The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club 17) - Page 19
“Brady, where’d you come from?”
“The planet Wonderful.”
“No, really.”
“I called you back and you’d gone. I just wanted to say I’m sorry if I was stiff with you on the phone. I had three people in my office.”
“Okay. It’s okay.”
They reached the All-Day Parking lot, and Yuki handed her ticket to the attendant along with a twenty. The man gave her change with her keys and shut the window to his booth.
Southern gent that he was, Brady opened the car door for his wife. He leaned into the car, kissed her, made sure her scarf wasn’t in the way when he closed the door.
“See you later,” he said.
She turned on the ignition and the lights and watched him as she drove out of the lot, his pale hair all stirred up by the wind, making a halo around his head.
God, she was confused.
She wished he hadn’t run off that group of women. She could have handled them. And yet he was showing her he cared.
She let out a sigh as she headed home to their empty apartment, the empty chair in front of the TV, the empty spot next to hers in their bed.
What good was flimsy nightwear if there was no one home to see it?
CHAPTER 23
I WAS IN the shower when Joe pulled back the curtain, showed me my cell phone, put the mouthpiece against his chest, and said, “Millie Cushing?”
I took the phone and said, “Millie. I’ll call you back.”
I muttered to myself as I toweled off, something about the sanctity of my rain box, and then I got over myself. After dressing in pj’s, I returned Millie’s call.
I knew what she wanted. She was checking up on what if any police progress had been made in the shooting death of Jimmy Dolan, who’d been shot dead outside Sydney G. Walton Square. I had nothing for her.
It was not my case. Not my beat. I would apologize, of course, but I’d done what I promised to do. I’d followed up and had been told by the detectives in charge to mind my own business.
I tapped out her phone number and waited for her to pick up. The ringing was going on too long. I was a nanosecond from clicking off when Millie said my name. I had my apology all teed up, but I never got the words out of my mouth.
“There’s been another murder,” she said. “And before you ask if the police were called, they were, but no one has arrived. You have to see this, Sergeant. You really have to see this. In the name of God, something has to be done.”
My partner and I had spent the day in court, testifying for the prosecution on a carjacking homicide that had taken a year to get to trial. I was tired. I knew Conklin was dragging his back end, too. But I called him anyway and summarized Millie’s call.
“We can just kick it to Brady,” I said. “He can call Central. That may be enough.”
Conklin said, “Fisherman’s Wharf, near the museum. I’ll meet you there.”
I told Joe the breaking news while I changed out of my jammies into jeans, a sweater, and flat-heeled boots. I explained that I had a bit of a moral debt to Millie and that I would call home as soon as I had scoped out the situation.
He was very understanding, but he said, “You’re skipping dinner again.”
“I have PowerBars in the car. Save a plate for me?”
“Be careful,” he said.
“I will.”
I strapped on my gun, hung my badge on its chain around my neck, and grabbed my keys, and after I had buttoned up my jacket, I went for the stairs. I had just started the downward jog to the street when a wave of light-headedness and nausea swept over me.
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