away from him with a force that

surprised her and kicked backward, connecting with his shin. Suddenly

she was out of his grip and pressing her back against the wall, yelling,

“Leave me the fuck alone!”

The masked man rushed her. She cowered against the wall. He

lifted the thing in his hand and pressed it against her temple, the cold of

the metal proving it to be a handgun. He caught her eyes with his and

his breath came out hot and sour on her face.

“Where’s the disc?” he demanded, dimpling her skin with the

barrel of the gun.

Time seemed to slow. Tucker wondered if she was going to die.

She’d heard that when people face death, they are suddenly struck by

an overwhelming feeling of wanting to live. The survivor who Velvet

had interviewed for the Bridge suicide piece said he felt that, on the way

down. Her life wasn’t ß ashing in front of her eyes, but somehow that

didn’t seem to prove anything. She’d always felt sort of guilty for the

life she’d had, being healthy when her siblings weren’t, so she wouldn’t

have minded if the cold bite of the barrel in her temple had given her

an epiphany. It did not.

“Stop wasting our time, bitch. Where is it?”

She heard the sharp click. Tucker knew that sound. It was the

safety switch being turned off. Her legs shook beneath her, her stomach

• 186 •

BLIND LEAP

fell like a lead weight, and she could feel the cold sweat on the back of

her neck. She opened her mouth. It was so dry she could barely speak

the words.

“Everything we got from the apartment is at the ofÞ ce. The Blind

Eye OfÞ ce.”

She had to tell, and she still made her answer vague, refusing to

concede that she knew about “a disc.” It would be okay. The Flood

Building had security and they would probably be caught breaking into

the Blind Eye OfÞ ces. Except she had the keys.

Tucker barely heard the sound of a car door slam from the street.

Everything suddenly moved in high speed. Old Spice stepped toward

her. A small shadow followed him. Tucker registered the wine bottle

ß ying like a bird toward the ceiling. Then, as though it had been shot,

the bird plunged toward her head and everything went black.

• 187 •

• 188 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

What’s up?” Ari Fleishman asked when Yoshi slid into her

seat at Dolores Park Café. She opened her purse, found the

encrypted disc, and passed it across the table to the detective.

“What is this? Your YouTube party videos?”

Ari liked to joke. Yoshi didn’t get small talk, so she often skipped

the useless chatter that passed for courtesy these days.

“This disc is password protected and it seems to be encrypted. I

need it broken into. And I need it done quick and quietly. I don’t want

it to get out that you have this.”

“Damn, what is it?” Ari grabbed the disc. “Proof of weapons

of mass destruction in Iraq? Hillary’s game plan for winning the

election?”

“I don’t know. It may or may not have anything to do with national

security.”

“Intriguing.” Ari whistled.

Yoshi ignored his antics. “I hear you have a genius hacker working

for the department. Could you get him to take a crack at it?”

“Maybe. Dare I ask where you got it?”

“Jeff Conant’s residence. But I did not break in, if that is what

you are implying.” No point in mentioning that PI wannabe Tucker had

crossed that line. “I had a key.” She also did not tell him the key was not

from Tyrone. What he did not know would not hurt him.

“So, the disc is his or the boyfriend’s?”

“I don’t think so. It was with some Þ lm screeners Conant had

brought home to review. It is possible that it came into his possession

by accident. Which reminds me—” She took a deep breath and went

• 189 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

for broke. “Can you send a CSI team over to Conant’s ofÞ ce and dust

for prints?”

“A month after the fact? What’s the point? Anything they found

would just be thrown out because the scene hasn’t been secure.”

Yoshi sighed. “Sometimes I forget how you cops work. I guess

we’ll do it ourselves. It’s just that we have reason to believe that

someone who was looking for this disc thought it was at Conant’s ofÞ ce

and searched for it. They may have left their prints on the jewel cases.

If the prints were collected and run through IBIS, and there was a hit,

we just might be able to identify a potential suspect.”

“You really think Conant was murdered?” Ari pushed his black

curls away from his forehead.

“I am not sure, but I am starting to think there is more to the story

than a simple suicide. Whoever owns the disc went to great lengths to

make sure it was not easily readable, and that intrigues me. What are

they hiding? And why was it in Conant’s possession? If someone did

riß e through his ofÞ ce trying to Þ nd it, I want to know who and why and

whether it has anything to do with his death. You knew him. Don’t you

want to know what happened? Don’t you think we owe him that?”

“Okay, Þ ne,” Ari said. “I’ll send someone over. But you better

hope there’s something there and that I get a collar off all this.”

“You are the one who will get all the glory,” Yoshi teased. “So, can

I count on you to forward this disc to your tech or not?”

“Yes, but I think this means you owe me.”

“Not unless he actually gets something. Now, if you are done with

me, I need to get to the hospital and visit a certain patient. I have a few

more questions to ask him.” Yoshi stood up and slung her purse over

her shoulder.

Ari stopped her with a gentle hand on her arm. “Tyrone Hill? He’s

not there.”

“He is no longer at the hospital? Have they already transferred

him to the detox program?”

“No, he’s no longer in our custody.”

“You released him?” Yoshi was incredulous. She knew

overcrowding at the residential treatment centers could lead to

premature release dates, but this was ridiculous. It had only been four

hours since she last spoke with Tyrone, and she was sure it would take

longer than that for him to break his methamphetamine addiction.

“We had no choice. Somehow he managed to get a high-priced

• 190 •

BLIND LEAP

lawyer to spring him. The guy marches into the DA’s ofÞ ce demanding

that Hill be released immediately. He’s with some schmancy-pants law

Þ rm—don’t ask me how an unemployed crankhead ranks that kind of

legal bling, but apparently, Hill does.”

“What about the plea deal?” Yoshi asked. AJ had arranged for Hill

to plead no contest to drug charges in exchange for a sentence conÞ ning

him to a residential treatment center.

“They rejected it. Next thing you know, Hill’s poured into an

Armani suit and standing in front of a judge pleading not guilty. I was

sitting in the courtroom on another matter and I swear I could see the

lawyer’s lips move, but it was a damn good show, him pulling the

strings and throwing his voice like that. The prosecutor got bail set at

Þ fty thousand, and fancy-pants announces that Chase Devlin himself is

fronting the capital. Sure as hell, there was Devlin sitting there pleased

as punch. I guess that guy at the memorial was right—Devlin and Hill

are a couple.”

Yoshi was silent, thinking.

“What, you don’t think so?”

“They both told me otherwise. You didn’t put a tail on Tyrone, did

you?” she asked hopefully.

“He’s not a suspect as far the force is concerned. He’s just a small

time user out on bail.”

As Ari walked her out to the curb and ß agged down a taxi, Yoshi

wondered why Devlin had chosen to spring Tyrone. Did he just want

to spend time with him or was he hoping to keep Tyrone quiet about

something? Did Tyrone have information connecting Devlin to Conant’s

death? Or was this evidence of Tyrone’s claim that Devlin owned and

controlled him? She did not think Tyrone had killed Jeff, but she did

think Tyrone had information he had not yet shared with the Blind Eye

staff. Now, with him under Devlin’s control, she wondered if she would

ever get a chance to learn the truth.

“Let me know as soon as you have something on the CD,” she

said as Ari opened the taxi door for her. Was there information on there

worth killing for? If so, what? And who was trying to get it back?

v

Velvet laughed at something Davina had just said. They were

driving back from dinner at the Rickshaw Stop, a Hayes Valley bar-

• 191 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

restaurant-club combo that was so cool the SF Weekly had likened it

to “being in Katie Holmes’s vagina.” That was before the indie star of

Pieces of April married Tom Cruise and went all Scientology. Velvet

had never eaten there before, but it seemed safe to bet that she wouldn’t

run into Tucker or Yoshi.

They stopped to wait for a light to change when refrains of the

Law & Order theme song informed Velvet that she had a phone call.

She glanced at the number, didn’t recognize it, and sent the call to voice

mail. She turned onto Cortland Avenue and heard the tone that marked

her messages. Then the phone rang again. This time Davina picked it

up and read the number out loud. It was the same as last time. Probably

some telemarketer.

Davina hit the End button and started in on a story about an

annoying telemarketer in her past. There was another message beep.

“This one’s a text message,” Davina said. “Want me to read it?”

“Sure.”

Davina pressed the appropriate keys. At the sharp inhalation of her

breath, Velvet glanced over and found the color drained from Davina’s

face.

“What?”

The phone began to ring again. Davina shoved it at her. “You’d

better answer.”

“Why? What’s going on?”

“It said if you didn’t answer your phone, Tucker Shade would be

sorry.”

As soon as the words registered, Velvet snatched up the phone and

hit Send. “Hello.”

“Velvet Erickson?” The masculine voice sounded like it had been

altered.

“Yes?”

“We have your friend Tucker Shade.”

“Who the hell is this? What do you mean, you have her?”

“Shut up, bitch. If you want to see her alive, you need to listen

carefully.”

She felt the air suck from her lungs and she teared up. “Don’t hurt

her. What do you want?”

“Your friends at Blind Eye have something that doesn’t belong to

them. We want it back. We have something you want and we’re willing

to make a trade.”

• 192 •

BLIND LEAP

“Of course, anything, just tell me what you want.”

“Tell that blind gal pal of yours that we want the disc back. We’ll

give you one hour to get it and then we will call you back.”

“No, wait.” Velvet needed more information.

“We sent you a photo you might enjoy,” the caller menaced, then

hung up.

Velvet pulled into her driveway, and killed the engine. Davina

started to ask a question. Velvet held up a hand to cut her off and

punched in numbers for her voice mail and password. Holding her

breath, her heart banging against her ribs like a bird caught in a cage,

she clicked on the message photo, and gasped. The image was of

Tucker, her hair disheveled, her head sagging to one side, a blindfold

covering her eyes. Had they already hurt her? Velvet was suddenly

overwhelmed with the desire to lash out, to make them pay for harming

her sweet girl.

She darted from the Celica and up her front steps with Davina

trailing behind her. The front door slipped open under her hand, before

she could get the key in the lock. She immediately thought back to the

night when the police tore her place apart, when they thought she’d

killed her ex-lover and arch nemesis Rosemary Finney. The hallway

ß oor was a mess. Pad Thai spilled from an open Styrofoam box, pieces

of broken glass and the remains of a wine bottle were scattered across

papers, a pair of Tucker’s jeans lay jumbled near a small puddle.

Velvet felt sick to her stomach. Davina put an arm on her back

and Velvet jerked away. She wanted the other woman to go away, to

never have been here. If Velvet hadn’t just been out at dinner with a

distraction, Tucker wouldn’t have gotten hurt.

“You need to go,” she said, not looking at Davina. She was

suddenly awash in guilt and anger and panic.

“Are you sure? Don’t you want—”

Velvet looked the woman right in the eyes so she’d understand. “I

want you to leave. Now.”

Davina blanched. Perhaps she’d seen the anger and hatred in

Velvet’s eyes.

Velvet slid down the wall until she was sitting next to Tucker’s

things. Her hands were shaking and when she tried to dial the speed dial

number for Yoshi, her Þ ngers slipped and she had to start over. Tears

were pooling in her eyes when Yoshi answered.

“Yosh?” Velvet’s voice cracked.

• 193 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Velvet? Is that you? I’m so glad to hear from you. Since the other

night—”

“Yoshi.” Velvet cut her off. “This is an emergency. Tucker’s been

kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” Yoshi obviously found the idea was preposterous.

“Are you sure this isn’t some kind of joke?”

“Yes, I’m sure. They sent me a photo. She’s tied up and blind-

folded, what if she’s been hurt? I couldn’t live with myself.” Velvet

began to sob.

“Velvet, please, get a hold of yourself so I can understand. Who

sent you photos?”

“I don’t know who they are. They just called my cell phone and

told me they wanted to trade Tucker for some CD they say you have.

And they sent a photo to prove they had her. They took her from my

house, Yoshi. They were in my house.”

“Where are you now?” Yoshi’s concern came through the phone.

“Home.”

“Have you been through the house?”

“No.”

“Called the police?”

“No.”

“Okay, I want you to leave the house right now. This instant. Get

in your car and lock the doors. Then call the police and tell them you

had a break-in.”

“All right.” Velvet pushed herself up off the ß oor, casting a

suspicious look toward the back of her dark house. She sure hoped the

intruder wasn’t still there, but Yoshi was right, better safe than sorry.

“They’ll kill Tucker if they don’t get this CD.”

“I promise you, we will not let that happen. Did they give you

instructions for the exchange?”

“They said they would call back in an hour.”

“All right, Velvet, I’m going to take care of a few things on this

end and then call you back.”

v

Yoshi leaned forward in the seat and directed the cab driver to turn

around and head back to the Mission. She needed to get that disc back.

Immediately. And she needed reinforcements.

• 194 •

BLIND LEAP

Who would have done this? Who could connect Velvet to the

mysterious CD? Had someone been following Tucker and seen her all

but living at Velvet’s place? What about the other Blind Eye staff? The

idea that she might have been under surveillance since the night of the

memorial made her skin crawl. Who would be willing to go to these

lengths to get back a computer disc?

A man’s voice sounded in her head and a picture formed in her

mind’s eye. Chase Devlin. The image probably wasn’t accurate, but

she though her instincts might be. Unless she had terribly misjudged

someone, like the lesbian moms-to-be, Devlin was the only Þ gure who

had emerged from her investigation as someone with the connections

and determination to instigate a crime like this. She could not imagine

why a man with so much to lose would get involved in kidnapping and

possibly murder, but Devlin seemed arrogant enough to think he could

do as he pleased with impunity. If Devlin had Tucker, she would not

be anywhere near his estate. He would not muck up his manicure by

getting his hands dirty. Some underlings would be doing his dirty work

for him, perhaps the heavy-booted presence she had felt in Devlin’s

ofÞ ce, hulking behind his desk. AJ had described the two as thick-

necked muscle men. Had the same two thugs tried to get the disc from

Jeff? What was he doing with it in the Þ rst place? Yoshi wondered if

he’d even known what he had. He could have had possession of it by

some kind of ß uke. She wondered whether Tyrone was working with

Devlin somehow. She hoped not. Yoshi’s thought returned to Tucker,

who would assume the disc was still at the ofÞ ce. What would Devlin’s

boys do to her if they thought she had lied to them?

Yoshi tried to purge the ghastly images from her imagination and

quickly dialed detective Chico Hernandez. In one breath she told him

everything she knew about the case—at least the parts he needed to

know, such as Velvet’s break in. She neglected to mention the kidnap.

Too many cooks in the kitchen could screw up everything. Yoshi

prodded him to send a couple of uniforms over to Blind Eye’s ofÞ ce,

and another past her house. If these perps had raided Velvet’s house

looking for the disc, they might try the same tactic at other locations

as well.

Still, Yoshi did not want to send Bud or even AJ to check for further

break-ins, not when she was certain that now that they had a hostage,

they wouldn’t waste their time getting caught in a simple B&E. Let the

uniforms deal with that possibility.

• 195 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

She called Bud next, wanting to give him some extra time to

mobilize. He exploded with a string of expletives when she told him

about Tucker. He was apparently still with AJ. The duo had gone for

a drink after their interview with Tyrone’s sex buddy, but they were

immediately ready to spring into action.

“I’m entrusting you with Chase Devlin,” Yoshi said. “I think we

may Þ nd that the two goons we met at his ofÞ ce are facilitating the

exchange, but use caution. He is bound to have other security. Do not

make your move until I give you authorization, is that clear?”

Bud had handed the phone over to AJ, whose breathless answer

assured Yoshi that she was pushing Bud’s chair and racing to his car as

they spoke. After warning AJ that they might Þ nd Tyrone at Devlin’s,

Yoshi hung up and called Ari Fleishman.

“Miss me already?” he asked.

“I need to get that disc back, immediately,” Yoshi said, no time

for pleasantries.

“Good evening to you, too, Yoshi. I told you I’d call you the

minute our tech has anything.”

“Damn it, Ari, I can’t afford to wait. I need it now.”

Ari sounded stunned. No doubt since Yoshi was always so proper,

he had never heard her swear in all their years as colleagues. “Why?

What’s going on?”

“Whatever is on that disc apparently means an awful lot to

someone, and they have kidnapped Tucker Shade. If the kidnappers

don’t get the CD, she could be killed. I need it back.”

“Wait. Someone kidnapped her? Yoshi, this is serious, I have to

call this in.”

“Please don’t.” San Francisco did not often invite the FBI to get

involved in high-proÞ le kidnapping cases. In Yoshi’s experience, the

Bureau could easily lose sight of the captive in their zeal to catch the

perpetrator. In this instance, she was more interested in getting Tucker

back safely than in closing a case.

“You know I have to.”

“Fine, at least give me a half an hour before you do.”

“Do you have a drop location?”

“Not yet. Ari, I need that disc.”

“If someone is going to all this trouble to reclaim it, doesn’t that

imply it’s somehow damning? What if the information on that disc

implicates someone in Jeff Conant’s death?”

• 196 •

BLIND LEAP

“I’m willing to run that risk. Plus, I am relatively certain that our

kidnappers will help us access the CD.”

“Really? What do you know that I don’t?”

“You’ll see.”

“Take a blank disc instead,” Fleishman insisted. “And let me know

where the drop is so I can bring in a team.”

“I will let you in on it only if I have the real disc at the drop. I can’t

make a copy because of the encryption.”

Ari knew she was like a pit bull and when she got something in

her maw she would not let go. “You can have access to it, but I’ll need

it as evidence as well,” he said. “Meet me at the Mission precinct. I’ll

be out front.”

“I am on my way there now, then I have to pick Velvet up. The

kidnappers are calling on her cell phone.”

Yoshi heard him swear under his breath and knew he was probably

feeling played since she’d left for the Mission station before she got

his go-ahead. She hoped she was not pushing him too far, but Tucker

Shade’s life meant more than Ari’s friendship at this point.

v

It was a smart move on the kidnappers’ part, choosing Fisherman’s

Wharf, where patrons could take a sightseeing trip to Alcatraz, buy

tacky tourist tchotchkes, and indulge in fresh-out-of-the-sea crab and

the city’s special sourdough bread. Because of the design of the pier

as a shopping magnet, it wasn’t as linear as the name would suggest.

Some stores and cafés jutted out in strange angles, creating the kind

of architectural nooks and crannies someone needing a hiding spot

would love. The cacophony of noises would also consume the sound of

gunshots, and there were plenty of befuddled out-of-towners to get in

the way of a real chase.

This close to Christmas, the pier would be packed with holiday

shoppers joining the regular tourists. No vehicles were allowed, which

meant that everyone was on foot. The police would not be able to

evacuate a large crowd of people quickly without starting a panic, and

in all of the pedestrian chaos, the kidnappers could easily disappear

into the crowd. If that failed, they were guaranteed their pick of civilian

hostages and the assurance that the police would not risk endangering

Wharf visitors through a shoot-out.

• 197 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Still, the Wharf was bounded on three sides by water. Unless the

kidnappers had a boat at their disposal, they would have to go out the

way they came in. The police could set up a line there and effectively

trap them on the pier.

The voice on the phone had insisted—as voices were wont to do in

kidnap cases—that if the cops showed up, harm would befall the kidnap

victim. Yoshi had been instructed to take a Yellow Cab, and when the

car pulled up outside Velvet’s Bernal Heights home, the Pakistani

driver was swarmed by Fleishman’s hastily organized team. Velvet said

he went quite ashen and insisted he was not involved in a kidnapping

scheme. Still, the SFPD commandeered his cab, swept it for bombs

and bugs, and installed one of their own—an elite sharpshooter—as the

driver. Another ofÞ cer wedged herself in the front passenger foot space

and was covered by a blanket.

The holiday rush meant parking was even more intense than usual.

Yoshi was thankful they were in a cab. The kidnappers hadn’t provided

an explicit location for the exchange and she feared it would be all too

easy to lose what Velvet called their pigtail, the police ofÞ cer who would

be trailing them into the thick of the crowd. Yoshi felt apprehensive, all

the more so because her experience at the hip-hop concert the previous

month had crystallized just how frightening crowds could be for her.

She could not afford missteps, not while Tucker’s life was on the line.

Velvet dragged Yoshi by one arm past the aerial acrobatics of

tourists on the bungee-trampoline near the entrance to the pier. As they

plowed into the wall of holiday shoppers, the crowd parted around them

like water off a boat’s bow. Yoshi’s senses were quickly overwhelmed,

accosted by a multitude of converging voices, sweating bodies, bad

perfume and grooming products, marijuana smoke, the barking of the

Pier’s renowned sea lions, the subtle movement of the wooden planks

under the weight of a hundred tromping feet, the distant sound of waves

beating against wooden pillars, and an incessant jangle of Christmas

music piping through the loudspeakers.

Pedestrians pressed against them, dragging them down. Bodies

knocked against hers. Though different cultures had varying needs for

personal space, during holiday shopping frenzies there seemed to be

an unspoken consensus that skin-on-skin contact, stepping on toes,

and knocking shoulders was unavoidable. This was why Yoshi did her

shopping online.

• 198 •

BLIND LEAP

Years ago, she had braved the pier’s fabricated aura in order to

purchase movie paraphernalia for Velvet at Pier 39’s Hollywood USA.

It was her last trip there. There were over a hundred shops on Pier

39 and even if she wasn’t blind, navigating around all of them was

difÞ cult. Velvet stopped suddenly and Yoshi barreled into her cushiony

backside. Velvet’s phone was barely audible over the noise.

“Hello?” she shouted to be heard. “Where?” She pressing her face

to Yoshi’s ear and yelled, “The carousel.”

Yoshi tucked her right hand into her jacket pocket and typed a text

message to Fleishman. One advantage of her new cell phone was that

the keys provided tactual differentiation, so placing a call or sending a

text message did not require her to look at the phone. Even if they were

being watched, no one could see her sending the message.

The carousel was located on the Þ rst level near the Bay end of the

pier. It was a brilliant choice for a handoff. The spot was always packed

to the gills with freely spending tourists juggling bags and binoculars

while their candy-faced children ran around and screamed in delight.

Cops and shamuses alike wouldn’t want to endanger the kids on the

carousel.

Yoshi remembered from childhood that this famed antique

attraction was hand-painted with scenes of famous San Francisco

landmarks, including the Golden Gate Bridge, Lombard Street, and

Alcatraz. It also had moving horses, rocking chariots, spinning tubs

and swings, all illuminated by twinkling lights and accompanied by

traditional organ music.

She could judge their progression by the carousal tune, which got

louder as they approached. “Do you see anything?” she asked.

She hoped Velvet would not see police ofÞ cers. She wanted them

to be there, certainly, but to remain invisible until they were needed.

“No.” Velvet sounded slightly alarmed. “What if they don’t

show?”

Yoshi’s reply was cut off when yet another person knocked into

her. She stepped aside to let them pass. The person didn’t move on.

Instead something hard and cold was jammed into her back. She froze.

Hot breath, reeking of salami and stale coffee, gave her a wholly

unwelcome shiver.

“You got the disc?” the man snarled. The accent was Mid-Atlantic,

hard to place but deÞ nitely not native Californian.

• 199 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

She shook her head, then tilted up her chin to indicate Velvet in

front of her.

“Tell your friend not to turn around. Just get the disc.”

Yoshi slid up to Velvet. “Don’t turn around,” she whispered.

“Did you hear them? Are they here?”

“There’s a gun at my back.” Yoshi enunciated her words

carefully.

Velvet stiffened. “Fuck.”

“It’s all right. Give me the disc without looking back.”

Yoshi heard Velvet rustling in her clothes, pulling the disc from

her favorite hiding pace under her shirt. Yoshi felt the pressure of the

disc against her outstretched hand, accepted the still-warm contraband,

and quickly stuffed it down the front of her own trousers.

Suddenly she was yanked backward. She lost her hold on Velvet

and bounced off other bodies as she was hauled in reverse through the

crowd. Then just as suddenly the noise of the crowd reduced and she

no longer could feel people around her. She guessed her abductor had

pulled her into one of the wooden-plank little alleys between the pier

buildings. She thought they were on the north side of the pier but it was

hard to keep a sense of direction sometimes. The sea lions were louder.

She was pulled around and pressed back against the wooden facade of

the building. It occurred to her that she herself might not make it out of

this encounter unscathed.

“Give me the disc.”

“That’s not how it works,” Yoshi said, hoping her voice did not

betray the fear she felt climbing up her mouth. “I need assurances that

Tucker is unharmed.”

“Your friend is Þ ne. She’s right there.”

“You know I’m blind. I will not give you the disc until I hear

Tucker say she’s okay.” Yoshi believed the kidnappers had chosen her

for the exchange because she was blind. They would not have been able

to walk through the pier with their visages obscured by masks, but they

thought their identity would be safe with Yoshi. She would Þ nd some

way to take advantage of their assumptions.

“I bet I can make you.”

“I’ll scream rape,” Yoshi bluffed.

“I’ll shoot you,” he growled.

She shook her head. “You won’t risk the noise. You better hurry.

My friend will Þ nd us soon, or someone will see us.”

• 200 •

BLIND LEAP

He swore and pulled her to where a breeze peppered her with salty

spritz from the Bay. He spoke urgently in a hushed voice. “Bring her

out.”

Thirty seconds ticked by very slowly before she heard “Yoshi!” It

was Tucker’s unmistakable voice.

“Are you all right?” Yoshi asked.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” Tucker was relieved; Yoshi could hear it in her

voice.

Yoshi retrieved the disc and held it out. Her guard snatched it

away. “Try anything and we hurt the kid.”

He backed away from her. She heard the click of something

opening and a popping noise that reminded her of her own laptop.

Yoshi was expecting this. She was even counting on it. They are going

to play the disc.

“Okay,” he said. “I’m ready.”

His co-conspirator, the man Yoshi assumed was restraining

Tucker, did not answer. As she hoped, her man was on the phone

and soon he would have the password to access the material on the

disc. Whoever was on the other end of the line—Chase Devlin, she

suspected—wanted to be sure that the disc they had was the correct

one. The only way for his henchmen to authenticate it would be for

them to access a Þ le.

He typed the password on the keyboard.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m in.”

Now he would receive instructions to decipher an encoded Þ le.

He typed something. The seconds drew out like the endless days

of Alaskan summers. As they drew nearer to the critical moment, Yoshi

felt the blood pounding in her ears. In her jacket pocket her cell phone

vibrated quietly, the signal that Fleishman’s team was ready to go. Any

second now they would burst around corners and yell, “Drop your

weapons, we have you surrounded.”

Everything was going as planned. And then, instead of hearing

her abductor verifying the material on the disc, Yoshi heard something

heavy crash to the pier—was that the laptop? Scufß ing feet. A rough

hand grabbed her arm and spun her around. Cold steel kissed her

temple.

The man behind her yelled, “Back off or the blind chick gets it.”

He must have made one of Fleishman’s team. She should never

have agreed to bring them in on this. They were probably thinking

• 201 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

more about making the arrest than Tucker’s safety. She would never

let Ari live this down. Now she was a goddamn hostage. And if one

more person called her a blind chick, she was going to turn to violence

herself.

Someone was pulling her backward again, toward the edge of the

pier. Yoshi suddenly imagined what would happen if he threw her into

the choppy waters. Everyone would immediately focus on rescuing her

and in the commotion the kidnappers would slip away. Not today, she

thought, not interested in playing the damsel in distress, buddy.

She waited three seconds, like a coiled rattler, and then threw

herself into kinetic ferocity. Using a trick her father taught her, she

jerked her head back with all her might. Before her captor could

recover, the motion pitched her head away from the gun barrel and her

head crunched into cartilage. She’d broken his nose. He cried out in

pain and instinctively dropped the gun to raise his hand to his battered

face.

She immediately kicked at the spot where she heard the gun drop

and was rewarded with bruised toes when she connected with something

hard and sent it scuttling across the wooden pier.

“Bitch,” he yelled, alerting her to his approach. She sidestepped

and stuck out her throbbing foot, hoping to trip him. She had not moved

far enough and he made contact with a force that hit her shoulder like

an earthquake. Successive waves of pain rolled through her bones and

exited her feet. She stumbled backward, then used the motion, pivoting

on her right heel and converting the momentum to her defensive move

that sent him charging past her.

Just as she sensed him passing her, she aimed a succession of kicks

his way. He grabbed at her as he fell, catching her leg and yanking it

back over him. She couldn’t get away and landed atop the guy hard

enough to force the air from his lungs. He let out a “woof” sound but

recovered quickly and got his hands around her throat. She could smell

the iron in his blood and punched him square in the face. Her hand

came away damp. The grip on her neck loosened. With the edge of her

straight hand she chopped at what she hoped was an arm. She had never

been one to break bricks with this method, or anything much thicker

than a wooden ruler. Still, it seemed to do the trick. A few well-placed

knee jabs to the back and she pushed him off her chest and struggled

to her feet.

• 202 •

BLIND LEAP

Yoshi had only taken two steps when he slammed into her hip,

tackling her. She tumbled sideways and braced herself for the splintery

landing that never came. She kept falling. At Þ rst she could feel him at

her waist, falling with her, then he seemed to twist away. She hit hard

enough to cause pain but it seemed only to slow, not stop her descent.

She kept falling. He was gone. Everything went quiet, and her body

dipped into water so cold it felt like liquid nitrogen on her skin. She

screamed and inhaled a mouthful of brackish water. She ß ailed at the

water as if trying to climb it like a ladder.

Yoshi fought at the panic that was washing over her like a wave.

So this is how it feels to drown. She’d fallen into the Bay. The icy water

quickly soaked through her clothing. Her boots hung on her like lead

weights. She needed to break the surface and get air in her lungs or she

would die. Her lungs were burning when her head Þ nally came out of

the water. If she did not drown, she would die of hypothermia. How

long before she started losing her cognitive abilities?

Yoshi dog-paddled to keep aß oat while trying to Þ gure out what

to do. These moments were crucial. By now many others would have

gone into cardiac arrest. Perhaps she was as strong as her father always

assumed she would be.

A few slow breaths and Yoshi regained some of her wits. She

searched her memory bank for the rescue training she’d had as a

teenager. First, calm down. Even in December, if the gasp reß ex didn’t

kill her when she Þ rst went underwater, she could reasonably survive

hypothermia for a couple of hours, but only if she didn’t panic and

shoot her blood pressure though the roof. Yoshi inhaled, kicked off the

boots that were weighting her, even though that let the cold in a bit, and

tightened her belt and sleeve cuffs. The small layer of water inside her

clothes would, oddly enough, heat up a bit and help insulate her as she

paddled to safety. Because she couldn’t see and she was disoriented

from the fall, she had lost all sense of direction. There was no way to

tell if she was paddling out to sea or toward the piers.

She could hear people shouting and surmised the voices came from

Pier 39. She could swim toward the sound, but the wooden planks of

the pier were six to ten feet above the water and no one could reach her

from there. The chug of a boat engine reverberated in the background.

It was moving and she could not pinpoint its location. She could not

count on it being a rescue boat. She only had one option.

• 203 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Yoshi turned toward the sound of barking sea lions. She tried to

remember what she knew about the marine mammals, all of it learned

on a trip to Santa Cruz that Velvet had once dragged her on. During the

winter months there were almost a thousand of the ß ippered pinnipeds

around the pier. There were perhaps three dozen or so on the ß oating dock

she was swimming to. They are not supposed to be aggressive, right?

Well, she was going to Þ nd out, because if the 700-pound mammals

could heave themselves onto the lower planks of the anchored dock,

certainly a Þ t 110-pound private eye could do the same.

She shimmied out of the waterlogged jacket that was also weighing

her down. Using the distressed caterwauling of the sea lions as a

beacon, she swam with strong strokes and splashing kicks. She thought

she heard the chugging sound getting louder but she was not sure.

Deciding that she should alert them to her presence, Yoshi yelled

out to them in between inhalations. She heard a heavy splash, likely

a sea lion dropping into the brackish waters. She hoped it was not

swimming at her. Another ß opped into the water, then another. The fear

was rising in her chest. The chugging noise had gone quiet. What if the

boat was a fantasy and a roving gang of sea lions was about to take her

down? Egads.

She swam closer. She could smell the sea lions, a combination

of freshly caught Þ sh, tidal kelp, and a musty wild-animal scent she

remembered mostly from the zoo. Their barking and grunting was

louder, the noises echoing in her ears so loud she thought one of the

creatures was calling her name.

“Yoshi? Yoshi Yakamota?” The voice ß oated from the bay

waters off to her left. It was not very sea liony, Yoshi thought. Oh

no, the hippothermia was setting in. That didn’t sound right either.

Hippothermia? The disorientation had begun.

“Yoshi,” the voice called again. “Over here!”

The loud splashing continued in front of her as more sea lions

ß opped into the water.

She turned toward the voice calling her name and tried to swim

toward it. Her arms and legs were so tired they didn’t want to cooperate.

Swim, she commanded. She was not sure if her body ever responded,

but a moment later she felt something bump into her. That is how sharks

strike. She felt herself being pulled in the water. The sounds faded away

as though she had hit the sleep button on her alarm and drifted back in.

She slid into a dreamlike state and a procession of sea lions—looking

• 204 •

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suspiciously like a Disneyland version of African lions toddling in the

surf—carried her on their backs to the safety of golden sands and the

blessed warmth of a tropical sun.

Perhaps this was heaven.

• 205 •

• 206 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Velvet was at the hospital the minute visitation hours began

at eight a.m. She’d hardly been able to sleep at all at Ari

Fleishman’s apartment. She was so worried about Yoshi and Tucker

and half hysterical still that the detective had insisted she stay with him

and his partner for the night. She still hadn’t seen Tucker since before

she was abducted, before the Davina interlude.

Velvet wiped the image of Davina from her mind. In all the years

she’d been chauffeuring women in and out of her bed, she’d never felt

guilty once. Instead she’d always been proud of her prowess. Until

now.

It wasn’t like she had cheated on Tucker. She couldn’t have. The

two of them didn’t have an exclusive relationship. At least they’d never

made any promises. Velvet had made it clear from the start that she

wasn’t a one-woman type of gal. But the funny thing was that ever

since their second date, Velvet had been more interested in trying out

new positions with Tucker than new women. Without ever consciously

setting out to be in a monogamous relationship, she had stumbled into

one.

But then came the tailspin that landed her in Davina’s arms, and

now she was feeling so guilty she hardly wanted to have sex ever again.

Especially when she thought about Tucker being abducted while she

was out with Davina. Then there was the crazy guy who attacked Yoshi

and knocked her into the Bay. Velvet had just about dove in after her,

and would have if one of the undercover ofÞ cers hadn’t dragged her

back from the edge of the pier.

All Velvet could think about was Yoshi, and how they had fought

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DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

recently and never really made up, and now she was going to drown

and her body would wash up as a ghostly apparition like Jeff’s. Every

time she thought of the blame she deserved for this entire Þ asco, she

started feeling queasy all over again.

By the time Ari Fleishman conÞ rmed that Yoshi had been picked

up by the rescue boat and was going to make it, Tucker had already

taken to the nearest hospital, and Þ nding out whether she was really hurt

or just dinged up a bit was like pulling teeth. Even in San Francisco,

seeing your girlfriend in the hospital still brought up the age-old,

family-only standby from the staff. As it turned out, Tucker had lost

consciousness for a while. It was probably just a concussion, Fleishman

said, trying to reassure her as to why the doctors held Tucker overnight

for observation.

The detective sauntered into the waiting room on long legs, smiling

with perfect teeth. “I hear your friend Tucker is a little thickheaded,”

he said, sliding into the chair next to her.

Velvet furrowed her brow at his enigmatic comment.

“You haven’t heard? When they did the MRI they found out

Tucker has a deviated bone in her skull.”

That didn’t sound good. “Is that bad?”

“No.” Fleishman chuckled. “Apparently it’s some sort of natural

bone variation. Doc says her thickheadedness might have saved her

from more severe injuries.”

Velvet managed a smile.

“I wanted to tell you in person that we’ve reclassiÞ ed Jeff Conant’s

death as suspicious circumstances and opened an investigation.”

“Really? Oh, thank God.”

Velvet was so grateful that her eyes pooled with tears. Finally.

Other people were starting to believe her instead of treating her as just

another grieving friend unwilling to face reality. She didn’t know if it

was the new revelation or the relief that Tucker and Yoshi made it out

alive, but something had snapped her out of her funk. Suddenly she was

ready to get back in the game.

“What changed your mind?” she asked.

“Well, the whole kidnap thing helped. We got one of the perps.”

“Do you think the other one drowned?”

“I don’t know. The water’s pretty damn cold, but the guys I talked

to thought he could’ve made it to shore. The bigger the guy, the longer

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BLIND LEAP

he can survive in cold water. For all we know, he could have had a boat

stashed down there, tied to one of the posts.”

“I want to thank you again for having the water rescue team there.

If they hadn’t already been on scene…”

“You’re telling me. That was just lucky. When the perps directed

you to Fisherman’s Wharf I thought they might have a watercraft

getaway planned. Or even worse, they could have just caused a mass

panic and sent a couple hundred tourists jogging into the water. The

mayor would have had my ass in a can if that happened. Just to be on

the safe side I mobilized our water rescue team.”

“Have you found out more about the men who kidnapped

Tucker?”

“A little. The guy we arrested, Joey Picarelli, has a sheet, mostly

petty theft and assault charges, but the organized crime unit thinks he

may be a mob enforcer. I think he at least makes a living providing the

muscle for bigger criminals. He hasn’t said a word since we picked him

up, not even the L-word.”

Velvet smiled. Ari was referring to lawyers, not lesbians.

“I think that might change soon though, seeing as how we found

his prints all over the DVDs in Conant’s ofÞ ce.”

“Really?”

“You can thank Yoshi for that bit of evidence. She’s the one who

insisted I send a CSI team over to dust the DVDs. If there hadn’t been

so many prints, I might have thought Yoshi planted them.”

“So, you think this Picarelli character killed Jeff? Because what,

he didn’t have this disc they wanted?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. Like I said, Picarelli’s hired muscle.

Whatever he did, it wasn’t something he came up with on his own.

So far I can’t tie him to his puppet master, but I will. At least we got

the disc, seeing how it almost ended up at the bottom of the Bay. We

were damn lucky. It must have popped out of the laptop when the guy

dropped it because the laptop went into the water with him. I’ve got a

tech working on deciphering it now.”

Velvet nodded. It seemed like the right time to forward her agenda.

“If you’re serious about investigating Jeff’s death…”

“I am.” Ari stared brieß y at the ceiling tiles as though he was

drawing lines between the rows of dots. “I’m hoping Tucker can

remember something that might lead us to the other kidnapper. When

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DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

we have two offenders, it’s usually a race to see who can cut the best

deal. Someone will give up the name of their employer.”

“I have a good lead for you,” Velvet said. “You should subpoena

the latest work of James Harden, the Þ lmmaker.”

Velvet explained Harden’s project, and that he had used hidden

cameras to Þ lm the Golden Gate Bridge for the past nine months.

“He says he has captured some suicides on Þ lm,” she said,

explaining how the Bridge Authority had slapped a restraining order on

Harden that prevented him from airing or discussing the “inß ammatory

subject matter of the Þ lm.”

“He had his cameras running the night Jeff was killed?”

“I’m sure hoping so.”

“Well,” Ari said, standing up. “It sounds like I have my work cut

out for me. I’ll take up this Þ lm business with the DA’s ofÞ ce. But

only if you promise to bring Tucker around for a debrieÞ ng.” He slid

a business card out of his wallet and handed it to her. “Call me when

she’s ready to talk.”

Velvet shook Ari’s hand. If she were straight, she’d offer to marry

the man. She was that grateful. Not only had he rescued Tucker from

the kidnappers and plucked Yoshi from the icy waters of the Bay, he

was going to hunt down whoever was responsible for Jeff’s death.

“Thank you, Ari. For everything.”

“I’m always happy to help, especially when it doesn’t involve

assisting the prime suspect in a capital murder case.”

“Gee, a girl gets arrested and charged with murder once…” Velvet

felt good enough to tease again. Phew.

“Oh, hey, I thought Yakamota might get a kick out of this.” Ari

unfolded the newspaper he was carrying.

The previous night’s commotion had made the news, or some of

it anyway. The headline read BLIND WOMAN RESCUED AFTER FALL FROM

PIER 39.

v

The problem with December investigations was that while Yoshi

could dictate the holiday hours of her own staff, even if that meant

risking their wrath by say making them work on Christmas Eve, she

could not do the same for employees and agencies beyond her control.

By Friday, December 22, it had become quite obvious that the

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BLIND LEAP

district attorney’s ofÞ ce would not Þ le the paperwork necessary to

obtain a subpoena for Harden’s Þ lm until after the holiday. The SFPD

computer tech who had been working diligently on cracking the

remaining Þ les on the mysterious disc had ß own home to Boston, so

clearly nothing would happen on that front either. Yoshi could only sit

back and wait and hope they would get moving after Christmas and not

wait for the new year.

“Feel this!” Tucker grabbed Yoshi’s right hand and brushed it

across stubble. The short hairs were soft and tickled the sensitive skin

of her palm. Yoshi pulled her hand away, not knowing if the impish

receptionist had just run Yoshi’s hand over seven days’ growth of

leg hair or what. Yoshi found stubbly hair a little repugnant, further

justiÞ cation for not dating men.

“She insisted on getting her head shaved,” Velvet explained.

Yoshi was happy to hear the warmth had returned to Velvet’s

voice.

The three of them were at Yoshi’s house waiting for AJ and Bud

to arrive.

“Yeah, because it looked horrible. They shaved these big chunks

in my head, said they needed to pull out glass fragments and clean the

wounds, but c’mon, how am I supposed to walk around like that? They

probably wanted me to keep that bandage wrapped around my head,

too. I looked like a mental patient.”

“Well, if the shoe…” Yoshi felt good enough to tease, too,

apparently.

“Now, Tuck.” Velvet’s soothing voice seemed to calm Tucker

down. “You know the doctor said you need to rest and avoid any

situations where you might hit your head. You shouldn’t be walking

city streets at this point anyway.”

“I can’t go to your house, since that’s where I was attacked. It’s

too much.”

“Tucker, are you sure you’re feeling okay?” Yoshi asked.

“Yes,” she replied, drawing the word out. “Fine. I’ll sit down. Will

that make you happy?”

Yoshi wasn’t sure who Tucker was addressing her question to,

so she ignored it and posited her own. “I was wondering if you have

remembered any more details about the night you were abducted?”

“I was unconscious, remember?” Tucker could still sound like a

belligerent teen.

• 211 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Come on, Tuck,” Velvet chimed in. “Yoshi’s trying to help.

Anything you remember might help Þ nd who did this to you.”

“Okay, I woke up and I couldn’t see. I couldn’t move. I was

freaking out. It took me a bit to Þ gure out my hands and feet were tied

and my eyes blindfolded. I think I was in a car.”

“Did it feel like you were moving or stopped?” Yoshi asked.

“Moving.”

“Were you sitting upright?”

“No, lying down on my side, like across the backseat.”

“What did it feel like?”

“What do you mean?”

“Did it feel like a bench or bucket seat? Was there a hump in the

middle? Was if fabric or vinyl? Did it feel like there was air around you

or was it more enclosed like a trunk?”

“It was a bench seat, but one of those that kind of tilts down

toward the back. It was deÞ nitely covered with some kind of fabric.

It felt pretty new, it didn’t smell brand new but there were no holes or

tears or wear. It wasn’t the trunk, I know, because there was a speaker

in the side door, they were listening to…” Tucker continued sharing

details about the vehicle until she ran out of answers.

From Tucker’s recollections, Yoshi deduced that the kidnappers

had driven a late-model SUV. Nothing as unique as, say, a Hummer and

nothing high end that would have leather seats. Probably something

more innocuous, like a Ford or Toyota.

Yoshi moved on to questions about the two men, their size, smells,

voices, dialects. Each time she spoke to Tucker, she pieced together

more detail. “Is there anything you remember about the drive? Did they

stop anywhere?”

“Yeah, I was thinking about that. They did stop once before they

got to Fisherman’s Wharf. I think we were in a parking garage. You

know, they made a turn and then the driver rolled down the window, it

was automatic, and rolled it back up again. Then we drove around in

circles, you know the way you do climbing ß oors in a garage? On like

the third or fourth, he parked and then got out of the car. The Old Spice

guy stayed with me but he unrolled his window and the noises of other

cars sort were sort of echoey.”

Yoshi resisted the urge to point out that “echoey” was not a

word. “How long were you there?” she asked, thinking of the parking

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BLIND LEAP

garage AJ had parked her Escalade in the day they paid a visit to Chase

Devlin.

“Fifteen, twenty minutes maybe.”

“Was there an attendant? Did they stop and pay someone on the

way out?”

“I don’t think so.”

The garage near Devlin’s ofÞ ce used automated vending machines

to collect parking fees. Plenty of other parking ventures still employed

an attendant.

“Oh, I just remembered, when the guy came back he gave

something to Old Spice. Maybe that’s where they got the laptop?”

“That’s what I am thinking.” Yoshi acknowledged. “Do you have

any sense of where this parking garage might be?”

“Downtown.”

“How do you know that?” Velvet asked.

“Just a hunch. The movements started getting more jerky like we

kept stopping abruptly, moving a lot slower, and one time the driver

guy hollered something about fucking pedestrians. It all just made it

feel like the downtown area.”

It was far from scientiÞ c, but Yoshi was inclined to believe

Tucker’s intuition. She would have Bud check if any late-model SUVs

were registered to Chase Devlin.

“One of them was on the phone for a few minutes. I couldn’t hear

exactly what he said. The way he was talking, I think the guy on the

phone was their boss.”

“What about when you got to the Wharf? They must have taken

off your blindfold, right?”

“Yeah, at the car. Told me not to look anywhere but in front of us

or they’d hurt me. I was freakin’ scared. Sorry.”

“Maybe you caught just a glimpse of something, like the car color

or part of clothing or something.”

Tucker was quiet for a moment as though scouring the recesses

of her mind for the answer. “I think the car was a dark color. I can’t

remember seeing it, it’s just a feeling, so it might be wrong.

“There was something else,” she rushed to say. “When the guy

went to take off my blindfold, he had this pale patch. You know the

kind of lines people get around their Þ nger when they’ve worn a ring

for years and then take it off? He had a pale band around his wrist

• 213 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

like he usually wore a watch but didn’t have it on. Does that tell you

anything?”

“It tells me the person of interest usually wears a watch, and must

have done so until very recently if the outline was still visible,” Yoshi

deadpanned. “It leads me to wonder where the watch is now.”

• 214 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Hey there, girl.” AJ was standing on Yoshi’s front steps.

“Hey, AJ, Yoshi’s not here,” Tucker said, yawning.

“I know. She thought you could use getting out of the house.” AJ

did not say Yoshi wants her freaking house back, although she believed

it to be true.

Yoshi had told her that since she was abducted from Velvet’s crib,

Tucker couldn’t go back there. ’Specially not with one of the kidnappers

still at large. It didn’t help that Velvet had had a professional security

system installed. Nor had it helped that Yoshi insisted that the minute

the perp’s laptop went in the water, Devlin stopped worrying about the

computer disc. He thought it was now on the bottom of the Bay. Tucker

said she wouldn’t feel safe until Devlin was behind bars. For now, she

and Velvet were sleeping in Yoshi’s guest room and wearing out their

welcome.

When Yoshi called AJ, she said Velvet would be gone all day,

hanging out in the Haight-Ashbury hood looking for some kids that ran

away from some strange ex-gay camp. She wanted Tucker to get out

of the house, too, before she developed some kind of agoraphobia and

could never leave.

“She told me not to be taking no for an answer,” AJ said, holding

her ground. “Get dressed or I’ll take you out in your PJs.”

Tucker stormed off muttering curse words under her breath. It

made AJ laugh.

Fifteen minutes later, they were in the Escalade heading up

Nineteenth Avenue. “Where you wanna go?” AJ asked.

“The Golden Gate Bridge.”

“Why? Ya not gonna jump, are ya?”

• 215 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“No way. I just want to go up there. You know, they could’ve

made me jump, too, but they just kidnapped me instead. I’m always the

lucky one that way and I feel like there must be a reason, you know?

Like I’m here for a reason, only I don’t know what it is. I want to see

where he died.”

“Okay, kid. You know you don’t have to feel bad for being alive,

right?”

“Don’t you? Sometimes, when you think about Katrina? Like why

did the people die that did? Do you ever feel like you owe them?”

AJ didn’t have any words to answer a question like that.

They drove over the bridge in silence. AJ pulled into the Vista

Point parking lot. Tucker pulled a camera from her bag, stuffed the bag

under the seat, and bounded out of the Escalade like a pent-up puppy.

AJ pulled on her hoodie and jacket, hugging them close to block out

the cold wind.

“I don’t get why they call it Golden Gate,” AJ said. “Looks like

orange-red to me.”

Tucker waited at the edge of the parking lot. “Yeah, I thought it

was weird, too, but then I found out it’s not the bridge that’s the Golden

Gate, it’s what the bridge spans.”

“I don’t get it.”

Tucker motioned with her hands. “The physical space below the

bridge, where the Bay drains into the ocean? European settlers named

that the Golden Gate.”

“Huh.” It still didn’t make sense to her, but then a lot of shit the

Pilgrims did didn’t make sense either.

They rounded a little hill and found themselves on the bridge

proper. AJ just about turned around right then. The walkway looked

wide enough to Þ t two people side by side, but it was separated from

oncoming vehicle trafÞ c by nothing more than a calf-high guardrail

and twelve inches of pavement. AJ stuck to the left side of the walkway

where there was a waist-high rough plywood barrier suggesting

something under construction. Given the recent bridge collapse, these

renovations didn’t Þ ll her with conÞ dence.

They’d only covered about twenty feet when the plywood barrier

ended abruptly and Tucker was left looking over a hundred-foot drop.

A waist-high metal fence painted to match the other elements of the

bridge protected pedestrians from plummeting over the edge. At least

there was still earth under their feet. Over the railing, she could see the

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BLIND LEAP

rocky hillside disappearing under the bridge. Above them an enormous

tree-trunk-diameter cable swooped up toward the Þ rst of the bridge’s

two towers, looming in the distance with trafÞ c passing like Tonka toys

between its steel legs. Smaller cables ran in twins from the deck of

the bridge to the large cable. To the left, the skyline of San Francisco

sparkled above glistening water.

They walked on. AJ stuck to the right of the walkway while

Tucker was so far to the left that she was running her hand along the

steel barrier. Every few steps, she would lean over the railing and look

down. AJ wondered how she could be so fearless in this environment

yet afraid to return to Velvet’s house. Sure ’nough, her own stomach

was churning and she could feel her heart rate increasing.

They reached the tower. Tilting her head back, Tucker looked up

at the iron giant. From this perspective, it looked as though it could be

the bridge between heaven and earth. The perspective was dizzying. It

was hard to imagine that this had been built by people her size, dwarfed

as she was by the massive structure. The wind blew in strong gusts,

spattering them with a mist that seemed drawn from the clouds by the

hulking bridge tower.

Raising her voice against the wind, Tucker expressed her desire

to tour Alcatraz. AJ acknowledged her own interest by bobbing her

head.

They had reached the end of the land and from here on out the

bridge would be surrounded by nothing but air. AJ was hit by a wave of

nausea and thought about turning back. She belonged on the ground or

in the water, not up here suspended a hundred feet over water. Still, she

didn’t want to leave Tucker out here on the bridge alone.

Tucker leaned out over the railing again. AJ hazarded a sideways

peek and decided she was checking out the section of the bridge a few

more feet to the left, a narrow gangplank from which to stand or jump.

AJ wondered if Tucker was looking for something in particular, maybe

hoping Conant had marked the spot he’d jumped from, or been pushed

or thrown. The waist-high railing wouldn’t be much of a deterrent for a

suicidal jumper or a someone lifting a body to drop over the edge.

AJ certainly could not imagine dragging a body all the way from

the parking area, even if there’d been two or more people involved.

If he was already dead, they would have just stopped on the bridge

and pulled the body out. Wouldn’t that kind of thing draw unwanted

attention? Even after dark? So they probably didn’t do that either.

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DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

She’d bet that even if Conant wasn’t murdered, he’d walked out here

on his own two legs. Maybe they had a gun to his back or threatened

someone he loved. Whatever they’d done, it had to be one hell of a

motivator, at least for her. She didn’t think you could walk this far out

on the bridge and still think they were going to let you walk back. Dead

man walking.

“Oh, my God, oh, my God, AJ, look, look!” Tucker was jumping

up and down, pointing at something over the edge of the bridge. AJ

took a deep breath and hazard a glance. All she saw was water. And a

very long way down.

“Right there.” Tucker pointed just left of her feet.

AJ pulled her gaze in closer. She glimpsed a ß ash of light as

though something reß ected sunlight back toward them.

“What is it?”

“I think it’s a watch.”

The next instant, Tucker was on her knees and then laying ß at on

her stomach, shimmying toward the edge of the bridge like a snake.

“What the fuck you doing?” AJ moved to stop her but Tucker got

stubborn.

The slatted pedestrian barrier ended about eighteen inches above

the pavement. Tucker’s shoulder was pressed against the bottom of the

barrier and her arm stretched out under it, her hand inching along on

Þ ngertips. A white handkerchief held by the short Þ ngers trailed behind

like the train of a wedding dress.

“Am I even close?” Tucker asked.

AJ gritted her teeth and leaned over the railing. Below her and

beyond the edge of the pedestrian walkway, she could see three narrow,

shallow troughs and a gutter three Þ ngers wide. In the gutter was

something shiny and gold.

See, AJ thought for no reason, that is what gold looks like.

Tucker’s marching Þ ngers had made it out to the edge of the

second trough but no farther.

“You’re about three inches too short.”

“Shit.” Tucker got back on her knees. She looked AJ up and down.

“How tall are you?”

“Five-ten.”

“Oh, cool. I’m only Þ ve-eight. I bet your arms are longer.” She

stood up and handed AJ the handkerchief. “Will you try it?”

• 218 •

BLIND LEAP

“Don’t you think we should just report this and let the bridge

people get it?”

“No, I don’t. You know what that is? That’s the watch of one of

Jeff’s killers.”

“How could you possibly know that?”

“Because one of the guys who attacked me had this ring around

his wrist like he usually wore a watch, only something happened to

it.”

“That don’t prove anything.”

“That watch might be my only chance of identifying who attacked

me. If I ever want to stop looking over my shoulder or worrying every

guy is him, I need to do this. Can you please try?”

“Fine.” AJ glanced at the approaching pedestrians. She better get

this over with before someone reported them for suspicious behavior.

She knelt on the pavement, the pebbles digging into her hands and

knees. This was probably going to ruin her shirt. She kissed the

pavement and stretched her arm out.

“Right, up, farther right.” Tucker offered directions. “You’re

almost there, really. Just a little bit more.”

AJ strained to stretch farther. She stretched until her shoulder and

arm muscles complained and threatened cramping. She glanced down

toward her feet and saw that the pedestrians where almost on them, and

she scrambled to get out of their way. The Asian couple looked at them

quizzically but did not voice their question.

AJ watched them walk away. A ringing noise pulled her attention

back to Tucker. AJ gasped and lunged toward the younger girl, who was

straddling the pedestrian railing like a cowboy. Tucker was out of her

fucking mind. AJ fought the urge to scream, afraid any outburst might

surprise the crazy chick and send her plunging over the edge.

“Tucker,” AJ warned. “Don’t.”

Tucker dropped her other leg over the railing.

AJ’s mouth was dry. She reached out toward Tucker but didn’t

dare touch her.

Holding on to the railing with her hands, Tucker put one foot

down. Then she put the other down.

“AJ?” Tucker’s voice cracked. She had not looked up.

“Yes.”

“Grab hold of my jacket.”

• 219 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Jesus, Tucker this is crazy.”

“I need your help.”

AJ put her right hand gently on Tucker’s back and slid it down.

She could feel Tucker shaking. Or maybe it was her hand that was

shaking. AJ got a handful of Tucker’s jacket. With her other hand she

grabbed the waistband of Tucker’s jeans. Her hands were sweating.

She braced herself against the pedestrian barrier and tightened

her grip on Tucker’s clothes. She could not bring herself to look at

anything beyond the back of Tucker’s head, her whole skull visible

under the tightly cropped hair. AJ could see where they’d removed

glass embedded in her scalp. The scabs were healing.

“Am I close?” Tucker asked. “I can’t see.”

Damn. AJ did not want to look. She was afraid she’d get vertigo or

something and accidentally let go. She forced herself to watch Tucker’s

Þ ngers. She was bent nearly in half, as though touching her toes. Or

doing one last stretch before taking a dive.

“You’re close. Just a little to your right. There.”

The handkerchief closed around the shining object. “Got it.” AJ

pulled Tucker tight against the barrier.

“Now what?” Tucker asked, panic creeping into her voice.

AJ could see the dilemma. Efforts to lift a leg over the barrier

would swing her torso out over the abyss. Tucker was starting to cry.

“I’m scared.”

“It’s going to be okay.” AJ noticed a change in the sound of trafÞ c

behind her. A car was idling near them. A car door opened and closed

in quick succession. AJ recognized the aura of law enforcement and

shouted, “I need help.”

The ofÞ cer came to her side and assessed the situation. “You hold

her from the left and I’ll get the right.”

AJ nodded.

“Okay, ma’am,” he said to Tucker. “We’re holding you from either

side. We’re going to lift you up. When I tell you, I want you to sit on

the top rail.”

On their Þ rst try they got Tucker back onto her butt on the rail and

then carefully helped her turn around. She jumped down and crumpled

into AJ’s arms.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

AJ untangled herself. And Tucker rushed to the ofÞ cer and gushed

profuse gratitude. “I’m so sorry.”

• 220 •

BLIND LEAP

“Thank you, OfÞ cer,” AJ added. “We don’t need to take up more

of your time.”

He snorted. “I don’t think so. You girls just won yourselves a ride

down to the station and a mandatory Þ ne.”

AJ glared at Tucker.

When the CHP ofÞ cer opened the back door of his black-and-

white squad car and ushered them inside, AJ vowed to never cross the

bridge on foot ever again, regardless of how long she lived in the Bay

Area. Some experiences you never need to relive.

As the ofÞ cer slid into his seat and addressed the radio mic,

Tucker furtively pulled something from her pocket, wrapped in a

white handkerchief. AJ had almost forgotten about the gold watch that

initiated Tucker’s near-fatal insanity.

One gold watch… priceless.

• 221 •

• 222 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Bud rubbed his eyes with his Þ sts. God, he was tired. He’d

been staring at the screen for hours. Even when he shut his

eyes, a ghost image remained as though burnt into his retinas the way

they said something could burn into the computer screen if it was left

on one image too long.

He was sitting in the closet-sized audio-video room at SFPD’s

Mission precinct. He shared the space with a pimply-faced recruit

who’d been assigned the task of controlling the remote control and

verifying that Bud was never alone with the Þ lm. As though he’d have

the skill set to alter the images on the screen or something. Or maybe

the kid was there on the Þ lmmaker’s behest, making sure Bud didn’t

steal his Þ lm and try to pass it off as his own.

Like anyone would want it. In its unedited version, the Þ lm was

hour after endless hour of the same view of the Golden Gate. On fast

forward, the cars rolled briskly across the span and the fog drifted in

and out, but nothing else changed. Then the sun would go down and

there’d be the lights of cars zipping across less regularly and then

hardly at all. The section they were reviewing right now was even more

pointless because it came from the camera placed farthest away and

was primarily for what Harden called macro changes.

There were four cameras total. From each side of the bridge, one

captured wide landscape views and one captured zoomed-in views of

the pedestrians and vehicles crossing the bridge. The cameras were

on timers, and every four hours the recording would switch from one

camera to another.

Harden had given them two weeks’ worth of images captured

around the time of Jeff Conant’s death. For Harden this was a miniscule

• 223 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

selection, culled from the nine months of irrelevant material. For Bud

Williams it was like a haystack, and he was looking for a needle, for a

few critical moments amidst 14 x 24 hours of crap.

The AV kid had the long view ß ashing by on 8x and didn’t notice

when it switched back to the relevant close-ups.

“Hey,” Bud called and pointed at the screen.

He wished the kid would just let him operate the remote control.

He was a grown man for, godssakes.

The kid stopped fast-forwarding and ß ipped it into rewind

instead. He overshot the spot and was about to push it up to 8x again

when Bud growled at him to leave it at 4x. Another hour slipped by

and Bud’s eyes were starting to close when he saw a bird dive from the

bridge like it was after a Þ sh in the water below. He snapped awake

and demanded, “Go back, go back.”

The image stopped and slowly scrolled backward. A dark, ghostly

Þ gure rose from the water’s surface and ß ew in a jerky reverse swan

dive up to the bridge.

The image switched direction and the dark Þ gure stepped off

the bridge and dropped, ß ailing arms and legs. It hit the water and

disappeared below the waves. Jesus. It was a jumper.

“Was that just—” The kid looked at Bud, his face pale. When he

found the answer in Bud’s eyes, he looked down at his feet, avoiding

the screen. “Oh.”

“You want to get some air?” Bud asked, giving the kid a way out.

“I can handle this myself.”

“Yeah.” The kid handed Bud the remote and ß ed the room.

Bud played the scene once more. It was a suicide, but it was not

Jeff Conant. The time of day was all wrong, it was too light out, and this

jumper looked like a woman. He ß ipped the speed up again, watching

the day pass by in a few moments. He wasn’t sure Harden should get

permission to show this as a movie. It was a snuff Þ lm. That jumper had

been some guy’s little girl.

The screen grew darker as it slipped into the evening, then lit up

again as the bridge’s many lights came on and illuminated the passing

cars and occasional pedestrians—mostly couples after dark, he’d

noticed, randy bucks taking their girls up to a romantic spot in hopes

of short-wiring her judgment. Since he had to pay more attention, the

nights passed slower than the days, but the sun did rise without another

idiot trying to grow wings and ß y.

