The 6th Target (Women's Murder Club 6)

“I’d say yes.”

“Did he know you?”

“No, sirree.”

“Did you provoke Mr. Brinkley into shooting you?”

“Just the opposite.”

“So you’d have to say that the shooting was basically a random act based upon no foundation whatsoever?”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so? You’d never met him before, and he was saying things to you that just didn’t make sense. You saw him shoot four people before he aimed his gun at you, didn’t you? Isn’t there a simple word that describes someone who acts this way? Wouldn’t that word be ‘insane’?”

“Objection, Your Honor — argumentative, and that’s a legal question for the jury.”

“Sustained.”

Yuki sat down, slumped back in her seat. Mickey saw her eyes dart from him to the jury to the witness and back to him. Good. She was rattled.

“Did Mr. Brinkley seem sane to you, Dr. Washburn?”

“No.”

“Thank you. I have no further questions.”

“Ms. Castellano, redirect?” the judge asked.

“Yes, Your Honor.”

Yuki got out of her chair and approached her witness, Mickey noting Yuki’s furrowed brow, her fingers knit together. He knew that Yuki was big with hand gestures and was probably training herself to keep her hands still.

“Dr. Washburn,” she said, “do you know what Alfred Brinkley was thinking when he shot you?”

“No. I absolutely do not,” Claire said emphatically.

“In your opinion, Doctor, when Mr. Brinkley shot you, isn’t it likely that he knew the wrongfulness of his acts, that he knew what he was doing was wrong?”

“Yes.”

“Thank you, Dr. Washburn. I have nothing else for this witness, Your Honor.”

As the judge dismissed Claire Washburn, Mickey Sherman spoke softly to his client, using his hand as a shield, as though what he was saying was deeply private.

“That went pretty well, Fred, don’t you think?”

Brinkley nodded like a bobblehead doll, poor guy steeped in medication, Mickey hearing Yuki Castellano say, “Please call Sergeant Lindsay Boxer to the stand.”

Chapter 77

I’D JUST SPENT A ROCKY NIGHT on Cindy’s couch, waking up at odd hours to patrol the halls of the Blakely Arms. I’d checked the emergency exits, the stairwells, the roof, and the basement, finding no prowler, only a lone elderly woman doing her laundry at two a.m. When the sun came up, I made a quick pit stop at home to change my clothes, and now, sitting outside the courtroom, a trickle of adrenaline entered my bloodstream as the bailiff called my name.

I walked inside through the double doors and the vestibule, and down the well-worn oak floorboards to the witness stand, where I was sworn in.

Yuki greeted me formally and questioned me to establish my credentials.

Then she said, “Do you recognize the man who confessed to the ferry shootings?”