CHAPTER NINETEENThe police escorted Margarita and Lindsey to a little holding room in the bridge maintenance shed.
A highway patrol officer and a San Francisco cop did the questioning. They were sympathetic. No good-guy, bad-guy routine.
The motorcyclist from the Kawasaki had bounced off the railing and landed back on the roadway, the victim of three violent impacts. He’d been rushed to San Francisco General, miraculously still alive.
The Coast Guard was already out dragging the bay for Francis.
With the heavy tides running beneath the Golden Gate, he’d probably be swept out to sea before they could locate him. “I thought they always found jumpers,” Lindsey said. “I mean, uh, suicides.”
The highway patrol cop explained, “That’s a funny thing. Jumpers always go off the bay side. Our bo
