The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club #17)(13)

Her office and morgue are a short walk out the back door of the Hall, so we had trotted over to MacBain’s together. We were saving two chairs at our table. One was for our tenacious, effervescent friend Cindy Thomas, top crime reporter at the San Francisco Chronicle. She was in a cab from her office, which was ten minutes away, traffic permitting.

Our fourth was ADA Yuki Castellano, a rising-star prosecutor. Yuki had texted me to go ahead and order lunch, leaving me to assume that the grand jury hadn’t yet arrived at a verdict on her current case.

Meanwhile, I had Claire all to myself, and she was outraged about the death of a young man who had been delivered to the morgue overnight. It was the second time in a month that a customer had left a bar a short distance from where we were sitting now and had been shot dead on the street.

It wasn’t my case, but I knew the details and understood Claire’s frustration. A kid about the age of her own boys, in otherwise perfect health, was lying inside a drawer with bullet holes punched into his body. No one had claimed his body or called the police looking for him. And no witnesses to his killing had stepped forward.

“I like the Second Amendment as much as anyone,” Claire was saying, “but seriously. Kids shooting each other outside the saloon like in an old spaghetti western? What is the point of that?”

Syd came over with two mugs of draft, and at that moment Cindy blew in, cut through the crowd, and slid into a chair between Claire and me. She looked adorable with a sparkling headband holding back her irrepressible golden curls.

“Hi, guys,” she said, shucking her jacket. To Syd she said, “I want what they’re having.”

“Gotcha,” said Sydney. “If you order now, I can get you in before a party of six.”

“Another minute,” I said. “Yuki’s on the way.”

I looked at my phone to see if I’d missed a travel update, but no. I said to Claire and Cindy, “I hope when Yuki gets here, she’s got that true bill under her belt.”

“Who wants to guess?” said a voice behind us.

Claire jumped up and pulled out a chair for ADA Yuki Castellano, the woman of the hour.

Yuki looked great as always, the streak of blue in her glossy black shoulder-length hair matching her impeccable suit of the same color. She was also wearing her courtroom face, and I couldn’t read her mood.

We three spoke in nearly perfect unison. “Well?”

“Sorry you had to wait,” said Yuki. “As you know, the grand jury has been known to turn in the verdict the second you’re out the door. But I had to wait out in the hallway. Ten minutes went by. Twenty.”

“Yuki, tell us,” Cindy shouted over the barroom clamor and the sound of laughter at the next table.

Yuki grinned.

She said to the waitress, “Sydney, I need a drink with a little kick to it. Surprise me. And I think we can order now.”

“The usual dietary restrictions?” Syd asked. She looked at each of us and we all nodded, affirmative.

“Four burgers,” she said deadpan. “Medium, medium rare, medium well, well done. Extra fries for the table. Surprise drink for ADA Castellano. With a kick.”

We all laughed, including Yuki—the joke being that she can get drunk on iced tea. Cindy, known among us as Girl Reporter, grabbed Yuki’s shoulders with both hands and shook her.

“Talk,” she said. “And cut to the freakin’ chase.”

Yuki’s phone rang, and despite Cindy’s grip on her, and all of us yelling, “No phones!,” she went for her bag.

She took the call, listened, said, “Me, too, Marc. You’re very welcome.”

As Yuki clicked off the call, Sydney placed a fruity-looking drink in front of her. Yuki thanked her, then said to us, “As I was about to tell you—Briana Hill was indicted on the charge of rape. That was the victim calling to say he was overwhelmed and very grateful.”

She smiled broadly. Glasses clinked across the table. Yay for Yuki. And a freaking great moment for the Women’s Murder Club.





CHAPTER 18


JOE MOLINARI, MY huggable and exceedingly durable husband, cooked dinner for us that night. I love his cooking, but I had no appetite. I put down a little of the shrimp scampi and broccoli raab and half a glass of the Cabernet.

“What’s wrong, Linds?” he asked me.

“Nothing. Really. Dinner is delicious. I had a big lunch with the girls.”

“Mrs. Rose has the flu,” he said, speaking of our neighbor and occasional nanny. “Are you getting sick?”

“I don’t have a fever. I’m just a little tired,” I told him. While Joe read to Julie, our two-year-old, who was reveling in the replacement of her crib with a real bed without “fences,” I cleared the table and stacked the dishwasher.

I went into Julie’s room as the puppy dog in the story found his way home because the porch light was on. I kissed Julie good night, told her to have sweet dreams. She said, “More kisses, Mommy.”

Right after smacky-kisses and huggy-wuffles, we locked the front door, turned off the lights and the electronics. Then Joe and I went to our sky-blue corner bedroom for the rare early night to bed.

Minutes later Joe was lying facedown in the bedding and I was massaging his bum arm. This was only one of his healing injuries from that explosive blast four months ago that killed dozens of people.