The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club #17)(44)

And now digging into this case was going to be road-blocked by the IAD hearing.

I asked, “If IAD finds against me, what happens to the Cushing case?”

“It’s up to the chief. Now please leave me with all this … stuff.” He looked down at the multiple tall stacks of papers on his desk and threw up his hands.

I got out.





CHAPTER 63


IT WAS EARLY morning chez Molinari, and a shaft of sunlight was piercing the south-facing windows.

I had to present my case to a panel of Internal Affairs Division honchos in an hour. I was still in pj’s. Unbeknownst to Joe, I had thrown up that morning. While standing in the shower, I did some fourth-grade math in the condensation on the tiles, adding up days and weeks since Joe and I had made love in a danger zone.

My math was sketchy.

I might have forgotten a half-asleep morning tumble or miscalculated my cycle. It was pretty clear that somehow I’d screwed up and that I was an idiot. Correction. A pregnant idiot.

I draped Joe’s robe over my pajamas and went to the kitchen table, where he had set out a plate of buttered toast, a jar of blackberry jam, and a cup of tea.

Joe said to me, “Sit, Lindsay. How many eggs?”

“None. Thanks, though. I’m a little edgy about the hearing.”

I sipped tea. I nibbled a corner of the toast. I wondered if there would be time today to go to CVS and pick up a pregnancy kit.

Joe saw that my mind was far, far away.

“Talk to me,” he said.

“Martha needs a senior checkup,” I said.

“I’ll call the vet. What’s worrying you about the IAD meeting?”

“I’m nervous, Joe. Let’s face it. Stevens is going to try to ruin me. But I know what I saw. My intentions are damned good, and if that’s not enough, well, what else can I do?”

Julie ran out of her bedroom, entering the large living room, waving her arms and making sputtering, airplanelike noises. Joe tensed, ready to jump into action if she took a fall.

“Joooo-leee,” he called out. “Come to Daddy.”

She dipped her wings and course-corrected. The curly-haired single-engine aircraft flew to her daddy’s knees.

After she’d climbed into Joe’s lap, I said to him, “If the panel finds that I was out of line, the punishment phase is up to Jacobi. I saved his life once, don’t forget.”

“I know,” said Joe. He grabbed my hand and squeezed. “You’ll do fine. I’m sure of it. Call me as soon as it’s over.”

“I will.”

I got up, kissed him, then bent to kiss my daughter, wondering how she’d adjust to the intrusion of another little attention-getter in the house. And what about Joe and me? How would a new child impact Joe’s hoped-for job, and what would it do to my own? Assuming I still had one.

I left the kitchen–living room–dining room and went to the bedroom closet. I hit the light switch and stared at my wardrobe. Next to my long red cocktail dress hung a raft of mostly white button-front shirts and a dozen pairs of blue, black, and khaki trousers. I had three blue blazers and one gray one in a dry cleaner’s bag, along with a pair of dark-gray slacks.

I went with the gray.

I put on makeup with an overly careful, possibly shaky hand, then drove to 850 Bryant, arriving at 8:40. I parked across the street, dodged traffic against the light, entered the Hall, and passed through security without a hitch.

The elevator whisked me to the fifth floor, and I didn’t run into anyone I knew. That was good. I wasn’t in a chatty mood.

I had rehearsed my complaint in my head, but when the elevator doors slid open on five, my mind blanked.

I no longer remembered even my opening line.





CHAPTER 64


THE DOUBLE DOORS to the IAD hearing room were wide open to the hallway.

I crossed the threshold and quickly got my bearings.

The white-painted room was no-frills. The overhead strip lighting was fluorescent. The California state flag and the Stars and Stripes flanked the long wooden table for the panel at the front of the room.

Hon was speaking to a man I didn’t know.

There were two front-facing tables at midpoint for the complainants, and a stenographer sat off to the side with her console. Neither Stevens nor my union rep nor Brady were there.

A row of folding chairs had been set up at the back of the room. Given the renowned secrecy of IAD, I wasn’t surprised that there was no gallery for press, curiosity seekers, or interested parties.

My phone buzzed.

I reached into my blazer pocket and checked the caller ID before answering. It was Carol Hannah, my union rep. I’d sent her an e-mail and left her a couple of messages but hadn’t heard back. Carol was a solid and feisty defender. It would be good to have her sitting next to me even if she didn’t say a word.

I took my phone to the rear of the room and faced the corner. In the privacy of my imaginary phone booth, I said, “Carol? Where are you?”

“On a steamer about ten miles off the coast of Norway. Since you asked.”

“What? No. Really?”

“Really. I want to see reindeer before they’re extinct. It’s still night here, though.”

“Aw, no. I mean, good for you.”

But it was bad for me. My hopeful expectations were dashed, against Norway’s frigid shoreline.