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“Here’s the nutshell version. Trace of some kind of magnesium compound was found in stomach contents that were sprayed around the Jeep. The compound was ingested—you with me so far?”
“If I was any more with you, I’d be sitting in your lap.”
“Stay where you are. I’ve got no room on my lap.”
“Fine.”
“Okay, so, this compound interacts with stomach acid.”
I blinked a few times, then said, “You’re saying that those kids ate something and when it got to their stomachs—ka-boom.”
“Exactly,” said Claire.
Until new or contrary evidence challenged our theory, I was calling the belly bomb case a double homicide.
CHAPTER 3
I WAS STILL wrapping my mind around bombs you can eat when Claire picked up her ringing phone and got into something long and windy with a lawyer who wanted her as an expert witness.
While I waited for Claire’s attention, I stared at the picture on her desk of the four of us in what we cheerfully call the Women’s Murder Club. The four members are Claire, Cindy, Yuki, and me.
Claire was the bosomy African-American stalwart in the middle of our group, a mom three times over, my best buddy for the past dozen years, a woman with a heart big enough to move into and set up housekeeping.
To her right was Cindy, a sweet-looking bulldog of a reporter, working the crime desk at the Chronicle, who’d helped me bust a few criminals in her search for an exclusive story. Cindy and I have fought at times. Lots of times. She doesn’t back down until she’s tried every possible way around me and a few impossible ones. But I know her well and love her fiercely.
To Claire’s left was Yuki Castellano, who had given up private law to prosecute bad guys for the DA’s Office. She’s a bird-size beauty, a high-speed talker, a brilliant woman who has caught some bad breaks and still never says die.
I was the tall blonde on the end of the line, wearing my working-cop clothes and a sour expression. Bah. I don’t know what was bothering me the day that picture was taken. Well, taking a guess, maybe our new lieutenant, Jackson Brady, had stepped on my toes.
In front of me in real life, Claire picked up her intercom line and yelled into her phone, “Tell Inspector Orson to cool his giant heels and I’ll be with him in ten minutes. Hey, tell him to get coffee. I like mine with a lot of sugar.”
Claire slammed the phone down and said, “No peace for the weary.”
“I think you mean ‘No rest for the wicked.’”
“That, too.”
The phone on her desk rang.
“Don’t take that, okay?” I said. “What do you make of this ingestible bomb?”
“Well,” said Claire. She uncapped a bottle of water and took a really long pull. Then she said, “Since you ask, I believe this belly bomb was as personal as a knife.”
“Meaning?”
“It was a micro-bomb so it was easy to disguise. Limited impact because it was only meant to kill one person at a time.”
“So these kids were targeted?”
“Not necessarily. Could have been random. Remember the psycho who put cyanide inside Tylenol capsules.”
“So those one-person bombs were a kind of message?”
“My thoughts exactly,” said Claire. “Both of us go to the head of the class.”
CHAPTER 4
CLAIRE’S ASSISTANT, TASHA, appeared in the doorway of Claire’s office and changed the subject big-time.
