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It was kind of marvelous.
We reached our lunch destination, Shadowbrook Restaurant, which is built into the side of a hill overlooking Soquel Creek. And the best part, the part that made our little kiddo squeal, was the cable car that traveled down from the parking lot to the restaurant so that you could see the tropical gardens and waterfalls outside the glass.
Joe was quite animated over lunch. He’d been working on the case he called CBM, Claire’s Birthday Murders. He had mined and sieved the databases, looking for intersecting lines between stabbings of women in San Francisco on May twelfth, as well as murders, bank robberies, domestic violence, and more traffic accidents than I would have thought possible. But still, even with his giant brain and investigatory genius, plus access to law enforcement databases, he’d come up with no hard evidence connecting the incidents to an actual suspect.
But you know what?
Our minds were sharp. We had the space to talk and turn ideas over, to compare what we’d already confirmed about the five women who’d been stabbed to death in San Francisco on May twelfth in sequential years.
Namely, the women were strangers to one another. None of the crimes had been witnessed or solved, and no serious suspects had even been questioned.
We had made progress by the process of elimination, and Joe and I were even more firmly convinced that the five CBMs on our list had all been done by the same guy.
Something had tripped off that killer five years ago and sent him on an anniversary spree. Unless his fury had run its course, he was still free and highly likely to kill again.
CHAPTER 50
ON THE WAY home, Joe dropped me off at Susie’s Café. Susie’s is the Women’s Murder Club “clubhouse,” where Cindy, Claire, Yuki, and I get together more or less weekly to brainstorm our cases, to bitch about the lumps life hands out, and of course to celebrate good news, both tiny and huge, over hot Caribbean food and cold beer on tap.
I blew kisses to Joe, then turned toward the bright light coming through Susie’s windows and the faint plinking sound of steel drums, which got louder when I opened the front door.
Hot Tea was warming up, and regulars at the bar waved as I walked through the main room, down the narrow corridor past the kitchen, and into the back room, where Claire and Yuki were waiting at our cozy red leather booth.
Claire was telling Yuki something that required vigorous use of her hands, and Yuki was listening intently as I slid in beside her. I got and gave a couple of good hugs, and Claire said, “I’m telling Yuki about this stinkin’ case I got.”
“Catch me up,” I said.
I signaled to Lorraine that I needed beer, and Claire said to me, “Yesterday morning, EMTs bring in this eight-year-old girl. The one in charge says Mom’s story is that she gave the little girl a bath at four in the morning, went to get a fresh towel, and when she came back, the little girl had drowned.”
I said, “A bath at four in the morning?”
Claire said, “Exactly. The EMT quotes the mom as saying the little girl is hyperactive and sometimes a bath calms her down. So I’m checking out this poor little girl, and damn, there’s no foam in her mouth, fingers aren’t wrinkled up, the lungs do not cross at the midline, but her hair is wet. I look her over. No bruises. No nothing.”
Lorraine came with a glass and a pitcher of beer and said, “Lindsay, I recommend the coconut shrimp with rice.”
I told her I was up for that, and Yuki and Claire said, “Me, too,” in unison. Then Claire went on.
“I give her the full-body X-rays and they’re fine. No broken bones, and I send her blood to the lab and it comes back negative for drugs or poison.”
Yuki said, “What the hell? She had something viral? Bacterial?”
“Nope,” said Claire. “I checked. But when I’m doing the internal exam, I find pizza in the little girl’s stomach.”
We all pondered that bit of information for a few moments. Then Lorraine brought the food We all sat back as the plates were set down, and Yuki said, “Don’t stop now, Claire. Go on.”
“OK, hang on,” said Claire. She sampled the shrimp and rice, swallowed some beer, dabbed at her lips, and said, “So I call Wayne Euvrard. You know him, Lindsay. Vice, Northern District. He finds out that Mom’s got a sheet for prostitution and now this whole four a.m. bath and pizza story is just grabbing me all wrong. And I still don’t know what killed this little girl.
“So I ask Euvrard to have Mom come in for a chat. And he does and tells me she comes in to see him wearing a new outfit, has her face on and her hair done. And he says to her, ‘What happened to your baby?’ And he’s pretty sure she’s going to say, ‘She drowned.’
“But instead, he tells me, ‘Mom takes a deep breath and squeals the deal. She says, “I had an outcall. Steady customer, and I needed the money. Anita has a seizure disorder but hardly has seizures anymore and when she does, we just leave her on the floor and she gets over it.”’
“Mom goes on to tell Euvrard that Anita must’ve gotten up and eaten something and then had a seizure, because she was dead on the floor when Mom came home from her call. And Mom decides if she leaves her there and calls the police, they’ll take her kids away. So she put her daughter in the tub and called nine-one-one.
“And I thought, Christ, they’d be right to take away her children. She’s irresponsible. Maybe criminally negligent. And I say to Euvrard, ‘Did she say, “If only I had stayed home, my daughter would be alive”?’ And Euvrard said, ‘Nope. Nothing like that. I saw no remorse at all.’
“So I write Anita up as probable seizure disorder, manner of death natural.”
I said, “You’re going to let this lady slide?”