• 224 •

BLIND LEAP

He sped through the next day at the highest speed, telling himself

he’d only do one more night before he took another break, went outside

and smoked a bowl. It wouldn’t be long before he’d forget his promise

to himself. At Þ rst he didn’t notice. Then he didn’t know what he’d

noticed. He hit the rewind and went back a few frames, forward and

back. There it was a clumpy shadow that inched along, noticeably slower

than the occasional vehicle. The digital clock read after midnight. As

the shadow advanced toward the middle of the bridge, and closer to the

camera lens, it slowly resolved into pedestrians. Bud could distinguish

three separate heads.

When they stepped under the next streetlight, something shiny

caught the light and reß ected it back. Bud squinted at the screen and

replayed the scene trying to see what it was: gun? knife? glasses? He

couldn’t tell. Still, he was entranced. This was the most viable image

he’d seen in seven days of Þ lm. He fought the urge to fast-forward ahead

to be sure. The Þ gures stopped walking. They stood in one place as the

seconds ticked by. Bud felt his body tense waiting for…something. The

way stillness can be like a snake, coiled and ready to strike.

What were they waiting for? Were they talking? The seconds

spread into minutes. Bud threatened the Þ lm with a thumb on the fast-

forward button. Suddenly the Þ gures sprang into action. There was a

jumble of movements and then everything stopped again. Bud stared

at the screen unsure what he’d just seen. He rewound, put the play on

slow motion, and sat back to watch.

The three Þ gures were standing, then one jumped away from the

other two as though trying to get away. The two sprang into action.

The three were pressed together in an indistinguishable but kinetic

form, like cartoon cat-and-dog Þ ghts. The Þ ghting ball moved up and

down the walkway and then the motion stopped suddenly. Bud let the

Þ lm play on in slow motion, still not sure what happened. The Þ gures

moved under a streetlamp and Bud knew.

There were two Þ gures on the bridge. Where there had been three

heads, now there were two. The angle of this camera prevented him

from seeing the body fall or hit the water, but what he had seen was

someone going over the bridge. Jeff Conant had not been alone on the

bridge that night.

Bud let the Þ lm tick forward at 2x normal speed. The Þ gures

slowly disappeared from view. Perhaps Þ fteen minutes later headlights

alerted him to an approaching vehicle, returning to San Francisco. Bud

• 225 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

paused the Þ lm and stared at the screen. He’d be willing to bet the dark

SVU he saw there was registered to Chase Devlin. Likewise, he was

nearly positive one of those technical geniuses could clean this image

up enough to read the license plate. Maybe even pull mug shots off the

suspects.

v

Yoshi was fuming. She had come down to the police station to

meet with forensic technician Lincoln Nebraska after Ari Fleishman

called to tell her he had news. She had not gotten to hear any of

that news. Instead she had gotten an earful from the chief of police,

a ranking military ofÞ cer, a National Parks ranger, CHP ofÞ cer and

local representative of Homeland Security. All of them had explicitly

expressed their dissatisfaction at the behavior of her associates, whose

careless actions had disrupted bridge trafÞ c, disturbed tourists, and

almost caused a panicked shutdown of the entire bridge when one

passerby claimed that a skinhead and angry black man were attaching

some type of incendiary device to the underside of the bridge.

As someone who by most accounts had just attempted suicide,

Tucker was undergoing a required psychological evaluation.

“I am very disappointed in your lack of judgment in this situation,”

Yoshi informed AJ. “I hope you realize that this little escapade could

jeopardize your entire career.”

AJ did not say anything.

“What were you thinking? You could have been killed, both of

you. What could have possibly been the motivation for pulling such a

dangerous stunt?”

“Just a watch.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Look, it ain’t a smoking gun, and what Tucker did was totally

whack, but I understand her wanting to catch the guy who attacked her.

I get that you gotta do what you gotta do, so if you want to rescind your

offer—”

“So it wasn’t your idea?”

“Of course not. I tried to stop her. That didn’t work. So, yeah,

I kept her a little safe when she did what she was determined to do.

That’s all.”

• 226 •

BLIND LEAP

“Then I owe you an apology, AJ, I am sorry to have doubted you.

Did Tucker succeed in retrieving the item?”

“Sure ’nough. I got it right here.”

“Good. We’re going to turn it over to Detective Fleishman.”

They found Ari standing in the doorway to the AV room. “You got

to see this,” the detective called to them.

Yoshi ß inched but didn’t reveal it in her voice. “What have you

found?”

Ari stepped back and AJ went inside. He narrated what was

playing out on the screen.

“Can y’all clean that up ’nough to distinguish faces?” AJ asked.

“That’s what Bud asked, too,” Ari answered. “I think, since it’s

digital, they should be able to. Maybe not that frame. I understand if

it’s dark they can pull out hidden information, but if it’s too bright or

washed out, there’s nothing they can do.”

“So maybe not the license plate, then?” Bud asked.

“Probably not,” Ari admitted.

“Did you try going back to when it arrives?” Yoshi asked.

“Then you wouldn’t have to contend with headlights.” She tugged on

Fleishman’s shirtsleeve and they backed into the hallway. Ari shut the

door.

“I have a present for you.” Yoshi held out the watch AJ had given

her. “Apparently my receptionist risked life and limb for it, so please

treat it accordingly.”

Ari accepted it gingerly. “It’s got the kind of band that might

attract DNA.”

“That’s what we’re hoping.”

“This belong to the one that got away?”

“I think so. Tucker and AJ found it up on the bridge. From what I

understand, not the sort of place that a casual passerby would lose their

watch. Especially if the clasp isn’t broken.”

“I’ll have that checked, too.”

“Thanks.”

“You ready to meet with Nebraska?”

Ari led the way to the tech guy’s computer-cluttered cubicle.

The were greeted by a nerd who acted like he only saw daylight

once a year if there was a partial eclipse to witness or the building had

to be evacuated. After they shook hands, he started to ramble on about

• 227 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

the technical obstacles he’d conquered in his quest to decipher the Þ les

on the disc, and how incendiary the contents appeared to be, not that he

was reading them.

“What we have here is leverage,” Ari said. “Anything Devlin

needs, he’s got dirt on someone in a position to smooth his path.

Politicians, celebrities, religious leaders.”

“He’s been spying on these people?”

“The disc looks like a backup copy from Devlin’s laptop,” Ari

said. “It doesn’t just incriminate other players. There’s a whole Þ le of

Devlin’s activities, including pics. Don’t view it before a meal.”

Yoshi could understand why Devlin had wanted the CD back so

desperately he’d paid the likes of Joey Picarelli to recover it. “How did

it fall into Jeff’s hands?” she wondered aloud.

“Maybe Tyrone Hill was trying to get himself an insurance policy,”

Ari said. “He could have stumbled onto it, or maybe Devlin was using

it against him and Tyrone got a hold of it to protect himself. Or Devlin

was going to threaten Jeff. We might never know.”

“Did anything on it tie Devlin to Jeff’s killing?”

Ari shook his head. “For that, you’ll need get Devlin running off

at the mouth.”

Yoshi nodded. That seemed like a possibility.

• 228 •

BLIND LEAP

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Yoshi Yakamota.” Chase Devlin pulled her hand into a

shake. “It’s so good to see you again.” His clammy hand

and the tenor of his voice belied his words. “Please, have a seat.” He

accompanied her to the chair she’d sat in on her previous visit, then

settled into his own. “What brings you by?”

“I can’t help but notice Simon is not joining us,” Yoshi said,

playing a hunch.

“Well…” For once Devlin seemed to struggle for words. “You’re

right, Miss Yakamoto. This is Gregor.”

A low rumble of a voice came from behind Devlin’s desk. “Pleased

to meet you.”

Judging by Gregor’s accent and his Scottish name, Yoshi pegged

the bodyguard as hailing from the Mid-Atlantic, probably directly from

New York City, which had one of the largest populations of Scots.

“I hope Simon is not sick.”

“Simon is no longer with us.”

“Oh, my God.” Yoshi made a shocked face. “You had him

killed?”

“No.” Delvin sneered. “I had to let him go.”

“Oh, that is a shame. Can you tell me how to get in touch with

him?”

“Why?” Devlin sounded belligerent and defensive. A lovely

combination in a man.

Yoshi was pleased at his irritation. She was going to break him.

“Why not? I may be in the market for a bodyguard,” she said

innocently. “Particularly one with Simon’s skill set. Let’s see—breaking

and entering, theft, assault, kidnapping.” She paused for effect. “Oh

yes, and murder.”

• 229 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Gregor, would you mind waiting outside?”

“Yes, sir.”

Devlin waited until the door closed before speaking. “I don’t

know where you get your information, Ms. Yakamota, but I can assure

you that if my former employee was involved in some kind of criminal

activity, it was unbeknownst to me.”

Yoshi snorted. “Listen, Mr. Devlin, I know I am being a little

blunt, but I see no reason to waste time pretending I do not know what

I know. You are not as innocent as you would like others to believe.

Please reserve your performance for your courtroom audience. It is

wasted on me.”

“Why are you here? What do you really want?”

“Actually, I am here about something you want.”

“Oh?” Devlin was doubtful. “And what would that be?”

Yoshi reached into her purse and retrieved an unmarked CD jewel

case. She waved it languorously.

“What’s that supposed to be?” He laughed, sounding genuinely

relieved.

“Something you never intended to give away. Something you went

to a whole lot of trouble to get back. Something worth… killing for.”

“You’re mistaken.”

“No. You are. You must have been relieved when Simon made

it back. Sure, you had to worry about bad, bad Joey Picarelli spilling

his guts, but you had something on him that bought you his silence.

And Simon assured you that you no longer had to worry about that

incriminating material falling into the wrong hands. Unfortunately for

Simon, he did not realize that meant he had become expendable. He

was too easily traced to you and he knew both your password and how

to decipher your encryption. He probably never realized how dangerous

that knowledge was.”

She waited for an outburst or the sounds of a man breathing

unevenly. Chase Devlin was so silent he could only be sitting rigidly,

forcing himself to remain calm.

“I am interested,” she said in a pleasant tone. “Did you retire

Simon yourself or make Gregor do the dirty work? You don’t seem like

the type to get your hands bloody.”

Devlin did not bother to answer her question. “Let’s pretend your

crazy theory is right.”

“No, let’s pretend you are writing a book titled If I Did It. ”

• 230 •

BLIND LEAP

“I don’t think so. If you intend to blackmail me with that”—Yoshi

assumed he was pointing at the disputed CD—“you’ll need to convince

me that what you say on it is on it.”

“All right. Let’s see, does Captain Blackdong ring a bell?”

Devlin was dumbstruck. She wondered if his face had lost color.

“I—I. Uh, of course it does, that’s one of my titles.”

“Sure that’s all it is?”

Like a jack-in-the-box, Devlin sprang out and snatched the disc

from Yoshi’s hand. She heard him fussing with the jewel case. He

cracked it open and shoved it in his computer.

“See,” she said, hoping to conceal the triumphant smile she felt

pulling at the edges of her mouth.

Devlin typed in his password.

“I don’t know if he told you this, but Simon dropped the laptop,”

Yoshi said. “To be fair, he foresaw the police ambush a little late and

needed both hands to take me hostage. And he did make it up to you,

grabbing the computer like that and pulling it with us into the Bay.

Brilliant. Except when the laptop hit the beams of the pier, the force

knocked the CD loose. It’s rather amusing if you think about it.”

Devlin was opening one of the disc Þ les. Back at the Blind Eye

ofÞ ce, Bud and Tucker would be glued to the computer screen, waiting

anxiously to see if they got lucky.

Detective Fleishman had personally come by the Blind Eye

ofÞ ce yesterday to inform her that the DA was not pushing forward

on indicting Chase Devlin. They were hesitant to publicly reveal the

“politically sensitive” contents of Devlin’s disc, and they insisted that

there was simply not enough physical evidence to tie Devlin to the

crimes committed on his behalf. A judge said they didn’t even have

enough for a search warrant. They had enough to charge Joey Picarelli

with kidnapping and assault charges relating to Tucker’s attack. The

DA had offered Picarelli a reduced sentence if he would Þ nger Devlin,

but Picarelli’s lawyer—hired, incidentally, by Chase Devlin—advised

him against taking it.

They had hoped to tie Simon, who they were certain had been

the other kidnapper, to Jeff through the watch, which had yielded

DNA from Simon and Jeff, but Simon could not be found. He had

disappeared. Either he was on a beach in Mexico drinking cocktails on

Devlin’s dime or, more likely, his body was decomposing somewhere

in the bay.

• 231 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

Ari Fleishman had been frustrated, to say the least. Like a lot of

good cops, he wanted justice. But he wouldn’t break the rules to get

it. The rules said he couldn’t search Devlin’s ofÞ ce without probable

cause. He couldn’t turn Yoshi into an agent of the law and charge

her with getting the information he legally could not. But there was

nothing in the rules that said he couldn’t introduce the detective agency

to Nebraska or for Nebraska to do some outside consulting, explaining

how a certain program worked.

Right now, while Devlin was verifying the contents on his disc,

he had unleashed a friendly spyware virus that would allow Blind Eye

access to Devlin’s computer to browse through Devlin’s Þ les. Being

good citizens, if Blind Eye investigators stumbled upon any evidence

of criminal activity, they would report it to the relevant law enforcement

ofÞ ce.

Yoshi sat in Devlin’s ofÞ ce with a demure smile on her face, ready

to trick Devlin into revealing his secrets. She still had a few tricks up

her sleeve.

“Did you Þ nd what you were looking for?” she asked

nonchalantly.

Devlin shifted in his chair. “Let’s say this is what you think it is.

Why bring it to me?”

“Should I have taken it to someone else? If you think someone

else would pay more…”

“Pay?”

“Of course. This is a business proposal, after all.”

“And why would I pay you?”

Yoshi affected a laugh. “You’re joking, right? We’ve both seen

what is on that disc. And you were willing to kill for it, after all.” She

chuckled. “Of course, we both know I need not worry about that.”

“Oh? What’s to prevent me from killing you? I know you don’t

have a copy of the information on this disc. It’s protected. You’re the

last person who can tie this to me. I could kill you—”

“Oh, of course you could.” Yoshi acted like she was talking to a

silly child. “You are a big boy. But we both know you do not have the

guts to do that kind of thing yourself. I’m sure Conant’s murder made

you look tough to your friends, but you and I know the real story. You

never intended for Beavis and Butthead there to kill anyone. They were

just supposed to scare Conant, weren’t they? Get him to give up the

• 232 •

BLIND LEAP

disc? Only he didn’t know he had it. That is ironic, eh? They could

have tortured him all night and he could not have told them what you

wanted.”

Yoshi tapped the side of her head. “Nothing upstairs. Which

smart-ass had the brilliant idea of hanging him over the bridge? I would

put my money on Simon. You were right to have him killed for that.

The police would have had him dead to rights. They were just waiting

for the DNA to come back on the watch they recovered and”—Yoshi

leaned forward over his desk like he was her conÞ dant—“they were

caught on Þ lm.”

Devlin’s breathing had suddenly changed. It was subtle, but Yoshi

was certain she had found a chink in his armor. “Oh, yes, the whole

sordid incident. Turns out this documentary Þ lmmaker John Harden

has been Þ lming the bridge for nine months.” She shook her head.

“Can you imagine? I understand that the police are working to enhance

certain elements—like the vehicle license plate. For your sake, I hope

you buried Simon in that SUV. You know, so it won’t be traced back

to you. As your new business partner, I think I should take over hiring

security.”

“We’re not partners, and I am not going to pay you shit.” He stood

up. “I think you should leave.”

“It is so cute that you think that. Maybe I should not have used the

word ‘partners.’ Let me make it clear to you. You are going to pay me

Þ fty thousand dollars and give me a share of the proÞ ts from your little

side business. If you refuse, then I will go to the police and you can play

Captain Whitedong in prison.”

He stepped around the desk toward her. “What do you think you’re

going to take me down for?”

“Killing Jeff Conant, and probably killing Simon, too, when we

Þ nd his body.”.

“Make up your mind. I thought you said I didn’t get my own hands

dirty.”

That was true, but the wheels in Yoshi’s head were turning. She did

not know where they were going. Until that became clear, she needed

to stall. She pushed back her chair. “Are you wearing a watch, by any

chance?”

“Why?”

“Can I examine it?” She strode toward him.

• 233 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

He stepped back. “Look, you crazy bitch, I don’t have time for

your fucking mind games. Leave now or I’ll have Gregor escort you

out.”

“Give me your watch and I will leave.”

“No way. I’m not falling for that. Get out before I call the

police.”

Yoshi smiled. “Please do. In fact,” she pulled out her cell, “I’ll call

for you.” She ß ipped it open. “It’s still nine-one-one, isn’t it?”

“Put it down.” The menace in his voice sent a shiver down her

spine. He yanked open a desk drawer.

She punched in Nine and searched with her Þ ngertips for One.

He dug in the desk. Something metal clanked against the drawer.

She Þ nished dialing, pressed Send, dropped the phone, and raised

her hands at shoulder height, palms facing out. She wanted to keep

them close to her chest. “I should really be going,” she said. “I think I

am late for a meeting. That is why I asked if you had a watch, I wanted

to know what time it is.”

“Liar,” he spat at her. “You know.”

“What do I know?” she asked, hoping he would spell it out.

“Stop playing games.”

But I like games, she thought. Let’s play cat and mouse. Or was it

pig and rat?

“When did you Þ gure it out?”

“Oh, I admit you had me for a while. I really bought the Simon

diversion. But it was you on the pier that night.”

“No. That really was Simon.”

“You borrowed his watch.”

“Yes, earlier that morning. I couldn’t Þ nd mine. I’d looked

everywhere. I needed to be sure what time it was.”

“It was perfect, because Tucker managed to see Simon’s wrists

when he took off her blindfold. So when she found the watch on the

bridge, we all thought it was his.”

“What gave it away?”

“You reacted to my mention of DNA. I started to think about

the watch. Gold, ß ashy, expensive. Not the kind of accoutrement a

bodyguard would usually wear.”

“Smart thinking. That’s the kind of thinking that gets broads like

you killed.”

• 234 •

BLIND LEAP

“Can I ask you a question? Was it an accident? Were you just

trying to scare Jeff?”

“Hmm.” Devlin was quiet, as though considering his motivation.

“I don’t know, maybe at Þ rst. But when he still wouldn’t give, I knew

he had to go.”

Yoshi swallowed. The more freely he spoke, the more likely it was

he didn’t plan to let her leave his ofÞ ce alive. “But he didn’t know he

had it.”

“You know, that thought never occurred to me until the memorial

service,” Devlin admitted. “One of his coworkers said something about

him taking screeners home to watch. Then I knew. But you got to it

before I could.”

“How did it come to be in his possession?” Yoshi asked.

“Tyrone forgot himself. He thought he could control me.”

“Was he blackmailing you?”

“Oh, please. Do you think he’s smart enough for that? He couldn’t

even think of a smart place to hide it. All along I thought Jeff was in on

it. Shit happens.”

Yoshi heard light footsteps in the hallway outside Devlin’s door.

She tried to act nonchalant. “When did you know Simon had to die?”

There was a sharp noise in the hall. She dove toward the ß oor as

the door splintered open. Having misjudged the distance to the ß oor,

she slammed down hard and cried out. Her whimper was lost behind

the rush of heavy-booted feet, the smell of leather, sweat, and gun oil.

Shouting rang out.

“Put it down. Don’t do it, Devlin!”

Shots Þ red, echoing in the room. Hands pulling her up, running

across her chest, her back, her legs.

Someone repeated, “Are you hurt? Are you hurt?”

Stumbling to keep her footing, Yoshi pulled at the buttons of her

striped dress shirt. “Was Devlin shot?”

“He was, but he’ll live.” Ari Fleishman reached in her open shirt.

“You’ll feel tugging,” he said as he yanked the tape from her skin.

She yelped when it pulled all the Þ ne hairs from just below her bra

line. It was a huge relief to have the recording device off. Yoshi didn’t

even mind if she was walking around her bra showing. She was slapped

on the shoulders again.

“Nice work. You really got him.” It was one of the female police

• 235 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

ofÞ cers congratulating her this time. “He said more than enough for a

search warrant.”

Ari slapped her hand and joked, “You ever think of becoming a

PI?”

It took another twenty minutes to get clear of the scene and make

her way to the foyer of the building.

“Yoshi!”

As footsteps strode toward her, she braced herself for Velvet’s

embrace. Velvet wrapped her arms around Yoshi and held her for a

long time.

When Yoshi started to squirm, Velvet whispered in her ear, “Thank

you.” Then taking her hand and pulling her into the late-December air,

she added more loudly this time, “I knew I could count on you.”

• 236 •

BLIND LEAP

EPILOGUE

New Year’s Eve

Velvet walked into Mecca feeling almost like a brand-new

person. The depression she’d battled through the holidays

was Þ nally lifting, thanks in large part to the Blind Eye team and,

of course, a prescription for Celexa from her shrink. She was back

at work on a juicy investigative article: kids missing from an ex-gay

program north of the city. And she and Tucker had Þ nally come clean

with each other. Well, it was she who had to come clean, about Davina.

But Tucker ’fessed up some things, too, mostly about her childhood

and the issues the kidnapping brought up for her.

She spotted Yoshi and Tucker and practically ran toward them.

“Vel!” Tucker was the Þ rst to embrace her.

“Happy New Year, both of you,” Velvet said, trying to be heard

above the clatter of the rest of the room. It was good to be back in the

land of the waking.

AJ arrived with a hottie named Maria. Velvet had almost forgotten

that AJ and Yoshi had decided they would be friends instead of lovers.

She’d been so wrapped up in her own head for weeks now…or was it

actually months?

“Where’s Bud?” Tucker sounded genuinely disappointed.

“Oh, you know Bud.” Yoshi consoled her. “He’s not one for social

gatherings. He’s probably at home with a bottle of gin, watching old

episodes of Ironside.”

Velvet interjected, “Hey, I loved Ironside.”

“Is there anything on TV you don’t love?” Yoshi was genuinely

curious.

• 237 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

“Survivor. I don’t need to watch people eat rats and Þ ght over

shelter. Okay, so let’s talk New Year’s resolutions.”

AJ went Þ rst. “I’m gonna get to know this breezy on my arm.”

She smiled at Maria, who positively beamed in reply. “And I’m taking

a new job.”

“You are? Where?” Yoshi sounded perplexed.

“Wit’ you.”

“You’re accepting my offer? You’ll join Blind Eye? What led you

to that decision?”

“When I looked at Tyrone at the hospital after they got him stable.

I realized all I wanted to do was help him kick his addiction. As a cop,

all I’d get to do was arrest him or maybe turn him into a snitch and use

him to make a bigger bust. I’d like to experience helping people instead

of arresting them.”

“That is wonderful, AJ. Welcome aboard.”

Everyone foisted hugs on AJ, and now it was Tucker’s time to

beam. She and AJ had become fast friends in the last two months, and

knowing she’d be a Þ xture in her life next year made her recognizably

jubilant.

Tucker was jumping out of her seat at this point. “I’m so excited.

My resolution is to see a shrink so Velvet gets off my back about the

whole post-traumatic stress disorder thing. Geesh, I just got kidnapped

once. And…I’m also going to get back on my bike and do the AIDS

/LifeCycle ride this year. And…” She paused. “I’m going to make an

honest woman of Velvet.”

Velvet smiled. “We’re moving in together.”

She thought she caught a wink from Yoshi, something she hadn’t

seen in years. Yoshi actually approved. Velvet felt at peace with the

decision, a far cry from the usual trapped feeling she got when she

made any sort of romantic commitment.

AJ turned to her new boss and spoke proudly. “Before you spill it,

boss lady, the three of us have a little gift for you. It’s kind of a thank

you for everything.”

Maria pulled out a large square box from her oversize fuchsia tote

and handed it to AJ with a knowing grin. AJ put it rather gingerly into

Yoshi’s open arms.

“What is it?” Yoshi asked, not moving.

“Open it!” all four women chimed in.

• 238 •

BLIND LEAP

Yoshi tore open the box, getting a little help from Tucker with

the heavy tape and the enormous inner Styrofoam squares. She pulled

out what looked like some sort of mysterious black plastic electrical

equipment. Yoshi moved her Þ ngers for a moment over the raised

plastic parts and then looked up, puzzled.

“Surprise!” Tucker exclaimed. “Do you know what it is?”

Yoshi was reticent. “I’m not certain.”

“It’s a PowerBraille Display Unit.” Tucker was triumphant as she

read directly from the outer box. “It translates what’s on the computer

screen into Braille so you can now surf the Web and read e-mails

yourself.”

Yoshi smiled broadly. “Color me very grateful. This must have

cost a fortune.”

“We split the cost. Even Bud chipped in,” Tucker effused. “This

will make us a lot more efÞ cient now, too. Very PI-like of me, don’t

you think?”

“Very PI of you, Tuck.”

“Does it read porn?” Velvet brought the conversation back from

the realm of sappy, as usual.

As everyone chortled, no one actually answering her query,

she continued to wonder if there were ways to translate actual erotic

images into Braille. Probably not.

“Okay,” Yoshi said, still ß ush with appreciation. “My new

resolution is to learn how to use this thing. I have a feeling it may just

change my life.”

“Speaking of life changes, I have one, too,” Velvet said.

“Me too,” AJ interjected. “You Þ rst.”

Velvet told everyone the news she had been sitting on. The board

of directors of Womyn, the lesbian magazine she’d founded with

Rosemary Finney so many years ago, before the court battles, before

Rosemary’s murder, had asked her to step back in and take the reins as

publisher and editor in chief. She was a bit terriÞ ed to be back at the

helm of a magazine, but she was thrilled, too. Womyn had always been

her baby and she was ready to start nurturing it again.

“I’ve decided to take the job after I Þ nish this story about the ex-

gay programming camp.”

“Wow, Velvet, that’s great,” Yoshi said.

Of all people, Velvet had let Yoshi know how much she’d suffered

• 239 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

after being torn from Womyn. She was glad Yoshi approved. It meant

leaving a plum job at the Chronicle for a lower salary, fewer beneÞ ts,

and longer workdays. But for Velvet it also meant reentry into the only

world that had ever felt truly, uniquely her domain.

“What will Marion think?” Yoshi asked the question Velvet was

dreading.

Marion Serif was another of her dear friends, and now she would

also be her closest competitor. She wanted to forge new territory as

competitors; she wanted to remain friends. But she was afraid Marion

wouldn’t want the same.

“I don’t know yet. I’m going to talk with her soon. So, enough

about me,” Velvet said, suddenly aware of the extra attention. “What’s

your news, AJ?”

“I don’t know how to go ’bout sayin’ this, so I’m just gonna come

out with it,” AJ said, in a way that made everyone know this was not

any sort of laughing matter. “I think I might not be a lesbian after all.”

Tucker giggled. “Right. ’Cause you’re straight? You almost had

us there!”

“Naw, y’all. I’m serious. I ain’t got no beef with dykes. I’m just

thinking I might be transgender. Ya know, more like these FTM trans

guys than other lesbians, even aggressives.”

“Whoa. Dude.” Tucker was wide-eyed.

Everyone else was silent for a moment. Velvet, who had sensed

the wheels turning for AJ in the last few months, was glad she was

broaching the subject of gender identity. Velvet had slept with her

share of studs and aggressives, terms black butch lesbians used to

identify themselves, and she’d never thought of AJ as one of them.

Velvet wanted to react positively before anyone lamented the lesbian

community’s loss of “another good butch,” a comment that seemed to

cut particularly to the bone when it was thrown about. San Francisco

seemed to be on the verge of a transgender moment. From literature

to activism to arts, suddenly trans folk were popping up all over

the place. Velvet supposed that for dykes who had never really felt

like women, they might Þ nd themselves reß ected more in the trans

experience.

“Congratulations, AJ.” Yoshi had beaten her to the punch. “I believe

that is in order? We are certainly honored that you feel comfortable

sharing this with us, as it can be such a difÞ cult decision to come to.”

• 240 •

BLIND LEAP

“Wow, that’s huge,” Velvet added. “What’s it mean for you?

Are you thinking the whole nine yards? Name change, testosterone,

surgery…”

“Whoa, there.” AJ smiled, pleased with the support. “I got a lot

more thinkin’ and investigating ’fore I know what’s right for me. I just

wanted to tell y’all. It’s a big thing and y’all like my dawgs.”

AJ held up her Þ st and Tucker raised hers to punch it. Velvet had

never been a Þ st puncher, so she’d leave this to the butches. Er, one

butch and one FTM? Oh, well, more proof this would take some getting

used to for all of them.

Tucker, who had been relatively quiet throughout, piped up

sounding like an eager eight-year-old. “Can we call you Pops now? Or

Puffy J?”

“Um, I think I’m gonna keep rollin’ with AJ if y’all don’t mind.”

“Okay, Papa J, whatever you say.”

Velvet excused herself to take a cell phone call. She could hear

Tucker pelting AJ with questions. God, please don’t let Tucker decide

to become a man. She was having a hard enough time dealing with this

whole monogamy thing, she didn’t want to add turning hetero on top

of it all.

“Hi, Stan, what’s up?” A call from her editor was not always a

good thing, so she awaited his reply cautiously.

“The paper just got word from the directors of the Golden Gate

Bridge, Highway and Transportation District,” he said. “They voted in

favor of accepting bids for a feasibility study.”

“Yeah? Oh. Oh, my God, that’s great news. Wozlawski, I could

have your baby right now!”

She asked Stan a few more questions, then practically sprinted

back into the main part of the bar. On four-inch Pucci cork platform

heels, it was no easy feat.

“Guess what!” Velvet demanded immediate attention. “That was

Stan the man Wozlawski, and there’s going to be a feasibility study for

the bridge barrier.”

Yoshi jumped to her feet. “Excellent. Do you know details?”

“Yeah, as long as bridge district funds aren’t used, the board

agreed to authorize a two-year study. And here’s the best part. This time

the bridge directors decided not to burden the feasibility study with the

requirement that any suicide barrier be foolproof.”

• 241 •

DIANE AND JACOB ANDERSON-MINSHALL

The group shared a toast and did some hooting and hollering,

except for Yoshi, who wasn’t the hooting type.

Velvet felt a sense of joy she hadn’t experienced since Jeff died.

She had closure. And she had a big undercover assignment, a new job,

and perhaps scariest of all, a live-in girlfriend. She also had the sense

that this coming year would be an interesting one for all of them.

• 242 •

Authors’ Note

On a September morning in 2000, a few days before his

birthday, Jacob received news that his brother-in-law Tom Sherwood

had committed suicide in Pocatello, Idaho. Two days later, a

Bannock County coroner ruled Tom’s death a homicide. The early

misidentiÞ cation hampered the investigation and the case remains

unsolved. Although his death was not a suicide, the deaths of others

close to the couple have been; most recently, Jacob’s cousin Jeremy.

Suicide’s victims—including the friends and family struggling in the

wake of these losses—weighed heavy on our minds while we were

writing Blind Leap.

Because this book touches on the issue of suicide, we want to

remind readers that outreach can mean the difference to a person

on the edge. If you or someone you know is in that lonely place, we

recommend Kate Bornstein’s wonderful tome Hello Cruel World:

101 Alternatives to Suicide For Teens, Freaks and Other Outsiders.

Or call the National Suicide Prevention Lifeline at (800) 273-TALK.

Somebody does care. Seriously. Step back from that ledge. The world

can’t afford to lose you.

About the Authors

Diane Anderson-Minshall is the executive editor of Curve

magazine, the country’s best-selling lesbian magazine. The cofounder

and former executive editor of Girlfriends magazine and the cofounder

and former editor/publisher of Alice magazine, Anderson-Minshall

focuses her writing primarily on lesbian life, popular culture, travel,

entertainment, and celebrities. Her works have appeared in Passport,

Film Threat, Utne Reader, Wine X, India Currents, Teenage, Bitch, Seventeen, American Forests, Femme Fatale, Diva, The Advocate, Fabula, Bust, Natural Health, Venus, and numerous newspapers.

Her essays have also appeared in Reading The L Word: Outing

Contemporary Television; Bitchfest: Ten Years of Cultural Criticism

from the Pages of Bitch Magazine; Body Outlaws; Closer to Home:

Bisexuality and Feminism; Young Wives Tales: New Adventures in Love

and Partnership; 50 Ways to Support Gay and Lesbian Equality; and

Tough Girls. Anderson-Minshall coedited the anthology Becoming:

Young Ideas on Gender, Race and Sexuality and coauthored Blind

Curves, the Þ rst in the Blind Eye mystery series. Diane was named

one of PowerUp’s 2006 Top Ten Amazing Women in Showbiz, for her

work with lesbian Þ lmmakers. And in her spare time, she performs

with a fat-girl burlesque troupe in Portland, Oregon, as Bang Bang

Betty and Dirty Diana.

Jacob Anderson-Minshall is a former park ranger and peace

ofÞ cer who now spends his days penning queer novels and riveting

essays on the politics of gender, disability, feminism, and popular

culture. He cofounded Girlfriends magazine and served as the

publication’s Þ rst director of circulation. Now the transgender writer’s

weekly syndicated column, TransNation, runs in LGBT publications

from San Francisco to Boston, and he is a frequent contributor to the

country’s best damn feminist publication, Bitch magazine. His work

appears in the forthcoming anthologies Trans People in Love and Men

Speak Out: Views on Gender, Sex, and Power.

Originally from Idaho, Jacob and Diane have lived in the San

Francisco Bay Area for Þ fteen years in the company of several fur

kids. They divide their time (not evenly, of course) between Idaho,

California, New Orleans, and their newest home in Portland, Oregon.

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Blind Faith

by

Diane and Jacob Anderson-Minshall

2008

Blind Faith

© 2008 By diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall. all rights

reserved.

isBn 10: 1-60282-041-4e

isBn 13: 978-1-60282-040-8e

This ElEcTronic Book is PuBlishEd By

Bold sTrokEs Books, inc.,

P.o. Box 249

VallEy Falls, ny 12185

FirsT EdiTion: dEcEmBEr 2008

This is a Work oF FicTion. namEs, characTErs, PlacEs, and

incidEnTs arE ThE ProducT oF ThE auThor’s imaGinaTion or

arE usEd FicTiTiously. any rEsEmBlancE To acTual PErsons,

liVinG or dEad, BusinEss EsTaBlishmEnTs, EVEnTs, or localEs

is EnTirEly coincidEnTal.

This Book, or ParTs ThErEoF, may noT BE rEProducEd in any

Form WiThouT PErmission.

credits

EdiTors: cindy crEsaP and sTacia sEaman

ProducTion dEsiGn: sTacia sEaman

coVEr dEsiGn By shEri (graphicartist2020@hotmail.com)

Acknowledgments

Whoever first coined the phrase “You can put lipstick on a pig but it’s

still a pig” probably never gave thought to the magic a great editor can

do. As pundits were debating that very phrase every night on the evening

news, we were able to escape the heated political battles and immerse

ourselves in the alarming world of ex-gay therapy. For a change, to talk

with women and men who suffered the indignities of reparative therapy

was really an eye-opening event. Our first thanks go to our parental

units, who love us for who we are, not who we could be: Marlene Foss

and Keith Anderson Sr., Luanne Anderson, Paula Hernandez, and Judy

and Wayne Minshall. Our many thanks to Jennifer Knight, our tireless

editor, who deals with our TV-centric minds and puts the reins on our

penchant for packing in too many storylines and giving characters

completely illogical names. Also, thanks go to Len Barot, for believing

in us as authors, and to the folks on our BSB team (especially JLee

Meyer, Cheryl Craig, Lori Anderson, Connie Ward, Lee Lynch, and

so many more that we’re forgetting now). Thanks to the fans who’ve

been with us from the beginning (hi, Mom!) and the readers who’ve

discovered us along the way. Props go out, too, to our photographer

Kina Williams, the entire Curve magazine team, Jake’s colleagues at

KBOO/Gender Blender and TransNation, Diane’s peeps on B6, our

tireless supporters at GayWired.com, Bitch and Bay Times, and, most

of all, to you, dear readers, for picking up this book and actually caring

enough to read this acknowledgement. We love you most of all.

Dedication

For Del Martin and Phyllis Lyon. May our marriage be as long and

happy and loving as yours. We’re certainly trying. And to our sibs—

Tanya, Keith, Wendy, Michelle, Jennye. You each deserve a book

dedication of your own, but who knows if we’ll ever get another one,

so just to be sure, this book is dedicated to all of you. We can’t wait to

see what new chapters of your own lives you’ll write next.

This book is also in honor of the thousands of LGBT kids and adults

forced to try to change who they are in the name of God. If there’s

one message in this wacky murder mystery, we hope that it’s about

acceptance and understanding. For every religious zealot that wants

you to change, there’s another Christian or Muslim or Jew or Buddhist

who is preaching tolerance and love. Leave your church and find one

that will accept you exactly as you are.

Blind Faith

chapter one

Mid April

Seventeen-year-old Isabelle Sanchez’s body was bent nearly in

half. She was doubled over, her long hair draped over the silver trash

can she was clutching with both hands. As another wave of nausea

crashed down on her, heaves rippled through her and bile burned the

back of her throat.

Although Isabelle was no longer focusing on the big screen at the

front of the room, the cinematic images flickering across it sent flashes

of light into the darkness around her. She heard a woman moan and

shivered. Goose pimples speckled what Dom had once called her dulce

de leche skin. Isabelle thought about Dominique, the way the girl’s dark

eyes captivated her when they were together. Even though it was just a

memory, she could practically smell Dom’s musky scent and her body

responded, dampening the delicate pink panties she was now forced to

wear under the unsightly knee-length skirt. These garments were not

her choice. She preferred cotton boy-cut briefs, but like a lot of things

these days, she didn’t have much choice in the matter.

She glanced up at the screen where two women were having sex—

their naked bodies crashing against each other, eyes closed and heads

thrown back as they took turns making each other orgasm. Damn it.

She was now nauseous and horny. What the fuck was wrong with her?

She didn’t even like porn.

The image in front of her blurred, the room spun and Isabelle puked.

She wiped her mouth with the tissues provided. This was apparently all

part of the treatment. They wanted her to throw up. Why wasn’t the

• 11 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

fucking therapy working? She’d been stuck here in this kiddie prison

for months on end. Long enough to figure out that the pill she took

after lunch, the one the counselor insisted she take exactly ten minutes

before going into the viewing room, was what really made her sick. It

was meant to. This therapy was supposed to keep her from getting hot

for other girls. But it hadn’t changed a fucking thing. She’d gotten to

the point where she wanted the treatment to work. She couldn’t take it

for much longer.

Dom had abandoned her five months ago, vanishing from Pioneer

back in November, and if she couldn’t be with Dom, Isabelle didn’t care

if she was a dyke anymore. She didn’t want some other girl. Without

Dom nothing mattered. They might as well make her a breeder. At least

her father would be happy. A few weeks ago, Pioneer Institute added

electroshock to her treatment. Isabelle hoped it would work—and soon.

No wonder Dom ran away. But why hadn’t she taken Isabelle with her?

Why had Dom abandoned her?

The film reached the end of spool and the screen went blank,

shining more light into the room. One of the counselors would come

soon to usher Isabelle back to the dorms where she could rest until

the full effects of the drug wore off. She hoped her escort was Miss

Dix today. She was the coolest Pioneer peep hands down. There was

something in Aimee Dix’s eyes that made Isabelle feel like the woman

cared. Maybe she even felt bad for the kids whose parents sent them to

Pioneer.

Isabelle would never forget the day she was dragged in, literally

kicking and screaming. As soon as they’d driven through the gates and

she saw the razor wire curling above the fence, she’d known she didn’t

want to be here. When the family attorney pulled her out of the car,

she’d kicked him in the shins a couple of times. She could feel the

corners of her lips curl into a faint smile just thinking about it. Her

Doc Martens must have left serious bruises. Served that fucker right,

tricking her into coming here. He’d told her he was paid by her parents.

They wanted her at Pioneer. Did that mean papi actually wanted her

back? Isabelle conjured up an image of her father, House Representative

Javier Sanchez, standing in front of a podium with his second wife,

Bridget by his side. He was always campaigning, a fake smile on his

face while meaningless politico-speech streamed out of his mouth.

He’d probably left Isabelle’s mother for political reasons, replacing her

• 12 •

Blind Faith

with that power-hungry Republican bitch when Isabelle was ten. One of

his campaign advisors probably had statistics showing a WASPy wife

would bring more votes. Javier was light skinned and non-threatening.

Like Isabelle, her mother had darker roots, the kind that didn’t bleach

away. She would always blame Bridget for her mother’s death just

months later, and for the loss of her mother’s extended familia. Isabelle

hadn’t seen them for so long they probably wouldn’t know her.

Two years ago, when she was fifteen, she came out to her father

and he exploded, threatening to lock her in her room until she’d gotten

over the crazy notion that she was a pervert. The next day, while he

and Bridget were away, Isabelle bolted, leaving their Texas home and

drifting westward. She ended up in LA where she’d lived on the streets,

adopted by a gang of Chicana trans girls who turned tricks and injected

silicone at pumping parties in the San Fernando Valley. They taught

her not just how to survive on the street but how to walk in heels,

milk men for money, and work every single one of her Goddess-given

assets. Somehow giving strangers blowjobs was worth the freedom it

afforded her and the T-girls told her it was easier for lesbians to do

sex work since they weren’t looking for love from every dude on the

street. Isabelle could see that, though she doubted turning tricks was

fun for any woman. But Isabelle had gotten picked up in a sting and

charged with prostitution six months ago. It turned out the john she’d

been busted with was some kind of quasi-famous reality TV star, and

the story was quickly plastered on tabloids across the country. Isabelle

thought the media leak was probably engineered by the guy’s publicist

after discovering that Isabelle wasn’t one of the bionic girls that usually

frequented the strip where they were busted. Big Brother sex scandal

indeed.

Isabelle could imagine Representative Sanchez’s face going

crimson with rage and embarrassment when he realized the working

girl splayed across the covers of those sleazy papers he so derided was

his daughter. If the press had made the connection it would have ruined

him. And she’d probably be dead now instead of just locked up until

someone could cure her lesbianism and turn her straight. Luckily for

her, she hadn’t used her real name when she was arrested and she didn’t

have any identification documents on her. She didn’t call her father for

help, not even after she’d been in jail for a week. She knew he wouldn’t

come. He could have found her at any point, if he’d wanted. But he and

• 13 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

the stepmonster didn’t care if she’d died on the streets. It would have

been politically expedient, in fact, if she had.

So it had taken her completely by surprise when their lawyer,

Mr. Ibsen, suddenly showed up and bailed her out. She was even more

surprised to learn that papi had sent him to bring her home. Then the

rat bastard brought her to the Pioneer Institute instead and here she was

puking through porn, moping quietly over Dominique, and realizing she

wouldn’t get out of here unless the goddamn therapy worked soon.

Clatter in the hallway yanked Isabelle back to the present. What

was taking so long? Miss Dix should have been here by now. The

clamor outside the treatment room was getting louder. Someone was

shouting. Isabelle stood up cautiously, checking her balance. The

effects of the medication seemed to be wearing off. She moved to the

door and gradually turned the knob. It was unlocked so she inched it

open. Immediately, a rumbling shook the floor beneath her like a herd

of cattle was stampeding down the hallway.

Isabelle flung open the door, dipped her head around the jamb, and

found herself looking down the barrel of a gun. A group of men rushed

toward her at full speed, dressed head to toe in black riot gear marked

SWAT, heavy artillery at the ready. Ever hopeful, Isabelle wondered if

they were shutting this godforsaken place down.

“Get back! Get back!” an officer barked, motioning her back into

the dark viewing room . Sweet Virgin Mary. Isabelle complied, shutting

the door and instinctually crossing herself. Holy Mother of God, what

was happening? She crossed her fingers and prayed she was being

rescued.

v

Aneko Takahashi’s hand shook, causing the barrel of the nine-

millimeter Beretta to stutter across the man’s cheek, leaving a crimson

dimple. Good. She hoped it stung. He deserved it. Time seemed to be

passing in slow motion, as though she were in a dream. She watched

a bead of sweat slide from the man’s hairpiece, roll slowly down his

temple and under the arm of ebony glasses with lenses so thick they

made his eyes bulge like a goldfish’s. The droplet settled near his right

earlobe where it irrigated a thicket of bushy, oily sideburns. She was

certain that trickle of perspiration meant something significant. Could

• 14 •

Blind Faith

it be a physiological indication of dishonesty? Aneko wished she could

hook the bastard up to a lie detector machine before reiterating her

questions.

“Where is my sister? Where is Saya?” she demanded, shouting the

mantra she’d repeated a dozen times already. This time she pronounced

her words slowly, rolling each consonant around in her mouth and

pressing the gun deeper into Dr. Barnabas Gage’s flesh to underscore

the urgency of her question.

“I’ve already told you, Miss Takahashi,” he said in a slow,

patronizing drawl that sounded like it belonged on the Mississippi gulf

coast rather than in Northern California. “Your sister ran away with

another student. I know nothing more than that.”

Aneko’s every instinct told her Dr. Barnabas Gage was lying. She

was absolutely convinced that something disturbing lurked beneath the

cultured veneer of the Pioneer Institute and its creepy administrator.

Although she could only speculate on the details, she feared the school

was responsible for Saya’s disappearance. Perhaps Dr. Barnabas had

imprisoned Saya in a religious torture chamber, or convinced Aneko’s

parents to send Saya elsewhere, to some place even worse than this

one. As she ticked through potential scenarios, Aneko held herself

back from imaging the worst. She refused to consider that Saya might

be dead.

While she wanted to blame the man in front of her for her sister’s

absence, she worried that maybe this was all her fault. After all, it was

she who’d abandoned Saya, leaving her to face their family alone. Aneko

couldn’t have known Saya would follow in her footsteps, coming out

as a lesbian and having the same audacity to tell their parents. Coming

out was never easy. Coming out in restrictive Asian American families

could be fraught with even more complexity. Aneko had ripped their

family apart by bringing her lesbianism into the public sphere. She’d

been banished for disgracing their name and the psychological baggage

around her traumatic coming out had bogged her down for years.

In that time, Saya had fallen by the wayside, left with no support

and the knowledge that sharing her identity with her closest kin could

cost her everything. Yet she’d fallen in love with another girl and

announced the fact to their parents. Saya had always been the brave

one. Aneko felt guilty about not being there when Saya needed her. She

• 15 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

hoped to God that she was not too late. If she failed to locate Saya she

would never forgive herself. Never.

“For the last time,” she shouted, cocking the gun so the meaty,

sweaty doctor could hear his minutes ticking away. “Where is my

sister?”

Dr. Barnabas seemed suddenly blithe, the pall of his skin

brightening. He looked almost hopeful. What had changed? Was he

finally ready to reveal the truth? Aneko had been trying to get this guy

to tell her where her sister was for two months. He was more and more

edgy at each meeting, like a nervous finch about to crash into a sliding

glass door. This time he seemed close to cracking, but perhaps that was

just wishful thinking. His nervousness had suddenly gone and she saw

a taunt in his eyes: I know something you don’t know.

There was a lot that Aneko didn’t know. She hadn’t even known

Saya had been banished to the Pioneer Institute until Velvet Erickson

showed up at her door. The reporter was investigating the institute for

a San Francisco Chronicle article. She’d told Aneko about reports of

several missing kids. The families had been uncooperative and by the

time she reached Aneko, Velvet was fresh out of leads and seemed to

be losing interest in the story. Saya’s trail had gone cold, and Velvet had

hinted that Barnabas Gage was a major roadblock in the investigation

and seemed to know more than he was saying. Aneko was determined

not to leave before she discovered exactly what it was Dr. Barnabas

was hiding.

She had to make him tell her. The cold steel of the gun barrel

against his temple wasn’t the incentive she’d hoped for. Clearly, Dr.

Barnabas did not believe she could kill him. He was probably correct

in his judgment; her conscience offered an environment rather hostile

to homicidal impulses. Still, Dr. Barnabas had underestimated her. She

might not be capable of murder, but she was quite willing to do him

great harm. Aneko slid the barrel away from his temple and took aim

at his right knee. She flipped the safety off with her thumb, the way

the trainer at the gun range had shown her. Settling into her shooting

stance, she braced herself for the gun’s recoil. Her index finger curled

around the crescent moon.

It took a surprising amount of force to pull the metal back far enough

to fire the weapon. She applied more pressure and was rewarded with

movement in the trigger. It inched slowly backward just as she heard

• 16 •

Blind Faith

a din in the vestibule outside, the march of feet rapidly approaching.

The door to Dr. Barnabas’s office was rammed with such force the

floorboards shook. Wood splintered and screws turned projectile as the

door was ripped off its hinges.

A gruff voice shouted, “Drop the weapon!” and an avalanche of

armed men descended, their weapons aimed at her head.

“Drop the weapon, Aneko.” She recognized the voice of Dakota

Manning, the female police officer who’d spoken with her about her

sister’s missing person case. Dakota had been frank with her, explaining

that Fremont’s police department did not have the resources to devote

manpower to every reported runaway or missing person. But she’d at

least created a file and posted Saya’s information in the National Crime

Information Center’s vast database.

Dakota repeated her demand forcefully, and her voice seemed to

cut through the fog Aneko was in. As she got her bearings, it dawned on

her exactly what she was doing: threatening a man’s life, at gunpoint,

in broad daylight. Cops swarmed toward her. If this didn’t cost Aneko

her life, it would surely cost everything else that mattered: her job,

perhaps even her freedom. She’d never live this kind of thing down.

Losing her job, going to prison, the shame of it would be too much to

bear. Her life was over. Perhaps it was better to die here, in this room.

Aneko could suddenly understand why people chose so-called “suicide

by cop.” She wouldn’t even have to do anything. If she didn’t put the

gun down they would shoot to kill. She would not have to live through

a trial and witness her parents telling reporters what a disappointment

she’d always been.

“Aneko, please don’t do this,” Dakota pleaded as though reading

her thoughts. “Think about your sister. You’d never see her again. Think

about what a terrible burden it would be to her if you died here. Saya

would blame herself, Aneko. Do you want that?”

She would never see Saya again. She couldn’t do that, could she?

Dakota was right. She had to live. She had to find her sister. This was

about Saya.

Although her grip on the gun had begun to falter, Aneko found

her voice again. “He’s hiding information. He knows more about my

sister’s disappearance, I can feel it. Maybe he’s done something terrible

to her. Why else won’t he tell me what he knows?”

“Aneko. This does nothing for your cause. If Dr. Gage is involved

• 17 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

in Saya’s disappearance, he will have to face the consequences.” She

took a step closer. “Saya needs you. She needs you to help find her.

Drop the weapon. Please. ”

Aneko relented. “Promise? You have to promise to find my

sister.”

She set the gun down on the desk in front of her, her shoulders

slumping in acquiescence. SWAT members immediately rushed her,

pressing her face down on the floor while yanking her arms back and

cuffing them behind her. As she was led to one of the many police units

parked in Pioneer’s front parking lot, she stole a glance at Dr. Barnabas.

This time the smug bastard actually smirked.

v

As Aneko Takahashi was led away the adrenaline rush from the

hostage situation drained, leaving Dakota crashing as though she was

coming off a sugar high. She felt the tiredness seep into her bones and

settle there, the way it seemed to do more and more often when she

witnessed a travesty of justice. Why did it have to come to this?

Aneko turned her head and Dakota expected their eyes to meet.

Ready to silently convey pity through that connection, she was surprised

when it never happened. Aneko wasn’t looking at her. Dakota followed

the young woman’s piercing stare and saw the smirk that distorted Dr.

Barnabas Gage’s face. That bastard. Dakota was positive the son of a

bitch knew more than he’d admit about Aneko’s missing sister and the

other runaway girl, Dominique Marxley.

Dr. Gage wanted so desperately to be a celebrity psychologist on

par with Dr. Phil that he insisted on the moniker “Dr. Barnabas,” even

though he wasn’t a doctor of any sort. He did hold a PhD, but in theology,

not psychology. Dakota knew a few other noteworthy tidbits about the

illustrious Dr. Barnabas, having taken the call last fall when Pioneer

reported two of its students had run away. She’d been suspicious from

the start when she heard the girls had already been missing for three

days before the school bothered to report their absences.

Sure, it was true that adults had to be gone for seventy-two hours

before they could be considered missing, but with minors the rules

were different, and for good reason. Every hour they were missing was

an opportunity for them to get farther away or fall victim to a predator.

• 18 •

Blind Faith

And even though the police didn’t have the man-hours to track down

every teenage runaway, time was still of the essence. The sooner they

entered the kids’ stats in the National Crime Information Center, or

NCIC, the better the chance that they would be located alive.

Although she could not prove it, Dakota was certain that Barnabas

Gage had delayed making the missing persons’ report on purpose. She

wasn’t sure what his motive could be. Maybe he just didn’t want to

admit to the parents that, despite the school’s hi-tech security systems

and razor sharp fencing, Pioneer could not keep, cure, or even contain

it’s LGBT students.

She remembered the first time she drove through Pioneer’s gates.

With its razor wire and grim buildings, it looked more like a high security

prison than a residential program for troubled teens. The institute was

located on the industrial row of Fremont’s Peralta Boulevard where it

would have blended into the other featureless buildings if not for the

fence and oppressive gates. These were fashioned from thick metal bars

spaced so close together Dakota’s fist would not have fit between them.

Each was topped with spikes so medieval looking they seemed best

suited for displaying the heads of one’s enemies.

She’d pressed the crackling intercom box and asked for entry.

There was no verbal response. Movement caught her eye and Dakota

spotted the security camera. She showed it her badge and made a

number of euphemistic hand gestures. In response, the hulking gate

creaked open and she darted through.

The building was a fortress. Inside the rectangle of walls stood a

lawn-covered courtyard and sturdy palm trees. This anomalous retreat

provided the idyllic photographs Pioneer used to advertise its adolescent

penitentiary. Dakota was generally opposed to the whole concept of ex-

gay ministries. No matter how many smiling, converted straights they

trotted out for their marketing campaigns, she thought the inference

that reparative therapy could change someone’s sexual orientation was

utterly preposterous. With the research supporting her view, she didn’t

know how these shady programs continued to operate. They should be

illegal. They held children against their will and forced them to undergo

therapies that were like military torture techniques, not psychological

counseling.

The good doctor himself was a lot like the school, a false front with

an artificially saccharine demeanor. From his clammy handshake to his

• 19 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“aw shucks” vernacular, every part of Barnabas Gage was insincere.

When he spoke in Biblical riddles, he seemed even more unpleasant,

almost sinister.

“I’m afraid, Miss Manning, that they were likely caught in the

magnetic pull of the Devil,” he’d informed her that day, using the first

of many non-sequiturs to avoid giving any real information on the two

runaways.

“So you think the girls took off because of the Antichrist? I’m not

sure I can put that in my report,” she said with just enough sarcasm. If

he called her “Miss Manning” one more time she’d strangle him.

“Well, Miss—that is, Officer Manning,” he stammered, drawing

out the word “officer” like it was blasphemy. “We find that the souls

most in need of ministering fight it the hardest.”

His bullshit got on her nerves. He wasn’t helpful in determining

how the kids had gotten out of the secured facilities, claiming their

escape had occurred in the middle of the night while everyone else was

sleeping. Just as the best way to find a murderer was by learning all one

could about the victim, recovering a missing teen often depended on

examining her habits and family history. So she asked to speak with the

other students. Barnabas Gage then became entirely uncooperative and

called the school’s attorney. It was the first she’d ever heard of a high

school with a lawyer on retainer.

If she’d been allowed to speak with Saya’s friends, Dakota might

have learned sooner that Aneko existed. Older siblings living on their

own were often the first destination for runaways. Aneko would have

been the logical person for Saya to call for help. The fact that she hadn’t

attempted to contact her sister didn’t bode well.

Dakota couldn’t blame Aneko for coming unglued after months of

silence about her baby sister and she obviously blamed Gage for that

the lack of progress, maybe rightly so. Perhaps if Pioneer had reported

the break out when it happened, or if he’d been more forthcoming or

allowed the police to debrief the other students—maybe then they could

have picked up the kids’ trail in time.

At least he’d been straightforward about one thing: he said it

would be “most unlikely” for the teens to head home. Neither of the

runaways came from a supportive environment.

Dakota’s own parents hadn’t taken too kindly to her coming out

as lesbian, but at least they hadn’t sent her to a place like Pioneer. If

• 20 •

Blind Faith

they had, she was certain it would’ve been the last they’d see of her. Of

course that would probably have been cutting off her nose to spite her

face. She was glad that she hadn’t given up on her family. Eventually

they’d grown into the kind of parents worthy of the dedication and

loyalty she’d shown them. Still, it was the hubris of youth to think

parental betrayal was unforgivable, so Dakota didn’t expect the kids to

have headed back to Mommy and Daddy. Still, people were drawn to

the familiar, especially when running scared and looking for security.

“What will become of Miss Takahashi?” Barnabas Gage asked,

pulling Dakota back to the present and her eyes to his face. There she

found a look of concern that seemed heartfelt enough at first glance. But

there was something under the surface that made Dakota shiver. She

remembered a detail she’d heard about sociopaths, how they learned to

model the emotions expected of them. That’s what Gage’s concern felt

like to Dakota. Pure facsimile.

“She’s being taken down to the station, where she’ll be booked.

She’ll probably get a lawyer and if the DA and the lawyer can come up

with a plea agreement there won’t be a trial.”

“Oh, yes. Well, it really shouldn’t come to that. Can’t we just

forget about all of this?”

“She held a gun to your head and threatened to kill you, Mr. Gage.”

Dakota thought she saw him wince at the salutation. He’d made it clear

in their previous meeting that he preferred “Doctor,” but while it was

her professional responsibility to remain polite, it didn’t mean she had

to do cater to his egotism.

“That young lady was just upset about her sister. I’d hate to see her

punished. It seems like your department hasn’t been much help to her,

but now that she understands the situation, I’m sure Miss Takahashi

won’t be back.”

“Mr. Gage, the police can’t drop this just because you don’t want

to press charges.” If Dakota hadn’t been watching for his reaction, she

might have missed the tightening of his jaw that told her he wasn’t used

to being told no.

“Why not?” he demanded. “I’m sure Miss Takahashi is contrite

and I’m willing to forgive her.”

Although his arrogance irritated her, Dakota wished—in this

case—that it were that simple. Aneko had a right to be upset with the

lack of cooperation from Gage, but that didn’t justify her actions and

• 21 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

she hadn’t gotten him to admit anything. And that made it all the worse

that her life might be ruined over this incident. So Dakota wished it

could all be forgiven and forgotten. But the law was the law, and she

was sworn to uphold it. And despite Dr. Barnabas’s bloated assessment

of his own importance, his forgiveness meant little. The chief had

committed multiple officers and deployed SWAT in order to resolve the

situation. No one was walking away.

“I hardly imagine they’ll be satisfied with anything short of a

conviction,” Dakota said. “Especially given all the media coverage this

case will generate. With a dozen law enforcement officers on scene,

bearing witness, the district attorney’s office won’t even need you as a

complainant. They can call any one of us.”

Gage didn’t speak. His eyes were hooded like a habitual user’s.

Wondering what he was plotting, Dakota said, “If you feel Aneko

Takahashi shouldn’t be punished, you could speak with the DA. Maybe

you can help reduce her sentence.”

He responded with an affable smile that seemed genuine. When he

grabbed her left hand, Dakota fought the urge to fling him to the ground

in one of the defensive tactics the department practiced regularly. He

was damn fortunate not to have gone after her right, which was resting

on the butt of her service pistol. As she left, a Latina teenager peered

out from behind a door. “Hi. Can I ask you something?”

Dakota glanced over her shoulder to check they were alone before

answering, “Sure. What is it?”

“That Japanese woman, what did she do?”

Dakota considered her options. She wasn’t supposed to reveal the

details of an arrest, and usually suspects were only that; individuals

suspected of committing a crime. But, as she’d just pointed out to Gage,

they’d caught Aneko with her hand in the cookie jar. There was no

question as to her guilt and the story was sure to make every news

outlet in town.

Dakota kept her answer vague. “She threatened someone.”

“Wait.” The girl’s eyes darted nervously up and down the hall. She

lowered her voice. “Is she Saya’s sister?”

Dakota nodded. “Do you know Saya?”

“Have you found her and Dom?” The girl’s voice cracked as

though she were about to cry. “Dominique Marxley?”

Dakota shook her head. “No, I’m sorry. Were you two close?”

• 22 •

Blind Faith

Before the girl could answer, there was a noise down the hall and

she ducked out of sight, closing the door quickly.

“Hello, officer. May I help you?” The approaching woman asked.

“No, thank you. I’m just on my way out.”

She offered a hand. “I’m Aimee Dix, one of Pioneer’s counselors.

We owe you a great debt Officer…?”

“Manning. Dakota Manning.” Dakota took the blonde’s delicate

hand in her own and shook it. “No need to thank me.”

“Oh, don’t be so modest. You saved Dr. Barnabas’s life. He’s such

a good man, I don’t know what we would do without him.”

Dakota searched Aimee Dix’s face for a hint of sarcasm but didn’t

find any. Could she be serious? “I was just doing my job, ma’am.”

“Call me Aimee. Do you mind if I walk you out?”

“Of course not.”

They began walking side by side, and for a moment the only sound

was the rhythmic noise of Dakota’s leather duty belt shifting around her

hips with each step.

Aimee broke the silence. “You said you were just doing your job.

Are you a hostage negotiator?”

Dakota chuckled. “No. Just a cop.”

“But I understand you’re the one who managed to talk that young

woman down.”

“True, but I had the advantage of having spoken with her

before.”

“Really?” Aimee stopped walking. Her wide eyes searched

Dakota’s face. “You knew her? Then do you know what drove her to

such desperate measures?”

“I only know her in regards to a case I worked involving one of the

girls who ran away from this place last November, Saya Takahashi. Did

you know her, or the other girl, Dominique Marxley?”

“Yes.” Aimee looked down and started walking again. In a barely

audible whisper, she added, “So they’ve never been found.”

“Do you know something about this?” Dakota demanded. “If you

do, it’s your civic duty to come forward.”

