The 20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20)(24)

“His arraignment was set for today. I’m looking for him, and his attorney comes in, tells me that his client tried to hang himself this morning.”

“Whaaaat?” Claire and I said in unison.

“Let me restate that,” said Yuki. “He did hang himself with a bedsheet hooked over a heating pipe in the bathroom.”

Claire was consumed with a sudden coughing fit, excused herself, and said, “My asthma.” I gripped her hand under the table as she said to Yuki, “He’s dead?”

“Not quite. Another prisoner grabbed his legs and yelled for help. He’s in solitary with a neck brace and round-the-clock guards. But think about it. He hasn’t been indicted, let alone tried. He could go free. And if he’s convicted, he could appeal. There’s no death sentence in the charged crimes. So why’d he try to kill himself?”

We tossed Yuki’s question back and forth across the table, agreeing finally that in the absence of an answer from the kid, his family’s lives must have been threatened as a warning not to flip on the actual killer dealer. Claire thought he was depressed, ashamed, and certain he would be convicted.

I said, “Sounds like he would rather die than go to prison.”

Yuki didn’t buy it. “There’s something we don’t know. His attorney doesn’t know it, either. The kid’s been completely passive since his arrest.” Yuki shook her head. “Maybe it doesn’t matter why he’s working against himself, but I’m sure he’s got a reason. So where does that leave me? I’m wondering if I can just do a C-minus job when he comes to trial.”

I said, “Are you kidding?”

She wasn’t. Yuki looked at our stunned expressions and said, “Look. I could get away with it. I’ve got a reputation, you know. I lose cases when I’m brilliant and the defendant is guilty.”

Sadly, that was true.





CHAPTER 37





CLAIRE SAID TO Yuki, “How about this instead? Tell Red Dog you want off the case. How can you possibly prosecute a person you don’t believe in?”

“Okay, say I go to Parisi,” Yuki said, referring to DA Len Parisi, a formidable, red-haired, three-hundred-pound hulk who had a fierce reputation for being tough on crime. “He takes me off the case and reassigns it to one of his killer ADAs who eat knives for breakfast. Clayton refuses to defend himself and gets life in prison with no possibility of parole. As soon as he can, he commits suicide.”

I said, “It’s not your problem, Yuki. You can’t direct his life.”

Plates were cleared and coffee arrived along with my wedge of heavenly key lime pie. Lorraine bent to my ear and said, “I’ve got connections.” I gave her a thumbs-up, and when I turned back to Yuki, she was scowling.

She said, “Lorraine, a pitcher of margaritas, please. Anyone joining me?” She got no takers.

“Only one glass,” she said to Lorraine, who returned with the pitcher in no time.

Yuki is not a drunk, but once or twice a year she succumbs to tequila’s siren call. This was the night. Claire was coughing some, but she reached across the table and took Yuki’s handbag, dug out her car keys, and handed them to me.

“Fine,” Yuki said. “Be that way.”

I called Brady and told him that Yuki was going to need a ride home in about an hour. Claire and I clinked our beer mugs to Yuki’s salt-rimmed glass, and we toasted her for having a good heart.

Lorraine came by and said to Yuki, “One of our customers is playing your song.”

We could hear it now. Jeff Rudolph, a talented amateur with a guitar, was singing about the sun baking, pop-tops and flip-flops. Yuki was cleared for launch and blasted off when Lorraine passed her the mike and walked with her into the front room.

Claire and I joined the parade.

Rudolph had already sung the first stanzas, and his face brightened when Yuki began to sing along with him, her clear soprano voice lifting the refrain.

“‘Wasted away again in Margaritaville …’”

Jeff stamped the floor. “Salt, salt, salt, salt.”

Diners were singing and clapping now.

“‘But I know …’”

And as everyone instinctively stopped singing, Yuki belted out the last line: “‘It’s my own damn fault.’”

Someone shouted, “Encore,” and there was clapping and more calling out, “Encore. Encore.”

Claire said loudly, “She’s done. Really.”

Lorraine took back the mic and when we were snug in our booth, she asked, “Coffee, Yuki? Just made it fresh.”

Yuki said, “Ha. No, thanks,” and drained her glass.

That evening I almost forgot that Claire was facing the challenge of her life, that the Barons’ bodies were cold, that Randi hadn’t talked, and that Leonard Barkley was still, as they say, in the wind. All of this would wake me up at around three in the morning, but right now it felt so good to be joking around with my buds.

I said, “Lorraine. Coffee all around and pie. Whatever kind you’ve got left.”

“Cherry,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “From Monday.”

“Sold,” I said. “Bring it on.”





CHAPTER 38