Unlucky 13 (Women's Murder Club 13)

When he answered, I said, “Warren, we need a search warrant for a refrigerated transport van and for the house belonging to Donna Timko and Walter Brenner. We’re bringing them in as soon as you convince the Feds that they belong to us. We caught them and we want them.”

I gave Jacobi the particulars as the sirens got loud enough for him to hear them over my phone, and then I hung up. I looked through the window at the neat suburban houses across the street, lights and TVs on in the front rooms.

The neighbors were going to be shocked.

Walter and Donna are such nice people. I just can’t believe that they’d put bombs—No wayyy. Really?

“See that?” I said as squad cars drove up on the lawn and the flashing red-and-blue lights lit the dining room up like Christmas Eve in an alternative universe.

I said, “This is Walt and Donna saying good-bye to their best chance to get a break.”

“You’re too funny,” Timko said, laughing again. “You’ve got nothing on us. No evidence. No witnesses. No confession. No nothing. We’ll be home in the morning.”

“Take your toothbrush with you just in case. We’ve got you on threatening a police officer, resisting arrest, unlawful restraint, and of course, suspicion of murder. That’s before CSI goes through the van and this house.”

“Be my guest. There’s nothing to find,” Timko said.

“Really?” My turn to grin. “Not a trace of explosives? Not a print matching one on a ransom note? You’re sure?”

The look on Timko’s face said she was terrified. Out of her tiny freaking mind.

Conklin moved the dining table out of the way, and we each took one of Donna’s arms and hauled her to her feet. I cuffed her. The pleasure was all mine.

“Donna Timko, you’re under arrest on a quite a few charges,” I said, “most of them felonies.” And then I listed them.

She shouted, “I have diabetes. You can’t lock me up. I’ll die.”

“I’m pretty sure the

y can scrounge up some insulin at the Women’s Jail. Meanwhile, you have the right to remain silent. If you can’t afford an attorney, you’ll be provided with one, courtesy of the City of San Francisco. Anything you say can and will be used against you. Do you understand everything I just said?”

Conklin read Walt Brenner his rights as car radios squawked right outside the house. The doorbell rang and knuckles rapped hard on the front door.

“This is the police. We’re coming in.”

Guess what? The killer with the large brown eyes started to cry.

CHAPTER 87

YUKI HEARD THE gun go off. She didn’t know who’d been executed, but she knew how the victim had felt. First the shocked terror of being pulled out of the crowd. Then disbelief. Then not-not-not ready to leave her friends, her family, her life because it wasn’t her time. Then the pleading, followed by…maybe relief in the sharp report of the gun. That she couldn’t know.

She kept her eyes down as she stepped around clumps of passengers huddled on the deck. She edged along the narrow path between the pool and the railing, keeping tabs on her new best friend, Becky, who was whimpering behind her, “Don’t let it be Carl or Luke. Please God. Not them.”

Yuki and Becky had been to the stinking waste bucket, each of them acting as a privacy curtain for the other, while a gunman in fatigues and mask watched over them with an assault rifle and hurried them along.

Taking along a buddy to use the bucket was more for company and support than for protection from men’s eyes. This late in the game, Yuki didn’t care who saw her squatting over a bucket. She just didn’t care anymore.

This ship was a prison camp.

And soon another hour would pass. Another one of them would be murdered.

Becky touched her arm and whispered, “This will be over soon. They’ll pay.”

“I know,” said Yuki.

Becky dropped down beside her husband and son, and Yuki headed toward the spot where Brady waited for her. He raised his hand and she went to him and placed her hand on his shoulder. He helped her down beside him.

“Are you okay?” he asked.