15th Affair (Women's Murder Club #15)(14)

“Brady. Something I have to tell you. I haven’t heard from Joe in thirty-six hours. Then, yesterday, while Conklin and I were in Palo Alto notifying Chan’s widow, our surveillance team recorded Joe driving by the Chan house.”

“I don’t get you,” he said tersely. “What are you saying?”

Brenda, the department assistant, came through the doorway, dropped some papers on Brady’s desk, and said, “Sergeant Chi needs to speak to you, Lieu, and your ex-wife called.”

Brady said to her, “Hold everything until after my meeting.”

“We can talk about this later,” I said to Brady, getting half out of my chair.

“Sit,” he said.

I did it.

“Make me understand,” he said. “Use short, clear sentences.”

I swallowed hard and pushed through my own wall of resistance. I gave Brady the short sentences he’d asked for, covering the Palo Alto footage, Joe’s drive-by at 5:24, and the hotel security video from the day of the shootings.

“We saw a man on the hotel tape who looked like Joe.”

Brady said, “Joe was in the hotel around the time those people were taken out?”

“Looks like him—which is far from a positive ID.”

Brady said, “You’re saying Joe was in the hotel and also on the block where Chan lived. What’s he doing?”

“I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t—”

“Could he be involved in the shootings?”

“Absolutely not,” I said with conviction, but honest to God, I had no idea what Joe was capable of. Not anymore.

“Jesus, Lindsay. You shoulda told me yesterday.”

Brady was furious. As I would have been in his place. I waited for him to ask for my badge and my gun and send me home.

I said, “I wanted to talk to Joe first.”

I was looking at Brady’s face, waiting for the shit-storm that didn’t come. Maybe he was holding back because outside of the Job, Brady and Yuki are married. Joe and I hang out with them. We’re friends.

“The meeting with Jacobi is an FBI briefing,” Brady said. “You’re going to have to tell this Joe story again. Get the video, Boxer. Meet me upstairs.”





CHAPTER 21


WORLDWIDE AIRLINES FLIGHT #888 from Beijing was in its final approach to San Francisco International Airport into a foggy sun-lit morning.

At 9 a.m., Michael Chan was seated in the center row of business class on the main deck. The seats were narrow and uncomfortable and configured in blocks of two rows of four seats facing another row of four seats, so that eight passengers were sitting knee-to-knee.

Chan had been trying not to look at the untidy American couple sitting directly across from him for the last twelve hours. They were sloppy eaters. They took off their shoes. They had littered bags of chips and newspapers on the narrow space in front of their feet.

He had done his best to avoid eye contact, but they hadn’t done the same. The long plane ride had been pure hell. But it was almost over.

The pilot took the plane into another series of descending turns toward the airport. The FASTEN SEAT BELT signs were on and the flight attendants had put away the serving carts and strapped in.

But Michael Chan had his eyes on the restroom at the front of the cabin on his left. When he had washed his hands in that restroom earlier, his wedding band had loosened and dropped into the sink. He had fished it out, but just then, the plane had lurched. He’d been thrown off balance and needed both hands to catch himself, and the ring had spun away from his grasp, into a dark, germ-ridden place somewhere between the commode and the console. And that was when the “return to your seat” announcement had come on.

The flight attendant had rapped on the door, and after a brief, fruitless search for the ring, Chan had left the restroom, deciding he could retrieve his ring once the plane landed. Now, as the huge airliner made its descent, he knew he’d made a mistake.

Chan turned to the man on his left, another cramped, overtired traveler, and said he needed to get up.

The neighboring passenger reeked of sweat and bad temper. Muttering, he swung his knees toward the aisle. Chan said thanks and made the awkward climb over his neighbor’s legs, bumping the knees of the woman across from him, apologizing for that.

He was steps away from the WC when the flight attendant, the red-haired one with the bright pink lipstick, unclipped her harness and blocked his path.

She said, “Mr. Chan, you have to return to your seat.”

Chan said, “I’ll be very quick.”

He thought of the wheels touching down and the passengers from the first-class deck and all the others behind him, blocking the aisle, stampeding for the exit. He would have to wait for the aisle to clear, and for the plane to empty, and then all four hundred passengers from this flight would get ahead of him in the endless rope-lined queue to go through customs. His delay would irritate the men who would be waiting for him. It was just unacceptable.

He said, “Sorry, sorry,” and pushed past the flight attendant. He had his hand on the door latch when there was an explosion directly under the plane’s right wing.

Chan saw a flash and felt the simultaneous concussive boom. He was slammed off his feet, and at the same moment, a metal fragment pierced the fuselage and sheared through his left thigh. A question formed in Chan’s mind, but before he could process the thought, his brain and body were separated by an inexplicable destructive force.