The Trial (Women's Murder Club 15.50)

She gave me a Cheshire cat smile.

“The person who shot this video has a name?”

“Name, number, and is willing to testify.”

“I love you, Cindy.”

“I know.”

“I mean I really love you.”

Cindy and Rich burst out laughing, and after a stunned beat I laughed, too. We looked at the video together. It was good. We had direct evidence and a witness. Jorge Sierra was cooked.

Four Months Later

Chapter 16

No matter what kind of crappy day life dealt out, it was almost impossible to sustain a bad mood at Susie’s Café.

I parked my car on Jackson Street, buttoned my coat, and lowered my head against the cold April wind as I trudged toward the brightly lit Caribbean-style eatery frequented by the Women’s Murder Club.

My feet knew the way, which was good, because my mind was elsewhere. Kingfisher’s trial was starting tomorrow.

The media’s interest in him had been revived, and news outlets of all kinds had gone on high alert. Traffic on Bryant and all around the Hall had been jammed all week with satellite vans. None of my phones had stopped ringing: office, home, or mobile.

I felt brittle and edgy as I went through the front door of Susie’s. I was first to arrive and claimed “our” booth in the back room. I signaled to Lorraine and she brought me a tall, icy brewski, and pretty soon that golden anesthetic had smoothed down my edges.

Just about then I heard Yuki and Cindy bantering together and saw the two of them heading toward our table. There were kiss-kisses all around, then two of my blood sisters slid onto the banquette across from me.

Cindy ordered a beer and Yuki ordered a Grasshopper, a frothy green drink that would send her to the moon, and she always enjoyed the flight. So did the rest of us.

Cindy told me that Claire had phoned to say she would be late, and once Cindy had downed some of my beer, she said, “I’ve got news.”

Cindy, like every other reporter in the world, was covering the Sierra trial. But she was a crime pro and the story was happening on her beat. Other papers were running her stories under her byline. That was good for Cindy, and I could see from the bloom in her cheeks that she was on an adrenaline high.

She leaned in and spoke only loud enough to be heard over the steel drums in the front room and the laughter at the tables around ours.

She said, “I got an anonymous e-mail saying that ‘something dramatic’ is going to happen if the charges against Sierra aren’t dismissed.”

“Dramatic how?” I asked.

“Don’t know,” Cindy said. “But I could find out. Apparently, the King wants me to interview him.”

Cindy’s book about a pair of serial killers had swept to the top of the bestseller lists last year. Sierra could have heard about her. He might be a fan.

I reached across the table and clasped Cindy’s hands.

“Cindy, do not even think about it. You don’t want this man to know anything about you. I oughta know.”

“For the first time since I met you,” Cindy said, “I’m going to say you are right. I’m not asking to see him. I’m going to just walk away.”

I said, “Thank you, God.”

Lorraine brought Cindy her beer, and Yuki took the floor.

She said almost wistfully, “I know Barry Schein pretty well. Worked with him for a couple of years. If anyone can handle the King’s drama, it’s Barry. I admire him. He could get Red Dog’s job one day.”

None of us would ever forget this very typical night at Susie’s. Before we left the table, it would be permanently engraved in our collective memories. We were chowing down on Susie’s Sunday-night special, fish fritters and rice, when my phone tootled. I had left it on only in case Claire called saying she wasn’t going to make it. But it was Brady’s ring tone that came through.