They reached the front door. Aimee stood there shaking her head.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“Dr. Barnabas waited three days before reporting the runaways,”

Dakota said. “And clearly Saya’s sister thinks he knows something.”

• 23 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“That was Saya’s sister?” Aimee’s brow crinkled. Dakota wasn’t

sure if the counselor was frowning at her for doubting the saintly Dr.

Barnabas, or if she was considering the possibility that things were not

what they seemed. “It’s too bad she threw away her life for nothing.”

Dakota could not agree more. On the way to the station house,

she replayed the conversation with Aimee Dix in her head. Could the

counselor really be so naïve about her boss? Dakota wasn’t so sure.

Aimee had hovered at the front door as though there was an invisible

barrier there she could not cross. What made Aimee nervous and how

could Dakota get the woman to open up more?

Dakota was lost in her thoughts as she parked her car and made her

way past colleagues who wanted to know about the hostage situation.

She wasn’t looking forward to the stack of paperwork generated by the

Pioneer Institute drama. She hadn’t been at it long when an unfamiliar

man passed her desk on the way to the interrogation room. Dakota

immediately pegged him as a high priced lawyer. It wasn’t just the crisp

three-piece suit, or the Italian leather shoes, or the diamond on his tie

clip. He smelled of new cars and old money. Her desk was close enough

to the interrogation room that when the door opened, she heard him

demand, “Don’t say another word.”

A detective gruffly announced, “Your lawyer’s here.”

“I didn’t call a lawyer.” Aneko Takahashi’s surprise and confusion

were obvious. “I’ve never met this man.”

How odd. Intrigued, Dakota listened as the attorney explained,

“I’ve been hired by Pioneer Institute to represent you.”

What the hell? What kind of game was Dr. Barnabas playing?

Outside of domestic disputes, Dakota had never seen a case where the

victim hired a lawyer to defend the perpetrator. She wanted to hear

more, but the lawyer stepped farther into the room and the door closed

behind him, sealing him and Aneko in client-attorney privacy. They

were still cloistered there a half hour later when Dakota finished her

incident reports. She was on the way out of the station house when she

collided with an assistant district attorney. Was it possible Aneko was

already talking about a plea bargain, even before she’d been arraigned?

High priced lawyers really did buy their clients speedier justice.

Dakota was intrigued and suddenly determined to get to the bottom

of this. She rushed into her captain’s office, closed the door behind her,

and began laying out her case.

• 24 •

Blind Faith

After several minutes of not-so-friendly debate regarding Pioneer’s

motives for silencing the runaway’s sister, the captain said, “Drop it.”

“But, Captain, they’re clearly hiding something. That’s why they

don’t want this scrutiny.”

“Listen up, Manning, I’m only going to tell you this once before

I put you on administrative leave. We’ve got three Norteño shootings

on Jackson and bodies are piling up in this gang war. I need you on that

case, the one with corpses, not traipsing around looking for runaways

who don’t want to be found.”

The captain was resolute. Though his words weren’t menacing,

when he cut a bottom line statement, Dakota knew it was time to

move on. That didn’t mean, however, that she’d drop it. Pioneer and

that creep, Barnabas Gage, were up to something and Dakota wanted

someone to get to the bottom of it, even if it wasn’t her.

Where, she pondered, did she put that PI’s business card?

• 25 •

• 26 •

Blind Faith

chapter two

Aneko was horrified by what she’d done. She could hardly

believe that she, mild mannered Aneko Takahashi, had

threatened a man at gunpoint. That uncharacteristic act had led her here

to police headquarters where she was locked in an interrogation room,

seated across from a very angry looking detective.

It seemed like a very vivid dream, as though she were watching

herself on screen. She had been so far removed from the situation she

hadn’t felt fear until Dakota Manning spoke to her, returning her to her

senses. She’d been surprised to find the gun in her hand and wondered

if she’d been subconsciously planning for this day when she purchased

the weapon three months earlier.

She should have waited longer. She should have planned it better.

Instead, she had ruined the only chance she had of finding her little

sister. She had failed Saya. Again. After all the nights practicing at the

gun range, working to get past her discomfort wielding a weapon, she

hadn’t been able to pull the trigger. She’d been so close. How had she

failed ?

Dr. Barnabas had told her nothing. The bastard had sensed her

hesitation like a dog senses fear, and he’d used it against her. The

realization had hit her while the red-faced detective questioned her. He

was threatening her with life in prison. Aneko would gladly have traded

her freedom for information that might lead to Saya, but she was no

closer to the truth. The detective didn’t believe Barnabas Gage knew

anything. He even suggested it would suit her if Saya was out of the

way and that maybe she’d done something to her. Now she was staring

at a lawyer who had just told her not to say another word.

• 27 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Aneko shook her head. “I didn’t ask for a lawyer.” Why bother?

Everyone knew she was guilty. With all those police officers as

witnesses, she couldn’t imagine pretending she was innocent. She had

held Dr. Barnabas at gunpoint. She had threatened to kill him. There

was no point denying it.

“I don’t know this man,” she told the detective. Was this guy even

a lawyer or had the police sent him in to get her to admit something on

tape? Or was he impersonating a lawyer to get close to her and … what?

Kill her? Was she really paranoid enough to believe someone had hired

this stranger to harm her? What if she’d been wrong about everything?

What if she’d had some kind of psychotic break and had just imagined

her confrontation at Pioneer?

Platinum cufflinks flashed under the flickering fluorescent lights as

the man extended a manicured hand to shake hers. Aneko instinctively

raised her left hand. It didn’t get far before reaching the end of its

leash. She was shackled to the table with a handcuff. She blanched and

awkwardly shook his hand with her non-dominant right.

“Aneko Takahashi,” she said. ‘Who are you?”

“Michael Carrington of Carrington, Williams and Petereli. I’m

here to represent you.”

“Who sent you? What do you want?”

“We provide legal counsel for the Pioneer Institute.”

“Pioneer Institute?” Aneko jumped to her feet, or attempted to.

The cuffed hand prevented her from rising to her full height, which

was still a foot shorter than the lawyer. She hated the way white men

looked down on her. It always felt patronizing. She wondered if Asian

American men felt the same way.

“My client, Dr. Barnabas, feels terrible about what happened this

morning.”

At her nemesis’s name, Aneko stopped listening. She tried to

look through the mirrored observation window and catch the eye of a

detective. She mouthed, “Help me!” Her pleas went unheeded. “Are

you trying to get me to deal with the devil?” she asked the lawyer.

“Not at all, Miss Takahashi.” He spoke in a voice that probably

soothed most people. It was his job to sound reassuring and infallible. “I

understand you’ve had the privilege of meeting Dr. Barnabas” He didn’t

wait for her to reply. “My client is not a callous man. He understands

• 28 •

Blind Faith

that you’re overwrought about your sister leaving and never contacting

you. If it were up to him the charges would simply be dismissed and

everyone could put the incident behind them.”

Aneko didn’t trust him. What was Dr. Barnabas’s game? What did

he hope to achieve by sending his lawyer to speak with her? Was this

some kind of threat? “Why would he want that?” she asked.

“Dr. Barnabas does not wish to be the cause of further suffering.

He has forgiven you your trespasses and believes the incident should

now be between you and God. Unfortunately,” he sighed for effect, “the

state does not see it that way. Therefore, Dr. Barnabas has directed me

to provide you with the best possible legal defense.”

The entire time he was speaking, Aneko could barely stifle a litany

of snide responses. She did not believe for one minute that Dr. Barnabas

was genuinely regretful or had forgiven her for the humiliation she’d

put him through. Was Barnabas setting her up for a fall? Aneko couldn’t

think of anything to say. “I have already taken the liberty of requesting

the DA’s office to meet us here with an offer,” Carrington said bluntly.

“I’m certain that we can resolve this unpleasantness quickly and allow

everyone to get on with their lives.”

“Wait. Are you trying to say you think you can keep me from

going to prison?” Aneko found it unlikely.

“Yes, I have the utmost confidence.”

“And what do I have to do in return?”

“You will be expected to follow a few stipulations before I can

officially represent you.”

Of course. Stipulations. Aneko didn’t like the sound of that. “What

kind of stipulations?”

He opened his briefcase, pulled out a typed document and slid it

across the table. There were three pages, stapled together in the corner.

The legalese was so thick it took Aneko fifteen minutes to wade through.

She could feel Carrington’s eyes boring through her and she was sure

he noticed when the color left her cheeks. Her initial horror was quickly

replaced by anger. “You can’t possibly expect me to sign this.”

“Pioneer Institute has made the generous offer of providing free

legal counsel. In return, they expect a few concessions.”

“Concessions?” Aneko’s voice broke as she struggled to control

the ball of rage burning in her chest. But she didn’t want to be the

good little demure Asian girl. Not now. She wanted to be the dragon

• 29 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

lady, she wanted to be a sword-wielding warrior princess. “Agreeing

never to search for my little sister again is not a concession! Agreeing

not to speak with law enforcement or the media regarding Saya’s

disappearance is not a concession. Signing a non-disclosure agreement

is not a concession. How can you expect me to sign this?”

If she were going to sell her soul it wouldn’t be to keep herself out

of prison. It would be to ensure Saya was alive, safe, and happy.

Pioneer’s legal counsel responded to her outburst with narrowed

eyes and a chill in his voice. “Miss Takahashi, you seem to be forgetting

that Pioneer’s good graces are the only thing standing between you and

an eight by ten prison cell. Let me explain your options. A dozen officers

witnessed you engage in false imprisonment, battery, and assault with

a deadly weapon. That means, even without Dr. Barnabas’s testimony,

they’ve got you dead to rights. The little stunt you pulled probably cost

the city twenty or thirty thousand dollars.”

Aneko felt her eyes open wide. Could it really be that much?

“No doubt it’s going to make the lead on tonight’s news and there

will be a great deal of pressure on the DA for swift and decisive justice.

The longer you put off arranging a plea the less likely they’ll be to

accept one.”

“I could plead innocent.”

He scoffed. “And you will certainly fail. No jury in their right

minds would find you anything but guilty. You’ll be sent to Coachella

where, if you’re lucky, you’ll end up as someone’s prison bitch and

you’ll only be assaulted by one violent felon at a time.”

Aneko knew his conjecture was unlikely but it still bothered her.

“Those concessions you refused to accept? A lot of good that will

do you behind bars. No one will listen to your paranoid fantasies and

you won’t be there when your sister finally does come home. She’ll be

forty-something by the time you get out and I’m sure you’ll have plenty

of time to catch up. Unless she doesn’t want an ex-con hanging around

her kids.”

Aneko flinched. His words stung her as sharply as if she’d

been slapped. She considered what it would be like to miss all of the

important moments in her sister’s life: her commitment ceremony, the

birth of her children. What would it be like to be a stranger to her niece

and nephew? To miss out on their childhoods? Showing up in their

lives twenty years from now…

• 30 •

Blind Faith

“You probably shouldn’t worry about that, though,” Carrington

continued. “A little thing like you’ll be shanked the first week out. You

won’t ever see Saya again. You won’t be there for her when she needs

your help.”

Aneko started crying. The lawyer had her ticket. He was quite

skilled at calling out all her hot button issues, her fears of prison, of

being unable to help Saya, let alone never seeing her little sister again.

She’d heard enough. “What do you want from me?”

Despite her growing concern about Pioneer and Dr. Barnabas’s

role in Saya’s disappearance, she refused to believe Saya was dead and

beyond her reach. Carrington was right, Aneko couldn’t bear if she died

or was locked away when Saya was found. Without her, Saya would be

alone in the world, sixteen without any family.

“Sign here.” He handed his pen to Aneko, who signed and dated

the document where he instructed.

The pen shook in her hand. Aneko was an honest person. Adding

her signature and initials to a legal document was a serious vow, and

she didn’t know how she was going to commit to something she could

never really, truly, promise.

Then she was struck with the solution. The wording prohibited

Aneko Takahashi from searching for her sister Saya Takahashi. It did

not prohibit others from looking on her behalf. And it did not prohibit

her from searching for the other girl who had disappeared from Pioneer

with Saya. Locating Dominique Marxley would surely lead her to Saya.

Finally a ray of sun in a gloomy day.

Fighting the smile she felt sneaking from behind the clouds,

Aneko confidently initialed the spot indicated. The roller coaster of the

day’s emotions was nearing its end. She felt her resolve returning and

hope glimmer. She was going to find Saya. Nothing but death itself

would keep her from that quest and she was willing to risk everything

for it. If Pioneer was willing to help her escape a prison sentence, more

power to them. She was certain it meant Dr. Barnabas was indeed

nefarious. He had something to hide, something that was so important

to keep from the light of day that he couldn’t tolerate the scrutiny of

an investigation and a trial. Aneko was more determined than ever to

uncover his secrets.

She had to admit Pioneer’s lawyer was good. Not morally speaking,

of course, but excellent at doing his job. It was almost frightening.

• 31 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Although she could not see her watch below the handcuff, she

reckoned their subsequent meeting with the assistant district attorney

lasted no more than a half an hour. During that time Carrington argued

convincingly that Aneko was a fine, upstanding woman whose angst

over a missing sister had caused her to temporarily lose her grip on

reality. With her own lifestyle at odds with Pioneer’s mission, it was not

surprising that she’d blamed the school for her sister’s disappearance.

Aneko found it disturbing that the attorney knew so much about

her: that she was a lesbian and estranged from her family, that she

lived in Daly City and was involved with the local Asian American

community, where she volunteered teaching English as a Second

Language, that she spoke five languages and worked as a translator

and had even, on occasion, assisted local law enforcement when they

required translation services. He also mentioned that Aneko held several

degrees, including one from Stanford, and that she’d never had so much

as a parking ticket.

She wondered how Carrington, Williams and Petereli had been

able to compile such detailed information on her during the brief

interlude between her arrest and Mr. Carrington’s arrival. Had the

law offices researched her background prior to the Pioneer incident?

If so, why? Clearly they would not have undertaken the task unless

directed to by their client. Had Dr. Barnabas told them to investigate

her background?

The ADA seemed to know Carrington well and did not seem

particularly hostile toward the attorney or his arguments. Aneko caught

herself imagining the two were conspiring. She shook the thought from

her mind, telling herself her theory was ridiculous. Just because Mr.

Carrington’s defense revolved partly around Aneko’s disintegrating

mental state did not mean she needed to oblige them by actually

spiraling into paranoia.

Still, the ADA seemed to concede quickly to a plea bargain that

involved no incarceration, only three hundred hours of community

service and five years probation. Aneko had to relinquish her gun

permit and undergo psychological counseling. She could feel her face

burning in embarrassment. The reserved and levelheaded members of

her community did not believe in psychological counseling. Now, she

was facing court mandated evaluation and treatment. It’s better than

prison, she quickly reminded herself.

• 32 •

Blind Faith

After the agreement had been reached, she was released into Mr.

Carrington’s custody. He accompanied her to the courthouse, where she

stood in front of the judge and entered a no contest plea. The ADA read

aloud the terms of their agreement and the judge accepted it without

blinking.

Exiting the courtroom with Mr. Carrington by her side, Aneko

felt again like she was caught up in a vivid dream. She could hardly

believe that she was free to go. She knew the American justice system

was inherently flawed, but she’d never expected its defects to work

in her favor. Being a member of a model minority certainly had its

advantages. As selfish as it was, she had never been happier to have

the color skin and gender she’d been born with. She was quite sure that

if she’d been a young African American man she would not have left

Pioneer Institute alive, let alone escaped incarceration.

As they stepped into cool evening air, they were immediately

mobbed by a media frenzy, light bulbs flashing in her eyes, microphones

shoved at her face, questions shouted at her from all angles. “Are

you the woman who held an entire school hostage? What were your

demands?”

“Aneko, over here!” shouted a familiar voice. Velvet Erickson tried

to push her way between two television cameramen. “Did Barnabas

Gage tell you anything new?”

Before she could respond to the onslaught, Mr. Carrington grabbed

her arm and twisted it, yanking her toward him. She felt his hot breath

on her cheek as he growled, “No press. Remember our arrangement.”

Aneko nodded and avoided Velvet’s eyes. She kept her gaze on the

ground as Mr. Carrington dragged her through the crowd. He offered to

drive her home but Aneko refused. She would take public transportation

instead. She wanted to get as far away from him as she could. He wasn’t

so easily deterred, though. As she walked to the nearest BART station,

he followed her in his BMW. He didn’t even try to hide the fact he was

trailing her.

She hoped that he didn’t follow her onto the train as well. He

probably wanted her to see him, so she’d know he was watching and

wouldn’t run off to speak with the media. He needn’t have bothered. She

had no intention of speaking with the press, not even Velvet Erickson.

Aneko had her sights set on a different person altogether. She needed

Yoshi Yakamota, the PI Velvet had recommended. As soon as she’d

• 33 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

learned that the Blind Eye Detectives Agency was run by a Japanese

American woman, and a lesbian no less, Aneko knew where she would

turn if she failed in her own investigation.

• 34 •

Blind Faith

chapter three

Yoshi heard a crash from her father’s room and rushed toward

the sound. “Tucker? What was that?”

“Uh…I’m so sorry, Yoshi. Don’t come in, okay?”

“Why not? What have you done? What don’t you want me to

see?”“No, I just don’t want you to hurt your feet.”

“What did you do? What have you broken now?”

Why couldn’t that girl learn to be careful? Despite her ability

to organize the house in a way that facilitated Yoshi’s independence,

Tucker Shade was so clumsy anyone would think she was the one with

sight issues the way she knocked things around. It was as if she wasn’t

in touch with her own body, as though she did not know long her arms

were or the dimensions of the space she inhabited. Several teacups and

a vase had already borne the brunt of those miscalculations. Still, Yoshi

was almost beginning to enjoy the company, and she relied on Tucker

more than she cared to admit. That did not prevent her from longing for

the day she could have her house, and solitude, returned.

“I don’t know what happened.”

The sound of Tucker’s choked voice quelled some of Yoshi’s

anger. She fervently hoped the younger woman did not burst into the

tears that her quavering voice seemed to threaten. Yoshi did not want to

be in the position of comforting her. What would she do if Tucker threw

herself into her arms? Yoshi put a stop to that line of thought before it

lured her into dangerous waters.

“I was just dancing around with my iPod on,” Tucker continued.

“And then I guess I knocked it off the shelf.”

• 35 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“What did you break?”

“One of the cat statues. I’m sorry.”

Not one of her father’s Maneki Neko! Yoshi felt like she’d been

punched in the stomach. She grabbed onto the door jamb. Hiroki

Yakamota had treasured his lucky cat figures. They were one of the few

things he held onto that tied back to their ancestors. As he lay in that

hospital bed, barely able to breathe, dying from a vicious stabbing, he

had used his failing strength to pull her close and whisper in her ear,

begging her for a final promise—she must never get rid of the matching

cat statues.

The porcelain figures depicted Japanese Bobtail cats, each with a

paw upright in the traditional Japanese sign of beckoning or welcoming.

The two cats were mirror images of each other. The smiling cat raising

its left paw was said to attract wealth, while the glaring cat raising its

right paw symbolized the feline ability to see in the dark and was said

to protect from evil. It was supposed to protect the owner from unseen

dangers and defend her home and all those who lived in it.

“Which one did you break?” Yoshi asked.

“The one without the smile.”

Damn. Yoshi had never known her father to be superstitious and

did not know if he believed the lucky cat figures really brought the

good fortune and protection they were fabled to bring, or whether the

pieces held sentimental value. Still, she had honored his wish, keeping

the two cats where he’d displayed them, in the southeastern corner of

his room. Now one was gone. The pair was torn asunder. Without the

fabled protection, would her home suffer? She felt an eerie coldness on

the back of her neck, as though a cool breeze had tousled her hair and

dried the perspiration from her skin.

“Yoshi? Yoshi, are you okay? You look like you just saw a

ghost.”

“They were my father’s.” It was all Yoshi could say.

She barely registered that Tucker had leapt over the scattered

shards on the floor. Before she could react, Tucker had one hand around

her waist. With the other she lifted Yoshi’s arm and draped it around

her neck. They had never been so physically close. Yoshi flinched away

from the contact as though she’d been burned.

If Tucker felt the tension in her body, it did not deter her. She

• 36 •

Blind Faith

walked into the living room, pulling Yoshi with her. She was surprisingly

strong, lifting Yoshi’s hundred and fifteen pound frame so her feet were

barely touching the floor. “We’re at the sofa,” she said. “I’m going to

put you down, okay?”

Yoshi nodded. The bob of her head caused her face to brush against

Tucker’s. When their skin touched, electricity flowed between them.

Fine hairs on Yoshi’s cheek stood on end as though she’d laid hands

on one of those silver balls at the Exploratorium science museum. She

was sure her face flushed in response and she prayed that Tucker would

not notice. What was wrong with her? Perhaps she was coming down

with something.

Tucker lowered her to the quilted ecru divan and released her.

As she pulled away, Yoshi had a strange sensation, as though tape was

being ripped from her skin and tiny pieces of her soul were torn away

with it. The parting was almost painful. Yoshi was certain now that she

must be getting ill. She felt faint.

“I want you to lay down for a moment,” Tucker’s soft voice

commanded.

“All right.” Yoshi acquiesced.

“Don’t worry. I’ll clean everything up, I’ll buy a replacement, I’ll

do whatever it takes, okay?”

Yoshi nodded. She closed her eyes and lay back on the divan. She

listened to Tucker’s footsteps as the younger woman walked into the

kitchen. A cabinet door opened and Yoshi imagined that Tucker was

collecting the dustbin and small hand broom. When she passed by on

her way to the guest bedroom, Yoshi heard something bouncing against

Tucker’s thigh. The garbage bin from under the sink.

Tucker’s footsteps continued to the back room and then she set

down the garbage can and dustbin. Yoshi could hear the sound of

ceramic shards swept up and dropped into the garbage.

Suddenly she heard Tucker exclaim. With Tucker’s voice muffled

by the walls, Yoshi thought she heard, “What the hell?” She wondered

what Tucker had really said.

“Did you cut yourself?” Yoshi asked when she heard Tucker’s

footfalls echo down the hall.

“Did you know about this?” Tucker demanded, waving something

near Yoshi’s face that fanned a cool breeze.

• 37 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Yoshi smelt musty papers that reminded her of the vintage stores

and antiques shops she had frequented with Velvet years ago. She

crinkled her forehead, trying to imagine what Tucker might have in

hand. “What is it?” She asked.

“Letters. There were letters in that cat.”

Yoshi sat up so fast if made her head float away from her body.

Gravity yanked it back. “Excuse me? Which letters?”

“There’s a stack of letters, tied together a ribbon. I guess they

must’ve been inside that lucky cat statue.” Tucker placed them in

Yoshi’s hands.

Yoshi’s fingers confirmed what Tucker had said. It was a bundle

of perhaps a dozen letter sized envelopes bound together. She could

smell age and ink and something else—the faint scent of a familiar

perfume.

“Whom are they addressed to?” Yoshi asked.

“I don’ know. It’s Greek to me.” Tucker laughed. When Yoshi

didn’t respond, Tucker added, “Sorry, bad joke. It’s in Japanese, I

think.”

Could these letters belong to her father once upon a time? Yoshi

pondered. “Would you mind fetching a pen and paper?”

“Sure. Be right back.” She heard Tucker dart away before returning

a moment later to thrust a pen and spiral notebook in Yoshi’s hands.

Yoshi swept her finger tips across the page, verifying that it was

a clean piece. Then, trying to keep her penmanship level, she carefully

drew the Japanese letters that made up Hiroki Yakamota’s name. “Does

it look like this?”

She handed the letters and notepad to Tucker.

“Yeah! That is it. Does that say your dad’s name?” Yoshi heard

Tucker’s fingers run along the page, as though she were tracing the

lettering. “It’s beautiful,” Tucker whispered.

Who had written letters to her father? Yoshi wondered. It was not

as though her father had dated or had lady friends after her mother

passed away. Yet these letters were obviously important enough for her

father to keep. Did he want her to have them? If so, why had he hidden

them?Suddenly, it was like the letters had conjured Hiroki Yakamota

from the dead. She could almost feel him standing in the room with

them, and she was certain there was something he wanted to say. But

• 38 •

Blind Faith

he couldn’t speak. She was sure he would be signaling her somehow,

trying to explain through gestures what he meant. But she could not

see the expressions on his face or decipher the motion of his hands any

more than she could read the words from these letters now.

Although her senses had heightened and she had gained new skills

since her eyesight dimmed, sometimes she still felt so disabled by her

blindness.

“What is the return address?”

Tucker shuffled through the envelopes and then replied, “Uh, there

isn’t one. Not that I could read it anyway.”

“Will you open them?” Yoshi asked. Just in case.

She listened as Tucker carefully removed each letter from its

envelope and spread it open.

“Okay?” Tucker said when she was done.

“Is there anything written in English?”

“No, I’m sorry.”

“All right.” Yoshi sighed. “I will simply have to locate someone

who reads Japanese.”

“Is this the date?” Tucker asked. “These three letters up near the

top?”“Yes, probably.” Yoshi did not know how that would help.

“Maybe I could at least decipher the dates. That way you’d know

when they were written.”

“That is a nice idea, Tucker, but I don’t own a Japanese key

board.”

“Oh.” Tucker sounded deflated, and then changed her tone. “I could

try it the other way around, entering English dates into a translation site

and comparing the results.”

Yoshi smiled at Tucker’s tenacity. “If you would like to try, that

would be very nice. Remember that in Japanese the year comes first,

then month and then day.”

v

Yoshi Yakamota was not easily swayed. The P.I. had long since

learned that people were fallible, that truth was subjective and that

even the best-intentioned client could be deceitful. But she had to admit

Aneko Takahashi’s plight had moved her more than anything had since,

• 39 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

well, perhaps since Velvet herself was indicted for murder. A gay elder

sister, a missing queer teen, and an ex-gay cult—it all had the makings

of a lesbian mystery novel. For Yoshi, assisting a beautifully spirited

Asian American lesbian in need was a reason enough to consider the

job. With the PowerBraille Display Unit, the gadget her staff gave her

last Christmas, Yoshi could finally do her own Internet and database

searches. The PowerBraille system translated what was on the computer

screen into Braille she could read with her fingers. So, even though

she’d normally assign the task to Tucker, Yoshi had been thrilled to do

it herself. Independence really wasn’t overrated.

She had been able to verify that Saya Takahashi and Dominique

Marxley’s names, dates of birth, and descriptions were entered into

NCIC. This would enable law enforcement officers to identify the

girls as runaways if they were picked up for something else. Yoshi

also emailed photos of the missing teens to police departments in cities

where they may have traveled. Although she focused primarily on

California municipalities, Yoshi distributed the pictures to localities as

far away as New York City and Key West.

After several fruitless days, the case had driven Yoshi to the Pioneer

Institute to come face to face with Aneko’s nemesis, the supposedly

affable Southern gentleman known as Dr. Barnabas—preferring to be

called by his first name like pop psychologist Dr. Phil. Her background

check revealed that Dr. Barnabas was neither a medical doctor nor a

psychologist, but he did have a PhD in spiritual studies from some

religious-based school.

“As I told you Miss…it is Miss, isn’t it?” The good doctor was

droll and borderline offensive. No, not even borderline. Every word out

of his mouth prickled her, raising her ire another ten percent. She was

certain he thought the options for women were either Miss or Mrs. No

Ms. for Dr. Barnabas.

“Yoshi will do just fine,” she said flatly.

“Oh sure, you modern gals. Tell me, have you accepted Jesus as

your personal savior?”

The question caught Yoshi off guard. It took her a second to

overcome her surprise. “That’s really none of your business, Mr. Gage,

and I implore you to answer my question regarding Saya Takahashi.”

“Very well.” He sighed. “As I said Miss Yoshi, I don’t know where

• 40 •

Blind Faith

Saya is. She ran away with that other girl and we haven’t seen her

since. We’re not a prison or agents of the state. If our clients choose to

leave the program, we simply do not have the resources to chase them

down. That remains up to our clients’ legal guardians. Are Mr. and Mrs.

Takahashi aware that you’re here?”

“As I explained, Mr. Gage, I am not at liberty to reveal the name

of my client. But let me assure you that my client’s interest in locating

those missing girls will not be easily deterred. As their agent, neither

will I.” Yoshi was peeved. Barnabas was stonewalling, playing little

word games to stall her from obtaining any real answers.

“Let me guess: Aneko Takahashi?” His tone was sharp; she

sensed the flash in his eyes. The idea that Aneko had hired a private

investigator enraged the man. She could hear it in his voice. He had spit

Aneko as though it were an epitaph. Dr. Barnabas quickly recovered his

composure. “That poor confused woman. Definitely a case of spiritual

crisis. It’s such a shame to see someone turn their back on Our Savior.

I’m sure her parents regret never intervening on her behalf. She could

use our spiritual therapy as much as Saya.”

Dr. Barnabas had passed his anger to Yoshi. She was livid. But she

was as well trained in covering her anger with politeness as the Pioneer

director. After another fifteen minutes of annoyingly endless back and

forth, she hit on a point that seemed to infuriate Barnabas.

“While we certainly wish you well in locating these delinquent

girls, we cannot violate our clients’ confidentiality, endanger our

program, or submit our already fragile students to the allegations of a

disturbed woman or the political machinations of our enemies—those

who will do anything to further the gay agenda. I’m quite willing to

release the personal belongings of the girls who ran away, but I must

follow proper procedure.”

Yoshi was pretty certain Dr. Barnabas would not be a stickler for

regulations if they didn’t run counter to his private agenda.

“I’m prohibited from releasing personal items to anyone aside

from the student’s legal guardians. Still, I’m not unsympathetic to your

cause,” Dr. Barnabas said. “So here’s what I’m going to do. If you can

provide a signed statement relinquishing their children’s belongings to

you, I’ll release the items in question.”

Although it sounded like she had won a concession, Yoshi did

not believe Dr. Barnabas would give up so easily. He must think he

• 41 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

was sending her on a fool’s errand, the kind of impossible mission of

Scarborough Fair. Why was he so confident she would be unable to get

signed releases from the missing girls’ parents? Before Yoshi was able

to decipher the enigma, Dr. Barnabas terminated their meeting.

“Now, I am afraid that I must ask you to leave. I am a very busy

man and have much better things to do then to sit around talking about

lost causes.”

Dr. Barnabas pressed Yoshi’s purse and cane into her hands and

escorted her to the door with a hand on her bicep. Through the thin

fabric of her satin blouse, Yoshi could tell that his hands were clammy

but smooth. This was not a man who worked with his hands for a living

or a hobby. Judging from his cold and brusque demeanor, Dr. Barnabas

was also a man with secrets.

Yoshi intended to reveal those secrets. And she yearned to debase

the arrogant man. She vowed to return with the exact item he was so

certain she could not obtain—permission for her to gain possession of

Saya and Dominique’s abandoned belongings.

v

Nathalia Marxley sounded exactly as Yoshi had imagined, a nasal-

voiced, slight woman who was probably more comfortable on New

York’s Upper East Side than quiet and woodsy Mill Valley, California.

She had the manner and cadence of a woman who was used to people

being awed by her grace and beauty. From what she had already learned

about Dominique, whose friends called her Dom because she was a

butchy tomboy who never lived up to her parents affluent upper class

standards, Yoshi was certain that Nathalia was a formidable influence

in the girl’s life and a demanding, if not overbearing, arbiter of

Dominique’s social failures.

“If I could learn a bit more about your daughter I’m certain I could

find her and the other missing girl.” Yoshi tried to appeal to Nathalia’s

motherly instincts but when the wealthy woman did not respond

she tried a new tactic. “I am sure you do not want it publicized that

Dominique is living on the streets somewhere.”

Nathalia was silent. Yoshi was about to speak again when the

woman’s scent—a mixture of rose, sandalwood, pepper, and merlot—

wafted toward her. Nathalia had moved, Yoshi realized, and was

• 42 •

Blind Faith

dabbing her eyes. Before Yoshi could console her, Nathalia spoke in a

quiet, defiant manner.

“I appreciate your concern, but Dominique is dead to me. I don’t

want or expect her back in my life. Wherever she is, she’s on her own

now. I have no interest in tracking her down.”

Yoshi was stunned into her own silence.

“I know that sounds cruel,” Nathalia continued. “But her antics

have caused me a great deal of grief over the years. She’s been kicked

out of three different boarding schools.”

“I understand,” Yoshi began, although she did not. How could a

mother turn her back on her own daughter? “The teenage struggle to

differentiate with their parents can lead to many acts of rebellion—but

surely once that stage has passed—”

“Are you a lesbian?” Nathalia demanded unexpectedly.

“I cannot see how my sexual orientation is any business of yours,”

Yoshi responded.

“I will take that as a yes,” Nathalia said with a sneer obvious in her

tone. “Correct me if I am mistaken, but my understanding is that you

people believe orientation is fixed.”

“That is the conclusion that scientific researchers have made,

yes.”“Well, you cannot have it both ways. Either my daughter’s

penchant for messing around with other girls and hanging out at queer

bars will not change when she gets older, or she was degrading herself

with this debauched lifestyle out of teenage rebellion—in which case a

place like Pioneer might have turned her around.”

“Teenage rebellion is hardly limited to gays and lesbians. You

know, many lesbians settle into couples and live lives not so different

from their heterosexual counterparts.”

Yoshi could feel Nathalia’s eyes boring into her and wondered

what the woman hoped to convey with the stare.

“I’m afraid my daughter was not cut from the Marxley cloth. I’ve

come accept that she’s not going to be a part of our legacy. Pioneer was

her final opportunity to redeem herself, we were quite clear on that. If

she threw that away…” Nathalia did not complete her sentence. Yoshi

thought the woman had shrugged. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have

appointments I must keep.”

Her clothing rustled as Nathalia stood. Yoshi took the cue, following

• 43 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

her toward the entryway and exiting through the already opened door.

As she stepped away from the Marxley house, she wondered what

Dominique’s childhood might have been like with such a cold and

controlling mother. Shuttled from boarding school to boarding school,

expelled from each for simply being herself, trying to come out in a

world of elitism and affluence and indifference.

More determined than ever to find Dominique and Saya, Yoshi

hoped that the latter’s parents were more concerned for their daughter’s

welfare, and more helpful in locating the missing girls than Nathalia

Marxley.

v

Aneko Takahashi’s parents lived at the end of Sea View Drive, on

a property so large the nearest neighbors were a half block away. Yoshi

remembered the neighborhood as an upscale one offering unimpeded

views of the Pacific Ocean. Hedges and rows of Douglas fir and redwood

trees spared the sprawling houses from noisy neighbors.

The homes were perched on a cliff hundreds of feet above

pounding surf, and Yoshi recalled a particularly rough El Nino winter,

when torrential rains undercut the cliff, ripped houses apart and sent

them crumbling piece by piece into the waves below. She hoped the

Takahashi residence was set well back from the cliff face and not at risk

of tumbling over the edge.

She could not see, but her cab driver, although his services had

not been requested, was quite willing to describe the view. “Never been

out here before. Guess rich folks don’t take a lot of cabs.” He spoke

with an accent that had an Americanized Jamaican lilt. “Wait, this your

house?”

“No, far from it.” She chuckled.

Yoshi grew up in the vibrant Japantown and her life with a middle

class cop father was far from that of the Takahashi family’s. Hiroko

Yakamota had been many things, but affluent was not one of them.

Still, he had raised his daughter to value the life she had and she was

not intimidated by wealth.

“Whoa,” the cabbie said. “Thought the road ended here, but there’s

a private drive. That where we going?”

• 44 •

Blind Faith

“Yes.” Yoshi felt fairly certain of her answer.

“There’s a call box. Who should I say—”

“Yoshi Yakamota. They should be expecting me.”

With a buzz and click the lock released and the gate creaked slowly

open. From the sound of it, Yoshi imagined a heavy metal barrier. As

they drove down the paved driveway the cabbie whistled. “Bet that

yacht cost more ’n my house. My God, that’s an Aston Martin. And a

Bentley?” He let out a long, low breath of air. “Man, these people are

fucking loaded.”

When he let Yoshi out she asked him to describe the approach to

the home, so she knew whether to expect marble steps or a winding

walk guarded by elegant topiary. By the time a soft-spoken Hispanic

woman opened the heavy wrought iron door, Yoshi had braced herself

for the worst. The Takahashi’s maid led her to a sitting room and

brought her iced tea, which Yoshi sipped until she heard dainty steps

enter the room.

“Miss Yakamota?” The woman’s voice was as wispy as her walk,

and Yoshi imagined its owner moving with the grace of a dancer. “I’m

Mrs. Takahashi. Thank you for calling ahead.”

“Of course. As I mentioned on the phone, I run the private

investigation firm, Blind Eye Detective Agency,” Yoshi said, as a

reminder.

“Yes. You were a little vague about your intentions. How may I be

of assistance?” Her query was formal but not standoffish.

Yoshi quietly explained the situation while Mrs. Takahashi

occasionally murmured her understanding. She had barely concluded

when a man stormed into the room, demanding, “What is going on

here?”Yoshi’s heart sank. She had not expected Mr. Takahashi to be

home from work so early. She had hoped to preempt his arrival, but

her miscalculation may have doomed her visit to failure before she had

made her first request. In traditional Japanese homes men were the head

of the family and women were expected to defer to them. By speaking

with the wife instead of directing her questions to Mr. Takahashi, Yoshi

could have been seen as disrespectful. Unwilling to simply give up and

go home, she rose from her seat and bowed.

“Mr. Takahashi-san, it is a great honor to make your acquaintance.

• 45 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

I am Yoshi Yakamota. You may have known my father, Hiroki. He was

the first Japanese American detective at SFPD. I am—” Before she

could finish her introduction, he cut her off.

“I am familiar with Hiroki Yakamota. He was a fine man. His

accomplishments brought honor to our community.”

Was it her imagination, or was Mr. Takahashi inferring that her

endeavors were less than admirable?

He spoke to his wife in Japanese. “You did not tell me we were

expecting company.” Turning his attention to Yoshi, he said brusquely,

“Miss Yakamota—it is still ‘Miss,’ is it not? I apologize if my wife led

you to believe we might have need of your services. We do not.”

“I understand, sir, but if you would allow me to explain. I am not

asking you to hire me. I am here on behalf of a client.” Yoshi pointedly

remained vague. It would not serve her to reveal Aneko’s involvement

at this point. In fact, she preferred the Takahashis remained unaware

that Blind Eye was even searching for their missing daughter. After

all, if they had wanted Saya found, they would have hired a private

detective months ago, someone who could be discreet while ensuring

Saya’s return, even if by force.

“You are not here about Saya?” Mrs. Takahashi sounded

surprised.

“No ma’am,” Yoshi replied politely, hopefully scoring a few

points. “I am here in regards to another missing girl who disappeared

from Pioneer Institute at the same time as your daughter. Did you know

Dominique Marxley?”

“No.” Mr. Takahashi’s gruffness had not diminished. “We have

not made Miss Marxley’s acquaintance. I am sorry we could not be of

assistance.”

It was clear that he intended his statement to spark her departure.

Ignoring etiquette, Yoshi asked, “Do you know where Saya is?”

The silence was long enough for the couple to have communicated

by sign but Yoshi had not overheard the sound of moving hands and she

suspected, instead, that their communication traveled via eye contact.

She was surprised when it was Mrs. Takahashi who spoke next.

“I hope you will not find me inhospitable,” she said, speaking

quietly and concisely as though words were in short supply and she

was conserving them by carefully considering each one she used. “I am

afraid we must ask you to leave.”

• 46 •

Blind Faith

“My wife will see you to the door. Good day, Miss Yakamota.”

Mr. Takahashi dismissed both women at once.

“Of course.” Yoshi nodded.

She heard Mr. Takahashi’s footfalls fade as he exited the room,

leaving her alone with his wife.

“I am sorry,” Mrs. Takahashi whispered softly. She led Yoshi

silently down the foyer to the front entry way. As she closed the door

behind her and walked Yoshi down the steps, she leaned in so closely

that Yoshi could smell her gardenia and rose lotion. “Please find my

daughter. I miss her very much. I do not care what she is.”

Yoshi was stunned. Before she could reply, Mrs. Takahashi

disappeared as quietly as she had spoken. I do not care what she is. On

the surface, the meaning seemed clear, but Yoshi intended to dispatch

Tucker to determine exactly what Saya was, beyond a troubled lesbian

teen, and why the doctor caring for her didn’t want her found.

• 47 •

• 48 •

Blind Faith

chapter Four

Tucker got out of Bud’s baby blue Impala and darted through

traffic to cross Westmoor Avenue. Bud would park on the

other side of the school, go into the office, and see if he could find out

anything about Saya Takahashi from the school administration. Tucker

was supposed to infiltrate Westmoor High and speak to the students.

The school grounds were deserted. Tucker glanced at the Fossil

watch Velvet had given her for Christmas. Velvet was lucky the

watch with its ebony wood links was so studly or Tucker would never

remember to wear it. But the rectangular face only had four numbers on

the dial and Tucker had to practically count her fingers to figure out the

time. Maybe her old plastic digital watch hadn’t been so bad after all,

despite the grimace it evoked whenever Velvet saw it.

It was close to lunch. So where were the kids? Was it a closed

campus? Tucker was already worried about her ability to get into

the school. Since the Virginia Tech tragedy, California schools had

implemented extreme security measures. She looked down at her jeans

and T-shirt, hoping she would fit in. She had read on Westmoor’s website

that they had a strict dress code, and she’d been terrified about what that

meant until Aneko assured her there wasn’t a required school uniform.

Tucker couldn’t imagine having to wear a skirt to school everyday.

She had graduated from a rural magnet school in Idaho, which

drew students from a thirty-mile radius and still managed to attract

no more than three hundred at a time. Twice as many people attended

Westmoor High. The numbers were so mind boggling she had no sense

of the enormity until she stepped through Westmoor’s doors and was

• 49 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

swept off her feet. A crush of bodies plowed into Tucker’s chest and

knocked the wind out of her. A cacophony of noises assaulted her ears.

Before she could regain her senses, she found herself carried

along with a hoard of students stampeding toward the cafeteria. They

pushed her down the hall, through a room labeled Snack Bar and into

the cafeteria. There the hoard suddenly became a neatly organized

line, and Tucker was able to escape their magnetic grasp. Completely

disoriented, she stumbled into a young woman and almost sent the

girl’s tray flying.

“I’m so sorry,” Tucker apologized.

“Can I help you?” The girl gave Tucker a quizzical look. “You

look lost.”

Was it that obvious? Tucker blushed. She stuck out like a sore

thumb, but it wasn’t her clothing. She was the only white kid amidst a

predominantly Asian American student body. There were a handful of

African American and Latina kids, too, but no one with Tucker’s Nordic

coloring. It made sense, of course. After all, Daly City had the highest

Asian population of any American city outside of Honolulu. But for

some reason Tucker hadn’t thought about those statistics extending to

the student population as well.

“I’m new here,” she stammered. “I’m Tucker. Tucker Shade.”

“Kahlea Lu.” The girl shook Tucker’s hand. Her long black hair

was pulled back in a single braid. She wore stone-washed jeans, a red

blouse, and white jacket. When she moved her arm it tinkled like a bell.

A collection of silver bracelets encircled her wrist. “Well, that’s the line

for the cafeteria. It’s pretty good. They serve udon and teriyaki bowls,

Indian curries, and Vietnamese sandwiches, Or you can get Mexican

if you prefer. You pay with your credit card or, if you’re on one of the

meal plans, they just swipe your student ID.”

Tucker had neither credit card nor student ID and she’d never

been very good at lying. “I’m not really hungry. I think I’ll just hang

out on the quad.”

“In. We say ‘in’ the quad. You can walk with me, if you’d like.”

Tucker blushed again. She nodded and followed the girl, who cut

through the crowded hallway like Moses parting the Red Sea. When

they passed a teacher, Tucker kept her head down and hoped she

blended in despite her blondish brown hair. Once outside Kahlea sat

• 50 •

Blind Faith

down on the cement steps. Tucker sat down next to her and looked up

at the blue sky.

“So, what are you really doing here?” Kahlea asked.

“I told you, I go here—to school.”

Kahlea shook her head. “I don’t think so. Placement at Westmoor

is very competitive.”

“And what?” Tucker was offended. “You can tell by just looking

at me that I’m too stupid to go here?” What the hell? Was she being the

target of some kind of backward racial profiling? Tucker knew Asian

Americans were known for their smarts but stereotypes weren’t always

true. Why was this girl being so rude?

Kahlea smirked, as though Tucker had made a joke. “I don’t know

you well enough to say that. It’s just that there is a waiting list to get

into Westmoor, and I know some of the kids who have been waiting

for a spot all year. Plus, I can tell by the way you’re acting.” Kahlea

swallowed another bite. “You don’t have a student ID, and you don’t

want the teachers to see you. So why are you really here?”

Damn. Tucker’s first undercover assignment and five minutes in

she’d already been made. At this rate she was never going to become

the kind of PI Yoshi Yakamota would respect. Should she come clean

and hope for sympathy or try another angle? Practice makes perfect.

“You’re right. I’m sorry about that. I don’t go here. I’m just trying to

find a friend of mine.” Tucker pulled a photo from her back pocket

and held it out to Kahlea. It was a school picture of Saya from her

sophomore year.

“Saya Takahashi. Did you know her?”

Kahlea took the five-by-seven. “How do you know her?”

“I met her at Pioneer Institute. It’s this conservative school in

Freemont where parents send ‘problem kids.’” Tucker made quote

marks with her fingers. “You know, kids who aren’t turning out the

way they’re supposed to because they dress weird or like girls instead

of boys.”

“You aren’t dressed weird.”

Tucker smiled. “Thanks. But I don’t like boys.”

Kahlea crinkled her nose. “That’s gross,” she said but did not

move away. She shrugged. “It’s your life. So, if Saya was at this Pioneer

place, why are you looking for her here?”

• 51 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“She escaped. Like six months ago and I haven’t heard from her

since. I just turned eighteen and my parents couldn’t keep me there

anymore, so I’m out and I’m trying to find her, you know, just to be sure

she’s okay. She used to go to school here, so I thought maybe one of

her friends might know where she is. Do you know who she hung out

with? She mentioned Lisbeth, Johnny, and Thanh Ha.” Tucker used the

names they’d gotten from Aneko, even though she didn’t know if they

were current friends or not.

Aneko had really been on top of things. She’d brought a file box

full of stuff she thought Blind Eye might find useful, including every

letter Saya had sent her since Aneko left their family home five years

earlier. The three names Tucker used had all come from the most recent

letters—before Saya had been sent to Pioneer.

Kahlea handed back the photo. “I don’t know any Lisbeths, but

Johnny and Thanh Ha are right over there.” She waved vaguely in the

direction of a hundred students.

Like that was really useful. Tucker rolled her eyes. How was

she supposed to know which kids she was looking for? She stood

up, brushed off her pants, and started to say, “Thanks anyway,” when

Kahlea got up too.

“I’ll introduce you,” she said. “Just let me bus my tray.”

Kahlea presented Tucker to the three students who had been

friends with Saya, but it turned out that they weren’t very helpful.

Either they knew little about Saya’s disappearance, or they were lying

to protect her. If it was the latter, they had greater skills of deception

than Tucker. When she asked the last time they’d seen Saya, they

avoided her eyes in favor of each other’s. Tucker wasn’t sure if they

were mentally conferring to pin down a date or trying to synchronize

fabricated stories.

“It must have been that last day she was at school, before her

parents sent her to Pioneer.” The Vietnamese girl, Thanh Ha answered.

“You know, no one even told us what had happened. It was like she just

disappeared.”

“How did you figure it out?” Tucker asked.

“It was Lawrence,” Johnny said. “He got a weird text message

about checking out Angry Girl blog.”

“Angryhapagirl,” Lawrence corrected. “It was a blogspot posting

from Saya. I mean, she didn’t say it was her, but we could tell. It talked

• 52 •

Blind Faith

about being sent to a fundamentalist Christian program for gays and the

kind of crazy assed rules they had. Her parents said there was something

psychologically wrong with her and they must have raised her wrong

because she’d followed in her sister’s footsteps instead of staying on

the path God wanted her on.”

“Wow, that sucks. Can you give me that address so I can see it for

myself?”

Thanh Ha shook her head. “Can’t. It’s gone.”

“Yeah,” Johnny said. “It was really creepy. First there were

postings that sounded just like Saya, then all of a sudden they changed.

It was like she’d been brainwashed and really believed that stuff.”

“That wasn’t her,” Lawrence insisted. “They must’ve figured out

she’d been online and made her write a retraction, you know, saying

she’d been wrong, that she’d just been upset and blown everything out

of proportion.”

“Two days later,” Thanh Ha added, “The whole blog was gone. It

had been wiped clean off the server.”

“Really? Damn.” Tucker wondered who had the ability to erase

the entire thing.

“I’ve got a printout.” Lawrence retrieved a rumpled collection of

papers from a weathered leather messenger bag and, with a nervous

glance over his shoulder, thrust them toward Tucker. “Promise you’ll

return them to me?”

Tucker raised her fingers in the Boy Scout oath and quickly

skimmed the papers.

“Here’s the shit they spew,” Saya wrote. “‘Pioneer Institute

encourages each client by reaffirming identification with the appropriate

gender expressions. Pioneer helps their clients pursue integrity in

both the actions they take and the way they present themselves to the

world.’”

The rhetoric sounded almost like the way politicians talked.

Reading between the lines, Tucker interpreted the sentiment to mean

girls should dress and act in the feminine way they were expected to.

Likewise for boys.

“‘Therefore,’” the quoted material continued, “‘any belongings,

appearances, clothing, actions, or humor that might connect a client to

an inappropriately gendered past are excluded from the program. These

hindrances are called False Images. FI behavior may include mannish

• 53 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

attire on women, jewelry on men, and campy gay or lesbian behavior

and speech.’”

Following the quotation, the blog author expressed the opinion,

“Lame, huh?”

Tucker had to agree with her. It was lame. More than that, it

reminded Tucker of her own teen years and the pressures she’d endured

that were aimed at realigning her ‘inappropriate’ gender behaviors. She

thought of how funny it was in retrospect. Most of the farmwomen she

knew were far more butch than some of the lesbians she’d come to

know in San Francisco. Take Velvet or Yoshi, for example.

“I can’t believe her parents sent her to that place,” Lawrence

interrupted her thoughts. His delicate hands were clenched into fists

at his sides. “It’s like they thought they could just strain the gay out

of her. But she was never going to live up to their expectations. Those

bastards drove her away.” His voice cracked and Tucker saw his eyes

glisten with tears.

Thanh Ha squeezed his hand . “How can anyone do that to their

kids?”Tucker shook her head. She didn’t know why parents did the

things they did to their kids. Maybe they felt entitled or something.

“We were so relieved when she got away from that place.” Johnny

said. “How’d you discover that?” Tucker asked.

Johnny shrugged. “I don’t know. Just heard it through the

grapevine. I kind of expected her to show up around here.”

“Saya’s too smart for that,” Thanh Ha said. “She knew if she came

back here she’d get caught and sent back to that prison. I bet she went

somewhere her parents’ can’t get to her, like New York City. I bet we

hear from her in a few months and she’ll be doing great.”

Tucker wondered if Thanh Ha really believed what she was

saying, or if it was just something the teenager really wanted to believe.

Was it possible to convince yourself that something you knew was true

really wasn’t? Could you blindly believe something simply because you

wanted to? She shivered as though a sudden solar eclipse had thrown

the world into darkness. For a moment Tucker was certain she was as

guilty of mislaid faith as these kids, the folks who ran ex-gay programs,

or the parents who sent their children to such places. The feeling passed

quickly and she was left pondering what her own blind faith concealed

• 54 •

Blind Faith

from her. The truth seemed shrouded in shadow. She forced her attention

back to the task at hand addressing one of the remaining mysteries. “Do

any of you know someone named Lisbeth that Saya might have been

friends with?”

While Johnny and Thanh Ha shook their heads, Lawrence just

stared at the ground, his cheeks flushed. Tucker felt bad for him.

She knew from experience what it was like to be a shy teenager

uncomfortable in social situations.

“So Lisbeth wasn’t her girlfriend or something?” she asked.

“She didn’t have a girlfriend.” Thanh Ha answered.

“But she is gay, right?” Tucker clarified. Wouldn’t it be ironic if

the girl’s parents had just assumed she was a lesbian when she really

wasn’t?

“Yeah,” Johnny affirmed Saya’s queerness. “She made the mistake

of coming out to her folks. That’s how this all started.” He suddenly

grabbed Thanh Ha’s arm. “Oh, my God. We have to go!”

“They’ve got a no-tolerance policy for tardiness,” Thanh Ha

explained.

Tucker glanced up, half expecting a high school Gestapo to be

bearing down on them. No one was there. The courtyard had nearly

emptied. It must be near the end of Westmoor’s half hour lunch period.

She thanked Saya’s friends and scurried through the school toward the

rear exit. It wouldn’t do to be caught by a hall monitor after the bell

rang. Best case scenario she’d end up in the principal’s office. Worst

case, they’d call the cops. She was almost to the parking lot when

someone grabbed her shoulder.

Tucker swung around. She was surprised to find Lawrence standing

there. “Was there something you forgot to tell me?”

His voice was so low she barely heard it. “I miss her.”

Tucker wondered if the reverse were true. If Lawrence and Saya

had been close, why hadn’t the girl mentioned him in her letters to

Aneko? Hoping for a lead, she asked, “Did Saya come to you after she

ran away?”

Lawrence shook his head. “Not this time. I don’t understand it.

She knows I’d do anything for her, but she didn’t call me.”

Not this time? She’d been so stupid. Most runaways were serial

runners. In fact, Aneko had told Blind Eye that Saya had shown up on

her doorstep before, after running away. But Tucker had just assumed

• 55 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

that incident was the only one. With Aneko estranged from her family,

perhaps she didn’t know that Saya had run away other times.

“The other time she ran away, can you tell me about that?”

“Why?” He lowered his plush eyelashes. “I’m just trying to find

her,” she said, trying for empathy. “She left Pioneer with another girl,

so maybe that girl’s friends helped them.”

The idea seemed to lift his spirits. “When she ran away before she

sent me a text, telling me where to meet her. She stayed at my place but

after that she hid in the pool house in Johnny’s back yard. I don’t think

they ever go back there, so it was safe.”

“Thanks, Lawrence. That really helps. Do you think Johnny or

Thanh Ha could have helped her this time without you knowing it?”

“No. No way.”

Tucker accepted his evaluation. “What about her other friend?

This Lisbeth?”

He kicked at a pebble. “That’s what I wanted to tell you. I just

couldn’t say anything in front of those guys. I mean, they’re my friends

and everything but I just don’t know. We never thought they could

handle it.”

The bell rang.

Lawrence jumped. He looked back at the school with horror. “I’m

late. I gotta go.”

Not yet. “Handle what?” Tucker demanded.

He lowered his voice. “I’m Lisbeth.” Then he turned on his heel

and darted away like a whitetail, leaving Tucker staring after him with

her mouth hanging open.

• 56 •

Blind Faith

chapter Five

Pioneer Institute counselor Aimee Dix finished setting up her

tent and surveyed the campsites. Crystal Lake was shaped like

an ankh, with land tying two water blades to a longer expanse of water

that stretched to the south. Aimee and the other counselor, Carl Lee

James, had set up camp between the blades. The boys’ camp occupied

the east shore, and across the crystal clear, blue green water lay the

girl’s camp on the western edge of the rocky shore.

Two days earlier the campers had been dropped off on the side of

Highway 1 bordering Marin County’s Point Reyes National Seashore.

From there, it had been a strenuous hike to pick their way cross-country

through the dense coyote brush to the lake. Although she and Carl Lee

carried GPS units and various maps, they’d placed the students in

charge of navigation, allowing them to use only their compasses to plot

their course while avoiding man-made trails.

Although Pioneer students did not realize it, the most difficult

portion of the trek was behind them. The second half of the trip always

sounded more demanding, because they had to hand in their compasses

and navigate using only the skills and information acquired during the

course. Students who had paid attention would remember that the plant

communities that dominated the shaded north slopes of mountains

were different from those on the southern hills, which received more

of the sun’s rays. With that information they could determine compass

directions with little more than a representative leaf or flower gathered

from the hillside. During their tough few days on the trail they developed

• 57 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

leadership skills while learning about geography, geology, astronomy,

and ecology.

Usually this was Aimee’s favorite week of the year. Spring Survival

Camp was a great way to reward the kids who’d achieved some success

in their struggles to overcome sexual dysphoria. The experience built

trust between fellow students and counselors and improved self-esteem.

Carl Lee was remarkably helpful in teaching survival skills to the group

so far, but something about him gave Aimee the creeps. He was a last

minute substitution for Coach Rex Rawlings, who’d canceled because

of a family emergency. Carl Lee had stepped up, and Aimee knew she

should be grateful, but she wouldn’t be happy until they completed the

outdoor education event, hiked into Bolinas, and drove back to Pioneer

Institute. She tried to soothe her nerves by reminding herself that

there were only a few more days to go. Tomorrow, they would leave

Crystal Lake in the morning, first heading south to Bass Lake, and then

paralleling the coast until they reached Bolinas. She watched Isabelle

Sanchez standing next to her tent while Carl Lee finished tacking in the

last of her tent stakes. When had Isabelle become so helpless? Aimee

felt a wave of melancholy splash her. Sometimes Pioneer’s successes

did not make her feel as happy as they should.

She was thrilled that Isabelle had begun to emulate more

appropriate gender behavior and deepen her spiritual connection

with God. During group therapy last week they’d had a breakthrough

when Isabelle finally acknowledged that her home environment had

inadvertently primed her for pre-homosexuality. Admission was the

first step. The aversion therapy had then begun to work, helping Isabelle

fight the urges that stemmed from being raised by a cold and distant

mother. This recent progress was astounding, given the many months

she’d spent at Pioneer, seemingly stuck in her psychologically stunted

sexual obsession with women. But the progress seemed to come hand

in hand with a sense of her own fallibility and Isabelle was deferring

more and more to the boys and male counselors. As a devout Christian

who considered herself both psychologically healthy and strongly

independent, Aimee did not believe women had to lose their personal

strength to gain their femininity.

Aimee still believed in her work at Pioneer. The students who

came to the institute were suffering immensely and Aimee understood

• 58 •

Blind Faith

that much of their anguish resulted from abnormal sexual impulses

and replicating inappropriate gender behaviors. She honestly believed

that their only hope of true love and happiness lay in heterosexual

relationships.

Despite her beliefs, she was not entirely pleased by the changes in

Isabelle Sanchez . She hated to see the spark fading from the intelligent

girl’s bright eyes.

v

After dinner, the students gathered around a fire pit in the neutral

zone where Miss Dix and Carl Lee had pitched their tents. The sun had

gone down behind the trees and it wouldn’t be long until the camps

were engulfed in darkness.

Isabelle had no idea what the teachers were thinking, sending her

into the wilderness. She’d been working so hard to be feminine but a

camp out almost required masculinity. It was fine for the boys to be

lugging about heavy backpacks and wearing ugly hiking boots. But,

she’d just spent the last six months hearing that girls weren’t supposed

to do either of those things. Her flesh-colored nail polish was chipped,

her hair was already matted, and God only knew how she looked

without makeup. Dammit, why was this still so hard?

Still, there was something exhilarating about being able to wear

trousers for this trip. She had missed the freedom of pants even though in

the last month she’d come to tolerate skirts and blouses. The sweatshirt

she’d pulled on to fight the evening chill did nothing to flatter her figure

and it dawned on her that some of the teachings had gotten through to

her. She finally understood that she had to look like a girl in order to

feel like one. And boys would respond to that, too. Not out here in the

boonies, of course, where she was wearing this weird butch outfit and

no makeup, but when she got out she was all prepared to attract a real

man.Maybe it didn’t even matter if she didn’t like them at first. Maybe

eventually she’d learn to. The sound of curfew interrupted her reverie

and she marched back to the girls’ camp, her mind racing with dreams

of life after Pioneer. Even if she didn’t feel one hundred percent on the

right path, she was trying flipping hard and nobody ever had to know

• 59 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

what she really felt inside. She missed her chicas in LA though. The

poor T-girls who’d taken her in. God only knew what their mothers had

done to them.

Isabelle always got a little claustrophobic in small spaces, so she

unzipped the front tent flap once she was settled, and poked her head

out. She’d been counting stars in the sky for a while when she heard

another zipper and saw Erica crawl out of her tent. She disappeared

into the darkness, probably to pee. Ick. It was barbaric, girls pissing in

the woods like bears. Oops, that was another unladylike thing to think.

Girls having to relieve themselves in the woods—that was a much

better way to phrase it.

She resumed her stargazing. It was kind of nice to see so many of

them. Living in the city, even the ’burbs, you could forget stars were

out there. Another noise interrupted her trance and Sarah hurried away

from the tents into the darkness.

Isabelle remembered when she and Dominique had slipped away

sometimes, ducking into shadows for a quick kiss, finding fleeting

moments when they could touch, hungrily running their hands over each

other’s bodies. It made her almost sick to think of it now, to imagine

her hands on another girl. She was no longer looking for maternal love

in the arms of another female. Pioneer had helped her fight those sinful

urges. In return, she’d pledged to follow Pioneer’s honor code, which

made it her duty to alert staff when a fellow student broke one of the

rules.Her classmates might be angry with her, but Isabelle knew she’d

be doing them a favor. Their immortal souls were at stake. Lives on this

earth were short blinks of the eye compared to the life of the soul. Mortal

urges could not be allowed to destroy the hope of spiritual redemption.

And she knew how hard it was to fight temptation. Even now, thinking

about Dom and knowing how nauseatingly wrong it was, Isabelle still

felt love there. She knew she was sick but she would keep praying, and

that’s what Erica and Sarah should be doing too, not sneaking off in

the night.

Isabelle slid out into the cool air and crept past the fire pit where

a handful of coals still glowed. She plucked at the front of Miss Dix’s

tent. “Miss Dix?” she whispered. “Are you still awake?”

