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

They were quiet in the car on the way to Renegade, a special place where she and Brady had made some history together. The police radio was blatting and squawking, and as usual Brady was tuned in to the job.

Yuki looked out the window as they drove to SoMa. After Brady parked the car, she took his arm as he walked her to the restaurant.

He said, “We had our first date here, right?”

“Uh-huh.”

She loved this restaurant. In the entrance, behind the hostess, was a floor-to-ceiling copper wall with a sheet of water falling into a pool. The hall led into a dining room featuring a million-dollar view of the dazzling lights on the Bay Bridge.

Yuki still remembered everything about that first date. Sitting in a booth close to Brady, a handsome stranger then; tamping down her desire to touch his shoulder-length white-blond hair, gawk at his impressive build, lock in on his lake-blue eyes.

That night he’d charmed her without trying. First there was the Southern comfort of his voice and the offhanded way he described the everyday violence of working in the Miami PD. He told her about his first weeks with the SFPD and his take on the people she knew in his department. Then there was that moment when he stopped talking in midsentence to say, “You’re really somethin’ special, Yuki.”

She had told him about her Italian-American father and Japanese mom, whose voice she could sometimes still hear. He hadn’t laughed at that. The conversation rolled on and the chemistry between them was immediate.

Now, as they followed the hostess past the cascading copper waterfall through the near-empty restaurant, Yuki hoped that something good would come from hijacking her husband, hoped that they would feel that connection that had bonded them the night they met.

CHAPTER 30

WHEN YUKI AND Brady were seated in “their” booth, their drink orders in, Yuki put her hand on her husband’s arm.

“Brady,” she said. “Full disclosure. My birthday is next week. I called an emergency dinner.”

“You’re kiddin’ me. What, hon? What’s wrong?”

She looked down at the table, her rehearsed speech feeling thick and stupid and stuck in her throat. She remembered what Claire had said: That man loves you to death.

Maybe Brady didn’t realize the width of the gap that was opening between them.

She felt the weight of the angel skin coral beads around her neck, Brady’s wedding gift to her before their honeymoon cruise. People had died on that ship. Brady had saved lives. He’d saved her life. She’d loved him then and had come to love him even more. What was he feeling?

“Yuki? What is it?”

“I miss you, Brady. We never talk anymore,” she said. “We need to talk.”

Brady smiled, grabbed her hand, and said, “Aw. Thanks for the sneaky heads-up on your birthday. I’ll be sure to send flowers next week.”

Yuki thought, He doesn’t get it. Or he doesn’t feel the same way. Or he doesn’t want to open up. All of that was possible. All of that was painful.

Their waitress materialized with a blood orange margarita for her, sparkling water with a slice of lemon for Brady. Yuki put down half her drink right away. She had told Claire that neither she nor Brady liked to talk about squishy feelings, but hell, an uncomfortable talk was not just necessary, it was overdue.

Bolstered by tequila, Yuki took the plunge—again.

“It feels like we’re losing each other,” she said.

“I’m right here,” said Brady. “Scooch over.”

She slid toward him, and Brady reached over and dragged her close, wrapping both of his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head and saying, “What brought this on? Oh, I get it.”

He pulled back to look into her face.

“This is about your birthday. And now you’re thinking about having a baby?”

Yuki leaned against Brady’s chest, slipped her fingers between his shirt buttons.

“No,” she said, “no, this isn’t about a baby. Not now.”

“Okay, good. What is it, then?” her husband asked.