12th of Never (Women's Murder Club 12)

Yuki sighed. “You also stated that you believe that Mr. Herman is a violent person. Have you been threatened?”

“Mr. Herman is in jail.”

“I understand that, Mr. Goodfriend. Did anyone put pressure on you to retract your testimony?”

“The only one that put pressure on me is you.”

“Me?”

Yuki was dumbfounded. What was this guy saying? She hadn’t been sure of him when he contacted her, but he had checked out as a legitimate gun dealer, with no record of any kind. His testimony had been good for he

r case because he had described the defendant’s violent personality for the jury.

Goodfriend said now, “When I came to you and said I thought the defendant had made a threat, you said, ‘Are you sure?’”

“Yes, and you said you were.”

“Well, I wanted to be sure because of you putting pressure on me to get it right. I thought I was sure. Now I’m not sure anymore.”

“So maybe your original memory was wrong. Or maybe your original memory was correct?”

“Huh?”

“Your Honor, I’m done with this witness. I reserve the right to charge him with perjury once I determine if he has even the most basic grasp of the truth.”

Kinsela snorted from across the room.

The judge said to Yuki, “Duly noted,” and told Gary Good-friend that he could step down.

Nussbaum looked at the big white-faced clock over the exit door, then said, “Seems like an appropriate place to adjourn for the weekend.”

Chapter 61

IT WAS 7:40 on Monday morning when Claire saw Rich Conklin’s truck parked off by itself in the open lot on Harriet Street. When she got closer, she saw that Richie’s head was tipped back and his mouth was open. Looked like he’d passed out.

She called out to him a couple of times and when he didn’t come to, she rapped on the window, said, “Richie. Yoo-hoo. Wakey-wakey.”

He sat up, said, “Huh?” and then, “Oh, hi, Claire. Am I late?” He ran his hands through his hair, tucked his shirt into his pants.

Claire went around to the passenger side and climbed up into the truck. The cab smelled of beer. There was a crumpled hamburger bag in the foot well, dirty laundry lying loose on the backseat. Richie hadn’t shaved.

She said, “Actually, you’re early, my friend. How long you been sleeping here?”

Rich leaned across her, opened the glove compartment, and took out his cell phone. He checked it for messages, then put it in his shirt pocket.

Since he hadn’t answered her question, Claire had a few more for him.

“What’s up, Richie? I suppose you’ve got a good reason to be camping out in the parking lot. When was the last time you took a shower?”

He laughed, then said, “Hold on, Claire. That was a good idea. May I use your shower?”

Claire had a private shower at the morgue. Problem was, it wasn’t exactly hers at the moment. Her stand-in, Dr. Herbert Morse, would be arriving in a few minutes, if he wasn’t already there in her office, boning up on how to be a medical examiner.

“Honestly, if it was mine to give you, I’d tell you to shave, shower, and take your time on the potty. But I’m on the sidelines, as you know. Working out of a cubicle.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, Claire. Well. I’ll think of something.”

“Cindy kicked you out?”