“Isabelle?” Like the other counselors, Miss Dix never called her

• 60 •

Blind Faith

“Izzy,” and lately the nickname had started to feel foreign to Isabelle,

too. “Is everything okay?”

“Sorry to bother you, but I’m worried about Sarah and Erica. They

went to the bathroom and haven’t come back.”

“How long has it been?”

“I think maybe twenty minutes,” Isabelle guessed.

“You did the right thing coming to me.” Miss Dix bent down and

pulled a flashlight from the tent. “I’ll walk you back to the camp and

then go look for them.”

v

Matt Lovelorn was walking back to the boys’ camp after taking a

piss when he saw a light flashing through the trees on the other side of

the lake, over by the girls’ camp. What the hell? Before they’d left the

school, Carl Lee had gone through all the students’ gear making sure

none of them had prohibited items like flashlights. So it couldn’t be one

of the kids walking around over there.

Matt felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise. What if a stranger

was sneaking around? He broke into a run, dashing toward the girls’

camp. Erica. He could hardly bear being apart from her every night

when they had to go to their separate sleeping quarters. He thought of

her soft skin and full lips and the way her hands felt on his body. He

couldn’t let anyone hurt her. He’d never felt this way about a girl. As

long as he could remember he’d found himself attracted to other boys.

He’d hated that impulse, the way his heart would skip a beat when a

cute boy noticed him, or the way his dick hardened when he soaped off

in the gym showers next to other football players.

He refused to be gay. He was a star quarterback damn it. He hated

queers and he’d beaten up more than a few pussy boys. He was tough

and hard and never cried. He was no sissy. But he couldn’t stop thinking

about having sex with other guys, and then came that Saturday in that

park bathroom. Thinking about it still made him want to puke.

That’s what he’d done afterward. He’d tried to wash the taste away

and wipe his memory by drowning himself in alcohol. That just made

him sicker. So, he’d finally got up the courage to turn to Father Tom,

the priest who ran the Christian teen center. He’d revealed his secret

and begged for help.

• 61 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

After several weeks of spiritual counseling, the feelings didn’t

change and Matt had even found himself fantasizing about Father Tom

seducing him. In the end, with Father Tom’s support, he told his parents

and begged them to send him to Pioneer Institute.

Matt was thrilled that they’d agreed. He wanted to be cured. Sure,

there were still things that pissed him off about Pioneer. They wouldn’t

let him work out or even do sit ups and it was costing him muscle

mass. Dr. Barnabas said the only reason for a man to have a washboard

stomach was if he wanted to attract another man. But Matt didn’t care

about all that, because the therapy was working. He was in love with

Erica Bingham and she was in love with him. And for once in his life,

his body was doing exactly what he wanted it to, responding to a girl’s

touch.Matt followed the edge of the lake, so he didn’t have to worry

about getting lost. He couldn’t see more than an arm’s length in front

of him, but there wasn’t as much to trip over. The area was clear of the

downed logs and brush they’d humped through all day. Miss Dix didn’t

shut up the whole time they hiked. She’d rattle off little tidbits about

rocks and trees and other crap he’d never find useful. Thank God for

Carl Lee. That dude was cool and he taught them real survival skills,

like how to start a fire without matches.

“Matt,” someone hissed in the darkness. He turned toward the

voice and found one of the girls’ tents there. The front door was zippered

down and a head was sticking out the end. Still he couldn’t tell who it

was. He stepped closer until he could make out Isabelle.

“Hey Isabelle.” He whispered. “Someone out there. I saw their

flashlight.”

“Yeah. It’s Aimee. She’s looking for Sarah and Erica.”

“Erica? Erica’s not here?”

“No.” Isabelle lowered her voice like girls do when they’ve got

some juicy gossip. “She and Sarah have been gone for like thirty

minutes.”

“Where did they go? What do you think they’re doing?”

Isabelle laughed. “What do you think?” She made gagging noises

at him.

He did not understand.

“Sex,” she said, making him mad. How dare she think dirty

thoughts about his Erica.

• 62 •

Blind Faith

“Erica would never do that.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Isabelle scoffed. “None of us would ever.

That’s why we’re at Pioneer.”

“You don’t know her. She wouldn’t do that.”

“Okay, so what’s she doing sneaking off in the dark with Sarah?”

“I don’t know but Erica’s not that way.”

“Right. Whatever. What do you care, anyway?”

Matt didn’t answer. Fuck her. He knew Erica. They were in love.

She’d never cheat on him, especially not with some girl. Not when

what they had together could make them normal. There was probably

an innocent reason why she’d gone into the woods with Sarah. Still,

he was worried. What could be taking so long? Was someone hurt? He

rushed off into the darkness wishing he could just call Erica’s name.

That would help him find her. But there was a counselor out there

looking for the girls and Matt didn’t want them to get in trouble. He

couldn’t bear to see Erica punished. If he could only find her first, he

could warn her about Miss Dix skulking around.

When he saw the bouncing yellow light, he ducked behind a tree

and hid. They walked in a line, Sarah first then Erica then Miss Dix.

He couldn’t see the two girls’ faces, but their heads were bowed as if in

prayer. Neither spoke in defense as Miss Dix berated them.

“I hope you realize how serious an infraction this is. I’m not just

referring to the serious spiritual consequences of your actions, or the

punishment you’ll receive when we return to Pioneer. How am I ever

supposed to trust you again? You’ve done yourself a great disservice

here, girls.”

When he heard the words Matt felt like someone had pried apart

his rib cage and pulled out his heart. How could he be so blind? Isabelle

was right. Sarah and Erica had been together after all. How could Erica

do that to him? He thought they were in love.

• 63 •

• 64 •

Blind Faith

chapter six

Several Days Later

Few things were as beautiful as the San Francisco Bay coastline.

Velvet Erickson remembered the first time she’d glimpsed the myriad

of white vessels that crowded the bay on weekends, sailing in tandem

like synchronized swimmers gliding atop water so glasslike it was

haunting. She loved the water, from the brackish bay to the cerulean

ocean waves, and she loved being in and on it even more. But after

her childhood friend Jeff had met his end in San Francisco Bay, Velvet

could hardly bear to be in the same city, much less on the water where

he had died. It had been almost six months and Velvet still didn’t have

her sea legs back, but she was starting to feel a little like her old self and

ready to brave the Marin coastline.

It had not hurt that her return to the water’s edge was necessitated

by her first big fashion shoot since regaining the helm of Womyn

magazine. If there was one thing that could hold her attention and keep

her from slipping into a deep depression, it was her desire to revive the

foundering publication. She felt destined to make Womyn the magazine

she’d first dreamed of when she and Rosemary Finney founded it years

ago. She wanted to change it from the petty, competitive, un-feminist

vehicle it had become before Rosemary’s death.

It was Velvet’s overpowering desire to forge new ground in lesbian

publishing that had led her to this moment, doing something radical and

dangerous, something she was certain no magazine editor had done on

a fashion shoot before; she’d brought along the competition, Marion

Serif, editor of Bent magazine.

• 65 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“Velvet, this is truly a magnificent boat,” Marion Serif announced,

referring to the relatively petite yacht Velvet had borrowed from one of

Womyn’s board members.

“It is, isn’t it? Now aren’t you glad I convinced you to come

along?”

“Yes, actually, I am. Now are you ready to disclose why you

invited me?” This was no social excursion and Marion knew it.

Velvet adored her old friend, but they were now direct competitors

on the newsstands and in the hearts of the nations lesbian readers. She

chose her words with care. “Marion, I want to usher in a new era for

lesbian publishing. An era in which we can do things differently. You

and I don’t need to be competitors. We can be allies.”

The look on Marion’s face was not what Velvet had hoped for. It

was a mixture of consternation and pity, as though she suspected her

good friend had gone off her rocker. Velvet was hardly naïve. She’d

been at the top of this feeding chain once before and she intended to be

there again, but she didn’t want to reach that pinnacle by backstabbing

friends or stealing advertising clients–, corporate espionage practices

that were de rigueur during the reign of her predecessor at Womyn.

Instead, Velvet wanted to broaden the entire category of lesbian

publishing and make a place at the table for many publications, not just

one or two.

She was just about to explain this aim to Marion when Womyn’ s

art director Bonnie came topside, accompanied by a handful of very

sexy women wearing very skimpy clothing. Few lesbians could fail

to appreciate women in itty-bitty bikinis, especially when they were

paired with butches in board shorts and briefs.

“Velvet, we’ve got to start shooting soon,” Bonnie said. “The girls

are freezing in these outfits. It’s hardly Cabo, you know. And we’re

tired of waiting in makeup.”

Bonnie was an odd bird, witty and handsome in an old-school

butch way. Shy at first, she was often dismissed as stuck up and some

people never moved past these misguided first impressions. When Velvet

returned to Womyn to steer the magazine into the future, she recruited

Bonnie to join her. Putting a woman in charge of art direction, especially

one who never wore makeup and preferred Wellies to Manolos, was

tantamount to heresy in the publishing industry, but Bonnie’s creative

eye made her the perfect candidate for the job.

• 66 •

Blind Faith

It was late in the year to be shooting for their June issue and

photographing bikinis, but there was reason to Velvet’s madness. She

had landed a last minute interview with Dani, the cute, soft-butch,

firefighter turned reality TV star, who had become an overnight

sensation by beating out twelve lipstick lesbians for one woman’s

attention. Velvet and Bonnie had decided to photograph Dani topless

in swim trunks and surrounded by a bevy of lipstick lesbians, most

of whom represented LA’s burlesque dance troupe, The Pin Up Girls.

They were dressed in Christian Louboutin’s Pigalle pumps and tiny

Zoë bikinis in a rainbow pattern that was sure to stand out on the cover

of Womyn’s gay pride issue. It was an expensive, complex shoot, but

Velvet was sure it would make the magazine sell like hotcakes. If only

she could find the right beach for her shoot.

Since Velvet had last been on this stretch of water, tides and storms

had completely rearranged the landscape, tearing the beaches asunder.

They’d already spent the morning cruising along the Marin Coast,

around the Point Reyes National Seashore. The photographer had shot

all she could aboard the yacht and they desperately needed those beach

shots. Ever the budget-minded editor, Velvet had not forked over the

money required for a public permit, so her team was searching for

something rather secluded.

She pushed her binoculars aside, grabbed her iPhone and pulled

up MapQuest. A moment later, she pointed to a satellite image on the

screen and told the captain, “We’re here. I want to go around that little

channel to that beach right there.”

As they approached the spot she’d indicated, Velvet could tell

right away that the little beach was going to be the perfect location for

their shoot. With the rocks on one side and the water on the other, it

was picturesque, secluded, and getting the perfect amount of sunlight.

The girls would be comfortable, the park rangers weren’t going to find

them, and the tide was finally out so they would have enough space to

set up the equipment.

“This is perfect,” she said, but as they closed in her heart sunk.

Someone had beaten them to the spot. A couple was sunbathing exactly

where the models would have to pose. The yacht surged closer and

Velvet froze.

“Oh, my God, I think they’re dead!”

She was answered by the sound of waves slapping against the

• 67 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

hull of the boat. It seemed everyone else was stunned into silence and

unsure how to respond.

Marion slid up and put an arm around her. “Velvet, honey, I think

you might be jumping to conclusions.” She tried to steer Velvet away

from the railing.

“No!” Velvet yanked free of her grasp. “There are bodies on that

beach.”

She looked around at her staff and friends and was disappointed

to find them all staring at her like the stress of the shoot had gotten to

her and she’d lost it. There was nothing like crisis situations to reveal

what people really thought of you. Let the others think it was driftwood

or a dead seal or her own terrible imagination, but she had long since

learned to trust her instincts. She was seldom wrong when it came to

recognizing a story. Even in that first instant, she was certain this would

turn out to be a big one.

She directed the captain to bring the boat as close to the rocky

shore as she dared and cast an anchor. Velvet did not wait for the others

to confirm what she’d already recognized. She snatched the camera

out of the photographer’s hands and jumped overboard. The cold water

was chin deep and took her breath away. When it hit her breasts, Velvet

almost regretted the damnable curiosity that had driven her overboard.

Praying that she wouldn’t drop the professional, thousand dollar camera

in the drink, she held it above her head and struggled toward the rocky

beach.The two bodies lay crumpled together, face down at the base of a

sea cliff. Matted hair entwined between them, binding them like lovers,

morbid corpse brides bound together forever in the afterlife. Velvet

wondered if they’d been lovers in life and how they got here. Had they

jumped from the cliff above?

Their bloated, waterlogged bodies brought images of Jeff Conant’s

distended corpse to her mind. She did not need to feel for a pulse to

know they were both dead and had been so for some time. Velvet

forced her emotions aside and tuned out the shouts and shrieks of her

employees. There was a job to be done. She needed to document the

scene. Operating almost entirely on autopilot, she began methodically

photographing the area, starting with wide shots and narrowing in until

she was photographing only quadrants of the individual bodies. When

• 68 •

Blind Faith

she was satisfied that she’d documented the initial scene in photographic

evidence, she slowly rolled each of the bodies over.

They were both women, no…girls. Children. Crabs had been at

them. The eyes were gone, leaving ghoulish sockets staring from their

dead faces. Velvet sprinted to the water and threw up. She couldn’t

stop thinking of Jeff, the way his body had suffered a similar fate. She

crouched over and began to sob. She had only just begun to recover from

his death and now this. How long would these faces haunt her dreams?

What had drawn her here? She felt like the woman from Medium,

like the dead had brought her here for a reason, like they thought only

she could bring them justice. Maybe that was what it meant to be an

investigative reporter, to have a duty to uncover the truth and restore

justice.

Minutes passed slowly. Velvet focused on the two girls, the

vast rocky cliff above them, and the hollow echo of the nearby surf.

By the time Marion joined her on the beach, Velvet was no longer

an investigative reporter. She was a magazine editor, and more

importantly, she was the boss, responsible for the safety and well-being

of her employees. She glanced back toward the yacht, taking in the

shocked faces streaked with tears. While the sight of two lifeless bodies

instilled in her a concoction of dread, grief, and the not long dormant

investigative spirit, she knew what she needed to do.

“Okay everyone,” she shouted. “Don’t worry, it’s going to be fine.

We need to call the Coast Guard and give them our location. Tell them

that we’ve found the bodies of two young women. We’ll stay here until

they arrive, and then we’ll go back to San Francisco.”

She allowed Marion to help her back to the boat. The models were

huddled in towels or had gone below to change out of their bikinis.

Velvet joined them, stripping from her wet clothes and taking advantage

of the shower, which despite being the size of a shoe closet managed

to warm the blood in her veins and stave off hypothermia, thus keeping

her from ending up naked in bed with Dani and the burlesque girls

pressing their bodies against hers for warmth.

You win some, you lose some.

v

• 69 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Yoshi was patiently awaiting Aneko’s arrival when the phone

rang. Perhaps Aneko was calling to apologize for being tardy, though

the clock had not yet struck upon the hour. Yoshi preferred clients to

be overly polite in regards to their tardiness, rather than arriving at the

Blind Eye office without apology or explanation.

“Yoshi?”

The tone in the other woman’s voice immediately put Yoshi on

edge. “What is it, Aneko? What is wrong?”

“Can we meet somewhere else? Somewhere public and well lit?”

Yoshi felt as though she had just lowered her bare hand into liquid

nitrogen. Aneko had been threatened. She was sure of it. She suggested

a nearby coffee shop.

“Too crowded.” Aneko said. “Plus, nowhere near food.”

They agreed on the main branch of the San Francisco public

library. When Yoshi walked in she moved instinctually toward a far

corner where Aneko’s lyrical voice guided her to a rough-edged reading

table. The location was a wise choice. From her vantage point, Aneko

would see anyone who entered and no one could sneak up behind her.

Being a house of silence, any confrontation would be noticed. She

heard Aneko rummaging through her handbag. She placed something

quite light between the two of them.

“What is it?” If time were not of the essence, Yoshi would

appreciate the challenge of identifying an unknown object through

sound, sense, and smell. But she wanted to know why Aneko seemed

so panicked.

“It’s a box. It’s made to look like a coffin.”

Yoshi could hear fear in her client’s voice. “What is inside?” she

asked, cringing at one possible answer. Please don’t be the head of

Aneko’s beloved cat.

“A dead mouse.”

Yoshi felt the repulsion rearranging her features. The repugnant

image of the dead animal caused anger to rise and burn her throat like

acid. It could be worse, she reminded herself, it could be much worse.

She reached across the table and touched Aneko’s hand, trying to show

her sympathy. Aneko’s fingers curled around hers and held them for

mere seconds before releasing them.

“There’s a note.”

• 70 •

Blind Faith

Of course. There was always a note. “What does it say?” Yoshi

kept her voice stable.

“It says, ‘Drop the search or you’ll be next.’”

Yoshi swallowed the chestnut-sized lump in her throat. “This is

serious, Aneko. I think we should alert the police now.”

“No.” Aneko was adamant. “No police. We can’t prove anything

and it could make things worse.”

“You believe Barnabas is behind these threats.” Yoshi made it a

statement, not a question. Her mind worked quickly. She felt strongly

about following clients’ wishes but threats like this usually escalated,

sometimes into violence against the target. She did not want any harm

to come to Aneko.

“Barnabas Gage is capable of anything,” Aneko said bitterly.

Yoshi nodded. That was her impression also. “Do you want to

continue the investigation?”

“Of course.” Aneko replied without hesitation.

Yoshi fixed her unseeing eyes in the woman’s direction, imitating

a stare. “This is serious. Your life is in danger here. I want you to think

about what you are risking.”

Aneko paused long enough to satisfy Yoshi. “Nothing will keep

me from finding Saya. But I’ll understand if the risk is too much for

you and your staff.”

“No, we are committed. You can count on that. I would like to

take the box and its contents to one of my colleagues at San Francisco

State University. She can perform a necropsy and see if there is any

trace evidence we can use to establish who is threatening you. If we can

connect this to Dr. Barnabas, our position will be strengthened.”

“Do whatever you want with it. I never want to see it again.”

“I think there might be a silver lining.” Yoshi tried to lighten the

mood. “It sure seems as though we are on the right track or someone

would not go to such lengths to derail our investigation.” She couldn’t

tell whether her words had encouraged a smile. “There is something

that you may be able to help me with. Another matter.”

“Anything,” Aneko said.

“I wondered if I could requisition your translation skills.” As

she spoke, Yoshi pulled out the letters Tucker had uncovered when

she broke the Lucky Cat. She pushed them across the table. “Tucker

• 71 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

was able to determine they represented a period between 1976 through

1980 and were written every three months. That is the extent of what

I know.”

“All right.” Aneko shuffled through the weathered, diaphanous

paper. “Well I can see right away that the writer was a native-speaker.

As you know the structure of Japanese writing differs dramatically

from English and can be very difficult for non-natives to master. One of

the traditional elements present is that each letter begins with reference

to the season. ‘The cold days of autumn continue…the summer has

warmed my soul…or what have you.’”

“Who are they from?” Yoshi asked. “Who are they to?”

“They are all personal letters. Most of them are addressed to

Hiroki, although a few are addressed to watashi no koishii.”

Yoshi repeated the phrase slowly. “My darling?”

“Yes. The letters are really lovely, the script is beautiful, too. I

assume they’re from a woman but the signature line in every single

letter is saiai.”

Yoshi was stunned.

“It means beloved,” Aneko said, confusing Yoshi’s silence with

ignorance.

“Yes, I know,” Yoshi, said softly. The vibration of her mute cell

phone distracted her. Someone had been calling her for the past few

minutes. She was almost relieved to pick up. It was Velvet.

“Yoshi, you won’t believe what happened.”

• 72 •

Blind Faith

chapter seven

As Bud followed Highway 101, winding along the base

of rolling green hills, Tucker recalled what Saya’s friend

Lawrence had said before the dramatic events of the past week. I’m

Lisbeth. Tucker hadn’t told Bud or Yoshi and she was starting to feel

worse and worse about it as time wore on. At first she’d been able to

assuage her conscience by rationalizing that not telling wasn’t the same

as lying. But Bud was her mentor and her partner at Blind Eye and

Tucker knew he’d be hurt to discover she’d been keeping something

from him. Evasions had a way of coming back and biting her on the ass,

and this one was already starting to do so.

Not knowing meant that Bud had run down a half dozen Elizabeths

and hadn’t even tried to locate Lawrence’s guardian. He was going

to be pissed when she told him he’d been wasting his time. Yoshi

wouldn’t like it either. She’d probably accuse Tucker of misplacing

her loyalties, and she had a point. Tucker was supposed to be training

as a PI. Her employer was investigating a case. How was she going to

justify withholding the information?

Tucker sighed. She was going to have to share Lawrence’s secret

sooner or later. She flipped open her phone and bounced through her

menu options until she got to messaging. Tucker quickly typed. Instead

of arriving on Yoshi’s phone, her message would be forwarded to her

email to be accessed via the PowerBraille keyboard Yoshi had recently

acquired. When texting Velvet, Tucker used a simple form of shorthand,

substituting “4” in place of the word “for” and using commonly

understood acronyms like bff in place of “best friend forever.” But for

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Yoshi, she carefully spelled out her message longhand, making sure

there couldn’t be any misunderstandings.

First, she confessed that she hadn’t shared all the information

she’d learned about Lawrence, and that “Lisbeth” was Saya’s nickname

for him, that Lawrence might be transgender, although they hadn’t

discussed that before Lawrence hurried away. She added that if Lisbeth

was a trans girl Blind Eye should use the appropriate pronouns and call

her Lisbeth or she instead of Lawrence or he. But Lawrence was not

out to his friends, which meant it wasn’t really Blind Eye’s place to out

him, was it?

Slipping into shorthand Tucker added, “Can u help me tell Bud w/

out outing L/L? Thnx ”

“We’re here.” Bud’s voice made Tucker jump, as though she’d

been caught doing something wrong. “You done playing games on that

thing?”

“Yeah.” Tucker hit the send button with her thumb and snapped

the phone closed.

Bud parked in the shadow of an exotic building that seemed

plucked from a sci-fi film and jammed into the earth.

“Wow, What’s this?” Tucker asked.

“Marin County Civic Center. They used it in the movie,

Gattaca.”

“Oh, right.” Tucker had seen the film with Velvet.

As Bud executed the acrobatics involved in getting his wheelchair

from the backseat without touching the ground, Tucker gawked at the

elongated building, noticing how it seemed to mirror the landscape

it emerged from. Its golden arches mimicked the blond grasses that

draped Marin County’s rolling hills, while the blue roof was a clear

reflection of the sky.

When Bud was ready, they walked under the upper floors that

stretched across the road like a pedestrian bridge. Through the glass

and bronze doors doublewide marble stairs led from a small lobby to

the main floor. On the right was an information booth that housed a

woman in a glass cube. Across the entryway, there was a small elevator.

To enter, Tucker pushed aside an accordion gate. She and Bud could

barely cram inside and once the contraption began jerking upward with

grinding starts and bumping stops, it became clear that it was original

to the 1959 building.

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Blind Faith

Attracted by a historical display, Tucker insisted on getting off

on the first floor to read plaques and examine photographs while Bud

waited half in and half out of the elevator. The Civic Center had been

built by renowned architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. According to the

blurbs on the wall, it was the only public building ever designed by the

man, and everything, down to the long table and chairs in the county

commissioner’s boardroom, had been designed by Wright himself.

When Tucker returned, they continued to the second floor

and down the long hallway. The whole time she marveled at all the

windows, the atrium-like hallways, the balconies that allowed visitors

to lean over banisters and look down at the floors below, the trees that

grew inside the building, and the way the natural light dispersed from

the roof to the lower levels.

“Can you imagine working here everyday?” she asked, in awe.

“No.” Bud said. He looked unimpressed. They found the Sheriff’s

Department at the very end of the long hallway, back where the building

disappeared into a hill that held the county jail. To Bud’s dissatisfaction,

once they opened the door the kid had to take the lead. Wood paneling

the color of Scotch whisky greeted him at eye level. From Bud’s

wheelchair, the counter and information window were over his head. He

would have liked to be there when old Frank Lloyd was designing the

place. He would’ve put the bastard in a wheelchair. He was so fucking

sick of architecture that penalized the disabled, like they didn’t have a

right to be in spaces everyone else could wander through.

Tucker apparently sized up the situation too. “Sorry,” she said

even though she had nothing to do with the Civic Center’s unfriendly

design. She apologized all the time, like she was to blame for whatever

annoyed him. At first Bud had thought it was sign of an overblown

ego, like she imagined she was so important the whole world revolved

around her and she was responsible for everything that happened. But

he’d learned that Tucker was no egotist. She needed more confidence,

not less.

The receptionist, a middle-aged woman with a broad ass and full

rack restrained under her business suit, led them past closed doors that

ringed an open bullpen where Bud imagined deputies filed paperwork

when they came in from the field. The receptionist held a door for them,

and as Bud rolled past, his arm brushed hers, reminding him that it had

been far too long since he’d bagged a babe. If he’d had the ability, he’d

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

probably have gotten a hard on just being this close to this attractive

woman, who was neither his boss nor a client.

In what appeared to be an interrogation room, Tucker took a seat at

an oblong wood table. In the center lay a single manila file folder with

“Closed” stamped in red ink across the front. The receptionist moved

aside some chairs so Bud could access the table.

When he thanked her, she blushed and asked, “Can I get you

anything else?”

“Nope.” Tucker answered without glancing up. She pulled open

the file folder and began spreading papers around the table. As soon as

the door clicked shut, she waved the now empty folder and asked, “Do

you think this is it?”

“Probably. They closed the case awfully quick. Let’s see if there’s

anything worthwhile.”

“Well here’s the ME report,” Tucker handed the stapled papers

across the table to him.

Bud scanned the medical examiner’s autopsy notes for Sarah

Worthington. She’d sustained head trauma and broken bones consistent

with a fall from eighty feet. The tox screen was clean, with no indication

of alcohol or drugs in her system at time of death, which the doctor

put at between midnight and 5:00 a.m. on the night the two girls went

missing. From the physical examination the ME had determined there

was nothing suspicious to counter a finding of accidental death.

“Where’s the other one?” Bud asked, scanning the documents on

the table for a similar report.

“There isn’t another one.”

“What do you mean, there isn’t another one? There were two girls,

there should be two separate autopsy reports.”

“Well, there’s not. There’s just this,” Tucker held up another

document. “It’s an injunction preventing the county from performing

an autopsy on Erica Bingham. Says the practice violated the Bingham

family’s religious beliefs. It’s signed by a judge and everything. I guess

since they had another body they could let the family have what they

wanted and still figure out the cause of death.”

“That’s bullshit,” Bud grunted. “Guess the Binghams didn’t want

to know how their kid died. You find the witness statements yet?”

“Sort of. There’s one from two brothers, Bubba and Buck Mudd,

who were in the camp that night. Another one from Carl Lee James, a

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counselor at Pioneer. He said there was some commotion involving the

Mudd brothers, and then the next morning the female counselor found

the two girls missing. Then there’s the one from Velvet, you know,

describing how she found the bodies.”

“That’s it?” Bud perused the statements. Each was typed on the

one-page form law enforcement agencies across the country used to

document witness statements in a standardized manner, producing

three copies at once. He was surprised that there weren’t statements

for each of the students who’d been camping with the girls when they

went missing.

Tucker held up another page. “This is from some lawyer called

Carrington saying he represents Pioneer and he spoke to the students and

staff members there that evening, He says no one witnessed anything

relevant to the investigation.” She dropped the letter onto the thin stack

of paperwork. “Wouldn’t you think the cops would have interviewed

those kids before a lawyer got involved?”

“Maybe they were worried about them being minors,” Bud said.

“There’s more stringent rules and extra paperwork involved when you

question minors, especially without their parents’ consent.” He thumbed

through a few of the other papers, then snorted. “Cheeky bastards. Says

here that after they found the girls missing, the counselors loaded up all

the kids and hauled them back to Pioneer. They only reported the girls

missing after they’d conferred with their blood-sucking lawyer. This

Michael Carrington individual met with the Marin County Sheriff’s

Office and he and Carl Lee James led them out to the site.”

“I wonder why they didn’t find their bodies on the search,” Tucker

said. “I guess the tide was in and so the little beach where Velvet found

them was under water at the time.”

“Makes sense. You mind handing me that incident report?”

Bud scanned the brief encapsulation of the actions the sheriff’s

department had taken during the investigation and the descriptions of

the area’s geography. An addendum, made after the ME examined the

deceased, concluded the incident had been a tragic accident. He mulled

over what was there and what was missing.

Pioneer students were on their last night of the so-called Spring

Survival Camp, a five-day character building outing during which the

kids hiked along the Pacific Coast through the Point Reyes National

Seashore. They set up camp near Bolinas on Marin County Parks and

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Open Space property, the two adult counselors positioning their tents

in between the separate boys’ and girls’ campsites a few hundred yards

apart.According to Carl Lee James, he was woken by noises sometime

after midnight and found two men in the girls’ camp supplying beer

and cigarettes to the minors. While some students of both sexes partook

in the prohibited contraband, others retreated to the boys’ camp. After

Carl Lee chased off the intruders, whom investigators later determined

to be Bolinas locals Bubba and Buck Mudd, the campers went to sleep.

When they woke in the morning, the two females had gone missing and

a cursory search found no sign of them.

Attached to the report was a hand drawn map of the Pioneer

campsite and a notation indicating that the area where the Pioneer

students had camped was notorious for sharp cliffs that can crumble

without notice. Two signs, keeP On Trails and dangerOus cliFFs were

posted nearby.

The Mudd brothers admitted they’d gone to the campsite hoping

to score and acknowledged that they’d supplied alcohol to minors, but

they insisted the party remained low key and they hadn’t had intercourse

with any of the underage girls. They claimed they didn’t see either of

the victims.

“Well,” Bud surmised. “I’m guessing two things. First, Pioneer’s

legal maneuvering succeeded in throwing off the investigation. And

second, the cops decided right away that it was an accident and they

operated on that assumption.”

“So now what?” Tucker fidgeted impatiently.

“We’ll get photocopies of these. Then what do you think we should

do?” “I don’t know.”

Bud rolled his eyes and wondered how Tucker could be so

unwilling to think for herself. A PI had to use some initiative. Refusing

to accept her answer, he prompted, “Ask yourself what a real PI would

do.” “Uh, go visit the Mudd brothers?”

“Uh?” he mimicked. “You think?”

Before they left, he asked the receptionist to photocopy the

reports. He tried to be suave but couldn’t come up with anything subtly

flirtatious to say so he asked her where to get a good lunch. She directed

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Blind Faith

them to the local mall for what she said was the best Thai food north of

San Francisco. Dubious, Bud drove across the freeway to the Northgate

Mall and sent Tucker in to order. She returned with two Styrofoam

boxes full of heaven. The clerk knew what she was talking about.

After they dined in the Impala, Tucker directed them to the field

office for the Marin County Parks and Open Space. Bud wasn’t eager

to talk with park rangers, but Yoshi would expect them to cover all

bases and he didn’t mind sending the kid on a fool’s errand. She had

to learn sometime. She eagerly bounded into the single story wooden

outbuilding while Bud helped himself to a bowl of pipe tobacco. It

didn’t take long before she was back at the passenger door.

She flopped into her seat. “That was a waste of time.”

Bud acted surprised. “Really? No rangers around in the middle of

the day?”

“Well, no, there weren’t. But I did talk to the chief ranger.”

“Really?” Bud was impressed that she’d taken the initiative. Still,

supervisors were rarely the great sources of information they could be.

They were too political with their responses. “What’d he say?”

“That his rangers don’t do law enforcement and they only get

out to the Bolinas area on weekends. So they weren’t involved in the

investigation. The county sent deputies instead. We’ve already got that

report.”

“Well, you can’t expect every interview to get you ahead in a

investigation,” Bud said.

Tucker nodded. “I did pick up some maps though.” She unfolded

one and pored over it as they turned back toward Lucas Valley Road.

“It’s mostly just trail systems. Won’t help us get to Bolinas.”

Bud chuckled. “I told you, nothing beats the Thomas Guide.”

They followed Lucas Valley over the grassy hills and past George

Lucas’s sprawling Skywalker Ranch, hidden from sight behind a ten-

foot concrete wall. After dipping into a thicket of redwood trees they

emerged into open fields and approached the tiny hamlet of Nicasio.

Bud had driven this way a number of times over the years en route to

partying at Stinson Beach and for camping in Point Reyes National

Seashore and fishing in Bodega Bay. All things he hadn’t done since

the accident.

Tucker mused aloud about trout fishing with her father when she

was growing up in Idaho, and then marveled about the beauty of Point

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Reyes, rambling on about how she couldn’t believe such a place existed

just hours north of San Francisco. Her yammering made Bud miss the

turnoff. At the last minute, he yanked the wheel and the Impala spit

gravel from the soft shoulder.

“What the hell?” Tucker demanded.

Bud threw the Impala into reverse. “I just missed our road.”

“I didn’t see any signs. Are you sure that’s the turn for Bolinas?”

Tucker sounded dubious.

“There isn’t a sign. You just have to know where to turn.”

Tucker grumbled something under her breath about the California

Highway Department.

“It’s not the CHD,” Bud explained. “It’s the weirdos in Bolinas.

They don’t like outsiders. So every time the department puts up a sign

they come out and drag it down.”

“How do you think the Pioneer people figured out how to get

there?”

It was a fair question. You couldn’t just happen upon Bolinas. You

had to know your way around or have a damn good map. “They must

know the place,” he said. “They’re out here every year, aren’t they?”

Maneuvering through the quiet, narrow streets, Bud noted that

Bolinas had not changed in the twenty years since he used to come

here on weekends with a friend on the force who had a beach house

in town. The town was filled with an odd mix of hippy holdovers,

salty characters, roaming dogs, and dirty long-haired kids playing in

streets. The women dressed in knee-high wading boots and mismatched

clothing while the men could often be found in paint-splattered carpenter

pants. If you parked on Cliff Road, next to the public park and tennis

courts, you’d see one surfer after another changing from street clothes

into wet suits and vice versa. They just stripped butt naked for all to

see in the middle of the day. Bolinas was unincorporated and there

wasn’t a lawman for miles. Instead there were Marin County deputies

who wandered in occasionally to respond to a disturbance or take in a

change of scenery.

When the occasional vehicle passed them going the other

direction, the driver would lift two fingers from the steering wheel in

the Bolinas wave. Bud raised his own fingers and tipped his head in

acknowledgement. Tucker didn’t seem to notice these exchanges. She

was too busy discussing how Bolinas looked like the New England of

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Blind Faith

her imagination. Bud couldn’t help her there. He’d never seen reason to

travel farther east than Nevada.

Bubba and Buck Mudd lived in a single-wide trailer parked just

off Jute Road. When Bud pulled onto the dirt driveway, he was relieved

to find it was only mildly damp, the result of fog drip, not a recent

rain. Otherwise the Impala might have sunk to its axles in mud. From

a quick background check, he’d learned that the Mudd boys both had

records, mostly two-bit misdemeanors, the worst being a few drunk

and disorderlies, possession with intent to distribute, and solicitation

of a minor. The last had gotten Bubba added to the sex offender

registry. Hopefully this fact would give Bud leverage in their interview.

Neither brother had a record of employment and Bud imagined that the

possession charge hinted at their main means of support, growing and

selling pot to the denizens of Bolinas. He’d bet dollars to donuts that

they’d found a remote spot on the nearby federal lands of Point Reyes

National Seashore and that was where they had their “garden.”

Bud was a little surprised that both brothers came out of the trailer

when he and Tucker arrived. They stood side by side on a rickety

wooden porch, both dressed in ripped jeans and ratty T-shirts that hadn’t

seen the inside of a Laundromat in many moons. Their hair was greasy

and stuck to their heads. They looked roughly the same age, but Bud

thought he saw one of them defer to the other and decided the stronger

personality belonged to Bubba, the elder by three years.

“Whatcha want?” Bubba demanded, spitting a long stream of

brown chewing tobacco fluid in his wake.

“This is private property,” Buck added, smoothing back his classic

mullet.

“We’re here about the incident ten days ago, you know, when

those two girls died.”

“We didn’t have nothing to do with that,” Bubba said.

“Well, we’re just following up on a few things and we’d like to

ask you a couple of questions.”

Bubba stared at them for a long time as though trying to make up

his mind. “Why? It was an accident. That’s what the sheriff said.”

“We ain’t the cops,” Bud said. “But, if it makes you feel better, we

could give the sheriff’s office a call and give them some reason to come

back out here instead. Being on probation, you know they’ll probably

want to search your house for any kind of parole violations.”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“We don’t care what you want to do in your own time, of course,”

Tucker added. “We just want to ask a few questions.” Bubba’s eyes

popped as though he’d just realized Tucker was a broad and that

interested him. Pervert. If that bastard tried anything, Bud would make

him regret it.

“Okay, but we ain’t going inside,” Bubba said. “We’ll sit right

here and talk.”

“That’s fine,” Bud said, “So long as you don’t mind the neighbors

knowing about your thing for young girls.”

“Did ya hear that, Buck? This guy knows about the thing I got.

You got me all wrong, dude. I don’t have to go after the girls. When

they find out who I am, they go after me.”

“Who are you?” Tucker asked.

“We’re the Mudd brothers,” Buck announced.

“We’re like famous man. Back in the day, Bubba was a world

class surf rider and last season he straight up saved CJ Hobgood’s life.

Snatched him outta the jaws of a great white.”

“Wow,” Tucker said.

If she was that easily impressed, Bud thought sourly, maybe fifteen

and sixteen year olds really did fling themselves at the Mudd brothers.

“Who’s CJ Hobgood?” he asked.

“He’s just one of the top surfers in the country,” Tucker said. “Did

you really save him from a shark?”

“Sharks don’t come this far north,” Bud interrupted through gritted

teeth. God the child was gullible.

“Global warming’s bringing ’em up the coast,” Bubba said.

Bud had heard enough. “Tell me about the night the two girls went

missing.”

“We told all this to the deputies,” Buck complained.

“Great. Now tell me.”

The brothers told a story that seemed well rehearsed. They saw

some Pioneer girls in town buying supplies and followed them long

enough to see where they were camping. They snuck into the camp with

beer and pot that night. They never saw the girls who fell off the cliff.

They were far too busy focusing on two young ladies that joined them

by the fire to drink beer and smoke pot. Despite their less-than-noble

intentions and the fact that distributing alcohol to minors was a crime,

Bubba insisted they did nothing wrong. Before they’d had a chance to

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take advantage of their easy prey, two of the Jesus-freak counselors

chased them off. So, Bubba concluded, they’d probably gone home

before those girls even went off that cliff.

“What were they doing wandering around in the dark anyway?”

Buck added. “Didn’t they know them cliffs drop right off? One wrong

step and you’re fish food.”

v

Standing on the cliff top where the two girls made that fateful

misstep, Tucker gazed down with the wind blowing her hair and the

salty fog stinging her eyes. It just didn’t make sense. Using a copy of

the map they’d found in the sheriff’s file, Tucker and Bud had gone

over this area for the last hour, plotting the location of the campsites in

relation to the deadly cliff. She just couldn’t understand why the girls

had gone the direction they had. It seemed likely that they’d left the

girls’ camp after the Mudd brothers arrived. But, regardless of whether

they’d been hoping to reach their counselors’ camp near the road, go

to the boys camp, or simply seek privacy from the rest of the group, it

didn’t make sense that they’d walk toward the ocean.

According to a report, the counselor with three first names, Carl

Lee James, said the students didn’t have flashlights or compasses with

them, but they’d been through rigorous wilderness training that week.

They’d all passed a lesson on using stars to navigate at night. Maybe

it was overcast that evening and they couldn’t see the stars. Tucker

contemplated the idea, closing her eyes to brainstorm. Even with her

eyes closed she could hear the waves crashing on the rocky shore eighty

feet below. Wouldn’t the girls have heard the same warning sounds in

the still of the night?

Did they want to go over? Was it some kind of suicide pact where

they held hands and leapt blindly into the darkness? Tucker had been

doing some reading about organizations like Pioneer. Most articles

said that when reparative therapy failed some devout people attempted

suicide because they blamed themselves and thought they were weak.

Had Erica Bingham and Sarah Worthington been so brainwashed they

decided it was better to die than live a life of sin?

The ground near the cliff edge was covered with a layer of native

bunch grass, preventing any chance of finding footprints. Tucker would

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

have liked to see the marks of hiking boots in the soil. She’d spent

hours with her brother Hunter tracking deer and rabbits by following

their prints and observing the way vegetation changed to mark their

passing. Depressed grasses, broken twigs, a tiny piece of caught fur. It

could all point to the direction the animal was traveling. If she could see

the girls’ footprints she might be able to tell whether they were walking

or running. Did one follow the other? Were they side by side? Was there

a sign of slipping or scrambling to regain footing? Which direction had

they come from when they fell?

But the bare patches of thin soil between the clumps of native

grasses didn’t provide much material for footprints. Like San Francisco,

Bolinas got its share of fog. If it had been foggy that night, the damp

earth might have retained a good print but any that had been there were

long gone, obliterated by searchers trampling the area looking for Erica

and Sarah after they were reported missing. Some of the grass in the

area was still flattened. Tucker pulled a pair of neoprene gloves from

her pocket and slid them on before dropping to her hands and knees and

spreading bunches of grass. She didn’t know what she was searching

for, but she carefully parted each clump before crawling to the next one.

This site was the last place the girls had been before their deadly fall,

but since the sheriff considered it an accident nobody had grid-searched

for physical evidence.

Her diligence paid off with a few items that could be evidence or

could be nothing more than discarded trash. She took a few snapshots

with her digital camera, put each item into a small paper lunch sack

she’d brought in her back pocket, and scribbled into a notepad each

item’s description: two filtered cigarette butts, three strands of hair, one

small piece of newsprint, one discarded piece of chewing gum, one

book of matches, and a white opaque button.

She leaned forward to peer over the edge of the cliff. Once they’d

taken the first step over the brink, the girls never had a chance. The cliff

was unforgiving and the vertical rocks were slick with water from fog

and ocean spray. She gazed out at the ocean. It was such an amazing

sight. So big. Calming and terrifying all at once, especially to a country

girl more accustomed to mountains and valleys than wide-open watery

vistas.Tucker stood and turned away from the Pacific. She wondered

again why the girls had stepped away from the relative safety of the

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Blind Faith

dirt trail for the unknown dangers of the cliff. She couldn’t shake the

feeling that they’d only have done so if they were running away from

something…or someone. The Mudd brothers were annoying, lecherous

drunks. Were they terrifying enough to send the two girls running

aimlessly into the dark? If not, what else could have frightened Erica

and Sarah so much?

Another thing that had been troubling her was the remote location

of the area. If the Pioneer counselors were familiar with the locale,

why hadn’t they avoided the cliffs? And if they weren’t aware of the

campsite’s dangers, and didn’t know the area, how could they have

found it in the first place?

• 85 •

• 86 •

Blind Faith

chapter eight

I’m enrolling Tucker in the Pioneer Institute,” Bud said.

They’d swung by Yoshi’s place so Tucker could pack a bag.

“I’m not sure if that is wise,” Yoshi said. “But I agree that we need

a breakthrough. There seems no doubt that these recent deaths are more

suspicious than the police believe.”

“If we’re going to get a lead on this Saya kid and the other girl,

we need to get inside that organization,” Bud said. “Tucker can pass for

sixteen. Shit, younger than that.”

“Great,” Tucker said. Even though she was only packing for a

week or two, little of her stuff remained in her room at Yoshi’s place.

Looking around, she decided Yoshi would probably be relieved

to have her dad’s room empty again. It seemed as though she felt his

ghost still needed the space. Tucker knew how hard it was for people to

let go of their dead. After all, her namesake, the older brother who had

died from sudden infant death syndrome, still haunted her life. After

twenty-three years Tucker thought she would own her own life, but her

mother still compared everything she did with what the original Tucker

might have done had he lived. Even her intention to become a private

investigator was a disappointment. Well, she was on her way to her first

big assignment now, and she didn’t care what her mother thought.

“Be careful,” Yoshi said as Tucker tossed her duffle bag into the

hallway. “If you don’t know what to say, don’t say anything.”

“I’ll pretend to be shy,” Tucker said. That wouldn’t be hard.

“The kid’ll do fine,” Bud said, making Tucker wonder when he’d

become so convinced about her aptitude for the job.

On the way to Freemont in the Impala, she read over the material

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

she’d printed off from the Internet about ex-gay groups and programs

like those at the Pioneer Institute. Some of the stuff seemed pretty

crazy and she wondered what was really true and what was just Web

mythology. She looked around as Bud drove into an industrial area.

She’d pictured a small but traditional school with lawns and flowers,

not a penitentiary huddled amidst warehouses, machine shops, and

salvage yards.

Pointing toward a set of spiked metal gates and an expanse of

razor-wire, she said, “There it is.”

For the first time she wondered if she was making a mistake going

undercover.

“You’ll do fine,” Bud said, as though sensing her concern. “It’s

a school for rich kids. You’ll probably feel like you’re vacationing in

some hoity-toity resort.”

“It’s just for a week or two tops, right?”

“At fifteen-hundred a week, you better believe it.” Bud paused

long enough to roll down the window and press the intercom button.

“They’ve got surveillance.” Tucker didn’t point at the camera

in case someone was watching, and she kept her voice low. The gate

swung open..

“I’m betting Yoshi will probably reconsider the investment in a

few days and send me to pull you out of this place,” Bud said. “And

you’ll throw a tantrum and say, ‘No, don’t make me leave.’”

Tucker smiled at his efforts to lighten her mood. “With all this

security, how’d Saya and her friend go missing?”

“Good question. Now get in character before you blow our

cover.”

“Yes, sir.”

They parked and Tucker waited for Bud to get his wheelchair out

of the car. From experience she knew better than to attempt to help him.

That just pissed him off. She’d learned to wait for twenty minutes while

he fought with something she could have done in two. She glanced

around. There were only a handful of cars in the small lot, but they each

cost more than the combined salaries of the Blind Eye staff. She started

to worry that the Impala would stick out. Maybe they should have come

in a rental. The building itself was fairly nondescript, just a rectangle

of high walls.

Tucker pulled Yoshi’s suitcase from the trunk and slung the duffel

• 88 •

Blind Faith

bag over her shoulder. She patted her pockets, making sure she had

the spy gear Blind Eye had sent her with. Remembering her cover, she

found some gum and filled her mouth with it.

“You ready, Jennye?” Bud had convinced Yoshi that Tucker

needed an alias, after all Tucker was a boy’s name, probably not the

first choice for the kind of parent who’d send their daughter to Pioneer

for gender reconditioning.

Tucker matched her pace to Bud’s, following behind him like a

reluctant daughter as they went down the long hall to an office. Though

the outside of the building resembled a juvenile detention center and

the interior a mental health facility, Dr. Barnabas’s office was like a

provincial farmhouse family room, outfitted with shaker wood tables

and masculine but functional chairs. For a guy as showy as Barnabas, it

seemed odd, not quite as religious as his teachings, not as over-the-top

and TV-savvy as she’d expected, based on the brochure. Perhaps this

utilitarian but homey look played well with his tony clients. Tucker

actually liked the style. It reminded her of home.

“Welcome to Pioneer,” Dr. Barnabas shook their hands and pointed

at the empty chairs on the other side of the desk from him. “What can

we do for you?”

“I’m Bud Williams, I spoke with you over the phone about

enrolling my daughter in your short program.”

“Of course. Jennye is it?”

“Call me J.” Tucker smacked her gum and acted like a belligerent

teen. Dr. Barnabas’s smile didn’t waver. “Thank you for the offer

Jennye, but we stick with birth names. Christian names for a Christian

school.”

“Whatever.” Tucker slouched into her seat.

“Sit up,” Bud commanded.

Tucker straightened her back.

“I’m sorry Dr. Barnabas. She’s like this all the time.”

“Tell me, where is the young lady’s mother?”

“My mom’s dead. She would never send me to a place like this.”

Tucker glared at Bud.

Barnabas didn’t respond to her, he just kept looking at Bud as

though waiting for the answer. It made Tucker want to wave her hand

in front of his face and ask if anyone was home.

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“My wife passed away five years ago, just when I needed her

most. Suddenly this one’s going through puberty and, well, she isn’t

my little princess anymore.”

“Yes,” Barnabas agreed. “I can see that. The absence of a feminine

role model within the home is a major cause of pre-homosexuality in

girls. But don’t you worry, Mr. Williams, you’ve brought her to the

right place. We’ll straighten her out.” Barnabas winked as though he’d

made a joke.

Bud looked relieved. Tucker hoped it was an act.

Barnabas settled back in his executive chair. “As you know, here

at Pioneer Institute we encourage change in our clients by affirming

their God-given roles and appropriate gender identification. During the

program we require clients to pursue integrity in both their actions and

appearances. Therefore, all belongings, clothing, verbal expressions, and

humor associated with a client’s inappropriate past are excluded from

the program. We call these hindrances False Images. FI, for short.” He

made a point of looking Tucker up and down. “In your daughter’s case,

FI behavior would include her masculine attire, clear lack of attention

to her appearance, and her disdain for ladylike behavior. Ladies sit with

their legs crossed, dear.”

Tucker gritted her teeth and wondered if she could make it through

two weeks without punching this guy in the mouth.

“So, first things first,” Dr. Barnabas said, picking up the phone.

“We’ll have a counselor come help you pull FIs from your baggage

and see that you are properly attired. Girls are prohibited from wearing

sweatshirts, T-shirts, pants and any masculine undergarments.” Dr.

Barnabas spoke into the receiver. “Miss Dix, can you please come to

the office and help our latest client with her FIs? Excellent.”

Tucker looked at Bud and widened her eyes at him. “F-u-ck” she

mouthed. What the hell was she getting into? Two weeks in skirts and

dresses.

“I didn’t bring anything but pants,” she protested. “I don’t even

own a skirt.”

“Oh, that’s no problem,” Dr. Barnabas assured her. “We’ll be

happy to provide the appropriate attire.”

Tucker was starting to feel panicky again. She clutched her iPod.

“What about my music?”

• 90 •

Blind Faith

“No secular music is allowed during your stay here. You may listen

to Christ-centered music, which we find to be the best accompaniment

to the program, regardless of a client’s faith,” Dr. Barnabas addressed

Bud. “We do our best to minimize external influences, Mr. Williams.

Children cannot be bombarded with the culture’s distorted messages

if they are to absorb our message. We do all we can to create an

environment that will help them contemplate the changes needed in

their lives.”

“That’s wonderful, Dr. Barnabas,” Bud gushed.

Bastard. He was enjoying this. Tucker discreetly flipped him her

middle finger.

“Now, Jennye,” Dr. Barnabas said with a voice that made Tucker

fear he’d seen her gesture, “why don’t you take your things and wait

in the reception area while your father and I go over a few things? Our

counselor, Miss Dix, will be right with you.”

Tucker was relieved. She glanced at Bud, and caught the wink in

his eye.

He added, “You be a good girl, Jennye, and I’ll be back before

you know it.”

As soon as the door closed behind her, Tucker began rifling

through her duffel bag. Clearly they were going to go through her things

and maybe even strip search her. While her spy gear was camouflaged

enough not to raise suspicions, she wasn’t sure which devices would

pass inspection and which would be considered FI. Her fingers closed

around her slimline pen recorder. It seemed less likely to draw attention

than the photo frame with the tiny spy camera embedded. She could

leave the pen on the receptionist’s desk, where it might not cause

suspicion. But it wasn’t much good on its own; it could only record

an hour or two at a time and she probably wouldn’t be able to get back

to listen to the material. She could pair it with a wireless receiver so

recordings could be downloaded remotely. Of course it couldn’t be

accessed from the Blind Eye office, which was too far away, but Bud

could loiter outside Pioneer’s gates and activate the feed. Tucker hoped

he would find an opportunity to bug Dr. Barnabas’s office, since the

doctor was the prime target of Blind Eye’s investigation.

Miss Dix was a bit of a surprise. Tucker had expected a middle-

aged zealot with a beehive hairdo and Tammy Faye Baker makeup.

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Aimee Dix was actually sort of attractive with stunning, pale blue

eyes, long blond hair pushed back in a green headband, and a slightly

upturned nose reminiscent of actor Nicole Kidman’s. In fact, save for

her height, which was no more than 5’4”, Aimee shared Kidman’s aura

of translucent delicacy, if not her icy demeanor. And, if she wasn’t all

smiles and sunshine, Tucker would have been tempted to push her over

and run down the hall screaming toward the exit.

What the hell was Bud thinking?

Miss Dix asked Tucker to unzip her suitcase and hold up each item

for her to evaluate, and everything was sorted into two piles: clothing

and items intended to combat boredom in the first; and in the other,

a notebook, pens, toiletries, a wash cloth and towel, and a Gideon

Bible Bud had stolen from some hotel and given her for the occasion.

Miss Dix relegated her Cool Water men’s cologne and the Butch Wax

she used on her hair to in the prohibited FI pile. She added Tucker’s

preferred undergarments, men’s tank shirts and Calvin Klein briefs.

“You poor thing.” Aimee Dix sighed. “This is what happens when

one doesn’t have female influence in the home.”

Tucker ignored the jab at the mother she wasn’t supposed to have,

and asked, “What do you want me to do? Go commando?”

“What undergarments are you wearing now?”

“Same thing.”

“Well, it’s too late to do anything about it tonight. Someone will

go to a store tomorrow and buy you appropriate bras and panties.”

Miss Dix gave her a grocery bag for the keeper items and placed

everything else back into the luggage, which they took to a nearby a

storage unit. Tucker slid the suitcase onto a shelf and wrote her name

on a label taped to the suitcase. Miss Dix held a school uniform style

skirt up to Tucker for measurements. When she found appropriate sizes,

she handed Tucker the skirt and a tragic, old lady blouse she normally

wouldn’t be caught dead in.

“If you don’t like the blouse, I’ve got a dress you can wear instead,”

she said, waving toward a floral atrocity when Tucker groaned. “I’ll

turn around while you get dressed.”

Tucker could have made a break for it while the counselor’s

back was turned, if she was really a troubled teen her against her will.

She wondered if anyone did that, and what the punishment was. She

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Blind Faith

took a deep breath and reminded herself that this was an opportunity

of a lifetime. Even though she hadn’t yet completed the training to

become a full-fledged private investigator, Blind Eye had sent her on

an important undercover mission. Bud and Yoshi were counting on her,

and she wouldn’t let them down. She took off her comfortable Levis

and oxford shirt and stepped into the girliest outfit she’d worn since the

Easter dress her mom had got her into when she was six. She was glad

there was no mirror in the storage room and even more relieved when

Miss Dix did not lead her back to Dr. Barnabas’s office. If Bud saw her

in this getup, he’d never let her live it down.

Instead, Miss Dix walked her out to a courtyard. and they followed

a stone path under the shade of Douglas fir trees, which Tucker

recognized from the pine cones. In several areas the landscape architect

had created small hills covered with the kind of lawn grass that begged

to be flopped down on. They had just passed a row of beckoning benches

when Tucker stopped abruptly, staring at what was for her the best part

of this outdoor sanctuary, an arching wooden bridge over a man-made

creek. The sound of tumbling water pulled her gaze downstream, where

a miniature waterfall fed into a small pond brimming with brightly

colored Koi.

“Wow, it’s beautiful,” she gushed. The garden felt so out of place

in the industrial area where it was situated.

“I’m glad you like it.” Miss Dix smiled. “We spend a little time

here everyday in quiet reflection, and you can earn more time here with

good behavior.”

They left the serenity of the pool and arrived at a dormitory

decorated in a style Tucker decided was Ikea-meets-prison. She almost

felt dizzy staring around a girlish nightmare of blush and bashful pink

walls, white cabinets, dressers, and tables, and pink and white gingham

bedspreads. Gingham for chrisssakes.

All that was missing from this nightmare were Doris Day tunes,

nightly pillow fights, and mandatory pedicures. Miss Dix explained the

dorm room set up was divided into mini quadrants where each person

was assigned to a family-like team. These teams worked together in

chores, classes, and group lessons, helping the girls form “healthy”

same-sex friendships. As Miss Dix explained it, all that was missing

from her life, leading to her unfortunate slide to dykedom, was this

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

ability to see other girls and women simply as friends. That and Christ,

of course.

Miss Dix remained perky and undisturbed by Tucker’s smothered

snickering. “Before we join the others I’d like to go over the material in

our orientation packet and see if you have any questions. Okay?”

“Sure.” Tucker dropped onto the bed and picked up the packet of

materials there. A blank nametag fell into her lap and Miss Dix handed

her a pen to write her name in the gap.

“Until everyone has a chance to get to know you, please wear

the tag. Remember to use your full Christian name. We don’t use

nicknames here.”

Tucker nodded but she wasn’t paying attention because she was

too busy mentally repeating, “My name is Jennye,” so she wouldn’t

forget and write Tucker out of habit. She wrote slowly and watched

herself make each letter, in case her hand started off on some kind of

automatic pilot. When she was done she peeled the sticker from its

backing and slapped it on her chest.

“The biggest misconception about what we do here at Pioneer

is that our program is a cure for homosexuality,” Miss Dix told her.

“The struggle with homosexuality isn’t a disease. That means it can’t

be cured.”

Tucker was surprised to hear that. She thought the ex-gay

movement was all about “curing” gays and lesbians. If they recognized

homosexuality wasn’t a sickness, what did they think it was?

“There are many factors that can contribute to a person’s

developing homosexual leanings,” Miss Dix continued. “You’ll find a

list of triggers in your handouts.”

Tucker pulled out a brochure titled Environmental Elements in

Homosexual Development and followed along as Miss Dix read aloud

from a litany of “factors” like absence of the same-sex parent, social

isolation, and seeing TV with adult content. The Pioneer Institute cited

various impressive-sounding studies

Tucker couldn’t help but think about her own childhood. She

hadn’t been sexually abused or exposed to pornography or anything

like that. But she hadn’t liked the stuff other girls did, like playing

with dolls and she had felt really isolated from other kids. No one had

wanted to play with her and kids called her names. Her mom had been

• 94 •

Blind Faith

so busy taking care of Hunter and Anastasia that she didn’t have much

time for Tucker. But that didn’t mean…

Tucker realized Miss Dix had stopped speaking and was staring

at her expectantly.

“I’m sorry,” Tucker stammered. “What did you ask?”

“Were you thinking about your mother, dear?”

Tucker nodded.

“It must be difficult. When did she pass away?”

“My mom’s not–” Tucker caught herself just as she started to

correct the counselor. Damn. She was going to blow her cover in the

first hour if she wasn’t careful. “She hasn’t been with us since I was

ten.” “You poor thing, and just before puberty when you needed her

most. I suppose you didn’t have a female relative or anyone to fulfill

that role?”

Tucker shook her head.

“So, we know that absence may have played a part. It’s only

natural you’d become identified with your father—he was your only

parent. Did any of these other factors ring true for you?”

“I had a hard time making friends with girls,” Tucker said, mining

her own experience for inspiration. She hoped this didn’t get too real.

“I didn’t like to play their silly games.”

“Good.” Miss Dix offered an encouraging nod. “We’ll be exploring

these experiences in our group and individual sessions. It’s important

to recognize that same-sex sexual attraction is rooted in a legitimate

need for same-sex affirmation and love. Active homosexuals are

merely trying to meet the needs of that wounded child within through

adult, sexual means. So our focus here at Pioneer is not about creating

heterosexual feelings.”

Good, Tucker thought. Because that was never going to happen.

It didn’t matter if what Miss Dix was saying sounded surprisingly

rational. Nothing was going to turn Tucker straight.

“But rather, we’re focused on healing that child.” Miss Dix really

seemed to believe what she was saying. “We have found that young

people need a caring and compassionate same-sex mentor to heal the

wounds and confusions of relational brokenness. As your counselor, I

hope I can fill that role for you.” Apparently sensing Tucker’s resistance,

• 95 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

she added, “It can take time to develop trust. I understand that, but I just

want you to know that I’m here if you need anything. I’d like nothing

more than to be your friend.”

Tucker didn’t say anything to that. Miss Dix seemed nice enough,

but Tucker seriously doubted they were going to become fast friends.

Miss Dix held a hand out to Tucker. “Why don’t we take a break

from this and go meet the other students?”

v

Years of practice had helped Bud appear unconcerned about

abandoning his “daughter” at a place that seemed like an overly cheerful

mental institution. The bright fluorescent lights illuminated happy

Christian murals that seemed innocuous, but there was something

forced about the cute little lambs frolicking with friendly lions.

After the pretty counselor led Tucker away Dr. Barnabas

immediately got down to the business of the tuition,.. Bud handed over

the cashier’s check Yoshi had given him and hoped she planned to bill

the cost to their client instead of taking it from company coffers. It was

her business to run into the ground, but he didn’t want her messing with

his bottom line.

Check in hand, Dr. Barnabas launched into an unnecessary

soliloquy about the Institute’s remarkable program. Bud felt like saying

You already sold me. I’ve given you 1500 dollars and handed over my

‘kid,’ what more could you want from me? But he just tuned the guy out.

Something about the Institute bothered him. He felt it in his gut, and in

the small of his back, the place a quack doctor had once described as his

new friend after he’d been paralyzed. The spot on his lower back was

supposed to tell him when he was doing something he shouldn’t. At this

moment there was an ache in that spot, but it was probably caused by

the long drive more than anything else.

When Dr. Barnabas was done talking, he handed Bud a brochure,

slapped him on the back a couple of times and walked him out the door.

Before Bud knew what was happening he was alone in the hallway still

thinking about his guy.

It wasn’t Pioneer’s politics that bothered him or their efforts to

turn queer people straight—he could understand that. Hell, he probably

had more in common with the Pioneer parents than he did with Yoshi

• 96 •

Blind Faith

Yakamota. He could see that from looking at them. He and Tucker had

apparently arrived during Pioneer’s visiting hours, which were just

concluding.

A man and woman about his age loitered in the hallway as though

waiting for someone. The man was dressed in business casual, jeans and

a sports coat that didn’t make him seem like he was Daddy Warbucks,

even if Pioneer did cost an arm and a leg.

