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Chapter 14
IT WAS STILL EARLY in the evening when Claire and I crossed the threshold to Susie’s, the boisterous, sometimes rowdy Caribbean-style eatery where a group of my friends meet for dinner every week or so.
The reggae band hadn’t yet arrived—which was fine, because when Cindy waved to us from “our” booth, I could see from her expression that she had something big on her mind.
And words were her thing.
Cindy is the hot-shit crime reporter at the San Francisco Chronicle these days. We met four years ago while I was working a particularly grisly case involving honeymoon murders, and she talked her way right into my crime scene. Her audacity and tenacity ticked me off enormously, but I came to respect those same qualities when her reporting helped me nail a vicious killer and send him to death row.
By the time Cindy crashed my next crime scene, we’d bonded and become trusting friends. I’d do anything for her now. Well, almost anything—she is a reporter after all.
Claire and I wriggled into the booth opposite Cindy, who looked both boyish and girly with her fluffy blond hair, man-tailored black suit jacket over a mauve sweater, and jeans. Her front two teeth overlap minutely, which only makes her face look even prettier. Her smile, when it comes, lights you up inside.
I flagged down Loretta, ordered a pitcher of margaritas, turned off my cell phone, then said to Cindy, “You look like you’re hatching something.”
“You’re good. And you’re right,” she said with a grin. She licked salt off her upper lip and set down her glass.
“I’ve got a lead on a story that’s going to be a bombshell,” Cindy said. “And I think I’ve got it to myself—at least for a while.”
“Do tell,” said Claire. “You’ve got the talking stick, girlfriend.”
Cindy laughed and launched into her story.
“I overheard a couple of lawyers talking in an elevator. They arrr-oused my interest,” Cindy said with a funny, leonine growl, “and I followed up.”
“Don’t you just love blabbermouths?” I said, pouring margaritas for Claire and myself, then topping off Cindy’s glass.
“Some of my favorite people,” Cindy said, leaning in toward the center of the table.
“So here’s the prepublication scoop. There’s a malpractice suit starting against a huge hospital right here in Metropolis,” she told us. “Last couple of years, a number of patients who were admitted through the emergency room fully recovered. Then, a few days later, according to what I overheard between the lobby and the fourth floor of the Civic Center Courthouse, those patients died. Because they got the wrong medication.”
I eyed Cindy over the rim of my glass. A feeling was starting to grow in the center of my chest, a feeling I hoped would disappear as she continued her story.
“This hotshot lawyer named Maureen O’Mara is going after the hospital, representing a bunch of the patients’ families,” Cindy was saying.
“Which hospital?” I asked. “Can you tell me?”
“Well, sure, Linds. San Francisco Municipal.”
I heard Claire say, “Oh, no,” as the feeling in my gut mushroomed.
“I just spent the night at Municipal holding Yuki’s hand,” I said. “We brought her mom into the emergency room yesterday afternoon.”
“Let’s not go crazy, here,” Cindy said quietly. “It’s a humongous hospital. There’s one doctor in particular in the crosshairs, a guy named Garza. Apparently, most of the deceased in question were admitted on his watch.”
“Oh my God,” I said, my blood pressure spiking so I felt heat through the top of my head. “He’s the one. I met him. That’s the doctor who admitted Yuki’s mother!”
Just then, the air moved at the back of my neck, and silky hair brushed the side of my face as someone bent down to kiss my cheek.
“Did you just mention my name?” Yuki asked. She slipped into the empty seat beside Cindy. “What’d I miss?”
“Cindy is working on a story.”
“It’s something I think you should know,” said Claire.
Chapter 15
YUKI’S EYES WERE BEAMING question marks, but suddenly Cindy seemed reluctant to talk.
