He fired two shots into Lesko’s chest, then turned with his gun still in his hand. He felt the blow of a shot to his gut. His legs folded.

Will was on his belly, fading out of consciousness.

Lights flashed. Images swam. Voices swirled around him.

He got Jimmy Lesko.

He was sure. Almost sure. That he’d got him.

Chapter 99

Chapter 99

CINDY WAS AT the half-moon table in the corner of the living room, what she liked to call her home office, when the phone rang. She glanced at the clock in the corner of her laptop screen, then snatched up the phone.

“Ms. Thomas? This is Inspector May Hess, from radio communications. I have a message for you from Sergeant Boxer. There’s been a shooting. Go to Metro Hospital now.”

“Oh my God. Is it Richard Conklin? Has he been shot? Tell me it’s not Rich. Please tell me.”

“I just have the message for you.”

“You must know. Is Inspector Conklin —”

“Ma’am, I’m just supposed to deliver the message. I’ve told you everything I know.”

Cindy’s mind slipped and spun, then she got herself together. She phoned for a cab, put a coat on over her sweatpants and T-shirt, stepped into a pair of loafers, and headed downstairs.

She paced in front of her apartment building, calling Richie’s phone, leaving messages when the call went to voicemail, then calling him again.

The cab came after five minutes that seemed like five hours. Cindy shouted through the cabbie’s window, “Metropolitan Hospital. This is an emergency,” then threw herself back into the seat.

She was trying to remember the last thing she’d said to Richie. Oh God, it was something like Not now, honey, I’m working.

What the hell was wrong with her? What the hell?

Her body was running hot and cold as she thought about Richie, about him being paralyzed or in pain or dying. God, she couldn’t lose him.

Cindy didn’t pray often, but she did now.

Please, God, let Richie be okay.

The cabdriver was quiet and knew his way. He took Judah Street past UCSF Medical Center, made turns through the Castro and across Market, all the way to Valencia.

Cindy was lost in her thoughts, came back to the present only when the cab pulled up to a side entrance of the hospital.

“Faster for you if I drop you here,” the driver said. “Twenty-Second is jammed.”

That’s when Cindy found that she didn’t have her purse, her wallet, had nothing but her phone.

“Tell me your name. I’ll send you a check and a really good tip, I promise that I will.”

“That’s great,” the driver said, meaning the opposite. “No, listen. Forget it. Don’t worry about it. Good luck.”