“Your kid new here?” the guy asked as Bud rolled up.

“Yeah.”

“Boy or girl?”

“Some days, I wish I could tell,” Bud snorted.

“Damn, isn’t that the truth.” The man’s lips pulled back in a smile,

revealing teeth not perfectly aligned, suggesting a childhood bereft of

expensive orthodontics. If he had money now he’d earned it the old-

fashioned way, not gotten it by virtue of pedigree. “Our boy came home

one day with his ears pierced. Next thing we know he’s started wearing

makeup.”

Bud introduced himself and was shaking the man’s hand when he

caught sight of a hot MILF walking toward them. Her brunette hair was

curly and full of volume, in a style women didn’t seem to have anymore

now that fashion demanded hair that hung in straight, flat sheets. Her

body was curvy with the kind of weight and proportions of early pinup

girls and her clothing was tight fitting and low cut. A fat cross, hanging

around her neck on a chain, drew his eyes to her plentiful cleavage. He

had a hard time not staring.

“A few of us parents get together for lunch after our weekly

visitations,” she paused to breathily inform him. “Would you care to

join us?”

Bud hadn’t expected the opportunity to meet Pioneer parents and

gain their insight into the case, but now that the offer had been made,

he certainly couldn’t pass it up. Yoshi would tell him to go. Hell, if his

dick weren’t dead dumb and blind, it would tell him to go. Bud forgot

all about the bad feeling he’d had about Pioneer. Without a word he

followed the apparition to a restaurant, where she introduced herself as

Barbara Parkins. The name couldn’t have been more appropriate. She

looked a lot like the beauty from the classic Valley of the Dolls. Never

much of a conversationalist, Bud found it even more difficult forcing

words out of his mouth in her company. Rather than coming across as

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

a babbling idiot, he limited his speech, peppering the conversation with

questions about Pioneer when it began to wind down. He didn’t want

the meal to end, because he would never see her again.

Although clearly Christian, the parents at his table did not come

across as overtly religious zealots. They simply wanted the best for their

children. They felt their children were suffering now, or would suffer in

the future, for being different. One of the dads quoted statistics about

the high number of gays and lesbians who tried to kill themselves. His

wife added that a high percentage lost their faith in God and stopped

going to church.

“It’s our duty,” she said, “To save our children’s souls.”

Everyone seemed to agree that they shouldn’t condemn their

children to a miserable life as a second-class citizen when Pioneer

could help them back onto a righteous path. Bud could see their point.

He went to church every Sunday and he didn’t see a lot of gays there.

“But, don’t they resent it?” he asked. “I mean I can’t see my

kid accepting this that easily. Without some kind of brainwashing or

something.”

“You’ll be amazed. Give it a few weeks and then suddenly, you

know that sweet kid you thought you lost when she turned twelve,

you’ll see her again.”

“Be glad you got a girl,” the man Bud talked to earlier interjected.

“It works better on the girls. For some reason the boys are harder to get

through to, and if it doesn’t work, they go in for more of a debauched

lifestyle.”

“It’s not really all that surprising.” Barbara Parkins spoke with

a voice as soft as kittens. Bud could swear he hear a purr in every

word with the letter R. “If you were to unleash normal men from the

civilizing influence of the women in their lives they’d run wild too.”

“Can’t argue with that.” Bud chuckled. “Without women the

whole world would be like the Internet—full of porn. Men are dogs.

We need women to train us.”

“Where is your wife in all of this?” Barbara asked.

“She passed away,” Bud lied. He felt a twinge of guilt but

told himself he was in character and this character’s wife had died

respectably. She hadn’t run off like Bud’s.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Barbara reached across the table and took his hand.

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Blind Faith

The touch of her fingers on his skin sent little shockwaves of delight

rippling through his body. “So it’s just you and your daughter?”

Daughter? Oh, right. “Yes, it’s just Jennye and me. I’m afraid that’s

why she’s…this way. She didn’t have a good female role model.”

“You may be right,” Barbara said without letting go of his hand.

“Having single parents like us can be really tough on our kids.” Her

eyes searched his as though she wanted to be sure he understood.

Looking into her eyes seemed to make everything else in the

room disappear—the kitchen noises, the sound of people eating, the

other parents—until it was just the two of them alone in the universe.

Then Bud realized that before he came along, she was probably the

only single parent at Pioneer. No doubt she believed her son was gay

because he hadn’t had a father figure, and she was to blame for that. She

seemed relieved to have another single parent to share the burden.

“At least you don’t get accused of not being man enough,” one

father said, breaking the spell and bringing the roar of the world back

into Bud’s consciousness.

“That’s our burden, man,” another added. “Either we’re being told

we made our kids sexually confused or people accuse us of being bad

parents for sending our kids to a place like this. What are we supposed

to do?”

Dessert arrived, Barbara retracted her hand from Bud’s, and the

conversation trickled off as forks clinked against porcelain. They were

headed to their cars twenty minutes later and Bud was working up the

courage to ask Barbara for her number when she stopped walking,

reached in her purse and handed him a business card.

“It was lovely to meet you, Bud. My personal number is on the

back. If you ever want someone to talk to about Pioneer or the perils of

single parent households, give me a ring.”

• 99 •

• 100 •

Blind Faith

chapter nine

It was ten o’clock on Tuesday night and Velvet was still at the

Womyn magazine’s humble Castro Street headquarters. She’d

been in the cramped upstairs office all weekend for production and was

still there. Some of her friends couldn’t believe that, as the boss, she

would put in these crazy hours, giving up weekends and sometimes not

going home for days, catching catnaps on the office couch. But Velvet

knew the demands of lesbian publishing. It was a demanding mistress

who’d consume all a paramour had to offer, time, money, love.

She’d grown weary of it a decade ago, longing for the stability

of the Chronicle, but now she was torn. Half of her missed the ability

to just pick up her digital recorder and run out the door, chasing down

drug dealers in the Tenderloin or rogue parking meter attendants in

the Mission, all for the good of the people. Her old editor Stanley had

always let her run her own show, popping in and out of the office as

she pleased. But now she was the boss at Womyn, and there could be

no long lunches or afternoons spent jaunting about the city. She loved

being back at the magazine, but being the boss was overwhelming

sometimes.

A staff full of women was empowering and thrilling but often

fraught with drama. The worst girls, who Velvet labeled Drama Mamas,

seemed addicted to emotional extremes, experiencing the highs and

lows like some kind of roller coaster thrill ride. Try as she might, she

couldn’t keep them from infecting everyone else with it and spreading

it around the office like a contagious disease. Some days—like today—

the whole office came down with a bad case of drama-titis and had to

be sent home. Which was why Velvet was still at the office, making

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

corrections to the galleys two hours before midnight and just ten hours

before she was supposed to meet with Showtime about a collaboration

between Womyn and the hit lesbian soap opera, Isle of Lesbos.

Velvet grabbed a clove cigarette. It was admittedly a filthy habit,

something that she hadn’t done since she was sixteen years old, sitting

with the eyeliner-laden Goth kids at Denny’s in Van Nuys after the clubs

had closed. In times of stress, especially now that she was monogamous,

she often relied on habits from high school regardless of how bad they

were for her. Hiding in the open alcove near the emergency exit, she

blew smoke out the grated open window, hoping that security did not

have a camera in the rarely used cemented stairwell.

She tried deep breathing and meditating, both to no avail. Every

time she closed her eyes, she thought of a million little things that had

to be done yesterday. So fuck it. She went back to her desk and checked

her voicemail. She was initially thrilled to hear Yoshi’s voice, then

dismayed, then angry. Yoshi had sent Tucker undercover to the Pioneer

Institute earlier that day. It filled Velvet with a sense of rage and doom

and longing that she couldn’t easily explain, even to herself. If anyone

should be going undercover in a place like that it should be a reporter

like her, not—God love her—Yoshi’s administrative assistant turned

PI wannabe, Tucker Shade. Sure, at Velvet’s age, there was no chance

she could go undercover at Pioneer and pass as a wayward teen. And,

after her previous encounters with Dr. Barnabas, she would have been

recognized anyway. But it was the principle of the matter. She was the

reporter, after all, not Yoshi, and especially not Tucker.

Yoshi should have had better sense than to let Tucker do something

so damn dangerous. For godssakes, Tucker was still suffering from

a posttraumatic stress disorder after being whacked on the head and

kidnapped during Blind Eye’s last big investigation. How could Yoshi

think she was ready for such a stunt? Had she even considered Tucker’s

well-being? And had either one of them even stopped for a second to

consider Velvet’s feelings? Come to think of it, why in Gods name was

she being monogamous with Tucker if the girl didn’t even bother to tell

her about the assignment before agreeing?

Velvet was steamed. She hit the speed dial and heard Yoshi’s

voice. Fuck simple greetings. Velvet wanted to get straight to the point.

“Did you even think about talking with me first?” she demanded.

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Blind Faith

“Good evening, Velvet. I hear you got my voice mail.” Yoshi

sounded polite, but Velvet could tell she was annoyed.

“Yes, I did.”

“You must understand, Velvet, Tucker is my employee. She is,

quite frankly, the only employee capable of fulfilling this assignment.”

“Fine, but you have to understand she’s my girlfriend. So you’d

think I’d get some say in this.”

“I am aware that she is your girlfriend, but this is exactly why I

asked you not to get involved with her in the first place. In matters of

business, you can’t really expect me to place your feelings before the

company’s needs, do you?”

“Why the hell not?” Velvet raged. “What if something happens to

her? She’s still really green. She could get hurt.”

Yoshi was silent for a minute before speaking again. “Vel, is this

about Tucker, or is this about you?”

Yoshi somehow always knew how to cut to the heart of the

problem. Tucker had used her PTSD as a reason not to come home for

months on end, at a time when Velvet was overwhelmed by stress and

grief and desperately needed not to be alone. She needed Tucker there

to talk to or even just to curl up in bed beside her. But Tucker was still

staying in Yoshi’s guest bedroom.

At the same time, Velvet was watching her old life as a reporter

fade away while she dealt with so much work she barely had time to

speak to friends or put on makeup in the morning. This was very much

about her. Yoshi’s assignment would let Tucker do two things Velvet

didn’t want: she would be doing the kind of tasks Velvet had been so

good at, and she would have another reason not to come home. Velvet

welled up, but remained silent.

“Sweetie,” Yoshi said quietly, “When can you leave the office?

Why don’t you come over for some tea and we can talk?”

v

Velvet was still feeling a little peeved when she left Yoshi, but

she’d decided to use her anger to fuel her own investigation. She’d

show up Yoshi and Tucker, beating them at their own game by solving

the mystery of Saya Takahashi’s disappearance before them. She could

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

smell a connection between Saya and the two dead Pioneer students

whose bodies kept invading her dreams. At first she’d felt relieved

when they’d taken Jeff’s place, but it wasn’t long before she missed

seeing her childhood friend, even in nightmares.

Velvet was starting to wonder if there wasn’t some kind of

conspiracy going on. No one seemed willing to speak with her, on or off

the record, and their reluctance was beginning to feel like a deliberate

cover-up. Even Aneko hadn’t spoken with her that day at the courthouse

after the Pioneer hostage debacle, but Velvet put that down to the events

of the day and the mob of reporters. The lawyer by Aneko’s side had

hustled her away before she could say more than a few words. It didn’t

take much to figure out that Aneko hadn’t hired Michael Carrington,

but Velvet was surprised to learn who had.

Why would Dr. Barnabas have sent Pioneer’s lawyer to represent

the woman who’d held him at gunpoint? Of course, Velvet had tried

asking him but she’d only managed to provoke threats of a restraining

order. Aneko still wouldn’t return her phone calls, so Velvet had tried

staking out Pioneer’s grounds and ambushing anyone who left. After

that desperate measure, she contacted the parents of the two dead girls,

but they insisted they had nothing to say on the matter, and pressuring

them only gained her the displeasure of a phrase repeated ad nauseam

until it stuck in her head like the lyrics of a particularly annoying song,

“On the advice of my lawyer I decline to answer.”

From the brush off, Velvet concluded that the parents were under

nondisclosure agreements. She wondered what kind of parents would

settle potential wrongful death suits just days after their kids had died

in a tragic accident. Was it more than an odd coincidence that both

families had settled so quickly? In her experience, any business wanting

to throw money at bereaved families had reason to believe they were at

fault. Or they were hiding something else, information that might come

out if there was an investigation or a wrongful death suit. Velvet was

determined to discover what Pioneer had to fear.

v

It was high school all over again. At least the other kids weren’t

tormenting Tucker. She was actually making friends, even if they

weren’t with whom she’d first imagined. When Aimee had taken her to

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Blind Faith

meet the other Pioneer inmates, Tucker had felt an immediate kinship

with Isabelle and thought the two of them would become good friends.

She hadn’t had that feeling a lot in her life but it had always been true

before—like when Gita Arun arrived at Marsh Valley Junior High for

one semester before her parents broke under community pressures and

moved to Oregon.

Tucker had bonded instantly with the dark skinned girl from

East India and had been heartbroken when the family moved away

again. She could understand why they left. South Eastern Idaho was

predominantly Mormon, and ninety-eight percent of the students at

Marsh Valley, a higher percentage of the population than in Salt Lake

City, were conservative members of the Christian sect and still believed

dark skinned individuals bore the mark of Cain.

The Mormon Church so dominated the community that it

infiltrated all aspects of family and political life and even the public

schools, where kids called the teachers Brother Smith and Sister Miller.

The Shade family was not a part of the faith, and Tucker had suffered a

certain level of ostracism because of it. Other kids’ parents didn’t want

them hanging out with heathens. They may have not been Mormon, but

Tucker’s mother had her own out-of-the-ordinary religious convictions.

Growing up, Tucker heard so much about Jesus that there was a time,

when she was really young, that she’d thought he was an uncle. A little

later, the convictions rubbed off and Tucker truly believed.

She’d lost that naiveté years ago, and losing her faith had freed her

to love who she wanted to love. So when her mother and a few nosy

neighbors condemned her to hell for loving women, it hadn’t rocked

her world.

Tucker was glad some of the girls at Pioneer were being nice to

her. But she couldn’t figure out why Isabelle was so rude and distant

when Tucker had pegged her as a similar soul. If that was what six

months in this place could do, Tucker was glad she would only be here

a week or two. In the meantime she was trying to make the best of the

situation, celebrating not being the school outcast and trying to get to

know the students well enough to find an informer among them.

Pioneer tightly regimented the students’ time. Their day started

at seven o’clock with breakfast followed by a short prayer session.

Classes started at eight, with the girls attending indoor courses on

hygiene, etiquette, fashion, cooking, and home economics. The boys

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

got to escape the institute for a glorious two hours playing sports at

nearby parks with Coach Rawlings. Tucker would much rather be

playing football or joining them afterward for auto mechanics, instead

of being stuck inside learning which fork to scratch her ass with, but

she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by complaining.

After lunch the boys joined the girls in Bible study led by Dr.

Barnabas, then group therapy with Miss Dix and opposite-sex bonding

activities with Miss Dix and Coach Rawlings. Each element was

carefully chosen to lure students away from homosexuality. The

fundamentalist Christians had gotten craftier with how their insidious

brainwashing programs were structured and marketed. What did being

able to cook or sew have to do with sexual orientation anyway? Tucker

had taken home economics classes in high school, but they hadn’t

turned her straight. Plus, she knew plenty of crafty dykes who loved

to knit or sew their own clothes or throw lavish cocktail parties. Velvet

could do all those things when she had time.

It seemed like people were always confusing gender with sexual

orientation. They should spend some time in Idaho or Wyoming or

really any part of the rural Northwest. It was hard to tell the difference

between lesbians and straight women because they all sported mullets

and wore Polarfleece. That wasn’t entirely true, of course. In high

school Tucker had been taunted for her butch nature and clothing and

though she didn’t look much different from anyone else, the other kids

somehow knew she was a lesbian.

But Tucker knew now that being butch didn’t make her gay and

being a lesbian didn’t make her butch, especially in the cow towns of

Idaho. She wasn’t really sure what made someone a lesbian or straight

or feminine or masculine, or even why it was all so important to people.

Her generation didn’t give a flying fuck who slept with who and how

people labeled themselves. What did it matter to anyone else why

people were the way they were? Compared with some past experiences,

Pioneer wasn’t so bad. Sure she had to wear a skirt, but so much crap

had soaked into her unconscious most of her life, she could teach the

freaking religious classes at a place like this.

Tucker was relieved. She’d resisted indoctrination long enough

that she could step back and focus on her assignment. She was trying

to interrogate the other kids without raising suspicions. But asking

questions about the runaways and the girls who took a header off the

• 106 •

Blind Faith

rocky cliffs near Bolinas wasn’t easy. There always seemed to be a

counselor nearby or she got blank, puzzled stares, or someone put the

kybosh on any talk, claiming it violated the rules. During lunch on her

third day, she was finally with a group of girls, and out of earshot of the

counselors, so she was diving right in.

“I heard about the hostage situation here last month. Did any of

you see that shit go down?” Tucker kept her voice low so it would not

broadcast beyond the group of girls.

“Hostage?” Isabelle said. “I wondered what the commotion was.

I was having therapy then the place was suddenly crawling with SWAT

guys.”“Some woman held a gun to Dr. Barnabas’s head,” Tucker said.

“I saw it on TV.”

“Oh my gosh. Really? Wow,” said one of the other students.

“Know why she did it?” Tucker assumed a knowledgeable air.

“There was a girl who ran away last year. That was her sister.”

“Why would she threaten Dr. Barnabas over her sister running

away?”

“No one’s found them,” Tucker said. “I guess she thought Dr.

Barnabas could do more to help.”

“You know what’s weird?” one of the girls added. “Dr. Barnabas

had the staff clean out Saya and Dominique’s rooms the day after they

ran away.”

“Quit talking out of your ass. You weren’t even here then. None of

you were.” Isabelle said.

“But you were?” Tucker asked.

“Yeah, I was.” Isabelle sounded sad.

“Are you saying that didn’t happen?”

“I’m sure Dr. Barnabas didn’t ask for things to be thrown away,”

Isabelle said. “I mean, Carl Lee came and bagged stuff up, but I think

he was just moving it to storage.”

“Don’t you think that’s odd?” Tucker asked.

“No. I think it’s odd that you just got here and you’re asking these

weird questions. I think it’s odd that you’re spreading rumors about

Dr. Barnabas. And I bet the counselors wouldn’t like that kind of false

image behavior either. Maybe I should ask them?”

Tucker was shocked. It sounded like Isabelle had really bought

this crap. Maybe she was more brainwashed than the rest because she’d

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

been at Pioneer longer. Maybe the therapy was working. Her remarks

had changed the mood and the other students scattered. Tucker was

surprised that Isabelle stayed behind. What did she want?

“You haven’t accepted Jesus as your personal savior, have you?”

Isabelle was channeling Dr. Barnabas. If she didn’t sound so serious

Tucker might have assumed she was mocking him. “You should really

give this program a chance.”

“That’s great,” Tucker said. “But I don’t think Jesus cares who I

love. And I think reparative therapy fucks people up.”

Isabelle responded with a pitying look. “That was what I thought

in the beginning. I fought the truth for months until I finally realized

what I was missing by not allowing Jesus into my heart. The counselors

here are really great. They’re not judgmental. They just want to help us

break our addiction to sinful behavior, heal our brokenness, and lead us

to the path of authentic relationships.” She could be a walking billboard

for Pioneer Institute.

“If you’re cured,” Tucker said, “does that mean you’ll be leaving

soon?”

“At the end of the session.” Isabelle snagged Tucker’s hand. “I’ll

pray for you,” she said earnestly.

v

“You’ve got a call on line one,” Velvet’s new intern said with a

slight lisp.

“Who is it?” Velvet demanded, annoyed that the new intern, whose

name she was embarrassed to admit she hadn’t remembered yet, still

hadn’t acquired routine telephone skills. “Never mind, I’ll get it.” She

answered with her signature, “This is Velvet,” a greeting both warmly

sexy and icily curt all at once.

The caller was silent.

Velvet gave up repeating herself after a few greetings and set the

receiver down, pondering whether it was a crossed wire or something

related to her investigation.

Velvet felt her BlackBerry vibrate a moment after she’d dropped

the phone. God, publicists were such vultures. One of them had her

cell phone number and had been hounding her relentlessly via text

• 108 •

Blind Faith

messages to interview the woman, or girl rather, that he called “the new

Britney Spears.” Velvet wasn’t sure the “old” Britney was down for the

count yet. Either way, she hated interviewing subjects with so little real

life experience they often gave the dullest answers. But this message

wasn’t from a publicist or anyone whose number she had previously

dialed. The sender info was listed as “blocked” and the five words on

her cell phone’s tiny screen were cryptic at best: Help grounding group

6 pioneer.

What it meant, Velvet hadn’t a clue. But this was the kind of mystery

she loved to dig into. Right now, however, she had a staff meeting to

lead, which in and of itself was a jumping off point for a day full of

meetings with reluctant ad sales women, then tired editors, and finally

with her board of directors. By this evening she would be exhausted

and emotionally spent, all her psychological resources depleted by the

demands of the magazine. No wonder they called publishing a cruel

mistress.

v

Tucker woke from a dream and at first she didn’t know where

she was. She sat up and looked around. It took a moment to get her

bearings. She was still at the Pioneer Institute. It was night. Everyone

was asleep. She was just about to lay down again when something

moved in the darkness. Not everyone was sleeping. Maybe one of

the students was sneaking back to bed after a brief rendezvous with a

secret lover. Tucker huddled under her comforter and pretended to be

asleep. She listened for the sound of rustling sheets and tried to see if

any of the girls’ beds seemed overly occupied. Nothing. Then the faint

light in the room dimmed as someone stepped into the doorway. It had

taken Tucker a while to adjust to sleeping with a door open and lights

on in the hallway. Apparently it helped the counselors on their nightly

rounds. They took shifts staying awake, sitting in the closet-like office

between the girls and boys dorm rooms. Every few hours—or when

they heard noises—they patrolled the hallway and walked through the

dorms doing bed checks with a flashlight.

Expecting one of these routine patrols, Tucker closed her eyes and

lay still. She heard feet shuffling but didn’t notice the flashlight’s bright

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

beam through her eyelids. She opened her eyes. It wasn’t a counselor.

It was Isabelle. She quickly shoved something under her own mattress

then climbed into bed and pulled the covers over her head.

Maybe Tucker’s sleepy brain was playing tricks on her, the way

it did when she was really tired. Maybe Isabelle hadn’t really stuffed

something under her mattress. Maybe it was just a dream. She closed

her eyes again and slid back into sleep like a boat slipping into water,

dreams lapping at her oars. There was a lot of noise. Running. Shouting.

Tucker sat bolt upright, swinging her legs over the bed, searching for

her shoes. It was always like this when Anastasia, her sister, had one

of her late night attacks. Mom would be frantic, running down the

hall shouting. Hunter would wail this high pitch sound with no words

that bounced like sirens off the close walls. Tucker would feel like a

firefighter, slipping into clothes, ready to slide down the pole, knowing

at any moment disaster could strike. She was terrified that one day they

wouldn’t make it to the hospital in time, or the doctors wouldn’t come

up with a diagnosis or treatment before it was too late.

She was tying her shoes when the overhead fluorescent lights came

on. It took a moment for her pupils to adjust to the light. She could hear

someone yelling but the words weren’t registering. Finally the fuzzy

shapes resolved into Carl Lee James standing stiff as a board, his face

bright red as he barked orders like a Boot camp instructor.

“Get up ladies. Rise and shine. God damn it, this is not a drill. Get

to your feet.”

Tucker jumped up and stood at attention. Bud had warned that

military-style training was de rigueur these days at boot camp style

reform schools. What did he call them? Oh, right, character building

boot camps for today’s incorrigibles. Maybe this was the onset of a

whole new tactic, Tucker’s unscheduled Femininity Boot Camp.

Whatever it was, that prick Carl Lee sure was hamming it up. Tucker

flashed Miss Dix a knowing smile and rolled her eyes. Miss Dix did not

respond. Her brow was pinched and her face had lost its usual kindness.

She looked very serious.

Behind her, Coach Rawlings looked groggy and tweaked about

being awake. He leaned against the doorframe for support. Coach

Rawlings reminded Tucker of junior high coaches the ones that were

washed up athletes with potbellies, whose only muscles were on their

cars. She imagined that in his glory days glory days he’d been a local

• 110 •

Blind Faith

star, high school quarterback or lead scorer on the court. He’d probably

been good enough to win a division title, maybe even take state, but his

accomplishments had ended there, and twenty years later he was living

vicariously through the kids on his team and hitting on girls younger

than his daughter. Next to Coach Rawlings, Carl Lee looked like a

toned athlete.

All the girls had scrambled out of bed and were standing,

waiting.

Carl Lee stalked back and forth in front of them. “I know one of

you little brats has them, so why don’t we just cut to the chase? Don’t

think I won’t call Dr. Barnabas and have him come down here. You’d

better hope it doesn’t come to that, you got it?”

One of the girls had raised her hand five minutes ago and her arm

was starting to droop from heaviness. “Sir?” She pleaded, “What’s this

about?”

Carl Lee turned on his heel and rushed at her. He stopped in front

of her, towering above her five-foot-two stature. Tucker had always

thought the dude a little ferret-like, but right now Carl Lee looked

dangerous, like Ed Norton at the end of Fight Club. Tucker waited for

him to strike the girl for asking questions. He didn’t. Instead he looked

around the room, his eyes capturing each of the girls in turn.

“One of you,” he snarled, “knows damn well what’s going on.”

“All the same, Carl Lee,” Miss Dix interjected, “If I may suggest,

maybe you could—”

“Could what?” He swung around to stare at her, looking like he

might spring across the room at her jugular. “Coddle these bitches like

you would? We’ve had a serious breach of conduct here. I intend to get

to the bottom of it, find the culprit, and make sure it doesn’t happen

again. Coach Rawlings, let’s get on with it!”

Miss Dix lowered her head. Rawlings shuffled into the room.

“Okay, ladies,” the coach summoned a scratchy bellow. “We

know one of you slipped into the guard room and stole the master keys.

I don’t know what you think you’re going to do with them or how you

thought you’d get away with it, but I can assure you, we’re going to tear

this room apart until we find them, you got it?”

That must have been what Isabelle was up to. What was she

thinking? She’d been on her best behavior since Tucker got here, and

she’d said a number of times that she would be released at the end of

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

the session, less than a month away. Why would she jeopardize all that

now? Stealing the master keys was the kind of offense that could get a

girl more time in a place like this. Not to mention the fact that Isabelle

had apparently stolen the keys out from under Carl Lee when he was

supposed to be awake on guard duty.

Carl Lee struck Tucker as the kind of guy that would feel humiliated

by being outwitted. And if Isabelle had used the key to get into a locked

room and vandalize it or steal something, or look into Dr. Barnabas’

records, there’d be hell to pay. So why had she risked it? Just to put the

keys under her bed and go back to sleep?

Another thought rattled Tucker. If anyone should be sneaking

around at night, stealing keys and rifling through confidential files,

it should be her. Why hadn’t she attempted something similar? Why

hadn’t she noticed Isabelle was gone while there was still time to get

in on the heist and use it to the benefit of Blind Eye? She was a terrible

private eye. Thank God, Yoshi wasn’t here to witness her failings.

“We already tossed the boys’ room,” Coach Rawlings muttered.

“Maybe we should just call Dr. Barnabas.”

“We’re not going to bother Barnabas with this,” Carl Lee said

menacingly. “We don’t need to, because we’re going to resolve this

right now.” He marched Coach Rawlings down to the far end of the

dormitory where they stopped in front of the last bed. “Start here,” he

directed.

The coach shrugged resolutely and began pulling apart the

bed sheets. Miss Dix reluctantly joined them and searched the girls’

footlockers, burrowing through clothes carefully as though she didn’t

want to disrupt their folds. Coach Rawlings was far less delicate in

stripping the bed down before pulling the mattress off the metal springs.

Eventually the tornado reached Tucker’s bed. In a minute or two they

would toss Isabelle’s and find the stolen keys.

While everyone else seemed riveted to the spectacle of destruction,

Tucker had been watching Isabelle grow increasingly nervous until she

looked like she was ready to panic. She kept eyeing the door like she

was planning to bolt. Tucker wondered what kind of trouble Isabelle

would get into, and thinking that it really should have been her instead.

She’d been sent here to spy on Pioneer and though they could punish

her, she was getting out in a week. Her parents hadn’t sent her here,

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Blind Faith

which meant they couldn’t be disappointed by her behavior and decide

she needed to stay longer or undergo shock therapy or something. She

was safe.

Before she realized it, Tucker had made a decision. She stepped

away from her bed and proclaimed, “I did it.”

Isabelle looked at her like she was crazy. The other girl pursed her

lips, shook her head and began to pantomime as though she was going

into convulsions.

Tucker ignored her. She took another step toward Carl Lee and

repeated, “I did it. I stole your keys right off of you.”

Carl Lee dropped the mattress. “What did you say?” His eyes

dared her.

Tucker had been through puberty. She’d had the requisite power

struggles with authority figures. She knew what to say. “I said, I stole

your fucking keys. So quit harassing everyone else.”

“You? You’re the new girl.” He narrowed his eyes at her. “What’d

you want my keys for?”

“Thought I’d go out and pick up a prostitute.” Tucker smirked.

He moved toward her and Tucker braced herself for a slap that

didn’t come. “I should wipe that smart ass grin off your face.”

Tucker shrugged. “You should stay awake on your watch. Is

that how those girls escaped? Where you sleeping or did you have

company?” She raised her eyebrows and watched the storm brewing in

his eyes. She should clam up but she couldn’t resist one last jibe: “You

like boys? Is that why you work here?”

She flinched as she saw his arm rise. Look what her teenage

defiance bought her.

“Carl Lee, don’t!” Miss Dix yelled. Then she was by Tucker’s

side, ready to shield her from blows. “I’ll be sure that she receives

appropriate punishment. Where are the keys, Tucker?”

Miss Dix’s eyes were filled with such disappointment that Tucker

almost recanted her confession. Not trusting her voice, she pointed at

Isabelle’s bed. “They’re under her mattress.”

Carl Lee rushed to verify her statement and triumphantly held the

keys over head as if to prove his prowess.

“Why?” Miss Dix asked. “Why did you hide them there? Were

you trying to get Isabelle in trouble?”

• 113 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Tucker shrugged. “I thought it’d be funny if Miss Perfect was

knocked down a peg or two. I’m sick of the self-righteous way she

lords it over everyone, like she’s better than the rest of the queers.”

Tucker hadn’t thought it was possible for Miss Dix to look more

crestfallen. But she did. “Carl Lee,” she instructed, “Why don’t you

orchestrate a clean up while I take care of this.” She wrapped a hand

around Tucker’s forearm, applied undue force and dragged Tucker

from the room.

“Where are we going?” Tucker asked.

Instead of answering, Miss Dix said, “I’m very disappointed in

you, Jennye.”

Tucker was relieved by Miss Dix’s use of her alias. It took some

of the sting out of her words. While her presence here was a facade,

Tucker’s emotional involvement was real. She’d started to like Miss

Dix so her disappointment was a shard to the heart that felt all too

familiar.

“I never took you for someone so envious and vindictive,” Miss

Dix continued as she pulled Tucker down the hall. “Whatever Isabelle

may have done to you, I can’t imagine that she deserved this…cowardly

set up.” Miss Dix paused long enough to push open the door and yank

Tucker out into the cold and dusky courtyard. Miss Dix had apparently

left her flashlight behind, but that did not deter her. She marched through

the darkness at a brisk pace, as though her feet remembered the way. “I

think it’s time that you got a taste of what Isabelle has endured in her

quest to be free of her addictions, develop authentic friendships, and

re-establish her relationship with Jesus.”

Endured? This didn’t sound good. What was worse than enforced

femininity? What were they going to do? Throw her into solitary

confinement? Give her a lobotomy? Make her stand naked and shackled

with a hood over her head while they laughed at her genitalia? Her

black humor didn’t ease the ball of fire that was forming in Tucker’s

belly. She could hear a voice in her head begging her to give up this

silly charade and tell Miss Dix what had really happened and that she

was just taking the blame so Isabelle didn’t get in trouble. So Isabelle

could get out of this place.

But she had no reason to trust Miss Dix with that information.

After all, the woman had chosen to work at Pioneer, which meant that

• 114 •

Blind Faith

even if she seemed cool sometimes, she was the enemy. Not to mention

a suspect. Sort of. Tucker couldn’t seriously imagine Miss Dix had a

role in the disappearance of two girls or the deaths of two more. But

something fishy was going at Pioneer, and until she knew more Tucker

couldn’t risk blowing her cover to anyone.

They had reached the other side of the courtyard. Miss Dix unlocked

the door, saying, “At Pioneer we take a multi-pronged approach to

healing our client’s wounded relationship with God. You’ve already

experienced prayer, and our educational unit, but we have other tools

in our arsenal.”

Maybe Isabelle would be so thankful that Tucker had taken the

blame that she would open up and tell her something. Isabelle had been

there the longest, after all, and she’d known the girls who ran away.

She seemed to have the most potential as an informant. So maybe this

would turn out to be the best thing that could have happened. They

walked several paces down the hall and Miss Dix used another key

from her ring, unlocked a door and pushed Tucker inside. She flicked

on the light.

Whatever Tucker had feared, this was not it. At first glance, no

room could be less frightening. There were no shackles hooked to a

wall. There was nothing medical about the room, which seemed to rule

out surgeries and electro-shock therapy. There were no apparent signs

of torture at all. There were no religious artifacts, no scripture quoted

on the walls, no pictures of Jesus carrying the heavy burden of the

world’s sins. None of that.

Tucker stared in puzzlement at two rows of public school desks,

the kind that were little more than an uncomfortable wooden chair with

only one arm, which was stretched out cradling a small pad of wood

for writing. The seating didn’t look comfortable, and the large screen

in front of the room was the kind they had at schools, which was pulled

down for an educational film or occasional assembly. Still, films were

films and, aside from horror, there was nothing frightening or unnerving

about watching one. If this was the punishment, Tucker decided she

would have to act out more often.

“I’m going to pop out and get you something to eat from the

kitchen,” Miss Dix sounded almost cheery. Had she forgotten she was

mad at Tucker? Perhaps she knew Tucker was taking the blame for

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Isabelle, and now they were going to fake a punishment was and instead

eat breakfast and watch movies. “It won’t be set up for breakfast yet,

but I may be able to find something.”

She returned a few minutes later, bearing a banana, a container of

yogurt, a glass of orange juice and a plain bagel. Tucker hadn’t realized

how hungry she was, but she finished off the snack in no time. Miss Dix

watched her down the last of the juice before standing and picking up

the empty glass.

“I’ve just given you a nausea-inducing medication,” she declared,

matter-of-factly.

“What?” Tucker was sure she’d misunderstood.

“It’ll take about ten or fifteen minutes before you feel nauseous.”

“You’ve drugged me?” Tucker was mortified.

“It doesn’t feel very good when someone pulls a trick on you, does

it Jennye?”

“So this is some kind of warped lesson?”

“No. This is aversion therapy. It can be extremely successful. It

made quite an impact on Isabelle. Of course she’s endured ten sessions

over the last few months.”

Tucker was starting to feel panicky and a little sick. Were the

drugs starting to work or was the fact that Miss Dix could expose her to

this sort of barbaric torture making her want to throw up? “You don’t

have to do this, Aimee,” she began to plead, speaking more intimately

than she had before.

“Remember, Jennye, that I’m your advisor, not your friend, so you

must treat me with respect and call me Miss Dix.”

Tucker stared into Miss Dix’s eyes, hoping she was conveying the

disappointment and loss of faith she’d seen in the counselor’s eyes half

an hour ago. If she managed to communicate her feelings, they did not

dissuade Miss Dix, who turned and walked out the door.

A few minutes later a projector came on in the back of the room

and began to roll film. Spliced together were pop culture stills, movie

clips, and girl-on-girl pornography. Supermodel Cindy Crawford

straddling k.d. lang in a barber chair. Nice. Madonna kissing Britney

Spears. That image made Tucker queasy on a good day, let alone with

a drug and disappointment making her ill. A closet kiss from It’s in the

Water bled into the love scene from Desert Hearts, which faded into

Gina Gershon taking Jennifer Tilly, which moved into pornography

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where obviously straight porn stars did what straight men wanted to see

two women doing.

The drug was really taking effect now or Tucker would have

laughed. She’d never found mainstream girl-on-girl porn much of a

turn on. Did any lesbian? But instead of laughing, she was clutching her

stomach and spitting acid into a handy trashcan. The nausea was so bad

she thought about sticking her finger down her throat to get it over with.

She wondered who put the montage together. Probably Dr. Barnabas.

He was obviously a closet pervert.

The longer the film ran the more X-rated its images became. Soon

it was splices of Bettie Page and then, surprisingly good snippets of

old films, the ones made by lesbians for lesbians, like Suburban Dykes

and Dress Up for Daddy. Just then, Tucker’s entire body formed a

spasmodic dance of involuntary heaving. She started to form a thought

about copyright violations and a serenade of gagging noises and

retching began again.

By the time the reel had made it to BDSM, Tucker wasn’t able

to look up without having another round of dry heaves rack her body.

She hung her head over the trashcan, exhausted and desperate for the

vomiting to end. Her focus had narrowed until so that she was only

aware of shuddering dry heaves and the silent mantra in her head

pleading for it all to end. She didn’t even notice when the film ran to

black.

• 117 •

• 118 •

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chapter ten

Velvet couldn’t imagine fitting anything else into her day. It

was already after one in the morning when she got home but

that cryptic entry from earlier in the day plucked at the edges of her

mind and she knew she couldn’t just shower and fall into bed. Help

grounding group 6 pioneer. What on earth could that mean? Velvet

headed for her computer.

Her initial searches were baffling. The Pioneer Institute didn’t

seem to have a real website, just a placeholder page, and there was

nothing on it about groups of any sort. When Velvet searched Google

for “group 6 Pioneer,” she was equally baffled. There was the Pioneer, a

newspaper in central Michigan. Another entry detailed Massachusetts-

based Pioneer Group’s six cents per share loss after some Russian

investments. None of the entries seemed applicable and Velvet didn’t

buy the coincidence that while she was researching events that happened

at the Pioneer Institute, she would receive random cell phone spam with

“pioneer” in the message. She kept trying word combinations until,

bingo: The Grounding of Group 6 was a Julian F. Thompson book first

published in 1983. Velvet’s gut tightened as she read the blurb.

Parents get mad at their teenagers all the time, right? But

what if your parents got so mad that they decided to have you

killed? That’s what happened to the kids in Group 6, but they

don’t know it yet. They think they’ve been sent to Coldbrook

Country School in order to get straightened out. Sure, all of

them admit to having caused their parents a few problems,

but they’re just normal kids. They have no idea that their

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

parents hate them enough to kill them. Group 6 is about to

find out exactly what’s in store for them at Coldbrook. Will

they survive?

Was this someone’s idea of a joke or was the Pioneer Institute

extinguishing the lives of queer kids? Were the disappearances and

deaths deliberate? More importantly, where was Tucker in all this? And

who sent this note? Was it from Tucker, had she found a way to contact

Velvet? If so, why the esoteric message? Velvet was now as worried as

she could be, convinced that Tucker was in mortal danger. She wanted

to go break her out of that gabby prison but she knew that might not be

the best step.

She hesitated to wake Yoshi up based on a far fetched theory.

She couldn’t contact Tucker and she felt powerless and abandoned.

Somehow, taking over the magazine had left her less in touch with

what the Blind Eye team was doing. She was out of the loop and losing

touch with the people she loved, but Velvet didn’t have time to mope.

She started phoning everyone she could find and leaving voicemail

messages. She had to get hold of a copy of that book and see if more

clues lay within its pages.

v

Damn that broad, Bud thought. Velvet was hot as hell, if you liked

thick chicks with big breasts and loud mouths. But damn, she sure was

emotional, even for a girl. She’d gotten one garbled text message and

now she thought Tucker was going to be killed? She’d seen too many

horror movies. Her text message was probably nothing more than a

new advertising scheme. After Tucker showed him how to read his text

messages so she could send him annoying updates when they were

apart, he’d gotten some weird messages himself. He’d even showed

them to Tucker and she’d all but laughed him out of the room. She said

everyone got those messages and it was a marketing technique to create

buzz for a new monster movie.

Velvet’s Group 6 crap was probably the same kind of shit. The fact

that she’d figured out it had to do with a book title was more proof. They

were always making movies out of books that were popular twenty

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Blind Faith

years ago. The only way someone like him would know the story was

if they filmed it and showed it on cable.

Bud couldn’t believe the Pioneer Institute was executing kids. It

was so outlandish, he’d chuckled a bit during his breakfast phone call

with Velvet. He’d told her nobody would be that brazen, and where was

the money in murder? Students at Pioneer brought in fifteen hundred

a week. Velvet was overreacting the way chicks always did. She said

the way it worked in the book was the parents paid the school to solve

their teenage problems. But even if the Pioneer parents were in on a

dastardly conspiracy like that, it still didn’t make sense. Why leave

those dead girls where they fell from the cliff? Why bring attention to

themselves by reporting kids as runaways if they’d killed them? Who’d

be stupid enough to get away with murder and then invite the law in?

Where was the evidence?

Velvet had no answers to any of these questions except to remind

him that Dr. Barnabas had been suspiciously reticent, and Pioneer kept

a tight lid on all their clients and employees. After all, that was why

Blind Eye had sent Tucker undercover in the first place.

While it was true that Dr. Barnabas was evasive and Bud thought

he was probably hiding something, that sure didn’t equal murder. Velvet

had hinted that there was more to the story, but if she wasn’t willing

to share it with him, that was her problem. He didn’t have time to dick

around soothing her unwarranted fears. Tucker was a big girl and she

could take care of herself for one freaking day while he organized a

little bit of fun with his fine new lady friend. This was the first real date

he’d been on since he was shot. And the most surprising thing was that

he wasn’t even nervous. He wasn’t sitting in his chair worrying about

what would happen when the date ended. What would happen if she

invited him back to her place? He wasn’t thinking about that or hating

his chair or his dead dick. He was totally engrossed in the moment, in

imagining that beautiful, sexy woman in front of him.

The only thing he felt bad about was that he had to keep lying to

Barbara Parkins. She had a kid at Pioneer after all. He probably should

be treating her like a source, interrogating her about the ex-gay school.

But he’d promised himself one night where he could put the case aside

and just be himself. That was why it sucked that he had to pretend

Tucker was his daughter named Jennye. When they’d arranged the date,

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

he had to keep turning the attention back on Barbara so he wouldn’t

have to keep making stuff up about his life as a single parent. The best

lies were always those that were the closest to the truth. If he fabricated

too much about his imaginary daughter, at some point, he was bound to

forget a detail that might come up later. That was, of course , if they had

another date after tonight.

Of course, if he had to run off to the men’s room to have discreet

phone calls with a paranoid lesbo, his date wasn’t going to go too

well. Tomorrow he’d dedicate time to the case. The sooner it ended

the sooner he could come clean with Barbara Parkins. Hopefully she

wouldn’t hold it against him that he didn’t have a kid on his own and

had been investigating the institute she had so much faith in.

Bud could feel the stupid smile spreading across his face as he

picked up the phone to confirm their date. “Sorry I didn’t get back to

you sooner,” he almost purred. “Work.”

“Oh, my, that’s not a problem,” Barbara sounded truly happy to

hear from him. “I’m sure you’re a very busy gentleman.”

v

“Why’d you take the blame?” Isabelle asked. “You didn’t have to

go through that.”

Tucker shrugged. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d done it.

“Maybe if I’d known what was coming, I wouldn’t have,” she joked

weakly. “I didn’t want you to ruin your chance to leave. Why’d you

take the keys? You knew what could happen.”

“I had to see for sure.”

“See what?”

“If Dom’s stuff is still in the storage room or if they really got rid

of it. Before I made testimony to the Lord, I was in love with her. But

she ran off and left me here. They weren’t even friends. But when you

started talking about Saya’s sister… I hated Dom for leaving me here,

but what if something bad happened and she didn’t leave on her own

accord? I just have to know.”

“Did you get a chance to find out?”

“No. Right after I snagged the keys I heard someone in the

bathroom, so I hid. Then I chickened out.”

• 122 •

Blind Faith

Tucker wondered if she could tell Isabelle the truth now. Could

she trust Isabelle to keep her secret? “I’m sorry. I don’t blame you for

wanting to find out something more. It really does sound suspicious.

And then those other two girls died. Were you on that camping trip?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you notice anything unusual?” Tucker sensed there was

something.

“Not really.” Isabelle hesitated. “The night before they fell off the

cliff something happened. We were at Crystal Lake. I woke up and saw

them sneaking away.

“But?”

“I told Miss Dix and she busted them.”

“What were they doing?”

Isabelle rolled her eyes. “What do you think?”

“Sex?”

“What else? Matt didn’t believe it, but come on.”

Tucker thought about Isabelle’s theory. Of course the two girls

could have been sneaking off to have sex, but couldn’t there be some

other reason? Like they were out smoking or looking at sport magazines

or other FI behavior? “Were they a couple? Sarah and Erica?”

“I hadn’t thought so before that night. I thought they were just

friends, but it makes sense now. They were really close. I guess it got

them killed though, when they took off together again the next night

and fell off that cliff.”

Tucker knitted her brows and shook her head. “Except I don’t think

that’s what happened. I mean, I know it got classified as an accident,

but there were defensive wounds and we think—”

“What do you mean, we?”

“We? No, I meant I. Just me.”

“You said we. And how do you know about their injuries? It’s

like you know more about what happened than I do and I was there.”

Isabelle’s voice was rising. “Are you a cop?”

Tucker motioned her to be quiet. “I’m not with the police, I swear.

Shouldn’t you be getting back to class? You’re going to lose your

bathroom privileges if you’re gone too long.”

“I don’t think so, not after being traumatized last night when you

framed me.”

• 123 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“But you know I didn’t.”

Isabelle shrugged. “That’s not how I’m going to tell it.” She stood

up and made like she was going to leave.

Damn it. Tucker wished she’d spent more time developing a cover

story that would explain her interest in the case. “Okay, okay. Can you

keep a secret?”

“Yes.”

“Swear. Swear on Dom’s life.”

Isabelle’s face went gray and Tucker worried she’d gone too

far. But she needed to know Isabelle would keep her confidence. “I

swear.”

“I work with a private investigation firm and I’m here to find

out what really happened to Dom and Saya, and who killed Sarah and

Erica.”

“You’re a private eye? At your age?”

“I’m twenty-three,” Tucker said. “I’m not a PI yet. I’ve finished

the classroom portion but I still have a ton of hours to complete.”

“Who hired you?”

“What?” Tucker was surprised by the question. Did Isabelle mean

Blind Eye?

“If you’re not the police you don’t just investigate for no reason.

Someone had to hire you. Who’s your client?”

Tucker knew she shouldn’t reveal the name of the women who’d

retained Blind Eye’s services. But in this case, it might just help. “Saya’s

sister, Aneko.”

Isabelle looked stunned. She stood, staring for a moment, before

she spoke again. “You think someone murdered Sarah and Erica?” Her

voice dropped as though she didn’t want to verbalize the next question

aloud. “What about Dom?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out. Do you want to help me?”

“I…I don’t know. I should be going.” Isabelle ended the

conversation abruptly and darted out the door.

v

Meeting with Aneko Takahashi had become an unexpected

pleasure for Yoshi. She always felt that the other woman added an

unexpected mixture of sweetness to her day. Even in her grief and

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anxiety, Aneko was charming, alluring and thoroughly engaging,

qualities that Yoshi felt got short shrift in today’s almost-pathologically

detached, techno-obsessed world. She found herself wanting to spend

more time with Aneko than was reasonable, especially when this was a

client relationship.

“Should we go, then?”

Aneko’s soft-spoken query tore Yoshi from her navel gazing. She

spent a lot of time philosophizing around Aneko and, in her presence,

was not quite as composed or as orderly as she usually was. She wanted

to let her guard down around Aneko. They’d known each other mere

weeks and yet Yoshi often found herself daydreaming about the woman.

Of course, if Blind Eye did not find her sister, they probably wouldn’t

ever be able to develop a relationship outside this case. Not that she

wanted to. Well, maybe…

“Hello? Yoshi? Where’d you go?”

Damn, she was doing it again. Fantasizing. By now, Aneko must

think her a total loon. Or some kind of blind narcoleptic. “Oh yes, of

course. Just thinking. I’m heading toward BART myself, so I’ll walk

with you.”

They ambled rather slowly in the direction of the city’s

underground subway system. After a few minutes Aneko took Yoshi’s

elbow. She would have found the move patronizing had it come from

a different client but, from Aneko, it was a gesture of kindness. Plus,

Yoshi couldn’t help but feel a sense of electricity between them. She

almost willed Aneko to move her hand, to caress her palm and entwine

with her fingers. She longed to hold Aneko’s hand.

“Aneko, I’ve been thinking—” Before Yoshi could finish, a

cacophony caught her attention. The shriek of tires on warm asphalt

sounded too close, and moments before a shot rang out Yoshi threw

Aneko to the ground, all the while yelling “Get down!” for anyone in

earshot.

Aneko was dead silent and for a split second Yoshi worried she’d

been shot. But, as the barrage of bullets whirled past her, Aneko grabbed

Yoshi’s arms and gathered her whole body close. It was for protection,

no doubt, but even in her terror Yoshi recognized that the two women

were closer than ever. Screams bounced off concrete, fleeting footsteps

pounded the pavement, car horns gave way to emergency sirens, but

still she and Aneko huddled together like old lovers, sinewy limbs

• 125 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

enmeshed through fear, adrenaline, and perhaps, something even more

primal.

“Are you okay? Were you hit?” Yoshi began to pull away. Separating

felt like removing an insect from flypaper. It was wrong, she could feel

it. There was a charge between them, no doubt, but Yoshi could tell the

other woman was still trembling from the attempt on her life. Or on

Yoshi’s life. Or some stranger walking nearby. Who knew exactly what

that attack was about? But Yoshi’s instincts were usually reliable and

she was certain Pioneer Institute was somehow at the helm.

“I’m okay. Are you?” Aneko’s response was tentative and

breathless.

Reassured that neither of them needed medical help, Yoshi

prodded Aneko for any details she could recall. There was, sadly, very

little information to retrieve. Aneko was a mild-mannered translator, a

language guru who had probably never seen a gun before the day she

held one to Barnabas Gage’s temple, much less found herself on this

side of the barrel. Yoshi thought about the garbled voicemail messages

from Velvet. She was convinced Tucker was in danger, and perhaps she

was. But only if her cover was blown. Yoshi had instructed Bud to stay

in touch and be ready to get her out, if need be.

After the hours it took to speak to the SFPD officers and go through

a quick check-in with paramedics, the two women took a quiet taxi ride

back to Yoshi’s house so they could deconstruct what had happened.

They held hands along the way and Yoshi could feel Aneko trembling.

“I’m sorry, I know it’s awful,” Aneko said again as they sat down

on a couch in Yoshi’s living room. “I wish I could remember the car.”

The police officers had asked her about the color, the make, model or

license plate number but she’d been too terrified to notice.

“Aneko, honey, stop apologizing,” Yoshi consoled her, wanting

so much to pull her close once more. “You were frightened, which is a

completely reasonable reaction.”

“You just called me honey.” Aneko offered that statement with a

lilt in her voice. “Do you want me?”

Yoshi was stunned silent. She wasn’t sure she understood.

“What?”

“Yoshi Yakamota, famous PI, this isn’t a time to be coy. Do you

want me?”

Clearly sweet little Aneko wasn’t as naïve as she had thought. Yes,

• 126 •

Blind Faith

Yoshi very much wanted her. She wanted to pull gently on her long

hair and lick the contours of her neck, moving down to her breasts and

further still.

“Well?” Damn, Aneko really wanted an answer to her rather

rhetorical question.

“Aneko, I’m not sure I should really answer that,” Yoshi said.

“You’re a client and we have a professional relationship.”

Aneko inched toward her, her face so close that they were

sharing the same pool of oxygen. Peppery sweet breath and Aneko’s

unmistakable scents filled Yoshi with vigor and fear and excitement.

“I want you.” It was a statement; there was no questioning in Aneko’s

vernacular now. “And I know you want me.”

She pushed Yoshi’s shoulders back against the sofa and climbed

on top of her like she was gently mounting a steed.

“I do,” Yoshi whispered. “I do.”

Aneko stopped talking, busying herself kissing Yoshi’s face, her

neck, her shoulders, everything but her mouth. Yoshi was dying. She

wanted that kiss so badly, but Aneko clearly had other plans. Every

time Yoshi began to move, to take charge of the encounter, even just to

reciprocate, Aneko pushed her back down.

“Not yet,” Aneko whispered. She pulled Yoshi’s blouse off over

her head, unsnapping her bra and unbuttoning her slacks..

Soon Aneko’s hand was inside her and around her, one finger

rubbing her clit and another two swirling around her G-spot. Between

the gentle nibbling on her nipples and the thrusting of Aneko’s hand,

Yoshi was ready to orgasm almost immediately. Aneko anticipated that,

though, and pulled her hand back, slowly.

Softly, she whispered again, “Not yet.”

Yoshi could no sooner hold back an orgasm than she could win

the Indy 500. She was going to come and it was going to happen now.

But when Aneko placed her face between Yoshi’s legs, the waiting

seemed well worth it. As Aneko swirled and twirled her tongue, using

her fingers to dart in and out of Yoshi’s wetness and her tongue to spell

the alphabet, twice, backward, Yoshi thought she’d reached nirvana.

She wasn’t usually so moved by sex. She liked it, all right, but not like

this. This moment in time felt like no other, it was immeasurable and

intense and God, she hated to feel so crazy, but damn it if this moment

didn’t some how feel life-changing.

• 127 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

By then end of the night, Yoshi found a new sense of her own

sexuality and her ability to transcend her normal reserve. Aneko worked

on pleasing her for what seemed like hours until, sticky and damp and

exhausted, Yoshi rolled on her side, pulling the other woman toward

her. “Are you ready for a break?” she panted.

“Yes.” Aneko said with a lilt in her voice. “Where are your

toys?”Toys? She couldn’t imagine what Aneko had planned next. “Whoa,

listen up lady, I’m so over-stimulated I couldn’t possibly handle any

more.”

“It’s not for you,” Aneko teased. Soon, the younger woman was

helping Yoshi fasten a strap on harness, inserting her purple colt dildo

that Velvet bought her half a lifetime ago.

Aneko lifted herself up and over Yoshi’s pelvis, putting her fingers

first in Yoshi’s mouth and then in her own wetness. She angled the dildo

so it slid easily inside her. Yoshi grabbed Aneko’s ass, her hands strong

and controlling, guiding the younger woman up and down and rocking

along with Aneko’s rhythm.. This was the best sexual experience Yoshi

had ever had, blind or not. She didn’t need to see Aneko to know

what was going on. Their lovemaking was primal but soft, tender but

explosive, instinctual yet surprising. Soon, Aneko was panting, moaning

her name and a litany of prosaic profanities that made Yoshi smile and

blush all at once. As her rocking sped up and the throaty refrains gave

way to just one quite sincere version of “Oh, God,” Yoshi couldn’t help

but marvel at the woman’s beauty and skill. Theirs was a true melding

Yoshi had never really ever experienced before, not even with Velvet or

AJ, both of whom were quite skilled at lovemaking.

As they lay exhausted in each other’s arms, too tired to talk, they

simply nodded into a quiet slumber. Two hours later, Yoshi awoke as

Aneko was peeling herself off the bed.

“That was really amazing.” Aneko spoke first.

“It was for me too.”

“What does it mean?” Yoshi wasn’t sure what it meant or if it

meant anything at all. “I guess it means whatever we want it to mean.

We still have a professional relationship, but, that was something

entirely different.”

She continued to ramble, never fully committing nor backing

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Blind Faith

down on the real depth of this experience and what was possibly in

store for either of them. Before they could transition into awkwardly

avoiding the complications their liaison brought, Aneko had clearly

become distracted.

“Yoshi?” Her voice had that charming sweetness to it again.

“These old letters on the bureau. They’re so lovely. I didn’t know you

had so many.”

Clearly Aneko had found the stack of her father’s letters, many

more than the few Yoshi had shown her initially. Aneko, a savvy

translator by trade, was suddenly so eager to decipher them she seemed

to have forgotten their awkwardness just seconds ago. She picked up a

letter from the pile, leafed through it, and began to read aloud:

December 15, 1981

Dearest Hiroki

The cold winds of winter chill me to my bones.

Ikaga osugoshi de irasshaimasu ka? How have you been?

I received your latest letter and though it was, as always,

wonderful to hear from you, it saddened me deeply. What you

ask of me is almost unbearable. Hearing from you has been

the one brightness in my dark days and the thought of no

longer corresponding with you is like a dagger to my heart.

Knowing this must be painful for you as well; I am in awe

of your strength and commitment to Yoshi. I recognize this

decision must have been quite difficult to make but I know

you make this sacrifice for Yoshi and I cannot fault you for

an act of love.

Just know that you will live in my heart until the last of

my days. I know you feel the same. Although I have cherished

your letters, I do not require your feelings be committed to

paper to know you love me. Still, it will be very difficult

not hearing from you. Perhaps one day, when things have

changed, we can be together again.

Okarada o taisetsu ni. Please take care of yourself.

Your Love

• 129 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Yoshi was perplexed. “I’m not quite sure I understand these letters.

As far as I know, my parents were never apart until my mother died. I

can’t imagine when she would write these.”

“Could they be from someone your father dated?” Aneko asked

innocently.

Yoshi snorted. She had never known her father to date. Hiroki

Yakamota never once brought a woman home after Yoshi’s mother

passed away.

“I have an idea,” Aneko continued. “Why don’t I take them and

translate them.”

“Really, Aneko, you do not have to go out of your way.”

“I’d love to, really.”

“Well, if you have the time, I would be delighted. Obviously, I will

compensate you, whatever your usual rate is.”

Both women were happy to not have to talk about what happened

between them. At least until Aneko teased, “We can work out other

forms of payment if we have to.”

• 130 •

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chapter eleven

Tucker slid into the seat next to Isabelle and set down her

lunch. There were few moments when they could speak

freely, so Tucker didn’t waste time with pleasantries. “Hi, Isabelle.

I was thinking…do you still want to see if Dom’s things are in the

storage room?”

“Duh. That’s why I stole Carl Lee’s keys.”

Tucker smiled. “I want to try it again.”

“Which part? Stealing the keys? Pissing off Miss Dix?”

“No, I had in mind breaking in.” Tucker paused, not sure just how

much she should reveal. She thought she could trust Isabelle, but it was

better to proceed with caution. Isabelle didn’t need to know about the

spy gear Tucker had smuggled into the place. “There’s something I

want from my suitcase,” she finished, remaining vague.

“It’s impossible,” Isabelle said. “Unless you’re good at picking

locks. There are three or four of them between our dorm room and the

storage.”

Tucker recalled the day she’d first arrived at Pioneer, when she was

sent to wait in reception for Miss Dix. “There’s a key for the storage

room in the secretary’s desk. So I just need to get into the administrative

office.”

“How are you going to do that? After the thing with Carl Lee’s

keys, the counselors have increased their rounds. Best case scenario,

they’d notice you missing after an hour.”

“Maybe, but it’s not like they shine flashlights in our faces.

• 131 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

They just count bed bumps. We could make a lump out of clothes and

pillows.”

Isabelle shook her head. “If you weren’t there for hours we’d know.

Then everyone would get punished for not reporting you missing.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

“One of the others would tell,” Isabelle said with conviction.

Tucker tried brainstorming, picturing what Bud or Yoshi do in

this circumstance. She had a flash of Bud stuffing his mouth with Thai

food and telling her to improvise. Yoshi’s approach would be more

methodical. She would probably talk her way into the room, or find

someone else to do it for her. But Tucker wasn’t that persuasive. She’d

considered being honest with Aimee Dix, based on a hunch that the

counselor wasn’t as rigid as she seemed. Aimee obviously cared about

the students, so maybe she would listen if she thought criminal acts

were being covered up.

“I wish I could get Miss Dix to help,” Tucker said. “But since she

thinks I tried to frame you it wouldn’t matter what I said.”

Isabelle glanced around. “What could she do anyway? She’s not

going to let you into that room.”

“I could ask her to check. Wouldn’t she want to know, too? She

cares about us, doesn’t she?”

“Yes, but she thinks Dr. Barnabas is a saint. Even if Dom’s stuff

was thrown away, she probably wouldn’t tell us. She’d try to find a way

to make it seem normal.”

Tucker thought about a detective movie she’d seen with Velvet.

Velvet. She hadn’t thought of Velvet for days. That just didn’t seem

right, not when Vel was supposed to be her girlfriend. God, she was

a terrible person. Any other lesbian would be thinking about Velvet

every minute of the day. But after Tucker was attacked in Velvet’s

house and suffered a head injury, she’d distanced herself from her

lover. It wasn’t just about geography, although it certainly didn’t help

that Tucker was staying across town at Yoshi’s place. Their emotional

distance had started even before that, maybe when Velvet’s friend, Jeff,

took a header off the Golden Gate Bridge. Velvet had retreated inside

herself then, going someplace Tucker wasn’t invited. Now Tucker was

doing the same thing. Was she freezing Velvet out in some petty form

of retaliation? Was she really that shallow?

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“Jennye?” Isabelle’s insistent voice summoned Tucker back.

“Sorry, I was just thinking, if the biggest problem is how to get

into the office after it’s been locked, why don’t I get in there earlier in

the day? Before they lock everything up?”

“And what? Ask the receptionist let you rummage through the

storage room?”

“No, but if you distracted her I could sneak into the storage room

and hide there until she went home.”

“Brilliant. I’m sure no one will miss you at dinner or evening

prayers.”

“Right.” Tucker sighed. “Never mind. It was a stupid idea.”

