Goodhue was already on the air by the time I reached KSTS. I didn't want to risk missing her in case she planned to leave the studio between broadcasts, so I told the receptionist I'd wait. There was a grouping of chairs to one side of the lobby, and an assortment of magazines on the low table they surrounded; I selected Metropolitan Home and leafed through it, glancing at the ads but barely seeing them. My thoughts were preoccupied by the upcoming confrontation with the anchorwoman-and the unpleasant truths that might emerge during our talk.
The hands of my watch moved slowly toward seven o'clock. The lobby was deserted and the building seemed hushed, as if everyone were holding his breath until the newscast was successfully completed. The impression, I knew, was deceptive: frantic activity would be going on behind the locked door by the reception desk; stories would continue to break up until the eleven o'clock report; other stories would constantly be updated. And Goodhue could very well use that activity as an excuse for avoiding me.
So far no one had entered the studio from the street. It occurred to me that there was a door from the parking lot. If Goodhue wanted to duck me, she could slip out that way when the receptionist told her I was here. I glanced at him; he was reading a current best-seller, totally absorbed. When I got up and meandered around the lobby, pretending to study the blowups of KSTS personalities, he paid me no attention. I moved closer to the locked door, staring at the face of Les Gates, Goodhue's co-anchor.
At five minutes to seven, a tall, curly-haired man strode into the lobby, announcing that he had to see someone named Rick-was he in the building, and if so, where?
"Studio D," the receptionist said, his hand moving automatically to the buzzer.
The man hurried over to the door, opened it as soon as the buzzer sounded, and went inside. I caught it before it closed and slipped through. The man was already at the other end of the corridor and didn't notice me.
The pace in the newsroom was even more hectic than it had been on Monday afternoon: phones rang; people rushed about; the sound was turned up on the monitors, and the competition's newscasts blended into an unintelligible babble. I entered as if I had business there and went straight to Goodhue's empty cubicle.
The anchorwoman's desk was covered with papers: scripts, memos, correspondence, a copy of the Examiner,sheets from yellow pads. As I was about to sit down, one of the latter caught my eye; it was covered with doodles that looked like crude representations of Tom Grant's fetishes. At the top of the sheet was a name and a phone number- Harry Sullivan. Sullivan was one of the city's top criminal attorneys; it looked as though Goodhue planned to consult him.
Quickly I flipped through the appointments calendar on the desk. Notations were scrawled all over it, but there was no indication of any meeting with Sullivan-not in the past couple of days nor in the near future. Goodhue must have been debating calling him. Ironic what she'd doodled while thinking it over.
Voices rose louder in the newsroom. I recognized Goodhue's. Footsteps approached the cubicle. I turned as she and Les Gates entered.
Gates looked mildly surprised to see a stranger there. Goodhue blanched and exclaimed, "You!" Her eyes moved from me to the yellow sheet on the desk; when they met mine again, they were flooded with fear. Her mouth twisted as if she suddenly felt sick.
I said, "Jess, we have to talk."
She took a step backward. "No."
Gates was frowning. "Jess, what's wrong? You want me to call security?"
"No!" She turned quickly, bumping into a woman who was passing.
"Wait," I said.
Goodhue ran for the door of the newsroom.
Gates put a restraining hand on my arm. "What's going on? Wait a minute-aren't you the investigator who collared that sniper? How come you're here-"
Typical newsman, all questions. I wrenched free, went after Goodhue. The door to the lobby was just closing. I ran down there, yanked it open, saw her pushing through the street door. As I ran across the lobby, the receptionist shouted, "Hey, what were you doing back there?"
Outside, the Embarcadero was gray with mist. Heavy traffic moved swiftly in both directions; from above came the hum of cars on the Bay Bridge. Goodhue was running awkwardly across the railroad tracks that fronted the building. She caught the toe of her high-heeled shoe on one of the rails, stumbled, righted herself, and kept going.
I yelled for her to stop, but she didn't even pause at the curb, dodging cars and trucks on her way across the Embarcadero. A sports car screeched to a stop, barely missing her. Horns blared. Goodhue ran for the piers on the other side, seemingly oblivious to the commotion.
I started after her, was almost mowed down by a van whose driver screamed obscenities at me. Goodhue had reached the sidewalk and was angling to the left, past the SFFD's fireboat station. I stepped into the crosswalk, holding up my hand to stop an oncoming car like a traffic cop. It braked, and the cars traveling in the opposite direction halted, too. I spotted a look of astonishment on one driver's face as I sprinted in front of him and down the sidewalk.
It was cold, and the wind blew strongly off the bay, redolent of creosote and salt water. Ahead, a gust threw Goodhue off stride as she reached the wide strip of promenade. I passed the fireboat station, gaining on her.
Goodhue stumbled, looked over her shoulder, and saw me. She glanced at the traffic whizzing by, then at the chest-high seawall to her right. For a moment I thought she might climb it and fling herself into the bay. Then she kicked off her shoes and ran faster.
Ahead was a concrete shelter topped by a flagpole-part of some waterfront design plan that didn't appear to have come off properly. The promenade widened at that point, jutting out into the bay. Goodhue made a sharp right turn and suddenly disappeared from sight. I sped up, reached the corner of the seawall, and rounded it.
On the other side was an area between the wall and an arm of the promenade that looked like a large boat slip. Steps led down to it and vanished under the lapping waves. Goodhue was descending them. I shouted for her to stop. When she reached the bottom step, she didn't hesitate a beat, just waded into the water.
Two concrete landing piers rose a couple of feet above the water in the middle of the slip-another part of the design plan that hadn't been thought through, since there was no way of reaching them without getting soaked. Goodhue was slogging toward the closer of them, in up to her knees now. I ran down the steps and waded in after her; the water felt icy through my athletic shoes.
Goodhue reached the pier and clung to it, arms outstretched above her head. Waves lapped at her waist and sprayed the back of her tan suit jacket. I moved toward her, fighting a strong current. She was crying, clawing at the concrete with her fingernails. When I came up behind her and grasped her by the shoulders, she flinched.
"Come on, Jess," I said. "Out of the water. We'll both catch pneumonia."
She sobbed and rolled her head from side to side, face pressed against the rough surface of the pier. "Jess!" I shook her.
She muttered something I couldn't understand. "What?"
"Don't care."
"Stop it!" I yanked on her shoulders, dragged her upright. She sagged against me. I slipped my right arm around her, extending the other for balance, and began guiding her back toward the steps. My feet were numb now. Halfway to the steps, she stumbled, and we both nearly went down. "Walk, dammit!" I said.
She walked. But when we got to the steps, she sagged again and sat down. "Jess," I said, "get up!"
She shook her head and doubled over, arms wrapped around her bare knees. Her pale skirt was molded to her thighs, water streaming off it. In spite of her soaking she didn't seem to feel the wet or the chill. Finally I took off my jacket and draped it around her shoulders, then sat a little way down, avoiding the puddles forming around her. I couldn't single-handedly wrestle her to warmth and shelter. It was obvious she wouldn't help me, and nobody else had been drawn to the vicinity by the sight of two wet, struggling women. At least not yet.