The 5th Horseman Page 8

  Jacobi seethed. “Fucking cowards.”

  “Keep the faith, you guys,” said Claire. “I’ll call in a favor at the lab. See if I can put a rush on the DNA.”

  I stepped closer to the table and looked into the victim’s lifeless face again. Finally, I reached over and closed her clouded blue eyes.

  “We will get these bastards,” I told her.

  Chapter 39

  CLAIRE SAW LINDSAY and Jacobi to the door, saying that she wished that she had given them more to work with, hoping for all of them that this poor dead girl would have a name unrelated to luxury cars very soon.

  She made her call to DNA and got the usual—“Of course, Dr. Washburn, we’ll get right on it,” an assurance that came with an unspoken disclaimer, namely, “Do you understand how long this procedure takes? Do you know how many cases are ahead of yours?”

  “I mean it,” she said to the lab supervisor. “This is urgent, rush, high priority.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I got it.”

  Claire was sliding Jag Girl into a drawer, when her cell phone rang. Yuki’s number flashed on the caller ID.

  “Yuki! Darlin’, how are you holding up?” she asked. “Do you want me to pick you up or can you drive over by yourself? Edmund’s really looking forward to meeting you, and he’s cooking mushroom risotto tonight.”

  “Claire, I’m sorry. I just can’t—I can’t be with people right now.”

  Claire gave it a respectful beat; then she said, “Of course, honey. I understand.”

  “But I have to ask a favor,” Yuki said, then sighed loudly.

  “Whatever you need.”

  “I want you to do an autopsy on my mom.”

  Claire listened intently as Yuki described her meeting with Garza, and explained that she was completely unsatisfied with his explanation for her mother’s death.

  Claire wanted to sigh out loud, too, but she held it in. She didn’t want to show any disrespect to Yuki.

  “You’re sure you want me to do this, baby? Can you handle whatever I find?”

  “I swear I can. I have to know if her death was avoidable. I absolutely have to know what happened to my mom.”

  “I understand. I’ll arrange to have her brought here in the morning.”

  “You’re the best,” Yuki said, her voice cracking from the pressure of tears.

  “Don’t you worry, honey. She’s family. Just leave your mom to me.”

  Chapter 40

  THE FOLLOWING AFTERNOON, Yuki was in her mother’s kitchen, standing over the sink. She stuffed a bite of toast into her mouth, hardly chewing. Everything about this still seemed so unreal.

  She’d been up the whole night—phoning her mother’s friends, going through albums and scrapbooks, losing herself in memories. Now she wrenched herself back to the present, wondering when Claire would call and what Claire would say.

  When the phone finally rang, Yuki lunged for it.

  Claire asked, “How are you doing, honey?”

  “I’m okay,” Yuki said, but that was a lie. She felt light-headed, her guts twisting as she waited for Claire to tell her about the end of her mother’s life. Finally, she couldn’t stand it another second.

  “Did you find out anything?”

  “I did, honey. For one thing, Garza was right when he told you that your mom had an embolism around her brain. What he didn’t tell you was it had to have been more than three hours before someone noticed that she was in trouble.

  “The doctors should have given her an MRI to establish the size of the hematoma,” Claire continued. “But instead, they loaded her up with streptokinase, an anticoagulant.”

  “He said something about an anticoagulant.”

  “Uh-huh. Well, streptokinase isn’t the newest drug on the market, but it’s okay if used properly. Which it wasn’t.

  “Your mom was already hemorrhaging. There was no place for all that blood to go, and that’s why she died, Yuki. I’m so, so sorry. I can’t tell you how sorry I am.”

  Yuki felt the news like a gut-punch.

  My God, Keiko had been bleeding into her brain for hours—and no one even noticed?

  What the hell was going on in that hospital?

  Why had her mother had the stroke at all?

  “Yuki? Yuki? Are you still there?”

  “I’m okay. . . .”