Isabelle didn’t disagree. She changed the subject and they finished

their lunch. An hour later, in the short break between subjects, she

pulled Tucker aside. “Maybe it wasn’t that stupid. Didn’t you say there

were keys in the receptionist’s desk even though she wasn’t there? She

must have a spare set. We could make some kind of diversion and you

could steal them. Then we’ll stuff the bed that night and you can go

check the room and get back before anyone notices.”

Tucker nodded, relieved that Isabelle was on her side. She almost

told her who she really was but held back. The less Isabelle knew,

the safer she was and the less she could leak if she had an attack of

conscience. “I hope it works.”

“Everyone’s watching you after what happened,” Isabelle said

with a worried grimace. “I wish the counselors weren’t so suspicious.”

“It’s their job.”

Isabelle’s expression became thoughtful. “Maybe we can get one

of them on our side.”

Tucker laughed. “Yeah, good luck.”

v

“Is that the truth, Isabelle?” Aimee gently asked the young woman

sitting on the edge of her chair.

She’d been surprised when Isabelle came to her private quarters,

hanging her head and begging to speak confidentially. Normally she

might have refused such a request, but she was attached to Isabelle.

After all, the child had been at Pioneer longer than any other student.

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Aimee had come to think of her as a younger relative or stepdaughter

who had gone a little astray. It was her job to lead wayward teens back

to Jesus and she wanted to provide Isabelle with a female role model

and a maternal figure.

Aimee believed whole-heartedly in the value of her goal, but

lately she was having second thoughts about the means Pioneer used

with difficult students like Isabelle. Aversion stimulus treatments

like ammonium sulfide, nausea-induction, and electroshock therapy,

seemed pretty barbaric. Aimee had begun having doubts the first time

Dr. Barnabas administered the electroshock treatment to Isabelle.

The machine used sensors to discern arousal and applied mild shocks

when the student reacted to same-sex imagery. As the only female

on the staff, Aimee had to provide girls with the appropriate sensor,

with instructions on how to place it on the skin. Fulfilling that duty

with Isabelle felt shameful and Aimee still couldn’t bear to think of

the angry red burn marks on Isabelle’s arm when she came out of the

treatment room. The sight had disturbed her so much that Aimee had

begun to question her relationship with God. What would Jesus say

about such therapy? She could not imagine that, in her shoes, the Son

of God would have done as Aimee did. She was here to help these kids,

not hurt them, and after all that had transpired for Isabelle, Aimee was

thankful that the young woman trusted her at all. So she was quick to

assure Isabelle that she would keep her confidence, no matter what. Still,

she’d been so shocked by what she’d just heard it sent her spinning into

a dilemma. She wondered if Jennye had bullied Isabelle into making a

false confession.

“You can be completely truthful with me,” she said. “I don’t know

what Jennye has done, whether she’s threatened you or—”

“She hasn’t done anything.” Isabelle’s eyes were tear-drenched.

“I’m the one who stole the keys. I don’t know why she took the blame

for me and I should have spoken up. What I did was wrong and I’ve

prayed about it. That’s why I’m telling you now.”

Aimee felt sick thinking about punishing the wrong girl. Heaven

knew how badly she had set back Jennye’s therapy. “Why take the keys

in the first place?”

“Because of Dominique,” Isabelle mumbled, her eyes on the floor.

“We were such good…friends, it hurt when she ran away and I just

don’t understand why she would have gone without saying a word to

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Blind Faith

me. I wanted to get into the storage room and look through her things

in case there was a letter or something. That’s where her stuff is, isn’t

it? And Saya’s?”

Aimee had not actually seen the runaway girls’ possessions, but

she was confident they had not been discarded, as some people had

suggested. “I’m sure it is. Didn’t you find it there?”

“I didn’t end up looking,” Isabelle said. “I changed my mind but I

couldn’t get the keys back without Carl Lee noticing.”

“So you panicked?”

Isabelle nodded. “I hid them under my mattress and thought I’d

wait till he wasn’t there, but then he realized.”

“It seems we both misjudged Jennye. You haven’t shown her

friendship but she was very altruistic toward you. And I misjudged her

too.” Aimee sighed, filled with remorse. “You have a good friend in

her, Isabelle, someone who cared for you without expecting anything

in return.”

“I know.” Isabelle wiped her eyes. “I’m trying to make it up to

her.”

v

The plan went off without a hitch. Thanks to Isabelle’s distraction,

Tucker was exactly where she wanted to be at 12:30 a.m. She headed

directly to the items she’d hidden when she arrived. She pulled out

one of the tiny spy cameras and a USB key that could secretly copy

computer keystrokes. Both devices could be attached to any computer

in the office without their users knowing and could relay that info

right into Blind Eye’s office. With the Blind Eye team monitoring the

electronic communication it would be like Tucker had back up and

wasn’t all alone in this place. Sure, she’d found an ally in Isabelle, but

she couldn’t risk trusting her entirely.

Her heart racing in excitement, she darted out into the dark hallway,

pressing herself against the wall. I’ve got you now, Dr. Barnabas, if

that’s your real name. She tried the keys in his office door one by one.

None of them fit. She fought the urge to kick down the door. This just

made her even more certain that the wily Dr. Barnabas had something

to hide. Bastard.

Disappointed, she stole back to the storage room. Before

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

methodically searching each shelf front to back, Tucker first looked for

the garbage bags the staff had reportedly used to haul away Dominique

Marxley and Saya Takahashi’s belongings the day after they’d gone

missing. There weren’t any bags. Once she got past the prohibited

clothing haphazardly splayed over other ‘False Image’ contraband, neat

rows of file boxes lined the remaining shelves, their contents listed on

the outside in marker. She scanned their titles. Most were fairly self

explanatory and pedestrian: camping gear, old financial records, reports.

Others listed dates and names: Brian Johnson, March 06. Dominique

Marxley, November 07.

She was pulling down Dom’s things when she noticed a steel box

mounted to the wall. It had a small keyhole on the front that matched

a similar key from the ring in the receptionist’s desk. Tucker retrieved

it and unlocked the box. It was a key closet. Rows of keys hung from

numbered hooks. On the inside of the hinged door was a decoder list

matching numbers with location. “Dr. B’s office” was written in red

script. Tucker snatched the key from the corresponding hook and

hurried back along the hall.

Once she was inside his office, she went straight to his computer.

The presence of a new USB drive would raise too much attention, so

she stuck the pinhole spy camera onto the in-box on Dr. Barnabas’s

desk. She aimed it at his desktop so the Blind Eye team would have a

good view of whatever he was working on. With her heart pounding,

she locked his door again and returned to the sanctuary of the storage

room.Dominique’s box didn’t contain much. Surely they couldn’t fill a

garbage bag. Tucker wondered what had happened to her clothing. Was

it just added to the piles that dominated the shelving near the front of

the room? She went through the box carefully, making a mental note

of the contents. In the end she was left holding two items that took her

breathe away: Dominique’s California ID and a silver locket.

When she’d asked Isabelle earlier what she should be looking for,

Isabelle had said there was one thing Dominique would never have

left behind. She’d described this locket and the photograph inside.

The black and white image showed a beautiful young girl Isabelle said

was Dominique’s grandmother. Tucker didn’t waste time gazing at the

picture. She pried it out and extracted a tiny slip of paper from the

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Blind Faith

secret compartment behind it. On it were the initials DM + IS. She

reassembled the locket and tucked it into her bra.

It was a move she’d seen Velvet do this a dozen times. It

probably worked better when one’s endowment was bigger than

Harvard’s, as Velvet’s was. She took some digital photographs of the

other items, including the ID, and returned everything to its place.

Saya’s belongings came next, and she photographed them carefully.

After all, Aneko Takahashi was Blind Eye’s client, not Isabelle or her

family. Maybe Aneko would find something in the photos that was

revealing and could lead them to her missing sister. When Tucker

finished snapping photos, she popped out the memory card and put it

in the other side of her bra before returning her camera to the pile of

her own FI items.

She was just about to call it quits when she spotted a box on the

high shelf. It didn’t bear a label and was hard to reach, but she climbed

the shelves and slid the surprisingly heavy box down to mid-shoulder.

She inspected the contents in surprise. The box held a curious assortment

of cell phones, all different makes and models. Many looked old. There

was something creepy about them. On the back of one, the name Jamie

York was scratched into the plastic.

Before she could imagine what it all might mean, the door burst

open behind her and a gruff voice demanded, “What do you think

you’re doing?”

v

The girl swung around, her mouth gaping and blue eyes wide.

Jennye Williams. Carl Lee should have known.

At the sight of him the color drained from her already pale cheeks.

She dropped what had been in her hand and it clattered back into the

box. She raised her hands in front of her and stepped back as though he

might attack her.

He glowered at her. “What the fuck are you doing here? How did

you get in without a key?”

He was astonished when her eyes widened even more. It took

him a second to figure out what had surprised her. He’d fallen out of

character. Pioneer’s goody two-shoe counselors didn’t swear. Then

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

again, their students didn’t generally snoop around, steal from teachers,

and break into locked rooms.

“Who put you up to this?” he asked.

She just stood there staring, not bothering to make up an excuse.

Carl Lee might have taken her silence as rebelliousness, but he could

smell her fear. It crossed his mind that she could be working for Dr.

Barnabas, checking up on Carl Lee’s extracurricular duties. In prison

he’d perfected a don’t-fuck-with-me stare. He bared his teeth and

tightened his jaw, grinning when she backed away.

“What should I do with you?” he asked in a sing-song voice,

advancing on her menacingly.

“Don’t,” she begged, cowering. She suddenly seemed small and

frail, like a shivering puppy. Defenseless. It stopped him cold.

“What’s going on here?” Aimee Dix’s voice made the hair rise on

the back of his neck.

He quickly regained his composure. “I found this one, pilfering

through the other student’s belongings.”

“Jennye? I must say I am very disappointed to find you here.” Aimee

Dix sounded irate. “After the trouble over Carl Lee’s keys, I thought we

had an understanding. Clearly my faith in you was misplaced.”

“I’m so sorry Miss Dix. I swear it won’t happen again.” The girl

spoke very fast, a tremor of fear in the tenor of her voice. After the

key incident Miss Dix had subjected her to the aversion therapy, and it

clearly had made an impact, even if it hadn’t quite broken her spirit.

“I thought I’d made it clear what happens to troublemakers. But I

see now I was too lenient. Carl Lee?” Her eyes raked his face. “Could

you possibly take a break from whatever it is Jennye interrupted?”

“Sure,” he answered quickly, hoping to prevent any probing

questions about what Jennye might have seen while she was snooping

around. “Would you like me to punish her?”

“No, no, I’ll handle that myself. I would, however, appreciate

it if you could take over watching the other kids. The two of us—”

she nodded in Tucker’s direction, “have a date with the electroshock

machine.”

Whoa. Carl Lee never would have guessed the righteous Aimee

Dix had a sadistic side. Further proof that everyone wore masks, hiding

parts of themselves from the world. He had his own secrets. Secrets that

might shock even a cold bitch like Aimee Dix.

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Blind Faith

“No,” Jennye begged. “Please. I’ll be good, I swear.”

“It’s too late for that.” Aimee’s voice was icy. “Now, are you going

to come on your own or do I need Carl Lee to carry you?”

The girl dropped her head and shuffled toward them. She stopped

in front of Carl Lee and pleaded, “Mr. James, don’t let her take me

please. I’ll do whatever you want.”

Carl Lee found himself wondering if she really would do anything.

He shook images of naked jailbait from his mind. No way he was going

down on a sex offender charge. That shit followed you to the grave.

Aimee Dix seemed immune to the girl’s pleas. Carl Lee didn’t

want anything to cast suspicion on him. If he protested her stepping in

and taking the kid, Aimee could start wondering what it exactly he was

doing here this late at night. He couldn’t risk her going to Dr. Barnabas.

As much as he’d like to be the one interrogating Jennye and figuring

out what she was really up to, he thought it better to back down for

now. “Whatever.” He shrugged, hoping he appeared more nonchalant

than he really felt.

Aimee grabbed the girl’s arm and dragged her from the room.

v

Aimee did not speak again until she and Tucker had entered the

therapy room. As soon as the door closed, she hissed, “What the hell

were you thinking, Jennye?”

“Nothing,” Tucker stammered, terrified that Aimee was truly

going to torture her with electroshock treatment despite their previous

interactions and Aimee’s supposed guilt over the aversion therapy.

“Did Isabelle put you up to this?”

Even though she thought Aimee might go easier on her if the

answer was affirmative, Tucker shook her head.

“You have no idea the danger you’ve put yourself in.” Aimee’s

cheeks were bright red and she seemed to be fighting the urge to yell.

“What did he do before I arrived?”

“Who?” Tucker was confused.

“Carl Lee.” There was a sense of urgency in her voice.

“Nothing much” Tucker shook her head. I was too busy pissing

my pants. “Uh, he asked me how I got in without a key and who put

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

me up to it.” She wondered if she should be pissed that no one seemed

to think she was capable of forming her own intent. She was beginning

to suspect she was missing a major component to the puzzle. “What’s

going on Aimee? Why are you afraid?”

Aimee glanced nervously at the door, as though Carl might storm

through it at any minute. “I want you to promise to stay away from

him.”

Carl Lee? Certainly he was a jerk, but his creepiness was nothing

like the demonic aura that oozed from Dr. Barnabas’s every pore.

And Carl Lee struck Tucker more like someone’s henchman, not the

mastermind behind a grand scheme. Still, she could see Carl Lee doing

Dr. Barnabas’s dirty work and she could believe he was involved in the

disappearance of Pioneer students and possibly the recent deaths. But

not out of some zealous conviction he shared with Dr. Barnabas. No,

she’d bet Carl Lee was in it for something else. Thrills maybe. Or he

was hiding something and a student had found out. She wondered what

Aimee knew that made her paranoid.

Tucker didn’t ask. Instead she said, “If you think Carl Lee is

dangerous, don’t you have a duty to tell someone?”

Aimee avoided her eyes. “I worry about judging the book by the

cover, so to speak. I have a suspicious nature. It’s not very Christian of

me.”

It’s not very Christian to push a couple of students off a cliff,

either. Tucker focused on what Aimee had said about not being sure.

“You suspect something. Is it about Erica and Sarah?”

Aimee’s nodded almost imperceptibly, but she didn’t say

anything.

In the silence that followed, Tucker fought the urge to blurt out

everything, about her secret mission here, about Blind Eye and Aneko

and the dubious behavior of Dr. Barnabas Gage. If she came clean,

wouldn’t that encourage Aimee to speak her mind in return? And to

verbalize her concerns about Carl Lee?

“Does the name Jamie York mean anything to you?” Tucker asked,

almost surprising herself with her sudden query.

“Jamie York?” Aimee lifted her head. “Jamie was a client here, two

or three years ago. She left abruptly when her parents pulled her from

Pioneer and sent her to an elite boarding school in France. I haven’t

heard from her since. Why?”

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Blind Faith

Tucker wished for the hundredth time in the last week that she was

wearing jeans. Silently swearing to never again take her pockets for

granted, she grappled with her blouse, finally shoving her hand down

the neckline as though trying to readjust a wayward breast. Aimee

inhaled sharply. Tucker felt her cheeks burning. Before Aimee could

chastise her for the blatant display of self-loving, Tucker yanked her

fingers from her bra and stretched them toward Aimee. The counselor

stepped back as though repelled

“It’s not a come on,” Tucker said nervously. “It’s a cell phone.”

She raised it to eye level and was rewarded with the relief on Aimee’s

face. “It says Jamie York.”

This time Aimee accepted the phone. She ran her fingers over the

jagged letters, the way Yoshi did when reading Braille. “Where did you

find this?”

“In the storeroom. There was a whole box of used cell phones.”

“No.” Aimee shook her head, as though disagreeing with Tucker’s

statement of fact. “She would have taken this with her.”

“Maybe it’s a donation,” Tucker offered a rational explanation.

“You know a lot of non-profits collect old cell phones these days, it’s

some kind of fundraising thing.”

Aimee didn’t reply at first, she just stared at Jamie York’s

abandoned property. When the silence between them was becoming

uncomfortable she asked, her voice choked with emotion. “There were

others?”

And then Aimee started to cry.

If he were here, Bud would’ve responded to the tears by getting

mad and yelling. It was like other people’s emotional weaknesses

threatened him, like crying was not only incredibly contagious but

entirely deadly as well. Yoshi wouldn’t lose her cool like that. She’d be

tactical: displaying sympathy to develop trust and encourage openness,

or suggesting solutions like, “You can make a difference by helping us

bring this perpetrator in.” That might make Yoshi seem calculated or

cold, but she was neither of those.

“Who are you really, Jennye Williams?” Aimee asked.

Tucker realized she’d missed her chance to take control of the

situation and use it to solve Blind Eye’s case, which was why she was

at Pioneer in the first place. She should be the one asking questions and

seeing through a person’s façade, not the other way around. Glad that

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

neither Bud nor Yoshi had witnessed her blunder, she berated herself

as she imagined they would. She’d never been good at lying and it

probably doomed her to be terrible at this undercover thing that felt like

being deceitful 24/7, the way she felt back when she was in the closet.

She hadn’t relished the feeling then and she didn’t appreciate it now.

“What do you mean? I’m Jennye Williams. Who else would I be?

Madonna?” She tried making a joke to lighten the mood. She couldn’t

confide in Aimee. Not yet. It could jeopardize the investigation,

disappoint Yoshi, and, more importantly, if Tucker’s suspicions were

correct, sharing them with the counselor would put Aimee in danger,

too.

• 142 •

Blind Faith

chapter twelve

When she’d escorted Jennye back to the dormitory, in a

wheelchair feigning the after-effects of shock therapy,

Aimee collapsed on her bed. She was desperately grateful that Isabelle

had told her the truth about Jennye, preventing her from making another

terrible mistake, but something about the girl bothered her. She seemed

strangely self-possessed and the discoveries she’d made unsettled

Aimee so deeply she knew she would get very little sleep tonight. How

many cell phones were there and which former students did they belong

to? She had to know.

She thought about Dominique and Saya. Were their phones in

the storage room, too? It had been six months. Why had no one heard

from them? Aimee remembered Saya talking about her older sister

Aneko during group therapy. She loved and trusted her sister. When

she rejected the teachings of Pioneer, why had she not reached out to

Aneko, who was living an openly homosexual lifestyle?

Aimee was afraid she knew the answer. She was afraid the answer

was Carl Lee James. Worse, she suspected her fellow counselor was also

behind the disappearance of Erica Bingham and Sarah Worthington. As

she had so many times since she’d discovered them missing, Aimee ran

through the events leading up to the accident.

They’d trudged into the Marin County Park at three in the

afternoon, delighted to see Pioneer’s school bus waiting for them. One

of the girls needed feminine protection and Aimee had taken the group

into the village for a quick stop at the grocery store. Carl Lee had stayed

behind, promising the boys would have the camp set up when the girls

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

returned. In exchange, Aimee was in charge of dinner. It was hardly a

negotiation, their roles were pretty much set in stone.

Aimee had been in the fresh vegetable section at the store when she

noticed several of her girls conversing with two scraggly looking men.

She was immediately conflicted. It was delightful to see the Pioneer

girls stretching their wings with the opposite sex, but these two were

not the finest specimens. They appeared to be Bolinas residents, rather

than residents of the nearby resort of Sea Cliff where the wealthy had

summer cottages. The girls continue chatting with the pair as Aimee

completed her shopping. Isabelle stayed by her side, carrying the

grocery basket and tagging along behind as Aimee chose ingredients

for the evening meal.

Aimee was thankful to leave the strangers behind them and later

reminded the girls about the dangers of encouraging attention from

unknown men. Of course that had to be handled delicately, as one did

not want to clip the baby bird’s wings just as it was beginning to fly on

the right path.

After dinner and evening prayer she saw the students to bed and

followed suit, determined to enjoy her last night in the open before

returning to Pioneer the next morning. She woke with a start just after

2:00 a.m., unsure what had disturbed her. She lay still for a moment,

listening. Had there been some kind of noise? She felt anxious, as

though her subconscious was trying to alert her to danger.

Frogs and crickets serenaded each other. She could hear the dew

dripping onto the tent and rolling down the side. Unable to shake the

feeling that something was wrong, she wriggled out of the sleeping bag

and pulled on her boots and jacket before crawling out of the tent.

The moon was veiled behind a gossamer curtain of fog. Although

visibility was extremely limited, Aimee had no trouble making out Carl

Lee’s tent a few years away. Like a lot of men, Carl Lee was a master

of nocturnal noises and after four night’s camping, Aimee could predict

his REM state by decibels of his nostril cacophony. The deeper his

sleep, the louder his snoring. As she stood next to his tent, she realized

that a change to his pattern had awoken her, an absence of sound. She

couldn’t hear Carl Lee’s snores. The thought raised an uncharitable

response. Maybe Carl Lee had died in his sleep. Aimee chastised herself

for being un-Christian.

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Blind Faith

“Carl Lee?” she asked. Her normal speaking voice sounded loud

in the still of the night.

She shone the beam of her flashlight at the tent, but couldn’t tell

from the shadows whether a person lay within. She unzipped the flap,

all the while rehearsing what she’d say if he was in there and woke up.

She ducked her head in. Carl Lee was not there.

Aimee’s stomach rose into her throat the way it did when she went

on roller coaster rides. She’d never enjoyed that feeling. And she didn’t

like it now. Where was he and what was he doing? She didn’t trust him.

He reminded her of the ex-con’s she’d ministered through her church.

She’d stuck with the program for eighteen months before she resigned.

But, you’re so good with them, Pastor John had said, they need you. She

hadn’t been able to hide the shiver his words had sent rippling through

her, and she couldn’t tell him, or anyone, why she could no longer

bear to be in the program or even set foot in the rectory where she’d

run the weekly prayer sessions. It had taken her a long time to recover

her faith after that experience, and she understood why some women

feared the opposite sex. That insight helped prepare her for her current

role with Pioneer. There was a hardness about Carl Lee that brought

back memories she wanted to forget. Dr. Barnabas would never hire

someone with a criminal history to work around kids this way, so that

meant Carl Lee had likely managed to hide his past. At first she thought

maybe he was a petty thief and that he wanted to be around children

of the wealthy so he could steal from them. It wouldn’t be difficult for

Carl Lee to palm electronic devices, mobile phones, jewelry, laptop

computers, and even credit cards. But nothing had been reported stolen

and Aimee’s suspicions had moved in a different direction over the past

six months.

Carl Lee had been on duty the night Saya Takahashi and Dominique

Marxley ran away. When he insisted he saw nothing his words had

sparked the memory of another breakout, a year earlier. Aimee had

checked the records and discovered that Carl Lee had been on duty that

night, too. It added up to more than a coincidence, yet Aimee needed

proof of something sinister before she could make allegations.

Standing outside his tent in the dark, shrouded in fog, Aimee felt

all her senses on high alert. When she heard muffled voices coming

from the direction of the boys’ camp, she started off in that direction,

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

careful not to stray from the trail. She never should have acquiesced

when Carl Lee set up the camp here, so close to the dangerous cliffs.

As she drew closer to the voices, she could discern the golden

radiance of a campfire through the fog. Some of the kids must have

gotten the fire going again. Aimee was disappointed that she’d have to

assign more detention. If Erica and Sarah were behind this—after she’d

had to discipline them for their shenanigans the night before, she’d be

furious.

But Aimee didn’t hear Erica and Sarah, or Carl Lee’s distinctive

tenor. There were two deeper, huskier voices and when the veil of

fog finally parted, she was looking at the straggly young men from

the grocery store earlier in the day. The glowing embers lit their faces

and glinted off the beer cans in their hands, on the ground, and frozen

to the lips of Matt Lovelorn. From the number of scattered cans and

the dwindling firewood, Aimee could see that the men had been in the

camp for several hours. Anything could have happened. One of her

girls was sitting far too close to them for Aimee’s liking and she was

certain she could smell cigarettes.

“Put that beer down!” She raised her voice and called each of their

names in turn, using full names and the inflections of a disappointed

mother. “I am very disappointed in you. I cannot believe that you would

violate our trust this way. You’ve disregarded all you’ve learned about

personal responsibility on this outing, turned your back on our Savior,

and,” Aimee snatched the beer from Matt and dumped it over the fire,

“polluted your body. I suggest you all think about what you’ve done on

your way back to your tents.”

Even the men scrambled to their feet, though they both stood there

with idiotic grins on their face like this was all some kind of joke.

“Are you trying to get arrested?” she yelled at them.

Their smiles slipped, but they weren’t looking at her. Aimee

whipped around to find Carl Lee materializing out of the fog like a

specter. She shivered.

“Get the fuck out of our camp,” he snarled, “before we call the

cops. These girls are fucking underage.”

“Carl!” Aimee was about to chastise him for his language but

noticed the men backing up as though they’d been struck. The kids

crowded around her as if they also sensed Carl Lee’s capacity for

violence. And such foul language. She did not know what Dr. Barnabas

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Blind Faith

was thinking when he hired that vile man. She drew the kids to her like

a mother hen hustling her chicks.

“Let’s move along, shall we?” she said, trying to keep the tremor

from her voice. Men were like dogs. They could smell fear, and Aimee

did not want Carl Lee to sense hers.

Ten minutes later Aimee had seen the delinquents to their tents.

All insisted they had not invited the men, who called themselves the

Mudd brothers, and who had convinced the girls that they were surfing

legends and local heroes. Aimee rolled her eyes so many times she

feared they’d get stuck in that position. Kids these days. They wouldn’t

trust their parents, teachers, or religious leaders, but throw a couple of

disheveled men into the scenario and all common sense went out the

window.

When Aimee pointed out that these men could have been rapists

or murderers, her girls had giggled and laughed, telling her she was

paranoid. If they thought that was paranoid, it was a good thing she

didn’t mention her fear that Carl Lee was somehow in cahoots with the

Mudd brothers. Why else had he insisted they spend their last night far

from their usual pick up point?

Aimee carried out a bed check at the boys’ camp and was on

her way to the girls’ when she ran into Carl Lee coming from that

direction.

“What happened with those men?” she asked.

“I chased them off.”

She didn’t hide her suspicion. “You were at the girls’ camp?”

“I was worried. They were getting a little friendly with some of

girls.” He paused. “I guess that’s progress.” His tone was mocking, as

though he was laughing at her and everything Pioneer stood for.

“I’m headed there now,” she said. “To finish my bed check.”

His hand on her arm anchored her to the spot. Fear raced through

her like a wildfire. I’ll scream, she thought. But they were standing

close to the cliffs, and she doubted anyone would hear her over the

surf. “Don’t bother,” Carl Lee said. “I already checked.”

She didn’t believe him. How had he had the time chase the Mudd

brothers away and do a bed check?

He let go of her arm. “I can use your help with the fire. I’ll get the

bucket if you’ll grab the shovel from the bus.”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Aimee wanted to be helpful but she also wanted to check on the

girls. If she insisted he’d know she didn’t trust him, and if he was as

dangerous as she was beginning to fear, she didn’t want to be seen as

some kind of threat. In hindsight, Aimee wondered if that was the plan.

She wondered if Carl Lee had scripted the entire night. She didn’t sleep

well and she was awake at the first light of dawn. When Erica and

Sarah didn’t show up for breakfast she wasn’t worried at first. She sent

Isabelle to wake them.

A few minutes later, the girl returned sulking. “They’re hiding

from me. How immature can you be? What babies.”

Aimee sighed. Perhaps the two girls had found out it was Isabelle

who had ratted them out at Crystal Lake. They probably weren’t too

happy that Aimee would be doling out an appropriate punishment when

they returned to Pioneer. Usually this trip was the highlight of her year,

the kids on their best behavior because they were delighted to be outside

Pioneer’s walls. But this year, it had been one hassle after another. She

felt like telling Dr. Barnabas to just cancel the whole thing.

She glanced around, looking for Matt Lovelorn. He was friendly

with Erica. Maybe he could find the girls and get them to stop playing

around. But Matt wasn’t in sight and her eyes met Carl Lee’s.

Before she could turn away, he said, “I’ll go get them.”

Aimee got caught up in the camp tear down. Once the kids had

loaded all their things into the back of the bus it was already ten o’clock.

She still hadn’t seen Carl Lee return with Sarah and Erica. She asked a

boy if anyone had seen the trio.

“Yeah. Carl Lee came back a while ago with a pile of stuff. He put

it in the van.”

“Pile of stuff? What kind of stuff?” Aimee asked.

“Like sleeping bags and junk.”

“Where’d he go then?”

He pointed up the paved road. Aimee squinted and could barely

make him out. He was standing in the middle of the road at the top of

the hill on his cell phone. It hit her then that something was wrong. The

sun had burned away most of the fog and she could see out past the

edge of the park’s land, beyond the sea cliffs, and into the ocean. She

started for the cliffs. She was half way across the park when Carl Lee

stopped her. He must have sprinted.

“They’re gone. I’m sorry, but they’re gone.”

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Blind Faith

“What do you mean, gone?”

“They’ve left.”

Aimee turned from the cliffs and pushed him away. “Well they

can’t have gotten far. Let’s go find them.”

He stopped her again. “No. Dr. Barnabas wants us to come

back.”“What? I’m sure he means after we find them.”

“No. He’s very concerned about the impact this could have on

the other students. He wants everyone back, right now, before they get

exposed to FI behaviors that might undermine our efforts.”

“Dr. Barnabas said that? But, we can’t just leave. What if they

come back? And who’s going to speak with the police? Or start a

search?”

“Dr. Barnabas is taking care of all of that.” He pulled her along

with him.

She dug her heels into the dirt. “No. I don’t care what he said, I

can’t leave without them.”

Carl Lee suddenly changed tactics. “I’m going to be here

coordinating with the search agencies, so you have to drive everyone

back to Pioneer.” He said it slow. “Dr. Barnabas wants it this way.”

“Well, I’m sure Dr. Barnabas knows best.” Aimee couldn’t imagine

the doctor having any part in something suspicious. Maybe he knew

something she didn’t, after all she couldn’t be sure Carl Lee was being

entirely straightforward. If Dr. Barnabas wanted them to come straight

back to the Institute, that was what she would do. “You stay here. But

I’m stopping at the fire station and telling them to come help you.”

She wasn’t sure what Carl Lee was up to, but she would feel better

with someone official involved. “That’s a good idea.” He surprised

her by agreeing. “Why don’t you drop me off there on your way out

of town?” In response to a couple of questions from the students, he

announced, “I’m afraid Erica and Sarah took advantage of last night’s

commotion to run off. We’ve been in contact with the police, and I’m

going to stay here to organize a search party. But I’ve spoken with

Dr. Barnabas and he wants all of you back at the Institute as soon as

possible. After all, we have a commitment to your parents to keep you

safe.”The kids reluctantly filled onto the bus, still asking questions.

On the way back to Pioneer, winding down narrow roads through

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

bucolic and surprisingly rural Marin County, a cacophony of voices

pounded in Aimee’s head. She went from accusing herself of being

incredibly naïve to thinking it was uncharitable to think something

was wrong with Carl Lee, to remembering his angry tirade and his

threatening demeanor. She was certain he was a man capable of dark

thoughts. Most frightening was not that her co-worker could have run

two helpless and confused girls into the night, but that he may have

actually harmed them..

Now she wondered if Carl Lee killed them, willfully or even

unintentionally. What if he’d actually killed the other kids who had run

away, too? It was all starting to look so grim, and darn it, Dr. Barnabas,

who was trustworthy by nature, may have played into Carl Lee’s hands

by asking to have the children returned immediately. If those girls were

dead, Carl Lee had time to cover it up before anyone even came out to

the campground. And if they weren’t dead, Aimee feared to think what

he planned to do with them.

Dr. Barnabas was such a kind, God-fearing man that he probably

couldn’t imagine an employee of his could be so evil. But, these things

happen every day, especially among non-believers. Could this really be

happening at Pioneer?

Aimee had planned to talk with Dr. Barnabas as soon as she could

that day. But he was nowhere to be found. Later, when Carl Lee returned

empty handed, she’d been devastated. She should have remained behind

until they found the girls.

Now, weeks later, Aimee knew the girls had already been dead

before she’d learned they were missing. She was sure that Carl Lee

must have done something to them during the time he was missing from

his tent. How convenient that he then stayed behind. He’d probably

wanted to get rid of her and the kids so he could control the search

and prohibit investigators from speaking with any of the students. He

probably hadn’t wanted anyone really looking for the girls. Could he

be so diabolical as to hope no one ever found them? She could bet Carl

Lee got involved with the search that was conducted only so he could

hamper their efforts and prevent them from finding the girls’ bodies.

How else could you explain that they were right there all along at the

bottom of that cliff?

She’d never forget the day that Dr. Barnabas, his face ashen and

worn, called the staff into the conference room for a closed-door meeting.

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Blind Faith

As soon as he started to speak, that rock in the pit of her abdomen

reappeared and Aimee fell in to a sort of hazy emotional state where she

could hear what was being said, but it seemed as though the sounds—Dr.

Barnabas’s news, one woman wailing, a few sudden outbursts—were

being filtered through bulletproof glass. She could make the words out

but she was detached from their meaning. The two girls had been found

dead at the bottom of a cliff, outside the campground. A reporter had

found them, not Carl Lee. Dr. Barnabas was solemn but remarkably

trusting, not even seeming to think anything malevolent could have

happened.

“Our job is not to question the ways of the Lord,” he told the staff.

“It is now of critical importance for each and every one of you, in the

face of this tragedy, to know you are doing God’s work and to let the

children in your care know that what may seem cruel or irrational has

a reason. God’s hand works in mysterious ways and we shall not query

or demand explanation.”

“But Dr. Barnabas,” Aimee interjected uncharacteristically.

“Miss Dix,” Dr. Barnabas cut her off. “This is not the time. My

friends, let us pray. Then I’m afraid we’ll need to share this terrible

news with our clients.”

As the group joined hands and chanted from the Old Testament,

Aimee stole a glance at Carl Lee. He seemed completely unmoved. Her

hatred for him at that moment knew no bounds.

Too bad Dr. Barnabas was such a moral man. She was sure he

wouldn’t believe her. He could not imagine anyone he was associated

with would be involved in a murder and cover-up. Positive that Carl

Lee killed Sarah and Erica, but not sure who to turn to, Aimee had

finally sent that journalist Velvet Erickson—the one who’d tried to talk

to Aimee last year when Dominique and Saya went missing—a cryptic

message about Group Six. Velvet was a smart woman, she would

figure out its significance. Aimee had to let someone know about her

concerns.

As soon as she could find some evidence of his malfeasance,

Aimee was going straight to Dr. Barnabas. She knew he’d pooh-pooh

her otherwise. She understood. No one in their right mind would

believe one of their employees was running a side business killing kids.

But it was the only conclusion Aimee could come to. If it were just a

kidnapping scheme, the kids would have made it home by now. If he

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

were somehow—and clearly against his nature—helping kids run away

from Pioneer, then surely, by now, Saya would have gone to her sister’s

house. No, it was a horrible thought, but she was sure now that Carl Lee

was making kids disappear forever. She just had to prove it.

v

The private rooms were small shoeboxes of painted cinderblock

topped with asbestos laden ceiling that necessitated a small plaque hung

by each Pioneer entrance warning visitors that they might be exposed

to something known by the state of California to cause cancer. The

rooms reminded Aimee of college dorms or prison cells. Each room

had a desk and straight-back chair, a chest of drawers three-high, and a

squat bed with wooden frame and a single, threadbare mattress. Aimee

had spiced up her room with splashes of color—a bright orange rug, a

deep blue comforter, a couple of inspirational posters and two plants

starving for light.

Aimee lay on her bed in the dark. She could not see the room’s

contents, but she was going over the way the furniture was positioned,

mapping it out in her head. Each of the four rooms was laid out exactly

the same, and she was positive Carl Lee would not have moved his

furniture around. Aimee looked at the glowing hands of her watch. By

her calculations, Carl Lee was making his rounds. It was time.

Aimee got up from the bed where she had been lying on top of the

covers, fully clothed, and took measured steps to the door. She pulled

it open and peered outside. Not seeing anything, she felt her confidence

grow and reminded herself not to get cocky. Since the stunt Isabelle

had pulled with the keys, Carl Lee was on high alert, although his

attention seemed fully engaged by the teens. He wouldn’t pay attention

to her or to his room. She slipped out into the hall and crept past Coach

Rawling’s door. No light shined through the crack under his door so she

figured he must be asleep. She reached Carl Lee’s door and turned the

knob. It didn’t budge. No problem, all the counselor rooms were keyed

the same. Pioneer Institute’s employees had never had reason to fear

their privacy would be threatened by one of their own. Until now.

Sneaking into the room, Aimee held the door handle as she closed

the door quietly. Flicking on the small flashlight she carried, Aimee

surveyed Carl Lee’s room. At first glance there seemed nothing of him

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Blind Faith

in the room. It had no character at all. It looked exactly as her room had

when she first arrived, before she’d made it her own. Apparently the

monastic living quarters were just as Carl Lee wanted them. The bed

was made, the desktop and dresser uncluttered. She set the flashlight

down and opened the top drawer, lifting it as she slid it toward her

to prevent the wood from squeaking. The drawer was filled with a

smattering of rumpled clothing, flannel and denim mostly, along with

a pocket knife, a roll of dollar bills, a thin elastic band, a blank vintage

postcard from Billings, Montana, and a baggie with tiny smattering of

white powder. Good Lord, was Carl Lee a drug addict too?

Below all that ephemera and accessories was what she needed all

along: a small silver pendant with “faith” in Sanskrit on a torn sterling

silver chain. The necklace that belonged to Erica Bingham was in a

Ziploc baggie, in pieces, as though it was ripped from the girl’s neck

in a struggle. Finally, Aimee had proof that Carl Lee had something to

do with the death of those two girls and it instantly put a pall over her.

Lord only knew what Carl Lee would do if he found that the jewelry

was missing. Hopefully God’s grace could protect her until she could

show it to Dr. Barnabas first thing in the morning.

• 153 •

• 154 •

Blind Faith

chapter thirteen

Carl Lee couldn’t afford to have anyone poking around in

his, or Pioneer’s, business. First there’d been that journalist,

Velvet-something last year, then the crazy, gun-slinging Takahashi sister

who’d brought the whole fucking police department onto his turf. Then

there was the blind private investigator asking Dr. Barnabas a bunch of

leading questions that made it clear she was on to something. Then Carl

Lee found the PI cozying up with the sister. Then that nosey student,

Jennye had snagged his fucking keys and had the balls to insist it was

some kind of prank. Like hell. She’d been up to something. He could

smell it and he didn’t like it. If that weasel Barnabas started feeling the

heat or thought an investigation might uncover his dirty secrets, Carl

Lee had no doubt whose body would end up in the morgue.

His own.

The thought was making him nervous. To top it all off, when he

returned from his rounds he was sure someone had been in his room.

It wasn’t anything obvious at first, just a feeling. One of the things

he’d learned in prison was to trust his instincts. He didn’t know what

gave people those flashes of insight. Maybe it was a smell or a sound

so low you didn’t even know you heard it. But whatever was behind

that gut feeling, it had saved his life more than once. So when he had

that feeling walking into his locked room, he checked every corner and

under the bed until he was satisfied the intruder wasn’t there. Then he

thought of the most important possession he had at Pioneer. He opened

the drawer where he’d left it under a pile of clothes. It was gone.

Carl Lee tore the place apart. When he was done, the room looked

like it had been hit by a thirty foot wave, the kind that splinters houses.

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

He pawed through the wreckage one more time and then threw himself

on the bed and held his head. The necklace was gone. Someone had

been in his room and taken evidence that tied him directly to the deaths

in Bolinas.

He thought about running. He could get in his car and just drive.

He could be in Mexico in a day, Canada in a couple more. He’d known

it was all going to catch up to him one day, so he’d mapped out a few

escape routes. But maybe he was jumping the gun. The cops hadn’t

arrived. Whoever had been in his room hadn’t called them yet. Or were

they already closing in? Was Barnabas getting ready to make him the

fall guy?

Carl Lee decided he’d play it cool and wait a couple of days. Then

he’d be gone. He’d make himself disappear. He’d done it before. But

not recently. For the past five years he’d been comfortable in one place.

He’d been a well-paid magician, helping make Pioneer kids disappear.

And he’d been doing a damn good job at it too. He’d been great at

covering his tracks. No one suspected him. No one imagined he’d been

behind the early withdrawals, transfers, and escapes that seemed to

plague the institute.

He was amazed he could get away with it. No one seemed to

notice or care if a few dozen queer kids dropped off the map. Until

Saya Takahashi. Every chance he had, he’d been following one or other

of those Japanese women, trying to figure out what they might suspect.

The sister, Aneko, was getting far too close for comfort. That’s why

he’d sent her that dead mouse as a friendly warning to back the hell off.

That’s why he’d taken a few shots at them near the BART. They were

going to ruin the whole thing.

Aneko Takahashi was the reason he’d volunteered to get out of

town on that timely outing to Bolinas. The place was a haunt from his

early days, when he’d made a living breaking into ritzy Sea Cliff cottages

during the off season, ransacking pantries bursting with fancy French

jams, black truffles, and Russian caviar. It was the most expensive crap

he’d ever eaten and most of it he’d be happy never to taste again. He’d

boosted silverware, jewelry, paintings, and collectibles, slipping out

during the night and avoiding the gated community’s guard shack by

skirting along the beach. Sometimes he’d hide the things he stole in

the nearby sea caves that rumrunners once used during the prohibition.

Then he’d sell it all to a fence who ran a pawn shop in Ross.

• 156 •

Blind Faith

The Spring Survival Camp had been an awesome week, a week

without worry but then those stupid, stupid girls had ruined the whole

thing. He’d had to think on his feet and he’d played it brilliantly. He

got Barnabas to call in a lawyer who favored rushing Miss Dix and the

kids off, and he’d pretended to inform the local fire department right

away, when he’d delayed doing so for hours. He’d even convinced the

county sheriff’s search and rescue unit to let him search the area he’d

knew they’d find the girls in.

He’d expected the surf to lift their bodies from the small rocky

beach, and carry them out to open waters where they’d be nibbled on by

fish and sink to the ocean floor without a trace. How was he supposed

to know the tides were unseasonably low? Or that the bodies would just

stay where they fell for weeks, only to be found by the same goddamn

Velvet person who’d been harassing Pioneer about last year’s runaways.

Talk about your fucking coincidences.

It didn’t look good, Carl Lee reflected. Once foul play was

suspected, there was only one person the cops would be interested in.

Carl Lee had once beat a gay man unconscious, and he’d spent twenty-

five months behind bars, capping a lifetime in and out of the system.

Once he got out on good behavior he’d promised himself he would

never do time again, but no one was interested in hiring an ex-con

except other criminals.

It had only been a coincidence when he ran into an old friend

from the pen and the guy told him about Pioneer and said Dr. Barnabas

had been putting out feelers, saying he needed an employee with a

particular—wink wink—skill set. The only skills Carl Lee had came

from a career of petty crimes that escalated to aggravated assault when

he rolled a guy who turned out to be gay, but that had turned out to be

the thing Dr. Barnabas fixated on, like it made him perfectly qualified

to fulfill this particular role at Pioneer.

At first he was only told he’d be a boot camp style counselor,

teaching kids to be self-reliant and take responsibility for themselves.

Of course with Carl Lee’s lack of social skills and limited educational

background he wasn’t really fit to be teaching kids anything, and he

was sure Dr. Barnabas knew it. It had taken little more than a month

before Barnabas came clean with his real intentions. When he did Carl

Lee had never been so astonished in his life. For about three seconds.

Then he realized the Jesus-freak’s agenda only confirmed Carl Lee’s

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

suspicions about people, particularly the righteous bastards. Evil wasn’t

limited to the psychologically damaged or criminally minded. It lurked

everywhere. It festered under the skin of those who pretended to be

its opposition. Everyone was capable of terrible things, if they were

pushed far enough. Or offered enough money.

Carl Lee wasn’t sure if Dr. Barnabas had ever been a true believer

or if he’d always been a shyster taking advantage of his flock. In the

end, he supposed it didn’t really matter. Barnabas liked to refer to the

students as “our clients” but Pioneer’s real clientele were wealthy

parents disappointed in their children’s abnormal behavior and willing

to pay outrageous sums for the problem to be taken from their hands.

While most were content to have little Johnny or Suzie back home after

they were repaired and could pass for straight, a number of Pioneer’s

exclusive clientele were looking for something a little extra, and they

were willing to pay top dollar to get it. They wanted the kind of peace

of mind that came not from a temporarily straight son or daughter

who’d undoubtedly turn queer again when the treatments wore off.

A certain group of parents wanted to be certain that their children’s

unconventional lifestyles or behaviors would no longer embarrass

them. Seeing an opportunity for a new business niche, Barnabas hoped

to offer these parents exclusive packages, a more permanent solution to

their parental problem. That was where Carl Lee fit in.

Barnabas had described the work in vague and muddled statements

that meant something other than they first appeared to. Carl Lee

preferred to cut to the chase.

“You saying these folks will pay to have their own kids

whacked?”

“I’d rather think of it as a permanent vacation. Gone.”

“But they’ll be dead.”

“Yes.”

“I’m not a killer.” Carl Lee immediately regretted his rebuttal.

He’d learned enough to know that turning down a guy like Dr. Barnabas

was a good way to get yourself killed. He corrected himself quickly, “I

mean, I’ve never iced anyone. Doesn’t that bother you?”

“Not at all. The only thing that kept you from killing that young

man was the police. And what was that over? Fifty dollars?”

“A hundred.” It wasn’t something Carl Lee was proud of.

• 158 •

Blind Faith

“A hundred dollars. You’d have to add three zeroes to that to make

it into the ball park I’m playing in.”

That kind of money would certainly look good in an off shore

bank account.

Carl Lee checked again that he hadn’t somehow inadvertently

moved the dead girl’s necklace. Then he tried to figure out why he’d

kept it. If it fell into the wrong hands it could be the lynchpin in a

circumstantial murder trial. Carl Lee had no intention of going back to

jail. He thought about the newest student, Jennye. Could she have rifled

through his room?

It didn’t make much sense. She hadn’t even been at Pioneer long

enough to have known the dead girls and she couldn’t have known the

significance of the necklace, so why would she have taken it? And how

could a student have gotten a copy of his key made without leaving the

Pioneer compound? If she was involved, she had to be working with

someone else. Was it someone on the inside, like that judgmental Aimee

Dix whose hooded stares always seemed so accusing? She wouldn’t

need a key; she already had one of her own.

But Carl Lee knew he was dancing around the most likely

possibility. Dr. Barnabas had to be behind the necklace’s disappearance.

Even the possibility was terrifying. Carl Lee knew firsthand about

Barnabas’s temperament. Barnabas wasn’t the type to explode in anger,

he kept his emotions held tightly in check and he confronted issues

with a cool façade. Below the surface it was a different matter. There

his malfeasance boiled like magma, a controlled fury that made the

man quite capable of the worst atrocities. If he suspected Carl Lee was

behind the deaths of those girls, he had not verbalized those suspicions

so far, and that made Carl Lee very nervous. After all, he would have

expected Dr. Barnabas to confront him about the necklace and dangle

it in front of him as some kind of insurance plan. If Dr. Barnabas had

reason to believe that Carl Lee had kept information from him, or gone

so far as to make an end run around him, he wouldn’t hesitate to lash

out against the perceived threat.

Carl Lee had risked a lot over the past few years, but a man had to

draw the line somewhere and Carl Lee had little tolerance for his life

being threatened. He needed to know, once and for all, if Dr. Barnabas

had taken the necklace from his room. He hadn’t owned a set of burglar

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

tools since he was arrested for breaking and entering. But he knew how

to pick a lock and Dr. Barnabas’s door didn’t offer much resistance.

He stepped into the office and closed the door. His eyes had adjusted

to the dark and he found the desk easily. The drawers also required a

little persuasion.

Carl Lee rummaged for a good thirty minutes with little to show

for it. Apparently Dr. Barnabas was paranoid enough not to leave

incriminating evidence behind. Carl Lee would bet the old man kept

the dangerous files in the briefcase he carried with him at all times. Still

he examined the papers as he shuffled through, shining his pen light for

clarification. Then he heard a noise.

Carl Lee flicked off his flashlight and stood still, listening intently.

All was quiet. If he had never been to prison Carl Lee might not have

remained frozen long enough. He might have gone back to the task

at hand, and the ruffling of papers would have concealed the muffled

thump. It seemed to be coming from the storage room adjacent to the

receptionist’s office. The long closet stretched the entire length of Dr.

Barnabas’s office. Carl Lee crept to the shared wall and pressed an ear

to the sheetrock that separated him from the storage room shelves. He

could hear the sound of cardboard sliding across the steel shelving.

Someone said, “Oh, God.” The muffled voice was female.

v

“Lord help me.” Aimee crammed the cell phones back into their

box and lifted it in her arms.

She locked the storage room behind her and returned the keys to

the reception desk then hurried back to her room. She felt sick. Would

Carl Lee guess she was the one who had uncovered his secret? She

had to report him to the authorities before he found out. Dr. Barnabas

would know what to do. In just a few hours she would present him with

the facts. The cell phones were probably important evidence. She’d

retrieved them before Carl Lee could figure out what had happened

and start covering his tracks. She took a small overnight case from her

closet and tipped the cell phones into it then listened, filled with fear.

She’d heard Carl Lee return to his room a couple of hours ago and

had heard the faint sounds of drawers being opened and shut. He knew

the necklace was missing. Perhaps by morning he would no longer be

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Blind Faith

at Pioneer. The police would have a manhunt and he would eventually

be caught and brought to justice. Meanwhile, things would return to

normal at Pioneer. She could hardly wait.

It was that sense of impatience that drove her to her door once

more on an impulse she thought she might regret. But, right now, a

debate raged in her mind with one side adamantly insisting it was too

dangerous to tell anyone what she knew, and the other insisting that

Jennye Williams wasn’t who she claimed to be. She was a tad too

knowledgeable, too resourceful and too suspicious for a rebellious teen.

That was why she’d broken into the storage room and shown Jamie’s

cell phone to Aimee. That was why she hadn’t even blinked an eye

when Aimee confessed her fear that Carl Lee was dangerous.

A thought crossed Aimee’s mind. At first the idea seemed

ridiculous, but then she considered the timing of Jennye’s arrival, only

a week after the bodies were found at the bottom of that cliff. Was she

a police officer sent by the diligent Dakota Manning. If so, Aimee’s

problems were solved. Why wait for morning when Carl Lee could be

dealt with right now?

Aimee stuck her head out the door to make sure no one was around,

then scurried to the dormitory and gently woke the girl, gesturing for

silence. Once she had her sleepy attention, she signaled for Jennye

to follow her. No one saw them enter her room and she sagged back

against the door in relief.

“Are you a police officer?” She sounded out of breath.

Jennye stared at her, and Aimee tried to figure out what was going

on behind those blue eyes. The girl clearly thought someone at Pioneer

was a killer. Of course Aimee did too, but she had her own reasons

to reach that conclusion and none was as compelling as the broken

necklace she’d just taken from Carl Lee’s room.

“What makes you think I’m a cop?” Jennye asked.

Aimee didn’t bother dancing around the point. She was sure she

was right. “I believe Carl Lee was involved in the deaths of Sarah

Worthington and Erica Bingham.”

“So do I,” Jennye replied. “What led you to that conclusion?”

“His behavior. And this.” Aimee reached into her skirt pocket and

retrieved a small ziplock bag. She handed it to Tucker, who turned it

over in her hands, looking at the broken chain “It was Erica’s.”

“Where did you find this?” Her eyes held Aimee’s.

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“In Carl Lee’s room.”

“I guess he collects trophies.” Jennye slid a hand into her own bra.

Jennye allowed a chain to dangle from fingertips between them. “This

locket belonged to Dominique Marxley. Isabelle said Dominique never

took it off.”

“What are you saying?” Aimee was afraid she knew the answer.

“I think whoever killed Sarah and Erica was behind disappearance

of Dominique and Saya. But there’s one thing I don’t get.” Tucker

narrowed her eyes. “If you thought Carl Lee was dangerous, why

haven’t you gone to the police? And why didn’t you turn over the

necklace? Are you part of a cover-up?”

“Of course not. And if mere suspicions were enough to convince

the police, I doubt you would even be here.” Aimee looked the new

student up and down. “Who are you really?”

“I’m sorry I’ve had to lie to you.” The admission still stung, as

though verbalization made the deception real. Aimee tried not to take it

personally, but inside, she was yelling, You could have trusted me.

“So, what are you then? Police Officer? FBI?”

“Nothing as glamorous as that. I’m with a private investigations

firm. We’re looking into the disappearance of Dominique Marxley

and Saya Takahashi. But there seems to be something bigger going on

here.”“Yes, I think there is.” Aimee dragged out the suitcase and showed

Jennye the cell phones as though making a peace offering. “I stole these

from the storage room.”

Jennye was silent for several seconds, then she touched Aimee’s

hand briefly. “I’m sorry, Aimee, I really am. I can’t tell you a lot, but

my real name is Tucker Shade. The guy in the wheelchair, that’s not my

dad. He’s a detective I work with. I mean we kind of feel like a family,

but an odd one.”

“So, this probably means you’re not really a teenager either.”

“I’m twenty-three.”

“I feel kind of stupid,” Aimee admitted. “I thought I knew you, but

now I see it’s all been lies. You must hate me for punishing you.”

Tucker shook her head. “You didn’t know. I was being belligerent.

I expected to be punished.”

“Still, I feel terrible. I’m very sorry.”

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“Thank you.” Tucker said.

Playing a hunch, and allowing her curiosity to surface, Aimee

asked, “Are you the caregiver in your family?”

“Yeah. Not for my Dad or anything, but I have an autistic brother,

Hunter. He’s thirteen. I take care of him a lot.”

Aimee thought so. Tucker had treated Isabelle like a younger

sibling, protecting her. It made Aimee think the girl had a similar

relationship with someone else. “Autism. That can be a lot of work.”

Tucker shrugged. “It’s worth it.” She sounded defensive.

“Oh, no, you misunderstood me. Of course your brother is worth

the trouble. It’s just that I used to work with autistic children years

ago, when I worked with the California Child Development Center.

I’ve always kept up with the research. I’m sure you know that there

have been some real breakthroughs in the last few years that have

changed the prognosis for these kids. Hunter is very lucky. What kind

of program is he in?”

“He’s not in any program.” Tucker’s voice cracked. “He lives at

home in Idaho and they just don’t have access to a lot of services. He’s

had to go through some really tough things, you know, like sometimes

they used to strap his arms down so he couldn’t bite himself.”

“Oh. I’m so sorry to hear that. Can your brother speak?” she asked,

hoping to build their rapport.

“Yes, he can speak. Plus, we have our own language. I mean, it’s

not a language, exactly. But I can understand him.”

“Wow, it sounds like you are really dedicated.”

Tucker smiled wistfully. She seemed lost in her thoughts for a

moment, then her focus returned and she picked up one of the cell

phones, absently turning in over in her hands. “So…you think Carl Lee

is a killer. What about Dr. Barnabas?”

“Absolutely not. Dr. Barnabas is a devout man. He wouldn’t hurt

a fly.”Tucker looked dubious.

“I’m certain,” Aimee was adamant. “That the very moment

Dr. Barnabas hears our concerns, he’ll report Carl Lee to the proper

authorities and immediately initiate an internal investigation.”

“When will that be?” Tucker asked. “When will you tell Dr.

Barnabas what you found?”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“What we discovered.”

Tucker shook her head. “I think it might be better to keep my

name out of it.”

“He doesn’t know about your true identity and your goal here?”

“No, that would have defeated the purpose. But if he has nothing

to hide, he won’t need to worry.”

“Dr. Barnabas will be horrified.” Aimee said, then shared a few

more details about Carl Lee’s suspicious behaviors.

Although Tucker wanted to call her detective friends right away,

Aimee convinced the younger woman to wait. After all, it was 4:00 a.m.

and they were getting a little rummy. They needed sleep. First thing in

the morning, Aimee was determined to confer with Dr. Barnabas.

• 164 •

Blind Faith

chapter Fourteen

Yoshi was still at her Richmond District home when the phone

rang.

“Yoshi?” Tucker’s voice was so low, Yoshi had to strain to perceive

it, even with her blindness-enhanced senses.

“Tucker, it’s good to hear your voice. Are you safe to talk?” In

the week Tucker had been behind enemy lines at the Pioneer Institute,

she had not called once. That was hardly a surprise, after all Pioneer

students were not allowed access to their cell phones or other electronic

devices. Even if Tucker had had the good fortune of accessing a landline,

Yoshi had prohibited her from calling. It was far too easy for a paranoid

individual like Dr. Barnabas Gage to bug his own phone lines.

“I’m calling on my cell. I’ll keep it quick. Nothing on primary

subject,” Tucker referenced Dr. Barnabas Gage.

“Any good news?” Yoshi prodded.

“Yeah. I’ve got eyes in the office but they are local,” Tucker said,

indicating that she’d managed to install one of the spy cameras in Dr.

Barnabas’s office. By ‘local’ she meant that the digital cameras were

recording but were not attached to a receiver. Someone would have to

go pick them up in order to download whatever had been captured. It

was too bad she hadn’t been able to utilize the more complex version,

which could relay the images to a nearby receiver in an inconspicuous

service van or through an Internet connection, straight to the Blind Eye

computer.

“There’s growing circumstantial evidence that points to the ex-

con.” Tucker went on to tell Yoshi that the other counselor suspected

him of killing kids and that he’d caught Tucker snooping around in the

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

storage room. “She’s covering so I can call you,” Tucker added in a

hoarse whisper. “She’s going to talk to the doc this morning.”

“Does she know your identity?”

“Yeah, and she thinks I’m in danger.” Tucker’s urgent half-whisper

grew more rapid. “Get me out of here, okay?”

“Okay,” Yoshi said. “Be careful.”

She didn’t know if Tucker heard her before ending the call. Yoshi

was disappointed. Tucker should never have revealed herself to Aimee,

who was, after all, working for their primary person of interest in this

investigation. Carl Lee might be the triggerman, but Yoshi was certain

he was not the ringleader. Dr. Barnabas was. And she feared Aimee

would expose Tucker, mistakenly trusting the doctor. Blind Eye needed

to get their young investigator out before Dr. Barnabas learned her true

identity and decided to clean up the problem himself.

Yoshi dialed Bud’s cell number and cursed when he did not

immediately pick up. Sometimes she believed he used his aversion

to technology as an excuse to jerk her around. Over the years she’d

developed her own ways to cope with his belligerence. Bud had no idea

that a tiny but efficient global positioning satellite unit was attached

to the undercarriage of the rickety Impala he so adored, enabling her

to track his movements wherever he was. It was Orwellian, but Yoshi

thought the measure was prudent. If Bud was ever in real danger, she

would be able to find him.

She dialed again and didn’t waste her breath on pleasantries when

he picked up. “You need to get to Pioneer right away and withdraw

Tucker from their program.”

“Why? Has she been cured?”

“This isn’t fucking funny. Tucker is in danger.”

“Geez, what the hell is up?” Bud sounded perturbed and confused,

probably in large part because Yoshi’s speech was peppered with

profanities, a rarity.

“Bud, just get your ass out to Freemont right now.” Hanging up,

Yoshi was still mired in her own emotions. But she could not allow

herself to panic. People were counting in her. She placed another call.

“I need to see you immediately.”

San Francisco Police Department’s Detective, Ari Fleishman

replied, “Good morning to you, too. I haven’t even had coffee yet.”

“Meet me at the coffee shop and I’ll buy you a cup.”

• 166 •

Blind Faith

Yoshi took a cab there. She detected Ari’s cologne the moment she

stepped into the building. She made her way toward him slowly, using

her telescoping cane to avoid stepping on toes or tripping over chair

legs. She heard him stand to greet her.

“Hey Yoshi,” He shook her hand, and held it for a moment longer.

Like a gentleman. “You’re looking well. Much better than when we

pulled you out of the Bay.”

She smiled at him, even though she didn’t feel lighthearted.

“Speaking of the Devlin case, I am afraid Tucker Shade may be in

danger. Again.”

He sat down hard in his chair. Yoshi imagined him shaking his

head. “Why can’t you keep that girl out of trouble?”

“Risk seems to be inherent in the business we are in.”

“Yeah, isn’t that the truth.” He sighed. “What can I do to help?”

“As you know, Blind Eye has been investigating the disappearance

of a teenager from the Pioneer Institute.”

“Right, that ex-gay school over in the East Bay.”

“Correct. Tucker is undercover there.”

Ari interrupted her with a guffaw.

Yoshi sent him an icy glare. There was nothing humorous about

the current situation.

“Sorry,” he apologized. “I just imagined them killing her with

Bible verses. Please go on.” Even though he was trying to be attentive,

she felt he was not taking her seriously. Not yet.

Yoshi quickly briefed him on the details of the case—the broken

necklace, the suspicious behavior of ex-convict Carl Lee James, the

unusual collection of personal belongings in Pioneer’s storage room,

Dr. Barnabas Gage’s efforts to derail their investigation. She could tell

the air of amusement had evaporated.

“Damn, you need to get her out of there right away.”

“I sent Bud to do so.”

“Yoshi, I’m not really sure what you think I can do here,” Ari

said. “I don’t have any jurisdiction with the East Bay. I could put you

in touch with Officer Manning or one of the detectives, but…” He may

have shrugged or stared at her pointedly as he trailed off. Sometimes

even the people who knew her best acted as though she could see.

Yoshi supposed it was an odd compliment, proof that she was

using her eyes appropriately or not “acting” blind. She was passing as

• 167 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

sighted. “This counselor, Carl Lee, the one we suspect is behind the

disappearance of our client’s sister, keeps a room at the Pontiac Hotel,

right here in San Francisco.”

“Ah, it’s a rent-by-the-week place full of junkies and hookers

down on Minna. Lovely neighborhood.”

“Yes, well, Tucker has not yet located evidence directly linking

him to these crimes.” Yoshi immediately regretted her use of the term

“crimes” to describe what were at best suspected activities. She rushed

on, hoping to preempt Ari from launching into a linguistics lecture

about habeas corpus and circumstantial evidence.

