11th Hour (Women's Murder Club 11)

“You’re funny,” Yuki said, giving me a soft punch in the arm.

“But you said there were no numbers with any of the other remains,” Claire said.

“To me that means whoever dug up the heads left the numbers,” I said. “These are two distinct acts — burying and exhuming. They may have been done by different people.”

Cindy had been tapping keys on her laptop.

“I just ran the numbers through Google. Came up with a lot of stuff that doesn’t seem related to backyard burials. For instance, I’ve got numbers of committees on radiation, department numbers at European universities.”

“Gotta be some kind of code,” Yuki said.

“Maybe it’s an archive number,” I offered. “The head-and-flower tableau was set up almost like an exhibit.”

“Let me run with this part of the puzzle,” Cindy said. “I’ll let you know what I find, and what do you say, Linds? I have first dibs on the story if I find out what the numbers mean?”

“If you actually find something we can use.”

“Right.”

“I’ll have to clear it before you run it.”

“Of course. My usual penalty for being friends with you guys.”

“Okay,” I said to Cindy. “The numbers are yours.”

“Biggest issue for me,” Claire said, “is that we have no bodies. Without bodies, we may never be able to determine causes of death.”

“Well, at least it’s seven bodies we need to find, not six hundred and thirteen,” Yuki said.

“Not six hundred and thirteen so far,” said Claire. “There are many more backyards in Pacific Heights.”

We groaned as one.

It was raining when I ran out the back door of Claire’s office to my car. Reporters were in the parking lot waiting for me, calling my name.

I got into my car, started up the engine, turned on the lights and the sirens, and pulled out onto Harriet Street.

No bones, ladies and gentlemen of the press. I have no bones to throw you at all.

Chapter 14

I WAS STILL thinking about the six skulls in sealed paper bags and the young Jane Doe’s head in the cooler when I opened the door to our apartment on Lake Street. Martha, my border collie and pal of many years, whimpered and tore across the floor, then threw her full weight against me, almost knocking me down.

“Yes, I do love you,” I said, bending to let her wash my chin, giving her a big hug.

I called out, “Joe. Your elderly primigravida has arrived.”

Claire had told me that elderly primigravida meant “a woman over thirty-five who is pregnant for the first time,” and it was a quaint and unflattering term that I usually found just hilarious.

Joe called back, and when I rounded the corner, I saw him standing between piles of books and papers, wearing pajama bottoms, a phone pressed to his ear.

He dialed down the volume on the eleven o’clock news and gave me a one-armed hug, then said into the phone, “Sorry. I’m here. Okay, sure. Tomorrow works for me.”

He clicked off, kissed me, asked, “Did you eat dinner?”

“Not really.”

“Come to the kitchen. I’m going to heat up some soup for my baby. And for my old lady too.”