The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19)(44)

Yuki threw on a robe and made a dash for the kitchen, and by the time Brady came through the doorway, there was a gift on his plate, eggs by the stove ready for scrambling, and a smile on her face as she sat in her seat at the table. Still no tree.

Brady grabbed her up out of her chair and dipped her into a swooping romance-novel kiss.

“Hey,” she said breathlessly.

He kissed her again.

This time she took in that he was fully dressed and he was apparently kissing her good-bye.

“Were you working all night?” she asked.

“I slept right next to you, darlin’. You were out cold.”

“I don’t even remember falling asleep. Hey, how about some hot breakfast?”

“I only have time for coffee. Maybe toast.”

“Sit down,” Yuki said. “I’ll give you coffee, toast, and the thirty-second headline news of what happened in court yesterday. You should feel free to give me thirty seconds of your news, too.”

Her big, blond, handsome man grinned and said, “I love you, darlin’. Talk to me. But first …”

He took the little package off his plate and shook it.

Yuki said, “Merry Christmas, sweetie.”

She watched him open the box and take out her gift: a gold tie clip, a little grand for work, but she loved it. He turned it around and a beam of sunlight hit it.

“I love this, Yuki. What a major-league tie bob.”

He thanked her and fixed it to his tie. She expected him to tell her that he hadn’t had time to get her anything but he’d make it up to her. But he said, “I’m taking tonight off, no matter what. I booked us a room on the top floor of the Stanhope. How does that sound?”

Yuki shouted, “Woweeee,” and threw herself at Brady, who hugged her, kissed her to pieces, and said, “I’ll call you later.”

Wearing his gold tie clip but without having had eggs, toast, or coffee or hearing about Eduardo Varela, Lieutenant Jackson Brady was gone.





CHAPTER 63





CINDY HAD KICKED the bedcovers to the floor.

Richie retrieved the blankets and her nightgown from the foot of the bed, tucked himself in, and opened his arms. Cindy, still mostly sleeping, burrowed against him.

He stroked her back, enjoying the little sounds she made as he bundled her up and squeezed her. He said, “Sleep. You don’t have to get up yet,” then he edged out of bed and headed to the kitchen.

He knew he’d be working the Loman today. He was worn out, angry at the amount of time and manpower that had been dedicated to go-nowhere leads interspersed with bloodshed.

He thought about Arnold Sloane, the man who’d been gagged and terrified and then shot to death.

Who had done that?

He thought again about the anonymous tip they’d gotten that Loman had been seen leaving Sloane’s place. Christ. A blind tip to a possible killer with a fake name. Loman. Whoever, whatever, wherever he was.

He remembered a play he’d read in school called Death of a Salesman. The main character was Willy Loman. Sloane had been a salesman before he became the manager of a high-end jewelry store. Was Sloane the dead salesman? Was Sloane’s safe Loman’s big heist?

The coffeemaker was prefilled with water and coffee, so Rich hit the switch, dropped a couple of frozen waffles into the toaster, and checked his phone.

First on the list was an email from Brady to the whole squad laying out today’s assignments. Brady’s email was followed by one from Lindsay: We’re on stakeout. C u @ 8.

And there was an email from Cindy with an attachment.

The subject heading was Cannot wait to tell you.

Rich opened the attachment. It was Cindy’s Christmasfor-immigrants story, now titled “God Was Always with Us.”

As his waffles toasted, he read the story, marveling at how close Cindy had gotten to these displaced families. She’d conveyed in a few inches of type their will to overcome hardship, to celebrate their holiday traditions thousands of miles from their homelands in San Francisco.

At the end of the article was a sidebar with the title “After Two Years in Prison, a Miracle Arrives with Bells On.”

Cindy had told Rich enough about Eduardo Varela to convince him that the guy had been framed, and Cindy had turned up an innocent man at San Bruno Prison.

Her story laid it all out.

First, Peter Bard, Varela’s lawyer, had failed to present crucial evidence to the DA that might have stopped the whole case against him cold. But there was more. Bard had been a drunk and a no-show for several clients, and after Varela had been locked up, awaiting trial, Bard had been disbarred for malfeasance.

Yesterday, Judge Innello had dismissed the case against Varela for lack of evidence and offered her apologies from the court. ICE had not detained him.

Cindy wrote:

Last night Eduardo and his family led the parade called Las Posadas, a celebration and reenactment of Mary and Joseph’s search for shelter that involves stopping at “the inns,” neighbors’ homes, for food and prayer. Pi?atas were smashed. There was much laughter and happy tears.

For the past two years Eduardo sat alone in his cell twenty-three hours a day. On Monday he plans to go to each of his three former employers and ask for his job back. He has much he wants to do to secure a future for the ones he loves.