“I understand, of course, that the deaths of the girls in Marin

were ruled an accident and there is nothing to indicate foul play in the

disappearance of Saya Takahashi. Still, I feel compelled to implore you

to do anything in your power to obtain more evidence. Is there any way

to procure a search warrant in a situation like this?”

From his silence, Yoshi determined that Ari was weighing the

information she had given him. “We really don’t have grounds.”

Not one to focus on her own danger, Yoshi realized she had forgotten

to mention the attack on herself and Aneko Takahashi. Wanting to add

additional weight to her plea, she added, “Also, someone opened fire

on me and Aneko Takahashi recently. I believe we were being warned

off this investigation.”

She felt Ari’s temperament change. He was agitated. “Yoshi. Why

the hell am I just hearing this now? Did you report it to the police?

Damn it, Yoshi.” His voice had gone husky, the way she remembered

it from that day at the pier, after she had been pulled half dead from

the water. He turned away, as though embarrassed by his emotional

response. Clearing his throat, he asked, “Do you have anything that ties

this Carl Lee James character to the shooting?”

She shook her head.

He sighed. “I just don’t know. It’s a lot of circumstantial evidence

that might not add up. But here’s what I’ll do, I’ll write up the paperwork

for a search warrant and put a rush on it, hand it to the DA, and if she

let’s me, I’ll personally walk it to a friendly judge. But I can’t promise

anything.”

“I take that to mean you think it is a long shot.”

“Yes, I won’t lie to you. Like you said, the ME ruled the girls’

deaths an accident.” Ari drummed his fingers on the table, something

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Blind Faith

he did when he was problem solving. “Wait. You said Carl Lee was an

ex-con? Is he still on parole?”

“No such luck,” Yoshi replied.

That would have been convenient. Parolees did not enjoy the

rights and privileges of other citizens. They had to refrain from a

veritable host of activities such as using drugs and owning firearms.

If they violated the conditions of their parole they would be tossed

back in prison. Likewise, they did not have the same expectation of

privacy. Law enforcement officers could perform random checks of

their residences at any moment. Alas, Carl Lee’s last parole date had

long passed. He was a free man.

v

“Velvet, it is Yoshi.”

The urgency in Yoshi’s voice sent a chill down Velvet’s back and

caused an involuntary straightening of her spine. The movement lifted

her ample bosoms. It was as though they had risen on their own accord

the way oxygen masks automatically dropped on airplanes during a

crisis.“Is she okay?”

“For now.”

Yoshi’s answer did little to quell Velvet’s rising panic. She imagined

Tucker the way she’d looked in that hospital bed, so frail and delicate,

black bruising under her closed eyelids. Velvet had been in such turmoil

then, blaming herself for Tucker’s kidnapping, she had barely heard the

doctor telling her about the head injury and the subsequent CAT scan

that showed nothing more than an unusual thickness in Tucker’s skull.

The abnormality had saved her life.

Velvet had sworn that day at the hospital that she would never let

Tucker be in that position again. It had been her secret promise to a

higher deity: If you let her live, I’ll make sure she is never endangered

again. Velvet’s shrink, Artemis Jones, had dismissed the oath as ordinary

bargaining, nothing more than a step in the grief process, taken when

Velvet thought Tucker would die. Furthermore, Artemis contended,

Velvet was in no position to make such a promise. Like it or not, some

things in life were out of her control and keeping loved ones safe was

one of those things.

• 169 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Velvet hadn’t wanted to accept such helplessness philosophically.

She’d enlisted Yoshi and Bud’s help to keep Tucker out of harm’s way,

making them promise to talk to her before they involved Tucker in

risky situations. Yet, six months later, here they were again. If anyone

had bothered to seek her advice before Tucker went undercover at

Pioneer, Velvet would have told them it was too dangerous. That place

was as good at making people disappear as Argentina during Operation

Condor, when political dissidents were drugged and thrown from

airplanes far above the Atlantic Ocean.

“Just tell me what’s happening,” Velvet demanded.

She couldn’t keep putting herself through this. The loneliness she’d

endured while granting Tucker the space she wanted was unbearable.

Then there was her guilt at not being there when Tucker was attacked—

in Velvet’s own home! She was constantly fearful and angry that her

lover kept putting herself in dangerous situations. No more. It was time

to put her foot down. When this was over and Tucker was no longer at

risk, Velvet would issue an ultimatum. Tucker would have to choose,

once and for all, between Velvet and Blind Eye. She couldn’t have both.

Either she had to abandon her fantasy about becoming a PI or she’d

have to give up being with Velvet.

Once Yoshi told her Bud had gone to rescue Tucker, Velvet

managed to gain some emotional distance. She wasn’t surprised to

hear that Tucker had found evidence linking Carl Lee James to the

disappearances of Pioneer students. After all she couldn’t imagine Dr.

Barnabas Gage getting his hands dirty. Carl Lee must be the muscle,

the hired gun. It fit with the information Velvet had gathered, and Carl

Lee certainly had the kind of access to the teens that gave him plenty

of opportunity. The only thing missing was motive. Was he sleeping

with the students, or coercing sex in exchange for contraband? Or did

he just hate queers and imagine he could kill a few with impunity. With

parents paying a fortune to have their kids reprogrammed in a place like

Pioneer, that didn’t seem likely.

And what was Carl Lee getting for his part in all of this? In Yoshi’s

review of Pioneer staff’s financials, nothing had raised suspicions. If

money was changing hands, it certainly wasn’t doing so in the open and

if Carl Lee was getting a boost in his income, he wasn’t reporting it to

the IRS. Not that criminals usually did so.

• 170 •

Blind Faith

“Ari is trying to get a warrant to search Carl Lee’s room at the

Pontiac,” Yoshi said. “But we don’t have probable cause so I expect the

DA will throw out his petition.”

“Typical,” Velvet said.

“I think we must take the initiative.”

Velvet understood what Yoshi was suggesting. With the police

stymied by the bounds of a legal system that sometimes favored the

criminals, it would be up to Velvet and Yoshi to uncover the truth and

reveal Dr. Barnabas’s dirty secrets. Velvet wouldn’t want it any other

way. “I’ll take care of it,” she told Yoshi. “You take care of Tucker.”

v

The location of the Pontiac Hotel looked like it was ripped from

an episode of Law & Order. As her cab drove down the alley-like

Minna Street, Velvet couldn’t help but notice the local denizens got

grittier each block. First the daytime sex workers, some once-beautiful

but now ravaged by years of trading crack for pussy. Then the junkies

and dealers, then the gangbangers. All those groups seemed to coalesce

on one block around the Pontiac in an almost poetic indictment of the

war on drugs. Plus, two guys standing on the corner were completely

naked from the waist down.

Velvet didn’t have time to wonder if the men were mentally ill or

simply playing an advanced game of mine-is-bigger. She had bigger fish

to fry and that meant blending in with the locals to get into Carl Lee’s

room. First she had to make it through the metal gates that shielded the

hotel clerk from the crazies who wandered in.

Velvet screwed up her blouse a bit, tearing a button from the top.

Smearing her lipstick and mascara and ruffling her hair, she braced

herself. Though she could only pull off a poor imitation of street

vernacular, it wasn’t that long ago that she rode the rails with homeless

vets and went undercover with a Latino street gang. Pretending to be

Carl Lee’s girlfriend was a cinch compared to that.

“Hey, my fuckin’ boyfriend forgot to leave me the fuckin’ key and

I got all my shit up there. Can you let me in?”

“No key, no entry,” the clerk said without even looking at her.

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

With mousy blond hair that had been slicked back from all directions

and a paunch that proclaimed too many nights spent with a beer and a

TV dinner, he didn’t seem the type to make an effort.

“Man, I gotta get my shit before he comes back.” Velvet started

to tear up. “You don’t know what he’s capable of, man. Look what he

done to me last night.”

She pulled her blouse almost completely open so the clerk got

a shot not just of her see-through leopard print bra but also of the

enormous magenta bruise on her chest, the result of a particularly tough

round of capoeira at the gym last week. She hoped the clerk would buy

it because her next option was a lot less palatable. She was sobbing now,

shirt open, clerk staring at her enormous bosoms. Please God, don’t

let him ask her for more. Velvet had already circled the building and

inspected every other possible entrance. The only way in was through

this guy, and if he asked for a hand job, she just might have to do it.

“Okay girlie, stop crying. It’s okay.”

Velvet wiped her sniffles onto the sleeve of her blouse. It wasn’t

haute couture or anything, but she hated the damage she was doing.

Still…“Listen, I’m going to give you ten minutes up there just to get your

shit and get away from the bastard. But if he comes while you’re there,

I can’t be responsible, all right? If you ain’t back in ten minutes I’m

coming up to get you.”

Velvet snatched the key he shoved at her and practically ran to

the diminutive lift that took her to the fifth floor. Once in Carl Lee’s

room, she quickly surveyed the sparse furnishings, a small twin bed, a

television propped on an old pressboard bureau, and an aluminum table

with a couple of piles of books and papers. There was no bathroom

and the only window was a tiny portal overlooking another concrete

building. Velvet was dubious about finding anything, and even if there

was evidence here it would not be admissible in a courtroom. She

worried about that as she searched systematically. In the bottom drawer

of the bureau a large russet-colored vinyl photo album was buried

beneath a few items of clothing. The album was the kind rarely seen in

this age of digital photography and contained formal school photos and

candid snapshots of at least a dozen kids, maybe more. In the mix was

a photo of a little baby dyke smiling broadly and looking winsome and

beautiful. It was Dominique Marxley.

• 172 •

Blind Faith

Why would Carl Lee have a photo album of the kids at Pioneer?

From all she’d heard about him from Yoshi, he wasn’t one of those

uber-caring counselors. Velvet put the album on the bed and continued

to rifle through the drawers. Jeans and T-shirts, a metal bracelet, a box

of cornstarch, a blue ribbon, and a box of postcards from Portland,

Oregon. On each post card was the word “here,” written differently, in

different colors and penmanship, some with adornments like hearts and

smiley faces. Did Carl Lee have a lover in Oregon, or was he involved

in something even more dangerous like gunrunning or drug trafficking?

Maybe he got a card every time a shipment arrived. Perhaps Pioneer

Institute was just a front and these poor queer kids were being used as

mules.Velvet’s mind was racing and she only had three minutes left in the

room. She started flipping through the piles on the desktop. Nothing.

Then she remembered to check the mattress. Could Carl Lee be so

cliché as to hide his money, or actual evidence, under the mattress or

would she just find herself with a sticky pile of fetish porn?

Within seconds of reaching between the box springs and mattress,

she realized his proclivities were much worse. A handful of Polaroid

photos fell to the floor, each one an image of one of the kids from

the photo album. Except they weren’t smiling and sunny in these grim

shots, they were whitened and ghostly, some covered in blood, others

face up in dirt. They were all dead. Every single one of them. Carl

Lee was a serial killer and she was holding his trophies. She stopped

counting at fifteen but there were more, and some of the queer and

trans kids seemed aghast with the agony of death. Velvet dropped the

photos and turned away, unable to breathe. Then she did something

she’d never done before. She threw up at a crime scene.

Hearing voices in the hall, she wiped her mouth and rushed to

pull together the photos and the album and a pile of newspaper clips

about the ex-gay ministries. Stuffing them into her messenger bag, she

peered out then bolted toward the bathroom at the end of the hall. She

secured the lock and crouched on the floor between the toilet and door.

She didn’t want to be caught but there was no way she could leave this

building without telling someone what she had found.

She hit speed dial and told Yoshi, “Tell Ari to get down here. You

have to see what I’ve found.”

• 173 •

• 174 •

Blind Faith

chapter FiFteen

The girl Aimee had known as Jennye Williams, a sexually

confused teenager forcibly enrolled in Pioneer’s program,

was actually a twenty-three-year-old private investigator named Tucker

Shade. Aimee was having a hard time accepting the truth. An elaborate

undercover investigation had been launched before she thought anyone

else shared her suspicions about Carl Lee. She’d had no idea that

Pioneer’s track record had already drawn external scrutiny, back when

there’d been nothing but a kernel of suspicion in her brain, a small

itch that wouldn’t go away. But she hadn’t even really suspected back

then, she’d just had the vaguest sense that something was wrong. She

was having that feeling again, only now it was much stronger, more

insistent. It was a vice grip around her intestines, a burning in her throat,

a heavy weight on her chest. Something was very wrong.

Twenty minutes ago she’d distracted the other counselors and

allowed Tucker to sneak off to the bathroom with a cell phone. She

was supposed to call her boss and then come back to rejoin the group.

She still hadn’t returned, and if she didn’t get back soon, Aimee would

have to go to her meeting with Dr. Barnabas without knowing whether

Tucker had been successful.

Aimee watched Carl Lee’s eyes scan the room. She could see his

mind ticking, counting the students, verifying Tucker had not returned.

He had been in Aimee’s sights the entire time Tucker was absent. Only

Matt Lovelorn had gone and returned in the interim. Aimee checked

the time again. She simply couldn’t keep the doctor waiting any longer.

She darted from the room, not looking back when Carl Lee called her

name. She loped down the hallway and through the doors that opened

• 175 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

out to the courtyard. A quick glance told her Tucker was not sitting on

one of the benches or cowering behind a bush, so she scurried across

and entered the building. It did not take her long to reach Dr. Barnabas’s

office.She hustled inside and found the doctor sitting at his desk. There

was something about his presence that had always had a calming effect

on Aimee. As soon as he casually but genteelly offered her a seat, she

felt her tension slipping away.

“Miss Dix, always a pleasure. What seems to be troubling you

today?” He leaned forward attentively. He was such a good listener.

There was so much to tell. The words poured out of her in a rush.

It was as though there’d been a cork keeping her fears all bottled up and

suddenly it was gone and she was free to share. She forced herself to

say the words, “I think Carl Lee may be killing our clients.”

Dr. Barnabas laughed and Aimee realized just how ridiculous the

accusation sounded, like the ravings of a conspiracy-theory fanatic

or those men who stood on street corners proclaiming the end of the

world.“I know. It sounds crazy, but I swear, I couldn’t be more serious.”

He nodded and obviously tried to look serious for her sake, but his

efforts just seemed to distort his features into a strange parody of good

humor. Knowing the deaths of several students and her allegations of

murder would be no laughing matter to the Dr. Barnabas she knew,

Aimee was certain the look on his face did not accurately reflect his

sentiments. She rushed on, telling him how her suspicious had grown

until she’d come to the conclusion that Carl Lee was a cold-blooded

murderer.

“I have proof,” she concluded, nearly out of breath.

“Proof?” The skin between his eyes pinched together in a scowl.

“What kind of proof?”

Aimee reached into her pocket and handed him the broken

necklace. “This was Erica’s. I found it in Carl Lee’s room.”

A shadow settled over Dr. Barnabas’s face. Although she hated

to give him this bad news, Aimee was relieved to see that he believed

her. “This is very disturbing.” He curled his fingers around the necklace

and it disappeared into his fist. “Very disturbing indeed. Miss Dix, I

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Blind Faith

wonder if you might accompany me to the other room. I think there’s

something you should see.”

Dr. Barnabas pushed his chair back, rose, and offered her a hand.

They were to the door before she realized he must have dropped the

necklace in his jacket pocket to keep it safe until they could call the

proper authorities. He wouldn’t want her to worry over something like

that. She felt honored that he was about to show her something

that required discretion. Perhaps he had other evidence even more

conclusive than the necklace. She was immensely relieved to have

gotten everything off her chest. All this time she’d been afraid of how

he might react to her allegations. But it seemed he not only believed her,

he may have come to the same conclusion himself. Dr. Barnabas was an

intelligent man. He’d probably been quietly looking into the situation

ever since the two girls fell from those ocean cliffs. He was probably

working with the police at this very moment. They were heading to the

storage room, and it struck her that there might be a team of FBI agents

hiding in the cramped space. She smiled at the thought.

“Do you mind?” Dr. Barnabas passed her a set of keys.

Aimee stepped in front of him and unlocked the door. Her head

flew around and she was transfixed by the glint in his eyes and the smirk

on his lips. Aimee understood in that moment that she’d put her faith in

the wrong person. She’d been so blind. Her mouth was just beginning

to form the word “no” when she was struck by twin lightn\ing bolts that

sent her dancing on air. She fell backward, her mouth agape, her eyes

barely registering the dimming light until only a sliver remained. Then

the door closed and she was swallowed by darkness.

v

Fuckin’ bigots. Bud was still repeating the refrain like a mantra,

only now it was under his breath. He’d finally found a broad he liked,

hell, a group of normal fucking people he liked and then this had to

happen.

Dinner with the other Pioneer parents had been going just fine.

Sure Tucker wasn’t really his kid but she was the closest he was ever

gonna get and the outings with Barbara Parkins and the rest of the gang

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

felt less like PTA meetings and more like when parents attend their

kids’ sporting events. He was one day away from affixing his Impala’s

bumper with a sticker that read, “My kid is on the honor roll at Pioneer

Institute.”

Then things turned. Barbara was emboldened by a few glasses of

wine tonight but that was no excuse. Bud was sitting so close to that

he could feel a bit of sexual tension between them, even if she was

a nice lady who certainly wasn’t going to spread her knees for him

without some form of further commitment. They hadn’t gotten that far

but maybe tonight was the night, Bud had mused.

Some of the guys were joking about how steroids affected Barry

Bonds’s endowments, the women were clucking about some new Bible-

based detox diet that sounded like crap but seemed to make them all

glow with excitement, and someone started talking about the kids.

“Tina knows this is her last chance with us,” one father said. “We

can’t have that around our other children. I think she’ll turn things

around though.”

“Well,” Barbara said, “I think Tina’s a lot more likely to succeed

than some of the other kids.” The group all nodded swift agreement.

“Yeah, well, no parent is going to admit their kid is the group’s lost

cause though, Barbara,” another mother commented, to more knowing

nods.“Oh, I’m sure Bud knows his kid’s a throwback.” Barbara said it

so blithely that Bud thought he must of misunderstood.

“Sorry, babe, what’d you say?” he asked, with a pit growing in

his stomach.

“Well, Bud, honey,” Barbara drawled, “I’m sure you love her,

but your daughter is a lost cause. Really, even with God’s love, she’s

probably the kind of aberration that can’t be saved in this lifetime. Some

girls, especially the homely ones, fall into homosexuality because boys

don’t like them. Their only chance, they think, is to have intimacies

with other girls who are also defective. And once they’re involved with

each other, they’re ruined. I know you love her, but it’s kind of like

when a dog bites you and draws blood, you know it’s time to put it

down.”

Bud felt the blood racing to his face as his heart began to pound

and his chest constricted. “Who the fuck do you think you are, lady?”

The women seemed surprised by his response. The men at the

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Blind Faith

table tried to calm him. One said, “Bud, I’m sure Barbara meant no

harm. It’s true that even with God’s help, some kids have been too

corrupted by the homosexual movement by the time we seek help for

them.”“That’s exactly what I meant, Bud,” Barbara backtracked, smiling

almost maniacally now. “I just meant that with all of her defects your

daughter was a prime target. You yourself said she was clumsy and

athletic and wouldn’t wear dresses or date boys. Honestly, maybe

Dr. Barnabas will work magic with her, but in my opinion, once the

perverts get a hold of a kid, it takes hell and high water to release that

Satan spell.”

Bud couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Even in amidst these

supposedly God-fearing folks, the bigotry and prejudice was deeper

than he could have imagined. What was next? “Negro” jokes?

“Let’s change the subject,” one mom interjected as Bud’s cell

phone rang. “Did you all get a chance to see Joyce Meyers sermon last

week? One fellow used to weigh three hundred pounds until he started

listening to God for nutritional advice.”

“I think I’ve had enough,” Bud said, quickly unlatching the locks

on his wheelchair and pulling away from the table.

“Bud!” Barbara exclaimed. “Please calm down.”

“I don’t think so, Barbara. I think we’re done here.” With that he

rolled swiftly out of the restaurant and away from the fucking idiots

he’d been spending time with as of late.

It dawned on him then, through his rage and the disappointment,

that it wasn’t just that these folks were homophobes. The big shock

was that he no longer was. Though he’d always been quick with the

fag jokes and used to think that every dyke just needed a good dick, he

didn’t feel that way anymore. As much as he bitched about Yoshi and

her lesbian ilk, he’d grown to realize that they weren’t all that different

from him. In fact, Tucker had become, well…precious, to him. And it

didn’t matter who she loved, or if she liked to do boy things or what

not. He didn’t care.

Fuck Barbara and fuck her religious freak friends. Bud couldn’t

forget the things they said about Tucker. He’d defend that kid to the

death. And here he was, on his way to Pioneer to do just that.

v

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

The first thing Tucker became aware of was the cold floor. She

was lying on her side, her legs bare. Where were her pants? The floor

felt rough, like cement. What was she doing on a cement floor? A wave

of pain and queasiness washed over her. It was a lot like recovering

from the aversion therapy she had experienced. No wonder the United

Nations said Tasers were a form of torture. She blinked twice to verify

her eyes were open. The room was dark. Tucker struggled to sit up but

she couldn’t move her arms. Oh, my God, I’m paralyzed! What did

Dr. Barnabas do to her after he hit her with that Taser? Tucker started

to freak out. She could feel her heart thudding. Calm down, she told

herself. Calm down. Then she heard the sound of breathing. It wasn’t

her own.

Still unable to get her arms to work, she rocked around and faced

whatever shared the darkness with her. “Who’s there?”

She could hear the terror in her own voice. Whoever was in the

room with her could probably hear her fear too. There was no answer. He

was probably enjoying her terror, feeding off it. That’s what predators

did, wasn’t it? Tucker struggled again to move and realized her wrists

and ankles were bound together with rope. Everything started to come

back in a flood of memories. Aimee Dix had given her a phone and

she’d called Yoshi. That’s when things got fuzzy. Dr. Barnabas’s angry

face came to mind. He’d discovered her in the bathroom. How? Did

Pioneer have surveillance cameras in there, too?

The lump on the floor next to her still hadn’t moved. Tucker shuffled

over and recognized Aimee. The counselor appeared to be unconscious.

Well, maybe now Aimee would accept that the good doctor was up to

his neck in this shit. Tucker wasn’t sure what was going to happen to

them when Dr. Barnabas came back, but she wasn’t going to just lie

here like some helpless victim. She’d survived a champagne bottle to

the head. She’d been knocked out, tied up, and thrown in the trunk of a

car just a few months ago and she’d come out of it okay. Besides, Bud

was already on the way to Pioneer and Tucker knew he’d keep her from

harm. Dr. Barnabas had better not hurt her or he’d discover firsthand

that Bud no longer felt constrained by the rules he’d followed as a cop.

Even in a wheelchair, he could bring down a world of hurt.

She wasn’t going to just sit here waiting to be rescued. Bud would

never let her live it down. Yoshi wouldn’t be impressed. Now that she’d

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Blind Faith

grown accustomed to the dark, she could make out the shelving that

lined the walls. They were in the storage room. She could pound on

the walls all she wanted and the only one who’d come would be Dr.

Barnabas. She remembered the box of cell phones and cursed. If they’d

still been here maybe one of them would have had enough juice to send

out an SOS.

Tucker slithered across the floor like a snake and scooted her back

against the doorframe. She shimmied up it until she was standing and

managed to flip on the light with her shoulder. As the fluorescent bulbs

rattled to life, the brightness blinded her as though she’d stared straight

at the sun. Blinking, Tucker hopped toward the suitcase Yoshi had given

her and began pulling out her clothing. It was tedious work, yanking

things aside with her wrists tied together.

She heard muffled voices. Dr. Barnabas was speaking to someone

else in his office, behind the storage unit’s wall. Tucker leaned in

awkwardly. She couldn’t make out all the words, but Carl Lee’s voice

was loud enough to be recognizable.

“I have to advise against taking such actions,” he said

“You’re hardly in a position to tell me what to do.” Dr. Barnabas

made the words sound like a threat.

Terrified that the men would be on their way to the storage room

at any moment, Tucker tore through the clothing in her luggage and slid

the back of her cuffed hands along the suitcase’s smooth and flat fabric

lining until they hit a small weighty bump, the size of a watch battery.

It was there, just like Bud said.

A week ago, on their drive to Pioneer, he’d told her Yoshi had

started using GPS devices to track her employees. She didn’t realize

Bud was wise to her little trick after discovering she’d tacked a locator

to his Impala. Rather than confronting her or removing the bug, he was

planning some kind of ruse that would leave her with egg on her face.

He’d pointed out that there was a reason Yoshi insisted Tucker take the

new suitcase into Pioneer. Tucker found the gap in the seam where the

locator must have been introduced and slid the device through. She

brought her clasped hands to her blouse and dropped the cold metal

slug into her bra. Whatever happened now, Blind Eye would know

where she was.

v

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“I think that you and I have known each other long enough for you

to know that the good Lord enables me to go to great lengths to keep

my house in order,” Dr. Barnabas said.

Carl Lee’s mouth had run dry and sagebrush was blowing across

the high desert plains. He understood the threat. It seemed underscored

by the spiritual advisor’s inappropriate reference to the Lord Jesus

Christ. “Yes, I understand. But—”

Dr. Barnabas raised a hand and the words died in Carl Lee’s throat.

The doctor’s fist slowly unfurled to reveal Erica Bingham’s broken

necklace. Carl Lee was certain that the blood had drained from his face.

He watched the necklace swing back and forth like a hypnotherapist’s

pendulum. He’d waited too long to make his escape. He wondered if

his shallow grave would ever be found.

“You sly dog.” Dr Barnabas winked but there was no smile in his

eyes. “Doing a little freelance work, were you?”

“No, sir. I didn’t touch those girls.”

“Is that why you were so eager to go on this trip? I should have

seen it coming, I suppose. Eliminating the middleman would certainly

increase your take.” Something dark moved across Dr. Barnabas’s face

and Carl Lee had to fight the physical urge to take cover. “I don’t like

liars, Mr. Jones. I thought I’d made that abundantly clear.”

“Yes, sir. Of course. I hope you’ll let me make it up to you.”

Dr. Barnabas opened his fingers and let the necklace drop into a

drawer, which he closed and locked. “There is something I’d like you

to attend to. A little housecleaning.”

“No problem.”

“That new girl, Jennye, she’s not who she appears to be. I’ve

learned she’s in association with that Asian private investigator who’s

causing us a problem. I want you to take care of her. You’ll need to do

it right away.”

Carl Lee had always had ample forewarning in the past. All

this time he hadn’t been caught, there’d been one reason—planning.

Without planning he couldn’t pull off a disappearance on a moment’s

notice. This was fucking crazy. He tried to reason with Barnabas.

“We’re not talking about one of these throwaway kids whose parents

are covering the bill and wouldn’t dare declare them missing or bring

in the authorities. This will bring down heat.”

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Blind Faith

“Then it’s a good thing I hired you to put out fires.”

Carl Lee refrained from saying that’s what the lawyers where for.

“I’m willing to consider our account settled if you clean up this

little problem,” Barnabas said.

“Fine.” Carl Lee didn’t see any alternative.

“There’s one more thing.”

Of course there was. “I’m listening.”

“Miss Dix.”

“Aimee Dix?” The man had gone completely mad.

As if sensing Carl Lee’s hesitance, Dr. Barnabas said, “You know,

she wanted me to turn you in to the police. I’m afraid she’s the one

who brought me the necklace. My God, you should have seen her face.

Apparently she’d been harboring these feelings for some time, that

you’re a killer.”

“We won’t get away with this,” Carl Lee said. “Someone will

notice Aimee missing and come looking. It’s going too far.”

Dr. Barnabas snorted. “I’ll decide what’s too far. You just do your

fucking job.”

• 183 •

• 184 •

Blind Faith

chapter sixteen

Tucker peeked through veiled eyelashes at the two men

standing in the doorway. She was thankful she’d remembered

to turn out the light, otherwise they would probably see her hunching

her shoulders and realize she was awake.

“Jesus, what did you do to them?” Carl Lee asked.

“Taser. We should move them now, before they can struggle.”

Next to her, Tucker heard Aimee moan, and feared she might

pick this moment to wake up. She worried what the men would do if

confronted.

“How are you going to do it?” Dr. Barnabas asked.

“Why don’t you leave that to me, sir?” Carl Lee sounded offended.

“I’ve never had a problem before.”

“Fine, but you can’t do it here.”

“No shit. I’ll bring my car around front. Can you help me get them

outside?”

“You know I can’t be involved.” Barnabas sounded self-righteous.

“What if someone saw me with them?”

Tucker almost choked. God, Barnabas was a putz. As soon as the

door closed after the men she shook Aimee hard. “Wake up, come on. I

don’t know how much more time we have.”

Aimee looked around in a daze. “What’s going on?” Her voice

was groggy. “What are we doing here?”

Before Tucker could fully explain, the door swung open again and

Carl Lee turned on the lights. He was alone. If you didn’t count his

handgun.

“Carl Lee,” Aimee hissed. “What do you think you’re doing?”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“Oh, you’re awake. Good. Get up.” He motioned with the gun.

Aimee struggled to comply, flopping around on the floor like a fish

out of water.

“You.” Carl Lee pointed at Tucker. Clearly her cover had been

blown. “Don’t try anything.”

He bent down on one knee, his back to the wall. Facing Tucker,

he glanced down at the bindings around Aimee’s ankles that had her

hobbled. He fussed with the knot for a while, looking up every few

minutes. Wondering if she could take him, Tucker looked around for

a weapon. One she could grab and swing with her wrists tied together.

Tucker wasn’t concentrating on Carl Lee when all of a sudden she saw

the glint of steel. Aimee gasped. Carl Lee was brandishing an eight-

inch hunting knife. Holy shit. Maybe he was going to kill them here,

gut them like a fish, the way Tucker’s dad had taught her.

Carl Lee grabbed Aimee’s ankles and pinned them down with one

hand.“Please, don’t.” Aimee begged.

Was he going to cut off toes? Tucker wondered. Were they going

to be held for ransom?

“I always liked you,” Aimee said to Carl Lee. “Please, don’t hurt

me.” She started to cry. Carl Lee ignored her and lowered the tip of the

knife. Aimee crammed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth against the

coming scream. Tucker watched, unable to turn away. Carl Lee started

cutting, using the blade like a saw. Aimee did not scream. In fact, relief

washed over her face.

“Thank you,” she sobbed. Freed from the constraints, she stood

up, holding onto the shelves for support.

“Now you do her.” Carl Lee directed, jerking his chin in Tucker’s

direction.

Tucker inappropriately imagined porno music playing. It seemed

to rise naturally from the surreal situation. Aimee advanced on her, the

knife in her hand. Tucker tried to signal her, rolling her eyes toward Carl

Lee and then staring at the shiny blade. Rather than spinning around

and plunging the knife in Carl Lee’s neck, or slipping the weapon to

Tucker, Aimee simply stared at her like a slack jawed yokel. Tucker

then saw the gun in Carl Lee’s hand, trained on them. If he fired the

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Blind Faith

bullet would scalp Aimee and perform a crude clitorectomy on Tucker.

Aimee was crying so hard her hands shook as she hacked at the rope

around Tuckers ankles.

When the last cord finally broke, Carl Lee took the knife back

and tucked it back in its sheath. For appearances sake, he secreted the

gun in his jacket pocket, where its pointy tip distended the fabric. “Get

moving,” he said, marching them down the long hall with their wrists

tied. “Carl Lee, you don’t have to do this,” Aimee said as they stepped

into the late morning sun.

Tucker found it hard to maintain her fear in the sunlight. The

brightness of the day seemed incongruous with their circumstances.

Abduction and murder were more at home in the dark. She listened to

Aimee talking the way victims did on television, when they still hoped

they could convince the predator to change their minds. Tucker didn’t

plan to waste her breath. She surveyed the scene. Don’t let them get you

in the car. The farther away they take you, the more likely you’ll end

up dead. She wasn’t sure where she’d heard that advice came from,

but she would love to heed it. Unfortunately, while they were locked

inside this fortress, escape would get them nowhere. They would still

be within the compound.

When they reached a gray sedan, Carl Lee clicked his remote

key and popped open the trunk. Not this again. Why were men always

trying to force her into their trunks?

“You’re going to have to get in there,” Carl Lee said.

“Please, Carl Lee. Don’t do this,” Aimee begged. “For God’s sake,

whatever you’ve done, this is only making it worse.”

She still seemed convinced he was working alone. Perhaps just to

fight that belief, Tucker asked, “So, has the saintly Dr. Barnabas told

you how he wants us killed?”

Carl Lee winked. “He doesn’t tell me how to do my job. Dr.

Barnabas is only concerned about the results.”

How about that, Tucker thought. He came clean. She supposed he

had nothing to lose by admitting what he’d done. He wasn’t going to

leave witnesses.

Still in denial, Aimee retorted, “Dr. Barnabas wouldn’t have

anything to do with the kind of evil you’re contemplating.”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“Sorry to disappoint you, Aimee, but your judgment sucks.” Carl

Lee said. “The bastard insisted you had to go. Now get in the fucking

trunk before I have to get physical.”

Preferring to enter on her own accord, Tucker clambered into the

trunk and helped Aimee climb in after her. They curled around each

other in the small space. Carl Lee slammed the trunk plunging them

into darkness.

“It’ll be okay,” Tucker said. She knew Bud would find her.

“He’s going to kill us, isn’t he?” Aimee whispered in her ear.

“No.” Tucker said. “He won’t get the chance to. My colleagues

are on their way.”

v

Bud rolled down the hall to Dr. Barnabas’s office. There was a

disorganized feel to the place that seemed at odds with Dr. Barnabas’s

anal retentiveness. A briefcase lay open on the desk, filled with a

mishmash of loose papers and manila folders, and the doctor looked

weary. But he was as bombastic as ever.

“Mr. Williams, I’m glad you’re here. I think we need to have a

talk.”“Excellent.” Bud replied. “Why don’t you send for my daughter

and we can chat while she’s packing her things.”

“Your daughter, yes.” Barnabas paused, looking out the window.

Was he searching for words or covering something up? “That’s what I

was just about to call you about.”

“Oh, yeah?” Bud narrowed his eyes. “Why? What’s going on?”

“I’m afraid I have some very grave news.”

If that bastard had harmed one hair on her head, Bud was going to

rip his goddamn intestines out of his ear. “I’m here to take my daughter

her home, so send one of your minions to get her. Now.”

“I’m afraid I can’t do that.” Dr. Barnabas said, sounding ominous.

“Your daughter’s no longer here.”

“What do you mean she’s not here?” Bud wanted to grab the man

by the throat and choke him. “Where is she?”

The charlatan doctor launched into a litany of allegations against

Tucker. Not only did he have the balls to pretend she’d somehow

waltzed out of this fortress, but he claimed she’d kidnapped a Pioneer

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Blind Faith

counselor, Aimee Dix, to execute her brazen escape. If he weren’t deeply

concerned for Tucker’s safety, Bud would have laughed, the story was

so fucking preposterous. He could hardly believe Barnabas managed to

tell it with a straight face. If Tucker had gotten away, she would have

found a way to contact him. And if there really was a counselor with

her, it was probably Carl Lee James.

“I assume you’ve notified the police then?” Bud drawled. “Do

you mind giving me the name of the case number and the officer in

charge?”

Dr. Barnabas sputtered. “I’ve only just been made aware of the

situation.”

Bud swooped up the desk phone and punched in 911. He waited

until he heard the dispatch answer, then shoved the receiver in the man’s

face. “There you go.”

Bud watched the sociopath act like he was upset, sharing emotions

and details he hadn’t the first time he shared the story. Liars added a

level of details most witnesses couldn’t recall, and their stories often

changed each time they told them. Dr. Barnabas was like the kind of

criminal who knew how to seem plausible.

“Now that we’re done with all the bullshit, let’s get down to

business,” Bud said once the call was over. “Where’s Tucker?”

Dr. Barnabas raised his eyebrows. “Tucker?”

Bud couldn’t tell if the surprise in his voice was authentic or not.

“Never mind what her name is.” In one seamless motion, he wheeled

around the desk, withdrew his retired service revolver, and aimed it at

the man’s temple. “Talk.”

Dr. Barnabas didn’t flinch. “You aren’t going to kill me.”

Bud shrugged. “Maybe not.” He fired. The round whizzed over

the man’s head and buried into the bookcase.

“Jesus Christ!” Dr. Barnabas bellowed. “You’re fucking crazy.”

“I don’t have a lot to lose, and next time I won’t miss.” Bud aimed

the pistol lower. “The next bullet will go through your kneecap. I

understand that’s very painful and can be quite debilitating. Which side

to you want your limp on? Left or right?”

Beads of sweat formed at Barnabas’s hairline and raced over the

furrows of his forehead before rolling through his brows. He was finally

taking Bud seriously. “It’s all Carl Lee,” he stammered. “He’s gone off

his rocker. I swear, I don’t know why. He took your girl and Miss Dix

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

away at gun point. He would have shot me if I’d intervened. All this

time, I had no idea he wasn’t at Pioneer to do God’s work. I only just

discovered that he’s had his own perverse agenda all along.”

Bud found him so annoying he wanted to put his hands around

the guy’s thick neck and squeeze. Maybe his head would pop like a zit.

“And what agenda is that?” he asked.

“Isn’t it obvious? The missing girls? The deaths in Marin? Your

girl must have stumbled onto his secret.”

“So you’re now saying Carl Lee has Tucker.”

“Yes.”

“Then stop fucking around and tell me where he’d take her,” Bud

growled.

“I have no idea.”

The cell phone vibrated in Bud’s jacket pocket. Keeping his eyes

and gun trained on Dr. Barnabas, he read the message. Finally, some

good news. The GPS bug Yoshi had affixed to Tucker’s luggage was on

the move. He should have known Tucker would figure out a way to get

in touch. She was a clever one. Coordinates were being downloaded at

that very moment. Bud felt the blood drain from his face. No. It couldn’t

be. Carl Lee’s vehicle was at the Quarry Lakes Regional Recreation

Area. It was the perfect place to dump a body and it wasn’t far from the

Pioneer Institute.

As Bud rolled away from Barnabas, he yelled, “Anything happens

to her and you’re a dead man.”

v

Peering from a crack in the therapy room door, Isabelle Sanchez

had seen enough of today’s drama to know something significant had

happened. After Tucker revealed that she was really a PI searching for

Saya Takahashi, Isabelle began hoping Dom would also be found. Of

course it had disheartened her when Tucker showed her the locket that

had belonged to her grandmother. How did it end up in the storage

room after Dom supposedly ran away?

Isabelle had been hiding in the therapy room ever since Miss Dix

went to tell Dr. Barnabas what was going on and not long afterward,

she heard Dr. Barnabas paging Carl Lee over the intercom. When she

saw Tucker and Miss Dix shuffle past with Carl Lee pointing a gun

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Blind Faith

at them, she wondered what the hell was going on. Then a guy in a

wheelchair went into Dr. Barnabas’s office. Bud, she concluded, the

detective who’d pretended to be Tucker’s father. A few minutes later,

Bud flew right past her without even noticing her trying to flag him

down. He seemed really intense and Isabelle didn’t try to stop him. She

was sure Tucker and Miss Dix were in big trouble.

Was this how it had gone down with Dom? Had Carl Lee taken

her at gunpoint to his car? What happened then? Was she still locked in

a dungeon somewhere? Had Carl Lee been keeping her as a sex slave?

Or was she some kind of present for Dr. Barnabas? Isabelle believed

Dr. Barnabas knew more than he was willing to share. But to get any

answers the right persuasion would be necessary. She knew just the

thing.She’d stumbled on it really, just messing around in the fridge

while she was waiting here for Miss Dix to come out of Dr. Barnabas’s

office. Among the vials Pioneer gave as part of the aversion therapy,

was one marked Sodium Pentothal. If Hollywood had it right, that was

truth serum.

It was her lucky day.

Isabelle waited, and not long after Bud left the building, Dr.

Barnabas set off along the hall, his brief case swinging at his side.

Isabelle let him pass by, then fell in behind. He was so intent on getting

out of there he didn’t even notice her until she jammed the top of the

drug vial into his back.

It apparently felt like a cold gun barrel because her raised one arm

and asked, “What can I do for you now, Mr. Williams?”

Isabelle stood on her tiptoes and whispered in his ear, “Call me

Izzy, you son of a bitch.”

His body tensed and he leaned against the wall. The drug was

quick-acting. Afraid he would pass out, Isabelle steered him into the

therapy room and shoved him into the chair they used for restraint. She

strapped his arms down and cinched a belt tightly across his midriff,

then closed the door.

“Scream all you want,” she told him. “I don’t think anyone’s left

in the wing. No one can hear you.”

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded woozily.

“I was hoping we’d have a chance to talk, you know, heart to

heart.”

• 191 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Isabelle sat down in a chair behind him where he couldn’t see

her. After a few minutes of silence he grumbled, “What is it you want

to know?”

“How did you find out about Jennye?”

He shrugged. “Matt Lovelorn ratted her out. He overheard her

talking on the phone.”

Why would Matt do that? Isabelle wondered. There could be a

dozen answers. He wanted to be liked by an older male. Or he could be

trying to convince Dr. Barnabas he was cured of his homosocial ways

and was ready to be released from this prison.

“I knew right then the bitch was getting help from someone

in here,” he muttered. “How else could she have gotten access to a

phone?”

“Are you having them killed?” Isabelle tried the direct approach.

“I think you have me mixed up with someone else.”

“Oh, you mean Carl Lee.”

“You’re a bright girl.”

“Bright enough to know he’s your patsy.” Picking up a bottle of

pills, she said, “You know, if these drugs aren’t working, I could always

use the electroshock.”

He squirmed. “You don’t want to do that.”

“I think I might.

“That’s torture. You’ll regret it. You won’t be able to shake the

thought that you did that to another person.”

Dr. Barnabas concerned with her emotional health. How touching.

Isabelle smiled. “You don’t seem to have a problem with that.”

v

Officer Dakota Manning received the assignment over the radio.

Dr. Barnabas, in person, had dialed 911. The report sounded crazy. A

kid had supposedly gone postal, kidnapped one of Pioneer’s counselors,

and escaped. The chief himself was on the radio. He seemed to think

they were hearing another bullshit story about a runaway, and since

Dakota had a history with Pioneer, he wanted her to get to the bottom

of it. Dakota considered the idea of calling Aneko on her way out there,

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but that could wait. She wanted to interview Dr. Barnabas before he

could get his lawyers there, if possible. He wasn’t in his office. In fact

she couldn’t find him.

She began knocking on doors until she heard sounds coming from

inside a therapy room. Her instincts told her something wasn’t right,

so she pulled her service weapon and pressed herself against the wall.

Dakota reached for the door handle, took a deep breath, turned the

knob, and swung around the doorframe, yelling, “Police!”

In her line of work, it didn’t take long to get the feeling you’d seen

everything, but what she saw in front of her ranked right up there. Dr.

Barnabas was strapped to a chair facing a big screen where images of a

lesbian couple flashed by.

“Thank you, Lord.” he proclaimed. “Officer, this girl’s gone crazy.

Please help me.”

Dakota holstered her pistol and smiled at the girl standing over

him. She remembered her from the day of the hostage drama.

“Carl Lee has Miss Dix and Tucker Shade and I think he’s going

to kill them.” the girl declared.

“Hello,” Dr. Barnabas interjected. “Are you going to let me out of

this chair or what? I’m the victim here. Do your fucking job.”

“I’m Izzy,” the girl said. “Izzy Sanchez. Can we talk?”

“I’d like that,” Dakota said. “Why don’t we start with the make

and model of vehicle Carl Lee is driving?”

• 193 •

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chapter seventeen

Bud was at the Quarry Lakes Regional Recreation Area when

he heard Officer Dakota Manning’s BOLA announcement

over the police scanner. He turned up the volume.

He wasn’t counting on the Freemont police, or any other law

enforcement for that matter. He was determined to rescue Tucker and

he could do it on his own. But Manning’s description gave him details

about the suspect’s vehicle and once dispatch found the information

in the DMV database, they’d come back with the plate number. Bud

radioed in to Fremont PD’s dispatch and added himself to the detail,

giving them his current location. They sent officers heading toward

him. Then, ignoring the groans of the Impala as she bottomed out

on speed bumps, Bud roared through the parking lot scanning the

area as he went. A dark colored, late model sedan matching Officer

Manning’s description was parked by the boat ramp. Bud left rubber

on the pavement, spinning a cookie and racing toward the car. Hold on

Tucker! I’m almost there kid. He hit the next speed bump so fast he got

air, the Impala lifting a few inches off the ground like a stunt car in a

movie chase. It took him thirty seconds to reach the vehicle. As soon as

he did, he knew he’d made a mistake.

Bud punched the horn and snatched up the cell phone to check

the map. Tucker’s little blip was no longer at the Quarry Lakes. It was

miles away, heading up Niles Canyon Road into the East Bay Hills. Bud

had been so sure, so frightened, that the Quarry Lakes was Carl Lee’s

destination, he hadn’t kept his eye on the prize. He’d let his instincts

carry him here when he should have relied on the technology, and now

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

he’d just given Carl Lee another ten minutes head start. He sped off in

pursuit, determined to catch up with the son of a bitch before he got

away.Niles Canyon Road, also known as Highway 84, was a winding,

treacherous two lane road. On the canyon floor it was flanked by stunted

junipers and one of the East Bay’s last free flowing creeks. At the end

of the canyon the road wound into the coyote-brush-spotted hills.

Whipping around corners and passing cars, each time Bud glimpsed

another late model sedan, he’d feel his heart rev in anticipation. Then

he’d see the color or notice the slight differences that distinguished one

maker from another. These wasted moments were like wasted oxygen.

They stole his air away. His breath was ragged and his chest hurt. Each

failure, each wrong vehicle brought Tucker’s death closer and closer to

reality. He could not bear it. He imagined her lying in the morgue. No,

way. Not gonna happen.

When he finally found the right car he didn’t believe it at first.

Checked the plate twice. Then he remembered. His tricked out Impala

had no siren. He’d have to get creative if he hoped to pull the guy

over without flashing lights. Bud admitted his location to the dispatch.

There weren’t a lot of intersections along Niles Canyon, and there was

a chance California Highway Patrol officers could form a roadblock

at the other end and stop Carl Lee before he had a chance to hop on

one of the freeways or try to lose them on the maze-like city streets of

Pleasanton or Livermore, if that’s where he was headed.

There was another option. He could be planning to ditch the car

somewhere between Freemont and Pleasanton and march the women

into the massive open spaces of the East Bay Regional Park system.

There were some places Bud could not follow and hiking cross-country

was one of them. In the meantime, he attached himself to Carl Lee’s ass

like white on rice, staying close enough that Carl Lee couldn’t ignore

him, but not so close that he risked slamming into the sedan if it stopped

suddenly. Nothing would be worse than him causing an accident that

killed Tucker while he was trying to save her.

Carl Lee sped up trying to shake him again. The needle on Bud’s

speedometer crept up. There were California laws prohibiting police

officers and highway patrol from engaging in high speed chases, but

Bud wasn’t a cop anymore. He laid on the horn and flashed his lights

repeatedly, but Carl Lee wasn’t going to stop that easily.

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Blind Faith

Far in the distance Bud thought he heard sirens. Flashing blues

and reds dotted his review mirror, climbing the hill behind him. The

road ahead was clear of other cars. If he could get in front of the sedan,

Carl Lee would have nowhere to go but back down, where he’d run into

advancing Freemont PD. Bud pushed the accelerator as far as it would

go. The Impala started to shake. She was never meant to do these kinds

of speeds. He moved into the oncoming traffic lane, praying for space.

He pulled even with Carl Lee, and for a moment their eyes met. The

other man’s face was ashen. They were neck to neck.

As they came around a sharp curve, Bud blanched. Another car

was approaching quickly, in his lane. He willed the Impala forward.

It inched ahead of the sedan. The front doors drew even with Carl

Lee’s front bumper. He was playing chicken on a road where there was

nowhere for either car to go. Bud did not flinch. A hundred yards. Fifty.

The car ahead had stopped. Bud could see the terror in the guy’s face.

A pileup was moments away. At the very last moment, it seemed as if

Carl Lee slowed down. Bud pulled in from of him, seconds away from

the oncoming car. Blaring horns whizzed past.

Bud slammed on the brakes and slid the Impala sideways, grinding

to a stop across the highway in blocking Carl Lee’s approaching vehicle.

Bud pointed his revolver at Carl Lee’s head. In another miracle, Carl

Lee managed to stop before plowing straight into him. For a moment

they just stared at each other. Then Carl Lee slowly raised his arms.

Bud took the man down like the high risk felony stop he was,

demanding he get out of the vehicle and lie face down on the pavement.

When the man dropped his left arm to open the car door, it took him a

moment too long. Bud curled his finger around the revolver’s trigger,

on high alert for Carl Lee to jump out with a gun. Instead the sedan’s

trunk popped up. Not sure whether it was some kind of diversion, Bud

kept the revolver trained on the ex-con as he slowly exited from the

vehicle and dropped to his knees.

Cursing his dead legs, Bud began the tedious procedure of getting

his wheelchair out of the back seat, made all the more difficult because

he tried to do it all with the revolver in his hand.

Carl Lee peered at him from the pavement. “Don’t shoot me man.

I swear I wasn’t going to do anything.”

“Don’t make me laugh. If she’s hurt, I swear to God…”

“Bud!” The yell came from the back of Carl Lee’s vehicle and

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Tucker jumped down, then helped a bedraggled blonde out of the

trunk.Tucker ran toward Bud and fell into his arms like she’d forgotten

he wasn’t her real dad. He hugged her with the revolver still in his hand,

then pushed her aside, to make sure the bastard Carl Lee was still on the

ground. Standing over him was Aimee Dix. She looked pissed. Pulling

up behind them was a squad car. Everything was going to be okay.

v

Behind the two-way mirror, Yoshi listened to Officer Dakota

Manning read Carl Lee James his rights.

“Look, this has all been a misunderstanding,” he said. “I just want

to come clean and clear everything up.”

“So, you’re waving your rights.”

“Yeah,” he sounded pained. Captured criminals often did when

it hit home that they were going to pay for their crimes. So, Yoshi

was not surprised when Carl Lee agreed to talk without a lawyer. But

the interrogation took a stunning turn, with his next comment. “I was

saving their lives.”

Officer Manning snorted. “Yeah. Right. So why were they in your

trunk?”

“I had to make it seem realistic. But I didn’t tie them up.”

“Who did?”

“Dr. Barnabas Gage.”

Yes! Yoshi was thrilled. Although Gage was also being held in the

Freemont police station, they’d decided to speak with Carl Lee first. If

they could turn him, Gage was a bigger prize.

Carl Lee had just gotten warmed up. He revealed that five years

ago, Gage had recruited him to get rid of problem students whose

parents didn’t want them to come home unless they were cured.

Carl Lee described his first victim, a particularly effeminate boy

whose limp-wristed ways were an embarrassment to his fortune five

hundred CEO father.

“I was planning to hit him over the head and dump him overboard.

You dump a body far enough out to sea, and there’s nothing left, if it

washes up at all.” Carl Lee paused. “I couldn’t do it. When it came time

to kill him, I couldn’t go through with it.”

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Blind Faith

“What changed your mind?”

“For starters, I’m not a killer.” He sounded weary, like he didn’t

expect to be believed. “The kid reminded me of myself when I was

his age. You know, not fitting in, not living up to what the folks

expected.”

Carl Lee continued his story, saying the boat he’d used belonged

to a friend in Bolinas. While he was out on the water that day, he came

up with a plan. The story became more fantastical, then. He claimed

that over the past five years, he used his underworld connections and

the money Dr. Barnabas paid him to give the kids entirely new lives

far away from the Bay Area. He insisted each of the dozen teens he’d

supposedly killed were living happily ever after.

Yoshi was despondent. She’d hoped Carl Lee’s testimony might

bring down Dr. Barnabas Gage, but that no longer seemed likely. The

man was beginning to sound entirely delusional. His story explained

one thing, though. Yoshi had wondered how the Pioneer students even

ended up where they did, on a remote cliff side at the edge of a town

that did not appear on local maps. Carl Lee was familiar with the area.

He would have known about the danger of the cliffs. No doubt he had

pushed the two girls over the cliff, expecting their bodies to be washed

out to sea. Instead they’d lain there until Velvet Erickson stumbled on

them. Small world.

“Well, this should all be very easy to verify,” Officer Manning

said. “Give me the addresses and I’ll send someone to talk with these

kids.”“I can’t. I arranged everything so I wouldn’t know where they

ended up. It was safer that way. For me and for them.”

“That’s convenient.”

“Hardly.” Carl Lee’s voice held no note of humor.

Yoshi tapped on the glass. It took a few minutes, but eventually

Officer Manning joined her in the viewing room. “Can you believe this

crap?” she asked Yoshi.

“It is so outrageous it is almost hard not to.”

“Maybe he can explain the Polaroids your team found at the

Pontiac Hotel.”

Carl Lee had an explanation for these, too. “Dr. Barnabas wanted

proof. He had more gruesome trophies in mind, like an ear or a finger.

I convinced him it wouldn’t be a good idea to keep DNA evidence like

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

that. Some of the kids really got into it, faking their own deaths for the

camera.”

Carl Lee James continued to talk for several hours. Yoshi had

inherited a penchant for logic over emotion from her father. In fact,

Velvet used to call her Spock during arguments, many years ago when

they were lovers. Despite that, Yoshi had always trusted her gut and

something felt very odd about Carl Lee James. He was either a man

who occupied a fictional world as a form of denial, or he was telling

a truth so far-fetched it would never be believed. Either way, if Yoshi

wanted to find Saya Takahashi, dead or alive, she had a lot of work to

do.

• 200 •

Blind Faith

chapter eighteen

It looked like Dr. Barnabas Gage was going to walk. They had

little evidence tying him to any crimes. Dakota had hoped

Carl Lee’s testimony might be the lynchpin in the case against Gage,

but that was before he revealed the depth of his delusions. Once he’d

finished talking it was clear that everything he said would be ridiculed

at trial. Things looked up briefly when the DA himself insisted that Dr.

Barnabas was a capital witness who had shown his willingness to skip

town and must be held until the police had a chance to properly debrief

him. The judge agreed.

In another surprising move, the hot assistant DA was so excited

about the turn of events that she invited Dakota out for a drink, which

turned into dinner and might have turned into something more if their

cell phones hadn’t gone off in unison, dragging them both to county

lockup and the biggest surprise of the day.

“What do you mean, he’s dead?” Dakota asked in shock.

“Hanged himself with his jail uniform,” the warden said. “Guards

cut him down an hour ago and the ME declared him at the scene.

There’ll be a whole IA investigation.”

He sounded peeved. Internal Affairs got involved whenever

someone died in custody. There was always some finger-pointing.

Dakota wasn’t exactly torn up at the prospect of Dr. Barnabas

Gage’s untimely death. She had the feeling he deserved everything he

got. But it was hard to close a case if the suspect died before being

convicted. Was that justice? Even the families who’d lost loved ones

didn’t want the murderer to die before he’d stood trial, and maybe even

come clean during sentencing.

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Good thing Carl Lee got himself a lawyer, Dakota thought, because

with Gage dead there was no one else to blame and no sweetheart deal

to be cut. Juries wanted someone to pay, especially when kids were

involved. Even if they were queer.

Dakota remembered the briefcase taken into evidence when she

liberated Dr. Barnabas from Isabelle Sanchez. It had been processed

along with his other belongings so it was fair game, and she was

determined to break into it. When she did, she discovered a paper

trail that documented the special services Pioneer offered. It also

provided incriminating details on the parents who’d paid for what was

euphemistically described as “a set-up fee for permanent relocation.”

The language seemed to give them plausible deniability and perhaps

some genuinely believed their unwanted children were going to be

resettled in a far-off city. It was hard to indict parents for a lack of

unconditional love, and it seemed that was all the police would be able

to prove.

Dr. Barnabas had also left the Pioneer office that day with the

Institute’s own statistics, showing their therapies were failing and

worse, that they could cause long term psychological harm. The data

would be enough to permanently shut down Pioneer. When the story

eventually exploded onto the pages of the San Francisco Chronicle,

there would be public outrage. Dakota hoped the outcry would lead to

some changes. No one should be permitted to use aversion therapies on

children within the state of California.

v

Tucker could understand why Yoshi didn’t want to accept the

obvious, that Saya Takahashi had fallen victim to Carl Lee’s murderous

rampage. Even to Tucker, who’d been shut away in Pioneer for most

of the investigation, it was clear that Yoshi had gotten really close

to Aneko. Tucker was a little jealous, but she could admit that their

connection was probably natural, what with Aneko sharing Yoshi’s

cultural heritage. Knowing how disappointed Aneko would be, Yoshi

wouldn’t want to admit that Blind Eye had gone as far as they could.

“I called you all here to reexamine the evidence in the Pioneer

case, with fresh eyes,” Yoshi said. “There are some items that remain

unresolved, that I would like us to address, in case they shed some light

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Blind Faith

on the whereabouts of our missing person, Saya Takahashi, either dead

or alive.”

Bud shook his head. Tucker was familiar with his two theories

about Saya. They both concerned geography. He thought Carl Lee had

discarded her corpse either in the remote East Bay, or somewhere near

the Farralone Islands.

Tucker shrugged in response, mouthing, Humor her. So what if

they had to spend another day shifting through the pieces of the case.

“Tucker, did you have something you wanted to share?”

Holy crap, how did she do that? Had Yoshi heard Tucker’s lips

move? Tucker hung her head and could have sworn Yoshi shot daggers

at her with her piercing blue eyes. She mumbled, “No. Sorry.”

“Fine. One element of this that continues to bother me involves

Erica and Sarah, the two girls who were pushed off the Bolinas cliff.

First, our main suspect, Carl Lee James, continues to insist he had no

involvement in their deaths—”

“But he does admit he was involved in the disappearance of a

dozen Pioneer students,” Tucker said.

“Exactly,” Yoshi continued, giving Tucker a verbal pat on the back.

“And, unlike those students, neither Sarah nor Erica was mentioned in

the paperwork recovered from Barnabas Gage’s briefcase. There’s no

indication that Gage ordered Carl Lee to take care of the girls, as he did

the missing students. Nor is there any sign that funds changed hands in

that case.”

“Who does that leave?” Bud asked.

The Mudd brothers?” Tucker immediately wished she hadn’t

pronounced it as a question. She could tell Yoshi thought she was

expressing self-doubt by raising the pitch of her voice at the end of the

statement. She’d been trying to break that old habit. She wondered if

Yoshi would ever see her as an equal. Sure she wasn’t a full-fledged

PI yet, but Tucker had spent a week undercover and during that time

she’d even risked her life. Again. What would it take to earn Yoshi’s

respect?

“If we were talking about sexual assault, sure.” Bud addressed

Tucker’s suggestion. “But the Mudd boys seemed to have their hands

full wooing those girls they were drinking with. When do you think

they found time to chase another two off a cliff.”

“Maybe they were trying to assault them and the girls ran off,”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Tucker was a little peeved that Bud had dismissed her so quickly, and

that Yoshi seemed to be doing the same thing.

“The evidence doesn’t support that,” Bud said patronizingly.

“What about the broken necklace Carl Lee had?”

“It was Erica’s,” Tucker said.

Yoshi frowned. “And there was nothing on her autopsy to support

signs of a struggle?”

Bud was silent for so long Tucker checked to make sure he hadn’t

fallen asleep. “The Binghams got an injunction, remember?” she

answered Yoshi. “On religious grounds. There was no autopsy.”

“Wait, are you saying there was only a single autopsy report?”

Yoshi directed her annoyance at Bud. “Why am I first learning of this

now?”“We told you when you got back from Marin County, didn’t we?”

Tucker looked at Bud for confirmation. He seemed to be examining

his cuticles. Knowing he hadn’t gone metrosexual, Tucker felt herself

getting angry. “You didn’t tell her, Bud?”

“Apparently you didn’t either, Ms. High and Mighty.”

“I was trapped in that ex-gay prison without a phone. Where were

you? Oh right, you were out on a date with that crazy bigot. No wonder

you forgot everything else.”

Yoshi interrupted. “It does not matter who dropped the ball. Let’s

get back on point, shall we? Please tell me about the medical examiner’s

report.”

She seemed particularly excited, immediately making plans to

enlist official assistance and get that autopsy decision revisited in light

of the Pioneer situation.

“So,” Bud said pointing out the irony. “Even though you just

explained to us why this case is unlike the others, you’re going to

pretend it’s the same so you can convince a judge that Erica’s parents

were not motivated by their faith but a desire to cover up their role in

her untimely death?”

“I believe I will choose different terminology, but yes. This was

not an accident and the person who killed the girls is still out there,

which is why the additional autopsy is essential at this point. I’d also

like you to reinterview the Mudd brothers.”

Bud groaned.

“And now that we have access,” Yoshi continued. “I want to

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Blind Faith

interview all the students on that Bolinas trip. In fact, I’ve already taken

the liberty of inviting each of them, and Aimee Dix, to our office, later

today. Since Budd will have his hands full in Bolinas, Tucker, you will

be interviewing them with me.”

Tucker tried to look enthusiastic. Yoshi’s feelings about Aneko

must be serious, she decided, if she was about to start their investigation

all over again even with Carl Lee James facing death penalty charges.

v

Isabelle slumped into the puffy Starbucks couch and picked up

a copy of Bay Times, less for reading material and more as a shield to

hide behind. Every few moments she shifted in her seat and thought

about just taking off. She’d debated for days about whether to share

her growing suspicions with Tucker, telling herself it was nothing, and

then waking up in the dead of night, certain she’d realized something of

profound importance, something critical to the Blind Eye investigation,

even if it was coming a little late. During one of those moments of

clarity Isabelle had sent a text to Tucker, saying, “We need to talk.”

By the time she’d gotten up the next morning her certainty had

passed and when Tucker called to find out what was wrong she insisted

it was nothing, just some crazy idea that was probably the byproduct of

Pioneer-induced PTSD and insomnia.

