The 17th Suspect (Women's Murder Club 17)

“Like a factory slowdown, you’re saying. Could be.”

“What should we do about it?” I asked him.

“We should go home, Lindsay. I’m gonna have a couple of beers and grab some quality time with my woman before she falls asleep.”

I felt a pang from a promise I hadn’t kept. I told Conklin I’d see him in the morning, got into my vehicle, and turned on the engine. While the car warmed up, I called Joe.

When he picked up, I said, “I’m sorry I didn’t call you earlier. We got involved here in a conflict that didn’t quite melt down into a dispute. Is everything okay at home? … Good. I’ll be home in twenty minutes. Tops.”

I made it home in less.

I opened the front door, expecting Martha, my old doggy, to charge at me with her trademark welcome-home woofing. But instead Joe was waiting inside the doorway.

He helped me out of my coat and holster.

“You look like you need a drink,” he said.

“Do I?”

“Did you eat?”

“I didn’t even think about food.”

“You’re in luck, Blondie. Big bowl of beef stew is coming right up.”

“Yummy,” I said with enthusiasm I didn’t feel. I wasn’t hungry at all. “Where is everybody?”

He told me, “Julie is curled up with Martha, both of them snoring.”

I threw myself down on the sofa and toed off my shoes. Joe headed to the kitchen, an open-space galley separated from the living room by an island. He talked about TV news while heating up my dinner.

Then he said, “Come sit at the table and tell me all about what happened tonight.”

I dropped into a chair and watched Joe taking care of me. He uncorked the wine and set down two glasses. The oven pinged and Joe brought my dinner to the table, sat across from me, and gave me that most wonderful of gifts: his undivided attention. I swear, it brought tears to my eyes.

“Let’s hear it,” Joe said. “Start talking.”

I told him the four-word headline.

“Dirty, no-good cops.”

CHAPTER 29

IN THE LIVING room of their apartment on Telegraph Hill, Yuki was sitting at her desk, fully dressed in comfortable pants and a pullover. She was typing on her laptop, with cable news on in the background, while waiting to hear Brady’s key in the lock.

When Brady finally came through the door at ten fifteen, he leaned over the back of her chair and kissed her cheek. He shed his jacket and gun belt and was heading toward the bathroom when Yuki called out, “I have an idea. Let’s go out.”

He turned to look at her and said, “Now? I’m a dead man walking.”

“I made a reservation at Renegade.”

“You did?” He looked genuinely pained. “Jesus, Yuki, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you remind me that today was your birthday?”

“They close at midnight,” she said. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”

Yuki let Brady’s assumption that it was her birthday stand. It was a brazen lie of omission, but whatever it took to get her husband across a dinner table from her was worth the small stain on her conscience. She really couldn’t take the silence and the distance and the small talk in their marriage anymore. She had questions, and she was good at getting answers out of people.

She hoped she could handle the truth.