Code Name: Nanny (SEAL and Code Name #5)(14)

Cara muttered a few choice phrases. A good defense lawyer could demand that the bullet be pulled as evidence, given this kind of mishandling. “What about her hands? Any signs of struggle? DNA evidence recovered?”

Her colleague sighed. “He washed her up with Betadyne. Cleaned her real good. Said her parents wouldn’t want to see her like this.”

“Don’t tell me we’ve got nothing?”

“The forensic people are going through her clothes and the other evidence now. We may get lucky, but the nurse dumped everything in a pile, so there’s a chance of cross contamination.”

Cara braced herself. “Do I want to hear this?”

“Probably not. A couple of tourists came into the clinic with food poisoning right about then. They threw up all over the victim’s clothes and shoes.”

Sometimes fate spits in your face, Cara thought, and this was one of those times. “Make a note to see this nurse gets a crash course in preservation of physical evidence, okay? Threaten to yank his license, whatever, but see that he doesn’t pull a stunt like this again.”

“You got it.”

“Now give me some good news, Tony. Tell me that we’ve got a deal in the Rothman case.”

Marcus Rothman was a prominent gay painter who had recently learned that his longtime lover was walking out for a younger man. Rothman had planned a nice, civilized farewell meal—and then fed his lover his favorite sushi, nicely marinated in wasabi and Drano, resulting in a particularly unpleasant death.

“Rothman’s counsel said they’ll go for temporary insanity. He just saw the Drano and acted without thinking.”

Cara gave a cold laugh.

“Yeah, I happen to agree, but Rothman has been undergoing therapy for long-standing abandonment and relationship issues. His therapist has volunteered to testify.”

“Can we establish that Rothman bought the Drano after he found out he and his lover were quits?”

“Tried that. The Drano’s been under his sink for years. Old bottle, date-stamped 1998.”

Cara cursed silently. “Keep working it. See if he bragged to anyone. Try his doorman or cleaning lady.” But she knew Rothman might slip away. Sometimes you took what you could get.

She flipped through a recent deposition from a defense lawyer. “I’m still waiting for that good news.”

“Try this. Barnhard’s people will go for voluntary manslaughter in the freeway road-rage incident.”

“Hmm.”

“Are you okay, Cara? You sound like you’re off on a Jeep trek in Mongolia. Lots of mental static on the line.”

“I’m fine, Tony.” Cara looked at the framed photo on the small antique table to her left. Two girls held up flaming marshmallows on crooked sticks. Their faces were streaked with dust, their hair tangled, their smiles incendiary.

The photo was six months old. Sophy was an inch taller now, and Audra was more reserved and serious, but her daughters were still knockouts.

Cara knew that they were both under stress. Despite all her reassurances, they were worrying about how the wedding would affect their future. Since the picture was taken, Sophy had lost a tooth, and Audra wanted to dye her hair blond. To top it off, the new nanny was coming tonight, and both girls were unhappy about that.

If only there had been some other way.

“Cara, you still there?”

“Right here.” She forced her thoughts back to work. “Go on, Tony.”

“Andrews is hanging tough. He figures our case is too thin.”

The assistant DA closed her file with a snap. “Not anymore, it isn’t. We just took testimony from the girlfriend in Vallejo. It seems our man Andrews bragged about the murder while he was drunk, then waved a wad of bills he’d received as payment. He even had a picture of the woman he was supposed to kill. His employer was very efficient.”

“So now we’ve got them both. Nice work. Tell me why you don’t sound happier.”

“Just tired, I guess.” Cara sipped her cold coffee and grimaced.

“Or distracted. I keep forgetting you’re getting married in a week.”

“Ten days, actually, but who’s counting?” Cara stretched, wincing at the sharp pain in her shoulders.

“Who’s counting? Me and half the population of San Francisco, that’s who. You were in the style section of the Chronicle last week, and I hear you’re mentioned in an evening TV spot on Sunday. Everyone wants to know what kind of dress you’re wearing and what color flowers you’ll have. Even my wife was pestering me for details this morning.”

“It’s not about me or the dress.” The dress Cara still hadn’t picked out yet, she thought guiltily. “This is about Tate. He’s very popular.”

“Senator Winslow’s not the only popular person, kid. Be careful or this wedding will turn into a three-ring circus. By the way, where are you two tying the big knot?”

“Sorry, Tony. I love you dearly, but that’s a state secret. If I talk, I’m toast, senator’s orders.” She laughed softly. “We agreed the ceremony would be strictly family, but we’re having a big reception in Carmel. You should have gotten an invitation weeks ago.”

“Right here on my desk. I wouldn’t miss it for the world. If I tried, my wife would divorce me.” Her colleague hesitated. He had been protective of her ever since Cara had met him while working in the public defender’s office. “Are you sure this is right for you? Tate Winslow is a stand-up guy who’s been the best thing that’s happened to California since the Beach Boys and liposuction. Even a blind person could see that you’re crazy in love.” His chair creaked. “But . . .”