Tucker insisted they meet for coffee anyway.

Isabelle reluctantly agreed, not wanting to lose the friendship that

had developed or letting it become just another virtual relationship

playing out in abbreviated chats and text messages. It was funny how

close they’d become. She hadn’t liked Tucker when they first met in

Pioneer and Tucker was pretending to be someone she wasn’t. Isabelle

had sensed a fakeness there she hadn’t trusted. Now, as Tucker sauntered

through the glass doors, she exuded a cocky confidence Isabelle hadn’t

seen during their time in Pioneer. And she had a level of comfort with

her appearance that was absent when she wore skirts.

Isabelle hopped up and stuck out her hand, also thrilled to be free

of the enforced femininity. But unlike Tucker, she wasn’t confident

displaying her leanings toward a more masculine look. Tucker pivoted

her into a hug, and being in her arms felt mostly like Isabelle imagined

it would if they were sisters. Mostly. She was suddenly, excruciatingly

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

aware of the curve of Tucker’s breasts pressing against hers through the

padding of Tucker’s suit jacket and long-sleeved shirt. Isabelle felt her

cheeks burn in embarrassment.

It had been so long since Dom left, Isabelle yearned to be touched.

The feeling had nothing to do with Tucker, and Isabelle’s heart still

belonged to Dom, but that didn’t keep the physical loneliness at bay.

She quickly stepped out of the hug and sat down while Tucker stood

in line to get a drink. Even with the shocking photographs Blind Eye

had uncovered in that freak, Carl Lee’s hotel room, Isabelle refused to

believe Dom was really dead. She was certain she would know in her

soul if Dom was no longer among the living. Until that day, she would

wait for Dom’s return.

“Let me ask you something,” she said when Tucker sat down.

“Shoot,” Tucker said, sipping from her tall cup. She’d chosen the chair

across from Isabelle instead of sharing the couch, as though she’d felt

the electricity between them and wanted to avoid physical contact.

“Did they find photos of Erica and Sarah with the others?”

“No. And Carl Lee still claims he had nothing to do with their

deaths.”

“Strange, isn’t it, the way all the others just disappeared, but Sarah

and Erica didn’t? Doesn’t that mean someone else killed them?”

“Yeah,” Tucker nodded. “It could. That’s obviously bothering

Yoshi too. That’s why she’s still got us on the case.”

“Really?” Isabelle thought the case had been closed when Carl

Lee was arrested. It was really cool Yoshi might be thinking the same

thing she was. Yoshi was a totally amazing woman, running her own

private eye company even though she was blind. Isabelle would love

to work for a woman like that. Tucker was so lucky. “How does Yoshi

plan for you guys to figure it out?”

“Well,” Tucker drawled like she was a Texas Ranger instead of

PI-in-training from Idaho. “Yoshi’s totally making us reinterview all

the witnesses. She even forced Bud to go out and talk with the Mudd

brothers again. I’m glad I missed out on that.”

“Those guys were creeps.” Isabelle shuddered.

“We’re still waiting for the results of the second autopsy,” Tucker

continued. “There’s still a chance it was just some bizarre accident.”

She broke off, as though she’d read something on Isabelle’s face. “What

is it?”

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Blind Faith

“It’s all my fault.”

“What’s all your fault?”

“That Erica and Sarah are dead.”

Tucker gave her a condescending look, but was nice enough to

ask, “What makes you think something stupid like that?”

“Erica was having an affair.”

Tucker nodded. “You told me.”

Isabelle studied at the cracks in the wood floor and wondered if

it was even worth trying to explain her suspicions. She didn’t really

know anything for sure. But Tucker seemed sincerely interested in what

Isabelle had to say. It made her feel good. “I found something.” She

pulled a carefully folded piece of lined paper from her jeans pocket and

passed it to Tucker.

Tucker read a few lines and looked up, eyebrows raised. “Isn’t this

Emily Dickinson?”

“No, it’s Erica’s handwriting. I thought it was for Sarah. You

know, like she couldn’t wait to get out of the program so they could be

together. But what if I’m wrong. At first, I thought she and Sarah were

hitting it, but I’m not so sure now. What if the poem was for someone

else?”“Who else was there?” Tucker asked.

Isabelle hesitated. “Matt Lovelorn.”

“Really?” Tucker looked doubtful. “But Matt’s gay, and so was

Erica.”

“Everyone at Pioneer was there because our parents thought we

were all queer. Just because we all looked queer doesn’t mean we were,

you know? Like, Erica had a dozen piercings, dyed her hair blue, wore

ripped jeans, and liked Sleater-Kinney. Maybe her parents just assumed

she was a dyke.”

Tucker stayed quiet, but she nodded, encouraging Isabelle to go

on. “I know Matt hated being gay. He’d always be the one agreeing

with the terrible things the counselors said about homosexuals, you

know that they were all filthy chicken hawks or mama’s boys. Maybe

he and Erica were trying so hard to be straight they ended up fucking

each other.”

“How does that work?” Tucker grinned. “Is that like when someone

accidentally cheats, you know, like they slipped and fell on a penis?”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“I’m serious, Tucker.” Isabelle wasn’t in the mood for jokes. “You

weren’t at Pioneer as long as I was. You don’t understand how desperate

it got. What you’d do to have someone touch you. How much you want

to feel like someone cares.”

“So, you’re saying it’s kind of like how straight guys go gay in

prison?”

“Yeah, I guess.”

“Okay, but what makes you think it was Matt?”

“That night at the lake when Erica and Sarah disappeared and got

in trouble with Miss Dix, I didn’t tell you everything.”

Tucker’s expression changed. She was suddenly paying closer

attention, staring at Isabelle like she was the only person in the room.

“I talked to Matt that night. He was worried about Erica being out

of her tent, but he refused to believe she was with Sarah. He just kept

saying she wasn’t like that, she wouldn’t do that, and he got mad at me

for suggesting she was. I think he was jealous.” Isabelle hung her head.

“I’m the one who told him they were having an affair. What if he…did

something?”

v

Aimee’s hand shook slightly as she sipped some tea. Looking

around the other women in the Blind Eye office, she said, “I only

wanted those kids to have a better life, to know the love of God, and to

have healthy relationships.”

She never could have imagined how misplaced her faith had

been. Not in God, but in man. In that monster Dr. Barnabas Gage and

his evil disciple, Carl Lee James. In the days since police raided the

Pioneer Institute, Aimee had slept poorly. Each new day seemed to turn

up some other grim truth she hadn’t known of but should have. Why

hadn’t she followed up when kids suddenly disappeared, supposedly

running away or transferring to other schools? How many lives could

she have saved if she’d paid more attention? Her lack of awareness

didn’t soothe her conscience. She still felt culpable.

“I want to do something to help.” She wept softly. “I’m certified to

be a foster parent, but the Department of Human Services says I can’t

take in any of the kids from Pioneer that are going into system.”

“I am not sure I understand why not,” Yoshi said.

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“They say being around me could be a trigger for these kids

who’ve already survived so much. Maybe they’re right.” Aimee didn’t

wipe her eyes. She let the tears run down her cheeks. “But I parented

developmentally disabled kids before I signed on to work for Pioneer

full time. I think I can help.” She didn’t care how terrible she looked.

She felt awful. It took her a moment to catch her breath.

“I’m sorry, Aimee,” Tucker said. “I always felt like you cared about

us, just that you were maybe misguided about the help we needed.”

Aimee nodded. That was how she felt. Misguided. She’d been

so wrong, she could see it now. She had sinned. She was the one who

needed the Lord’s forgiveness. Almighty God had a reason for all of

creation, so He must have something special in mind for His lesbian

and gay children. Jesus had always favored the outcasts of society. If

He walked the earth in these modern days, wouldn’t He befriend gays

and lesbians?

“Decent, God-fearing people can do terrible things in the name of

religion,” Yoshi remarked softly. “They will take questionable actions

when they believe they are doing so for the right reasons, and the ends

justify the means.”

“I thought I was keeping my students from going to hell.” Aimee

wiped her face with a Kleenex. “I didn’t realize that for them, Pioneer

was a hell on earth. I’ve had such a spiritual epiphany.”

Tucker took Aimee’s hand. “You were brave. Once you realized

what was happening, you did the right thing.”

“I wish there was more I could do.” Aimee sighed. “I worry about

the kids from Pioneer whose parents wanted them to disappear. They

deserve so much more. And Isabelle…she hates the place where she’s

staying, and I’d like to help, to give her the home she deserves.”

“I have friends at DHS,” Yoshi said. “Why don’t I speak with

them on your behalf?”

“Oh, Yoshi, would you really? That would mean the world to me.

Thank you so much…for everything.”

• 209 •

• 210 •

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chapter nineteen

Are you busy?” Tucker asked in her familiar staccato.

Yoshi waved at the chair opposite her substantial desk,

whose smooth cherry desktop Yoshi kept clear of clutter, leaving only

her slim black phone, iMac computer and carefully arranged, low

profile brunette platters. She did not like to be overwhelmed by clutter.

Leather squeaked under her legs as she shifted forward in her executive

chair. “Is it here?”

“One autopsy report on Erica Bingham coming right up,” Tucker

announced.

Yoshi heard her settle into her seat, open the manila envelope, and

remove the report. She was delighted that Tucker did not start reading

verbatim, from top to bottom, as she’d done so many times in the past.

She was certainly maturing as an employee. Tucker was silent for a

few moments, scanning the pages for important information. When she

inhaled sharply, Yoshi knew she’d found it.

“OMG!” Tucker exclaimed, immediately calling into question

Yoshi’s assessment of her maturity. Yoshi found these teen-culture

texting abbreviations annoying enough in their natural environment.

She was absolutely appalled that they had started to infiltrate mainstream

culture, including, for God’s sake, television news programs. What was

this world coming to?

“No way.” Tucker whistled.

“Please, do tell,” Yoshi prompted.

“Erica was preggers.”

Yoshi was certain her jaw actually dropped. “Excuse me?”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“Knocked up, had a bun in the oven, expecting, pregnant.” Tucker

ticked off euphemisms as though they could make the astonishing news

mundane.

This changed everything, Yoshi thought. Blind Eye would have to

completely reevaluate their victimology. “How far along was she?”

“Fetal development puts it around five weeks,” Tucker reported.

“So,” Yoshi mused, “she might not even have been aware she was

pregnant.”

“I guess Isabelle was right,” Tucker said.

“Isabelle knew she was expecting a child?”

“No, but she told me Erica and Matt had been kicking it. I didn’t

believe her, but now—”

“What reason did she have to believe the two were involved?”

Yoshi asked.

“She talked with Matt Lovelorn. She was telling me about it the

other day when we met for coffee.” Tucker’s inflection rose, but it had

been at least three days, maybe more since she’d last ended a sentence

inappropriately. She was maturing, at least in certain areas.

Pleased, Yoshi, asked, “What was the nature of their

conversation?”

“Matt got all pissed when he found out that Sarah and Erica

weren’t in their tents. Isabelle told him what they were doing, but he

kept saying Erica wasn’t like that. She wouldn’t do that to him.”

“It sounds like there was an attachment,” Yoshi said. “Does the

report indicate if they were able to obtain a DNA sample from the

fetus?“Yeah, it’s gone to the lab for comparison. This is turning into

a Jerry Springer episode. Can we get DNA samples from a bunch of

potential baby daddies and then strap them down to lie detectors?”

Yoshi ignored Tucker’s dry wit. “There should be sufficient

evidence to compel samples from the male staff and students at Pioneer

for comparison.”

Erica had been confined in Pioneer far longer than she’d been

pregnant, so the child’s father must have been at the school with her.

Was Isabelle correct in her convictions about Matt? Or was the father

one of the other students? Or Carl Lee? Barnabas Gage?

Yoshi had never suspected Erica was with child when she died. But

she had also never been convinced that Carl Lee murdered Erica and

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Sarah. Their deaths didn’t fit his pattern and Erica’s pregnancy was just

one more element that set the two girls’ deaths apart from the string of

students whose disappearances Carl Lee had admitted orchestrating.

Yoshi thanked Tucker for her time, and she waited until the young

woman closed the door behind her before picking up the phone and

dialing Officer Dakota Manning. A brief conversation provided her

with the answers she’d hoped for. Manning’s department had indeed

gathered DNA swabs from all of the Pioneer students, counselors,

and staff. Budget cuts and caseloads being what they were, the DNA

samples were not considered high priority, especially with Carl Lee in

jail. Yoshi spent the next few hours on the phone attempting to push

the samples onto a faster track. These days civilians, nourished on TV

crime scene investigations, believed DNA samples took minutes, or

merely seconds to run. In reality, the backlog in California crime labs

was often months or even years behind.

So, Yoshi was delighted when her hard work elicited responses

within days. First Detective Ari Fleishman told her a lab technician

had been able to extract DNA from skin cells caught in the clasp of

the necklace recovered from Carl Lee’s room. The lab had that DNA

fingerprint waiting to be compared to a swab from Carl Lee’s mouth.

Thanks to Yoshi’s initiative, that comparison would be made sooner

than later.

She wondered if that information would ever make it to the

inside of a courtroom. After all, they’d been unable to even establish

conclusively that necklace had belonged to Erica in the first place, and

it had changed hands many times since Carl Lee supposedly found it on

the ocean cliff top. There was no chain of evidence, and they only had

Aimee Dix’s word that she’d found it in Carl Lee’s room.

Soon after her call with Ari, Yoshi heard from Officer Dakota

Manning, who’d arranged tests for paternity of Erica’s unborn child.

That was the good news. The bad news was that they were only willing

to run one DNA profile at a time. Contending that the most likely

contributor of paternal DNA was Carl Lee, the chief had decided to run

his sample first. Only if there failed to be a match would the lab run

other profiles against that of the fetus, slowly working down the list of

Pioneer’s males to locate the father.

Yoshi was disappointed. She had hoped to have the evidence to

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

confirm her suspicions before she talked to Matt Lovelorn. On the other

hand, even sworn officers of the law were allowed to lie to a suspect.

She could claim to have evidence that was not in her possession. And

doing so might just loosen the one tongue that mattered.

v

Matt Lovelorn looked as preppy as an Abercrombie and Fitch

model, in jeans and a button-down shirt. As he sat down, his gaze stayed

fixed on Yoshi, as if there were magnets in his irises.

“I’ll leave you to it then,” Dakota Manning told Yoshi and Tucker.

“I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

Matt Lovelorn’s parents were not among those who’d paid Dr.

Barnabas to get rid of their child. They were out of town and had arranged

for their son to join them once the police had finished interviewing him.

They hadn’t sent in a lawyer. As far as they knew, their son was one

of many witnesses needed to provide the evidence that would convict

Carl Lee James.

After the door closed behind Dakota, Yoshi remained silent. Tucker

was struck with the urge to giggle, to break the tension. Knowing full

well that Yoshi was building it on purpose, she bit her lip. She was

privileged to be there at all, in the room during a suspect interview, and

she didn’t want to blow it.

“What’s going on?” Matt broke the silence. “The cop wouldn’t tell

me anything.”

“We would like to talk about the night Erica and Sarah were

killed,” Yoshi said.

Tucker studied Matt’s face. She saw his eyelids lower like a limbo

bar. “I already told the cops, I don’t know shit about what happened.”

“Before we go any further, I want to make sure you understand

your rights.” Yoshi said. “You have the right to an attorney—”

“What’s going on? Am I under arrest? I thought it was an

accident.”

Yoshi shook her head. “No, you didn’t.”

“What?” He sounded perplexed.

Yoshi repeated the Miranda instructions. When she finished she

asked, “Did you understand those rights?”

“Yes.”

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“All right then. You certainly do not need to speak with us, but we

wanted to give you the chance to clarify a few things. Would you like

to proceed or would you prefer to wait for an attorney?”

“What kind of things? I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Now, Matthew,” Yoshi scolded. “That is not entirely true. You

forgot to mention some very important details. We know what really

happened and we would like to give you this opportunity to tell us your

side of the story. If there were extenuating circumstances, a judge might

be lenient.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His voice wavered.

“Look dude,” Tucker said, “we already know about Erica.”

“You mean Erica and Sarah?”

“Does this mean you’re waiving your rights and will talk with

us?” Tucker asked.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, yes.” Matt was almost patronizing now.

“Matthew, the police already know you had sexual relations with

Erica. That is why we are here, speaking with you again. Your earlier

statements are inconsistent.”

He was quiet for a moment and then said confidently, “You’re

bluffing. There’s no way they could know that.”

“You left your DNA inside her,” Tucker said.

His eyes narrowed as he considered her statement. He shook his

head. “I don’t think so.”

“I am not certain if you are aware of this,” Yoshi said calmly. “A

judge recently ordered that Erica’s body be exhumed. They were able

to perform a complete autopsy.”

Matt finally looked a little less confident, perhaps even nauseous.

“I don’t think she told him,” Tucker lowered her voice, confiding

in Yoshi

“I believe you are correct,” Yoshi affirmed.

“Maybe they weren’t as close as he thought,” Tucker said.

“What are you talking about?” Matt demanded.

“Erica was pregnant,” Tucker said.

His face fell. “No.” He said it repeatedly, slowly and softly, all the

while examining their faces for any trace of deceit.

“So, you see, we have proof that you two had intercourse at least

once,” Yoshi said.

“It was mine?”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Tucker assumed his question was just a way of coming to grips

with reality rather than questioning Erica’s faithfulness.

“Yes.” Yoshi answered confidently, although they didn’t have

confirmation yet. Matt began to cry. The tears seemed to transform him

from coldhearted killer to lost and lonely little boy. “Why didn’t she

tell me?”

“Maybe she didn’t know,” Tucker said. “She wasn’t that far

along.”

“I thought she loved me.” He moaned, sobbing now. “I loved her.”

Tucker put her arm around him and let him cry on her shoulder

for a few seconds before holding him at arms length. She noticed then

that the middle button on his shirt was slightly different from the others,

chalk white instead of eggshell, and the stitching that held it in place

didn’t match the traditional x-shaped crisscross pattern securing the

others.“If you loved her,” Yoshi asked, “why did you kill her?”

Matt flinched, jerking away from Tucker in an almost violent

manner. “I told you. I didn’t. I could never hurt Erica!”

Yoshi clearly didn’t believe him. “So you just left her there at

the bottom of the cliff? Do you know what she looked like when her

parents had to identify her? Do you know how difficult that was for

them?”

“Did you think the ocean would carry her and Sarah away?”

Tucker asked.

“Was that what you intended?” Yoshi demanded. “Did you expect

the waves to do your dirty work for you? Because, believe me, they did

no such thing.”

She shook the contents of a manila envelope onto the table,

scattering the disturbingly stylish crime scene photos in front of him.

Matt tried not to look. He shifted in his seat, turning his body

away, but he couldn’t seem to keep his eyes from straying back to

images of death.

Yoshi continued. “Their bodies lay there while the flies landed and

maggots hatched. Pelicans and crabs haggled over their flesh.”

Matt gagged. He rushed toward the garbage can.

“And their bodies started to putrefy…”

“That’s enough,” Tucker interjected.

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Blind Faith

“They were rotting from the inside, bloated and swollen from the

gasses a decaying body produces.”

Matt clutched the side of the garbage can while he covered one

ear. His rocking was punctuated by a singsong voice pleading, “Shut

up, shut up.”

Tucker swept the glossy photos into a pile.

There was a knock on the door and Dakota Manning stuck her

head in. “I have something for Yoshi.”

Yoshi followed Dakota into the observation room. She could still

hear Matt crying through the speakers. This was where Dakota had

been, observing and taping the interview session.

“How are we doing?” Yoshi asked.

“Looks like you’re doing great. Sorry to pull you out right before

he cracks, but I have some info you’ll want.”

“I meant, procedurally,” Yoshi said.

She and Tucker were far from deputized, but a judge could rule

that, by using the police facilities, they were acting as agents of the

law, which meant they needed to comply with the same rules that

constrained peace officers. To illicit a confession, they would have to

step very carefully. In addition to Dakota, another detective had been

observing the entire time. Dakota introduced Yoshi to Detective Smith.

“We got back the DNA results on those skin cells we pulled from the

necklace,” Dakota said.

“It’s Lovelorn.”

“Detective Smith is chomping at the bit to take a shot at the kid,

but he’s agreed to give you another fifteen minutes to see if you can

crack him. Fair enough?”

“That is very generous, sir,” Yoshi offered her hand, which was

engulfed in one twice the size of her own and pumped vigorously.

Smith handed her a can of soda for Matt.

Yoshi could hear the boy sniffling in the corner when she returned.

Allowing Tucker to offer the soda, she waited for a minute or two before

asking, “Matt, have you ever worn a necklace?”

“Nooo,” he drew out the word to emphasize the laughable nature

of her query.

Yoshi held back her smile. “Did you ever give Erica jewelry, as a

gift?”

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“How the hell could I? It’s not like Pioneer let me go shopping on

the weekends.”

“Right, of course,” Yoshi said as though she had not thought her

questions through. “So, just to clarify, there is no reason at all why your

skin cells would be caught in the clasp of a girl’s necklace?”

“I’m not some kind of drag queen if that’s what you mean.”

“Really think about it,” Tucker insisted, playing the good cop,

trying to find an excusable reason why Matt’s DNA migrated to the

necklace. “You and Erica were having sex, right? Maybe you—”

“Wrapped your hands around her neck?” Yoshi interrupted.

“That’s not what I meant,” Tucker retorted. “He could have helped

her put it on, or gotten her hair untangled from it, or—”

“Listen Tucker,” Yoshi gave an exaggerated sigh. “I know you

bonded with Matt over your shared experience at Pioneer. But we are

talking about a cold-blooded killer who pushed two girls, one of whom

he claims he loved, over a cliff and then covered it up.”

“I had nothing to do with that!” Matt yelled.

“That’s very hard to believe.” Yoshi laid everything out for him.

“Witnesses saw someone leave the boys camp that night. You were

involved with Erica and had fathered a child with her that you probably

did not want. Tests prove your DNA was on her necklace. It got there

because you yanked it from her neck.”

“No, no. I swear, I didn’t know about the baby, honest.”

“I know you didn’t,” Tucker said. “That’s why you have to come

clean about everything, Matt. What happened that night?”

Finally, Matt relented, offering up a version of the night’s events

that kept him from looking bad. It started with the Mudd brothers

coming into the boys’ camp with beer and pot. Matt went over to the

girls’ camp, worried for Erica’s safety. She and Sarah weren’t there.

Matt said he returned to the boys camp just about the time Carl Lee

and Miss Dix came and broke up the party. He retired to his tent, but

couldn’t sleep and finally went out again searching on the outskirts of

the camp. That was when he heard Erica calling for help.

It took him forever to find her. Finally he found her flashlight on

the ground and, looking over the cliff, discovered Erica had fallen part

of the way down, landing on a thin rock outcrop. Lying down he could

just reach her. She said she and Sarah had gotten lost and stepped off

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Blind Faith

the cliff. Sarah had fallen all the way down but Erica had fallen onto

this ledge.

Matt said he wanted to go for help but Erica begged him not to

leave her alone. So he was helping her up, and he’d gotten her pulled up

most of the way when he lost his grip and she slipped away from him.

He grabbed at anything, caught her necklace, which broke. And she

fell all the way to the bottom. She wasn’t moving and he knew she was

dead. He was so overcome with grief, it was like he just blocked it out,

pretended it didn’t happen. But, the guilt had been eating away at him

all this time and he was relieved to finally get it off his chest.

Tucker had not made a sound during Matt’s story. When she spoke

now, her voice cracked. “Oh, my God, how awful.”

Yoshi, certain Matt’s story was a load of rubbish, did not express

similar sentiments. She wondered how she was going to bring Tucker

to the same conclusion. They probably did not have much longer before

Detective Smith took over the interrogation.

“Wait a minute,” Tucker said, clearly mulling over Matt’s narrative.

“If you were at the top of the cliff how did you see all the way down to

the bottom well enough to know they’d been killed from the fall?”

“I shined my flashlight down there.”

Yoshi was certain the claim would not stand up to scientific

inquiry.

“I don’t know,” Tucker said. “I think I’d have gone down there to

see if there was any hope.”

“How could I? There wasn’t any way down.”

“What were they doing out there anyway?” Tucker mused. “I

mean, couldn’t they hear the surf?”

“I guess they were distracted,” Matt said.

“Oh, right. You thought they were sneaking off to do it.”

“What? No.”

“Sure you did. Isabelle told me. She thought you were jealous.”

From Tucker’s voice, Yoshi thought the budding detective was reaching

her own level of skepticism. Perhaps all was not lost.

“Is that why you pushed them over the edge?” Yoshi asked. “Did

you catch them in flagrante?”

“No. I told you what happened.”

“Oh, my God,” Tucker gasped. “It didn’t happen that way at all,

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

did it? You really are a killer.” Something had changed in Tucker’s

voice. She sounded mortified. ““Remember the stuff we collected on

the cliff? We found a button.”

Dakota Manning entered the room with Detective Smith, who

instructed Matt, “Take it off.”

Yoshi heard the sound of clothes pulled off, then the distinct click

of a handcuff snapping around wrists. She liked that the Freemont folks

were so responsive. It all happened very quickly. Dakota disappeared,

presumably taking the shirt into custody, while Detective Smith pulled

up a seat and joined Yoshi and Tucker around the table.

“What the hell’s going on?” Matt demanded.

“Go ahead,” Detective Smith encouraged Tucker.

“You went after Erica and Sarah to confront them, because you

thought they were having an affair,” Tucker elaborated. “There was

a struggle, and you tore off Erica’s necklace. One of the girls fought

back. She grabbed a hold of you and yanked your shirt. Maybe she

was just trying to regain her balance but her grip popped one of your

buttons right off. You sewed a new button back on differently than the

manufacturer. It wasn’t overwhelming grief that kept you from going

for help, it was the fact that what you’d done was on purpose.”

“I loved Erica,” Matt threw back at her. “We could have had a

normal happy life but she chose to sin, she chose to betray me. God

punished them.”

“Bullshit,” Tucker spat. “Take responsibility for your own

actions.”

Matt insisted he just wanted to confront his girlfriend about the

rumors that she and Sarah were having sex. Erica kept lying, she kept

saying they were just friends. He got mad and shoved her. She fell

and he grabbed for her and accidentally got a hold of the necklace. It

broke and she fell backward over the cliff. Sarah dove after her, trying

to save her from falling, but instead they both went over. He couldn’t

do anything, but he’d never meant for it to happen. It was a terrible

accident. He tried to throw the necklace over the cliff after them, but it

didn’t go far enough and got lost in the weeds.

The team was silent a moment, then Yoshi said, “Matthew, Erica

was not having a sexual relationship with Sarah. They were just friends.

They were not having an affair and Erica was not cheating on you. She

really was just out for a smoke.”

Matt began to sob, this time sincerely, inconsolably.

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chapter twenty

With a suspected serial killer in the Fremont detention center,

the security was intense. As a high-risk prisoner, Carl Lee

was only allowed visitation by members of his legal team. Like most

public defenders, Carl Lee’s lawyer was young and inexperienced. With

all the charges stacked up against his client he’d encouraged him to take

a plea bargain. The man refused. Instead, he’d demanded his lawyer

reach out to the Blind Eye Detective Agency, somehow, convincing

him that, despite appearances to the contrary, the PI firm was critical

to his defense.

Yoshi relayed this information to Bud after assigning him to visit

Carl Lee at the jail where he was being held pending trial. He hadn’t

outright refused, but he’d sure raised a stink about it. Why the hell

should he meet with some mass-murdering freak who’d kidnapped

Tucker and locked her in his trunk? How could Yoshi expect him to act

civil to a man he wanted to beat the crap out of?

In lieu of a direct response Yoshi reminded him that they had

been hired by Aneko to locate her sister, Saya, which they still had not

succeeded in doing. His job was to hear Carl Lee out, figure out what

his game was, and do all he could to ascertain where Saya was.

Fremont’s jail butted up against the Central Park. From the right

angle, visitors could convince themselves that they were somewhere

remote, like Montana, instead of in the San Francisco Bay Area. Carl

Lee’s public defender met Bud in the parking lot. He looked to be about

fourteen and told Bud he’d never tried a capital case before. They’d

have to pretend Bud was part of the legal defense team to get him in to

meet with Carl Lee. Bud almost felt sorry for the suspected killer. Poor

bastard didn’t have a chance with a putz like this defending him.

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diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“Calm down,” Bud said as they headed for security. “It’s common

for defense attorneys to hire PIs. Haven’t you ever seen Perry Mason

reruns?” The kid’s blank face said it all. “Just don’t say anything, okay?

I’ll introduce myself.”

As he’d expected, Bud had no problem getting through the security.

He had to present his credentials, but no one put two and two together

and came up with anything unusual. He and the public defender were led

to the only room in the station where eavesdropping devices were not

allowed. The lawyer opened his briefcase and laid some file folders on

the table while they waited in silence for the guard to bring Carl Lee.

He shuffled in wearing an orange jailhouse jumpsuit and shackles

around his ankles. He slumped into a chair and didn’t move while the

guard secured him to the chair, the table, and the floor.

Carl Lee didn’t speak until the guard left and locked the door from

the outside. “I was expecting Yoshi Yakamota to be an Asian American

woman,” he joked. “Not this crazy son of a bitch who nearly killed

me.” Bud shrugged. “I’d be happy to leave. I don’t want to be here

anyway.”

“Please stay. I’m happy to see you in different circumstances.”

“The circumstances haven’t changed for me.” Bud wasn’t about to

forget what this bastard might have done to Tucker if he hadn’t saved

her when he did.

“Fair enough.” Carl Lee waited until Bud had settled at the table

before continuing. “I asked you here today because I want to hire the

Blind Eye Detective Agency to clear my name.”

“What?” Bud burst out laughing. He addressed the defense

attorney. “I don’t want to tell you how to defend your client, but—”

“I’m asking, not him,” Carl Lee clarified.

“You do realize that we’ve played a rather substantial role in

gathering the evidence that is being used to prosecute you, right?”

Bud asked. “Don’t you think this is kind of a conflict of interest, or

something?”

“I’m not stupid,” Carl Lee insisted, although Bud was beginning

to wonder how the guy could have hidden his crimes for so long if this

was how he did things. “I realize your company got involved because

you were hired to look for someone, right?”

“Right.” Bud allowed. “Saya Takahashi. You want to tell me

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where she is? I’d love to provide some kind of closure for her loved

ones. Maybe if you led investigators to wherever you hid the bodies,

you could try for clemency.”

“There are so many things wrong with that statement I don’t know

where to begin,” Carl Lee said.

Bud could feel the heat rising from the collar of his business shirt

at the arrogance of the man. “Let’s begin with Saya Takahashi. Where’d

you hide her?”

“I don’t know where she is. That’s how it works. Each player only

knows one other link, so if someone gets compromised we don’t take

down the whole operation.”

“What the hell are you babbling about?”

“The underground railroad.”

“Are you shitting me? What the fuck is this?” Bud glared at the

defense attorney. “This some kind of joke? You trying to establish

groundwork for an insanity plea? Because it ain’t gonna happen.”

“I didn’t kill anyone, I swear,” Carl Lee repeated. “I was saving

them.”“Saving them? From what?”

“Dr. Barnabas. Their parents. People willing to kill these kids

because of their gender or sexuality. Look,” Carl Lee sighed. “I can see

you don’t believe me. But I swear I can help you find Saya. Isn’t that

worth a few phone calls?”

Bud agreed to take the offer back to Yoshi, but beforehand he

wanted to know, “Are you sticking with this underground railroad shit?

You do know that’s something from like the slave days, right?”

“This is not the same thing. There are active railroads today for

battered women. I’ve given my lawyer two contacts for you. Please

don’t make up your mind before you talk with them.”

Bud made no such promises, but when they were in the parking

lot, he allowed the attorney to press a folded scrap of paper into his

hand. He read it in the Impala. Brian Yves at Theatre Rhinoceros, and

Reverend Lea Brooks, San Francisco MCC. Carl Lee’s code name was

Rainbow Caboose.

Could there be a gayer code name? There was no way in hell Bud

was going to whisper, “Rainbow Caboose,” even if it was the secret

code to a bank vault. And he didn’t want his ass near any of those

rainbow flag waving, hopped-up-on-marriage-rights caboose pirates.

• 223 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

v

The Kanbar Performing Arts Center was home of the San Francisco

Girls Chorus, and the location where the Metropolitan Community

Church held its services. While questing for an online map, Tucker had

learned that the six-story, Hayes Valley building on Page Street was

built in 1912 as the New Druid Temple. She had imagined Stonehenge

boulders circling church pews, and ivy climbing rock walls. The real

building was nothing like the one she’d imagined. There were no spire-

topped temples, bell towers, or hypnotic chants.

In one of Kanbar’s high-ceilinged ceremonial spaces, Reverend

Lea Brooks was booked solid with gay and lesbian wedding ceremonies.

Tucker’s research had revealed that the woman came from a Baptist

background, had served overseas in the military for nearly a decade

before going through seminary training, then worked as program

director of Marin County’s Spectrum Center for Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual,

and Transgender Concerns.

Unlike a good wedding crasher, who’d dive right in pretending

they knew everyone else and using the opportunity to meet available

women, Tucker skulked in the back of the room, trying to hide behind

the plants without blocking the processional. It struck her as ironic that

just as the CA supreme court overturned the ban on same sex marriages,

her first real relationship was breaking up. She wondered whether

Velvet would also see the funny side. Probably not.

After the two brides said I do, Tucker stalked Reverend Lea

Brooks to the bathroom and waited until she came out of the stall, ran

her fingers through her short dark hair, and cleaned her glasses on the

arm of her white robe. A thick silver men’s watch was cinched around

her wrist. Tucker hadn’t thought about the fact even the MCC church

leadership might be gay.

Another woman washed her hands and exited the lavatory, leaving

them alone for a moment. Tucker took the opportunity. “Excuse me,”

she said. “Have you ever heard of a rainbow caboose?”

The Reverend chuckled. “It sounds like the end of a gay train,

where the party’s held. I’ve got a few minutes before the next wedding,

would you like to come to my office and talk for a minute?”

• 224 •

Blind Faith

“Yes, of course.” Tucker followed Reverend Brooks to a small

office and sat down.

“Now, how can I help you?” Lea Brooks asked.

Tucker introduced herself and told her about Blind Eye’s case

seeking Saya and how that search led her to Pioneer, exposed the

disappearance of dozens of students and the arrest of Carl Lee, who’d

been accused of being a serial killer.

“That sounds like a very difficult situation, putting yourself in a

place like the Pioneer Institute. You’re a very brave young woman.”

Tucker blushed.

“I’m still not sure how I can be of assistance.”

“I know it’s crazy,” Tucker said, “But this guy, Carl Lee, hired

Blind Eye to find these kids, and he said you might know something,

and to mention the rainbow caboose.”

“Well I think I’ll have to give that some thought. Can I get back

to you?”

“Of course,” Tucker handed her a Blind Eye business card. She

wrote her name on the back and the number to the cell phone Yoshi

assigned her for work purposes.

Glancing at her watch the Reverend noted that she needed to meet

with the next couple. “You know,” she said, “here at MCC we’ve been

performing gay marriage ceremonies since 1971, but it’s so delightful

that we can now do so with legally sanctioned unions.” As they walked

out, Lea Brooks asked, “What was it that made you lose your faith?”

Tucker gaped at her.

She smiled. “I’m told I have a knack for spotting lapsed Christians.

So many of us in the queer community have been victims of religion-

based oppression. I find this so tragic because our people are spiritually

gifted in their expressions of gender and sexuality. Don’t turn your back

on God, Tucker Shade. Don’t hold Jesus responsible for those who’ve

failed to embrace his teachings.”

v

Later that evening Yoshi and Aneko were back stage at Theatre

Rhinoceros, in San Francisco’s Mission District. They were waiting to

connect with Brian Yves, who Yoshi had learned was a stage makeup

• 225 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

designer. Brian was a tall African American with a Frenchman’s name

and the feminine features and high voice of a woman.

When Yoshi explained who she was and why she wanted to speak

with him, he shifted nervously and kept scanning the theater. “I assure

you, I don’t know anything.”

Aneko was afraid that would be it, and this one chance that Saya

was alive would die right here. She couldn’t stop herself from butting

in. “Please,” she begged, “I need to know what happened to my little

sister.”

“I heard Carl Lee James was in jail for killing a bunch of kids.”

Brian didn’t sound as though the information had come as a shock.

Aneko felt her stomach clench. Could that all be true after all? Had Carl

Lee sent them on a goose chase, just to dick with them?

“Did you assist Mr. James in altering those students’ appearances?”

Yoshi asked.

He shook his head.

“We are not law enforcement officers,” Yoshi assured him. “We

have no interest in seeing you prosecuted for anything, but if we cannot

uncover what occurred we may have to turn everything over to the

police.”

“Okay, but not here.” He jerked his head toward the emergency

exit. Aneko took Yoshi’s hand and tugged to indicate the direction they

were walking.

Once outside Brian lit a cigarette, sucked in a deep breath and

exhaled smoke. “I should’ve known it wouldn’t end with the photos.”

“The photos?” Aneko asked.

“Carl knew a friend of mine from prison. A few years ago, he

got in touch with me saying Carl was looking for a make-up artist for

this special photography project he was doing. He wanted to know if I

could do some horror work, blood and guts stuff. I had access to some

great material through Kryolan so I agreed to help him. I had no idea it

would become a regular thing, I swear. I thought the models looked a

little young, but he had release forms that they all signed, saying they

were eighteen.”

“Let me guess,” Yoshi interjected. “You never asked to see

identification.”

He shook his head. “Look, I didn’t want to know what went on

• 226 •

Blind Faith

after they left the studio. Now I guess we all know what I was refusing

to notice. I have to wonder, if I’d come forward, maybe—”

“Walk us through a typical photo session,” Yoshi encouraged.

“Basically he’d show up with one or two of these teenagers,

mostly girls at first, and I’d make them up so they looked like they’d

been murdered. Shot, beaten to death, you know. We tried different

things, but by the end we’d pretty much got into a groove, replicating

a nine millimeter to the forehead. Meant we didn’t do some of the fun

bruising patterns and high velocity splatter we did back in the day, but

still it worked.”

“Now I understand,” Yoshi said. She briefly described a couple of

the scenes she recalled from the photographs.

“Yes.” Brian nodded. “That sounds about right. Is that some kind

of crime? Making people look like they’re dead? I mean, is that some

kind of snuff porn or something?”

“Not based on what we uncovered. Was there sex involved?”

“No. Absolutely not.” Brian was adamant. Then he hedged. “I

mean, not while I was around. I don’t know what happened when they

left here.”

“So,” Aneko had found her voice but it was cracking, “they left

your studio made up that way? Like corpses?”

“Yeah, I know. Sick, huh? You don’t think he’s some sort of

necrophiliac who gets turned on by pretending his playmates are dead,

do you?”

Was that possible? Had Carl Lee made Saya and the other kids look

like they were dead in order to explore his own perversions? If so, what

had he done with them afterward? Killed them for real? A sociopathic

serial killer might just get a thrill out of setting up this elaborate farce,

blurring the lines of what was real and what was fake. Was that who

Carl Lee really was. And was Saya dead after all?

It was not until they had left the theater and were heading back

to Aneko’s home that Yoshi revealed her fears. “We may have single-

handedly destroyed the prosecution’s case against Carl Lee. Without

bodies or significant bodily fluids, the primary evidence of murder was

the photographs we found in his home. Now we’ve just uncovered

testimony that those photographs were faked.”

There was reasonable doubt, right there. Doubt that there even

were murders, let alone that Carl Lee committed them.

• 227 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

She’d viewed the photographs as a serial killer’s trophies. They

might have been trophies, all right, but if Carl Lee had photographed

his victims looking dead when they were still alive, how would anyone

be able to prove which of his images depicted a victim he had killed?

With Brian Yves’s testimony, no matter how reluctant it was, they would

never know and a judge would throw out every photo.

• 228 •

Blind Faith

chapter twenty-one

Tucker couldn’t get the Reverend’s words out of her head. At

odd times during the next few days she’d hear Don’t turn your

back on God, and wonder if that was what she’d done. When she was a

child she’d been a true believer. Rev. Brooks asked her what had taken

her faith away. It was the suffering her brother and sister went through.

She’d started to wonder what kind of god caused such pain and anguish

to innocent children. She’d done everything she was supposed to do

and prayed every night for an end to Hunter and Anastasia’s pain, but

her prayers were never answered.

So, yeah, she’d turned her back on this idea of a benevolent

Caucasian Godfather who granted favors if you asked him the right

way and didn’t piss him off by forgetting to cross yourself. But she

hadn’t really been able to shake her faith in some sort of creator. It

was just much more anamorphous now. She pulled little elements she

liked from different cultures and cobbled them together into a working

spirituality that encompassed karma and reincarnation and excluded

Heaven and Hell and the devil. Her image of the creator was no longer

specific to one religious faith and wasn’t male. She believed patriarchal

religion probably stemmed from men’s insecurities over the size of

their penis and the fact that they couldn’t bear children and thus held

less biological power.

Tucker had no idea why anyone would want to be a man. What was

her friend AJ Jackson thinking? A full-blown transition to maleness?

Ick. Why would anyone choose that? Maybe AJ would come back

from New Orleans having changed her mind. They would know soon

enough.

• 229 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Tucker’s cell phone vibrated in her pocket, making her jump. She

wondered who could be calling her and why they hadn’t used the Blind

Eye landline. Yoshi was in the other room, in her office and Bud hated

cell phones, so he preferred to call her on the office phone when he

needed to communicate. It wasn’t like he’d just call up to chat.

Tucker flipped the lid. There was a new text message. It said: Re:

Rainbow Caboose. Can u meet 2nite?

“Oh, my God, Yoshi. This is it!” Tucker jumped up from her chair,

tripped over the electric cords in her excitement and nose-dived into the

file cabinet.

They’d decided it would be best for Bud do the meet, even though

it had been Tucker who was initially contacted. Yoshi insisted Tucker

send a text to say Bud would be replacing her at the meet. The unknown

messenger replied that the switch would be acceptable, but Bud must

bring along one Isabelle Sanchez. The text was clear: If Izzy ever wants

to see Dominique Marxley alive, follow the instructions exactly.

As Bud waited in the Impala with Isabelle, he fingered the butt

of his Beretta , feeling the cold alloy and hoping he would not need to

draw the weapon. The person orchestrating the meet was smart. They’d

chosen a location difficult to get to. There was only one road in and

nowhere to hide without being noticed.

Still, it was nice to know that Yoshi and Tucker were keeping

an eye on him from afar. They’d rigged the cell phone to transmit a

duplicate of any message received, so they got the same directions as

Bud did and could follow along through the maze of San Francisco’s

sprawling Presidio. A cautious man, Bud was apprehensive about the

meeting location, pinned in as it was by water on three sides. Fort Point

occupied the very last tip of San Francisco ground and lay in the shadow

of the Golden Gate Bridge. Passing high above them, evening motorists

on their way to and from Marin were unaware of the drama playing out

below. Bud thought about the bridge and hoped a jumper wouldn’t pick

this moment to do a swan dive onto his precious Impala.

The cell phone beeped again, making Isabelle jump and indicating

a new message. The girl was handling the pressure of the evening

fairly well, considering no one was really sure what to expect and why

her presence had been requested. Fortunately for Bud’s ears, Isabelle

responded to anxiety by growing quieter. She hadn’t spoken since

they’d arrived in the park.

• 230 •

Blind Faith

“It says, ‘unlock the back doors,’” She finally told him, reading

the latest message. “Creepy. What should we do?”

In response, Bud reached around and pulled the golfing tee-shaped

lock up to release it.

“Okay.” Isabelle followed suit and messaged their compliance.

Bud sat as still as he could while his right hand swung into action,

unclipping his gun case and withdrawing the Berretta. He flicked off

the safety, turned the pistol upside down and stuffed it between his

thigh and the seatbelt.

As if on cue, the door behind him swung open and a hooded figure

slid into the backseat, gruffly demanding, “Don’t turn around. Drive.”

Bud started the car, then returned his right hand to the gun and

steered with the left. His eyes had adjusted to the dark, and he’d already

tilted the rearview mirror for a look at their guest. He couldn’t make

out anything but medium body build and the hooded sweatshirt pulled

down over the face.

After they’d driven for a few minutes, the figure in the back

ordered, “Pull over.” They were facing the golf course, but at this time

of night it was a sea of darkness. “Keep staring straight ahead, Pops,

and no one gets hurt.”

“You asked for the meeting,” Bud said. “What do you want?”

“Keep your trap shut unless I say. Besides, it was you all who’ve

been pushing this thing. Turn off the car and hand me the keys.”

Bud did as he was told.

“Isabelle, step outside with me.”

Isabelle had her hand on the door latch when Bud stopped her.

“No. She’s not going anywhere alone.”

“This isn’t about you, Pops.”

“We’re looking for Saya Takahashi. If you have information about

her, we’d love to hear it. But I’m not putting Isabelle at risk.”

There was silence. Bud slid his hand back to the pistol. Things

could go bad quickly.

“Fine.” A light flashed on, illuminating the backseat. Isabelle

gasped. The girl in the back was still a teenager, a dark haired girl with

a short bob.

“Dom!” Isabelle cried out.

The flashlight turned off. Before Bud could stop her, Isabelle

leapt out, bounded around the car, and dragged Dominique into a hug.

• 231 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Dominique Marxley was alive after all. Isabelle had never felt happier.

She held Dom’s face in her hands, traced Dom’s features with her

fingers like a blind woman feeling the face of her child for the first

time in years. Her fingers remembered most of the details but there

were one or two that seemed different. Hadn’t Dom’s nose been more

prominent? Roman even? It was a fleeting thought.

Isabelle kissed Dom’s knuckles, her forehead and cheekbones, and

her perfectly pouty lips. Very slowly, it began to dawn on her that Dom

was not responding with the same level of enthusiasm. She’d hugged

back, but wasn’t responding to Isabelle’s ardent kisses, wasn’t melting

into Isabelle’s arms. The electricity of flesh mingling with flesh wasn’t

the way it used to be every time they’d touched.

Isabelle backed away, still holding Dom’s hand, afraid she would

disappear if she dropped it. It had been a long time, six months apart,

and no doubt Dom had been through a great deal during that time.

They all had. Isabelle couldn’t blame her if she needed a little time to

reconnect. Bust she was alive. That was all that mattered.

But, a tiny voice chimed in the back of Isabelle’s mind, why hadn’t

she come back? Why hadn’t she contacted Isabelle, just once, to tell her

she was okay?

“Tell me everything,” she demanded breathlessly.

“Carl Lee saved my life.” Dominique said.

She described being awakened and told she needed to leave

Pioneer immediately. Carl Lee took her to the treatment room, where

Saya was waiting, dressed only in her pajamas. Both girls were terrified

when Carl Lee told them that their parents had paid Dr. Barnabas to

have them killed and Carl Lee was the executioner.

“We both thought it was a bad joke,” Dominique said. “We just

wanted to go back to sleep. Then he showed us these contracts with our

parents’ signatures, but you know that can be faked. Finally, he played

me a recording with my dad negotiating how much to pay Barnabas so

I’d never come back. That was enough for me. He had the same thing

for Saya. He told us the first thing we needed to do get them to believe

we were dead.”

Dom and Saya had been whisked away to a semi-famous makeup

artist who put on tons of makeup with blood and a fake bullet hole.

“When we looked like corpses Carl Lee took us to some woodsy,

outdoors place and took photos of us lying on the ground.”

• 232 •

Blind Faith

Then he took them to someone’s small apartment and they washed

all the makeup off, changed clothes, and slept on the floor. The next

morning they were woken by a nice older woman who made them

breakfast and promised everything would be okay, so long as they

followed the rules. There were a bunch of rules on a list each girl got a

copy of. They never saw Carl Lee again.

Dom looked Isabelle directly in the eyes. “Number one was harsh.

It said I could never call, email, visit, or contact anyone from my past

or I risked death not just for me but for the other kids who’d been saved

from Pioneer.”

Dom continued to describe a life where she and Saya were

transported from one place to another, then she woke up one morning to

find Saya had gone with someone else on the rainbow railroad, which

is what everyone jokingly called it, even though it was no laughing

matter. Dom hadn’t seen her since.

“Her sister’s been looking for her the whole time,” Isabelle said.

She told Dom all the lengths Aneko had gone to trying to find out

what happened to Saya. “You sure you can’t get word to Saya? Aneko

deserves to know she’s okay.”

“We get different names and change the way we look,” she said.

“I don’t know how to contact her, but I’ll try.”

“So,” Isabelle said, “what about you? Will you be coming back

now that it’s safe?”

“I’m sorry Izzy, but I don’t think so. I’m happy where I am.”

“But, but what about us? I still love you, Dom. I’ve never

stopped.”

“I know it feels like that.” Dom’s words were like a steel blade to

Isabelle’s heart. “But one day you’ll realize that until you really love

and accept yourself, you can’t truly love someone else.”

“What does that mean?” Izzy couldn’t believe this was happening.

She’d been fantasizing for months about what it would be like if Dom

came back. She never gave up hope, she never accepted Dom was dead.

This wasn’t how things were supposed to be. They were supposed to

run into each other’s arms and never be apart again.

“I’ve met someone else,” Dom said, twisting the knife once more.

“I’m not coming back.”

Isabelle couldn’t do anything more than stand there and stare at

her. She began to choke back salty betrayers of her steely demeanor.

• 233 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

“I’m sorry, Izzy.” Dom pulled her into a hug, but Isabelle pushed

her away and swiped angrily at the tears that stung her eyes. “What

about Carl Lee? He’s in jail because the police think he killed you guys.

Aren’t you going to set that right?”

Dom nodded her head toward Bud in the Impala with a question.

“Is that what you’re doing with them? Trying to get Carl Lee off?”

“No. They saved my life. If it wasn’t for them, I’d still be in Pioneer,

where you left me, going through shock therapy. Or maybe I would’ve

killed myself because everyone else told me you ran away and left me

behind, because you didn’t love me. Which I guess was sort of true. The

people at the detective agency have been really wonderful to me, even

though they didn’t need to be. I came tonight because I wanted to know

where you were and I wanted to help Aneko find Saya. But I also came

because they make me feel…wanted. Needed. Useful.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Dom pulled her into another hug. Then she

stepped into the darkness and disappeared.

v

“What just happened?” Bud demanded as Isabelle slipped back

into the front seat of his Impala.

“She’s gone.”

“What do you mean she’s gone? Where’d she go?”

“I don’t know.” Isabelle started to cry.

Damn it all to hell. He hated when girls cried, especially when

he had no idea why. And particularly when he was at work and had

important things to do. “Did you get any new information from her?”

Isabelle pushed a digital recorder toward him. “She says she

doesn’t know where Saya is but she’ll try to get word to her.”

Yoshi would be disappointed, but what could you do? They hadn’t

been sure Isabelle could pull it off anyway.

When Isabelle got back in she said, “Well, I could be wrong, but I

thought we were supposed to follow her.”

“Did you see which way she went?” Bud shook his head. It was

pitch dark outside. Isabelle was a little less bright than he’d been led to

believe. He dropped the gear into reverse and turned his head to look

behind. He saw the smirk on her face and stopped. “Wait! Holy hell.

You did it, didn’t you?”

• 234 •

Blind Faith

“You sound surprised,” she pouted.

“Well, yeah. You pretty much flat out refused to consider it earlier.

You said if it turned out to be someone you knew it would be an act of

betrayal. You obviously knew her so—”

“She’s seeing someone else.” Her voice was that mixture of

anguish, longing, and anger that women seem to first perfect in their

teens. He understood now. Never underestimate a woman scorned.

“Way to go kiddo,” Bud slapped her heartily on the back. “How’d you

do it?”“Slipped it in her pocket when she hugged me good-bye.”

“You’re a very cool customer.” Bud was impressed. He handed

over his cell phone. “We’ll track it live online. First can you send Yoshi

a note to let her know it’s been activated? It’s good our subject got a

little bit of a jump on us, it needs a sixty second lead time.”

A soon as Bud could see from the GPS tracker that Dom had

taken off through the Presidio golf course, he drove down Washington

Boulevard until he spotted Aimee Dix’s car. At Isabelle’s pout, he said,

“Sorry kiddo, but it’s late and Miss Dix insists it’s time for you to go

home.”

Tucker got out and rushed to Bud’s Impala, clearly waiting

impatiently to get in on the evening’s excitement. “So,” she asked

breathlessly, “how did it go?”

“She’s a natural, this kid,” Bud boasted. “Did a great job. We’ve

got a live bug, thanks to Izzy.”

Tucker gave the girl a knuckle bump and Bud waved as she

walked away. The fostering arrangement with Aimee Dix seemed to be

working out pretty well.

“Let’s call it a night.” Bud said, knowing they would be able to

remotely check in on Dom’s position in the morning. He expected her

to leave the San Francisco Bay Area.

• 235 •

• 236 •

Blind Faith

chapter twenty-two

Several days later, when Tucker finally got up the nerve to call

her supposed girlfriend and update her on Blind Eye’s latest

gig, Velvet had news of her own. Saya Takahashi was alive and well,

and sitting on her living room sofa.

While the Blind Eye team had been busy tracking Dom and trying

to uncover the Rainbow Railroad, Saya had shown up on Velvet’s steps

with two other missing Pioneer students and a tale so outrageous it

had to be true. Over the next few weeks, Saya would be joined by half

dozen Pioneer alums, who emerged from the mysterious unknown to

reveal they were now happy, healthy gay adults. They’d come out of the

woodwork not to condemn Carl Lee but to help free him from serving

a long prison sentence or facing the death penalty.

What Velvet had originally thought would be a go-nowhere

freelance gig, the last vestiges of her life as an investigative reporter,

had turned into a remarkable San Francisco Times series and a

groundbreaking Womyn magazine cover story. For the magazine that

had previously relied on lesbian celebrities cover models to sell the

publication on newsstands, an investigative report about a reparative

therapy program that was meant to end in murder—and the dozens of

kids who had escaped it thanks to a strange ex-con—was revolutionary.

So was scooping the news magazine the Advocate.

Velvet took Saya’s story and ran with it, investigating not just the

Pioneer Institute but delving deep into the entire ex-gay movement,

ripping apart their façade of happy heterosexual conversions and

illuminating how often their programs end in disappointment, failure,

suicide, and, as with Pioneer, even murder.

• 237 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

She wasn’t sure she had the emotional resources to spare for a

relationship, with everything else that was going on. She’d made some

decisions in the last few days and they may or may not shock her friends.

The first was that her relationship with Tucker was all but dead, their

fires extinguished by their dueling careers. Besides, Velvet wasn’t built

for monogamy, not even the flexible form of serial monogamy most of

her girlfriends practiced. Perhaps Tucker felt fine living with Yoshi all

these weeks, not even making booty calls, but Velvet wasn’t happy.

She knew that she couldn’t rush the younger woman through her

growing up process. It sucked, she could admit it, but Tucker was too

fucking young. The moment Tucker told the group she was moving in

with Bud so Yoshi could have her room back, Velvet knew it was over.

And when it came time to tell Tucker, she had apparently known too.

Velvet hoped for a farewell fuck but alas, even in their good-bye,

Tucker was satisfied with the status quo. Both she and Bud had insisted

their new living situation was temporary, but Velvet could tell that there

was something very permanent about it all. It was funny how Bud had

become like the father Tucker never had, while Velvet’s romance with

the budding PI just seemed to wilt under the pressures of their jobs.

Even if Tucker changed her mind at this very moment, Velvet

had Yoshi to think about. With her degeneration, she could no longer

see shapes, colors, even ghosted images. Despite her determination,

she needed Velvet more than ever. Automatically, Velvet reached out

and linked arms with her as they waited for their turn to address the

audience.

Without Saya Takahashi having gone missing and her sister Aneka

fighting for a reunion, the truth about Pioneer might have remained a

mystery. Without her return, Carl Lee might have ended up on death

row. Though he insisted on his innocence, Carl Lee had never given up

the location of any of the Pioneer escapees, nor did he reveal the rest of

the underground Rainbow Railroad, a network of individuals across the

country who were dedicated to helping LGBT youth escape abusive or

life-threatening situations.

Now, Saya stood on a small stage, next to her sister. She held up a

copy of Womyn magazine with her face on the cover and beamed. “I can’t

begin to thank everyone who helped.” She spoke into a microphone to a

large audience outside the Unitarian Universalist Church. “If it weren’t

for Velvet Erickson, Yoshi Yakamota, Tucker Shade—the whole Blind

• 238 •

Blind Faith

Eye team—and the many individuals that pitched in, I would never

have gotten my sister back.”

Tonight, Velvet knew, marked a new era at Womyn magazine.

Proof that what she did meant something to the world, and a reminder

that she was exactly where she wanted to be, making change one word

at a time.

“I wanted to share something incredibly important with all of

you,” Velvet began, looking out at the crowd, comprised primarily

of lesbian women. “There’s a reason we’re having this month’s issue

release party here, and not at some hot nightclub. For years this church,

and others like it across the country, have offered a safe haven for parts

of our community who don’t have the same resources some of us do.

Especially, they have provided safe spaces for queer youth, just the kind

of at-risk kids that are still imprisoned in other Pioneer-like reparative

therapy programs. We need to put an end, once and for all to these kinds

of programs.”

The crowd applauded. The gravity of the situation was immense

and it was obvious these supporters understood that.

“Imagine being in a situation where you’re locked away for

your sexuality, having to choose between brainwashing or permanent

banishment from the only family and spiritual community you’ve ever

known. Adding to that situation the fear of death, it’s unthinkable, as

unimaginable as the torture our government authorized at Abu Ghraib.

Earlier today I spoke with senator Sheila Kuehl who is proposing

legislation that would ban ex-gay school programs from the state of

California. If we have our way, this ends here. No more children should

be exposed to the hell Saya Takahashi, Isabelle Sanchez, and so many

others experienced at Pioneer Institute.”

As the crowd applauded, hooting like rowdy school children or

hippies in protest, Velvet saw Saya and Aneko Takahashi wipe tears

from their eyes.

• 239 •

• 240 •

Blind Faith

chapter twenty-three

Yoshi had to admit, Tucker was correct. She’d taken quite a

shine to Isabelle, who was proving to be a most competent

assistant during her after-school internship with Blind Eye. In fact, the

girl was swiftly gaining proficiency in the administrative tasks that

Tucker had outgrown. If things continued to develop in this manner, and

if her foster parent, Aimee Dix approved, Yoshi was prepared to hire

Isabelle to fill the receptionist position full time once she graduated. No

doubt Isabelle would have to balance work with college classes come

fall, but having something to sink her teeth into seemed to keep Isabelle

grounded.

It was remarkable how much the Pioneer case had affected

everyone at Blind Eye. Bud and Aimee had been getting rather friendly

ever since the case wrapped. Yoshi would not characterize it as a full-

blown romance just yet, but there was clearly an electricity underlying

the relationship. Moreover, Bud had never been the sort of man to

develop idle friendships with women. It was rather endearing the way

he joined Aimee and Isabelle on weekend outings to the park and to

church. For both Aimee and Bud, the world had turned out to be quite

different than they’d ever imagined, so if they could find solace in each

other it would be a lovely thing.

As a couple, Tucker and Velvet had the opposite response to the

Pioneer debacle. Not every disaster can bring two people closer. The

weeks apart seemed to have underscored their differences. Tucker had

matured immensely from her experience but also seemed to have turned

inward. She was quieter, reflective, reserved, and her time at Pioneer

seemed to have sparked a new interest in spirituality and personal

growth.

• 241 •

diane and JacoB anderson-Minshall

Velvet, well, she remained a woman who never let life prevent

her from getting what she wanted. She’d found a way to seamlessly

merge her investigative past with her glossy magazine future,

recreating Womyn as a unique amalgam of in-depth news reporting

and entertainment coverage. In the end, she and Tucker’s breakup was

remarkably amicable. Very lesbian of them, Yoshi thought, to transition

from lovers to friends so seamlessly. Even she could not always be so

charitable.

Of course, romance had found Yoshi too, at least a nascent one.

Despite the fact that her father had lied to her about how and when

her mother really died, Yoshi found herself smiling. Aneko lifted her

spirits, and was helping her build the resilience she would need for the

challenges ahead.

She made herself a cup of tea and sat at her desk. She had a feeling

the next few months would prove very interesting.

v

Tucker stopped a few yards from the Blind Eye Offices and took

a call.“Tucker?” It was her brother, Hunter. He was crying. “Need you.

In trouble.”

“Hunter? What’s going on?” He rarely called. His hearing aid

made it hard for him to hear and his Autism meant he was far from

articulate, especially over the phone. “Are you okay? Where’s Mom?”

“The police are here. Everything’s bad. They’re taking Sissy away.

It’s all my fault. It’s all my fault.”

Tucker heard the sound of his padded helmet banging against

the wall, in the rhythmic way he used to soothe himself when he was

upset.“What’s going on, Hunter? Can you get Mom?”

“You!” A gruff voice yelled in the background. “Get off the

phone.”

The line with dead.

With the dial tone ringing in her ear Tucker was suddenly certain

that whatever had just happened in Idaho wouldn’t simply have her

breaking her promise to herself and send her rushing home. It would

change her life forever.

• 242 •

About the Author

Diane Anderson-Minshall is the executive editor of Curve

magazine, the world’s best-selling lesbian magazine, and an award-

winning pop culture pundit. Jacob Anderson-Minshall is the syndicated

columnist behind TransNation, a contributor to GayWired.com

and Bitch magazine, and co-host of the radio show Gender Blender.

Between them, the Anderson-Minshalls have appeared in at least three

dozen magazines and newspapers and are frequent radio and TV guests.

They’re also the co-founders of Portland’s famed LGBT literary salon,

QLiterati! This is the third book in the Blind Eye mystery series. The

duo divides their time between San Francisco and Portland, where

they’re raising two foster sons and two spoiled Chihuahuas.

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Document Outline

- Blind Curves

- BlindLeap

- Blind Faith

Table of Contents

Blind Curves

BlindLeap

Blind Faith