  Yuki finished up with Claire; then she dropped the phone into its cradle. She went into the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. She took off her clothes and got into her mother’s pink-and-green shower stall, stood for a long time sobbing, pressing her head against the wall as the hot water streamed down her body. She decided what she needed to do next.

  A half hour later, wearing one of her mother’s outfits—black pants with a stretch waistband and a red velour top—Yuki drove to the 800 block of Bryant Street. She parked in front of a bail bondsman’s office across from the Hall of Justice.

  Yuki entered the gray granite building, stopping at the security desk to give her name. She was on a mission now; she’d made up her mind; there was no turning back.

  She took the elevator to the third floor and the Southern Division of the SFPD.

  Lindsay was waiting when she got there. She put her arm around Yuki’s shoulders and walked her back to her small glass-enclosed office.

  Yuki took the desk chair across from Lindsay. Her face felt stiff, and her throat was tight. Lindsay was peering at her with concern. What a good friend she was, Yuki thought. I shouldn’t do this to her. But I have to.

  “I want to file charges against Municipal,” Yuki said. “Someone at that damn hospital murdered my mother.”

  Chapter 41

  COLMA, CALIFORNIA, IS CALLED the City of the Dead; located five miles south of San Francisco, it’s our city’s graveyard. With more than a million people buried in its neatly manicured cemeteries, it’s the only place in America where the dead outnumber the living, upward of twelve to one.

  My mom was here at Cypress Lawn Cemetery, and now Yuki’s mom would be here, too.

  That Saturday, about seventy of us were grouped under a tent at Keiko’s graveside, a breeze riffling the white canvas panels, twisting the thin plume of smoke coming from the incense pot next to the portrait of Yuki’s parents, Bruno and Keiko Castellano.

  Yuki stood with her arm around a small Japanese man in a dusty black suit. This was Keiko’s twin brother, Jack. He choked out a few words in halting, broken English: “My sister was precious woman. Thank you for . . . bringing honor to my family.”

  Yuki hugged her uncle. A smile crossed her tired face as she began to speak about her mother.

  “My mom liked to say that when she came to San Francisco she picked out the important landmarks right away. The Golden Gate Bridge, Saks, I. Magnin, Gump’s, and Nordstrom. Not necessarily in that order.”

  Warm laughter rose up as Yuki brought images of Keiko to life.

  “I used to go shopping with her after school and race around the clothing racks. She would say, ‘Yuki-eh, you must learn to be a lady.’

  “I don’t think I ever quite learned to do that.” Yuki laughed. “I liked my music loud. My skirts short—I know, Mommy, even this one is too short! She wanted me to marry a lawyer—instead I became one.

  “My life isn’t what she dreamed for me, but she always gave me her love, her support . . . her everything.

  “We were a team, Mom and me. Best friends, always. As I stand here with my uncle, I cannot imagine my world without her. Mommy, I will love you and miss you forever.”

  Yuki lowered her head, her lips trembling. Then she and her uncle turned so that they faced Keiko’s coffin.

  Pressing a bracelet of stone beads between her palms, Yuki held her hands in front of her face. She and her uncle Jack chanted a Japanese prayer that swelled as the voices of Keiko’s friends and family joined in.

  Then Yuki bowed to her mother’s coffin.

  I gripped Claire’s hand with my right hand, Cindy’s hand with my left, feeling
my own grief well up in me as tears rolled down Yuki’s face.

  “This is just the saddest damn day,” Claire said.

  Chapter 42

  I FOUND MY MOTHER’S GRAVE by walking east and south for ten minutes with a map in my hand, stepping around carved lions and angels, and ornate mausoleums, until I found the simple granite stone that I carried around like a weight in my heart.

  The carved letters had darkened with almost fifteen years’ growth of lichen, but the legend was clear and indelible. Helen Boxer, wife of Martin, devoted mother to Lindsay and Catherine. 1939-1989.

  A picture came to me of being a little kid, Mom making breakfast as she got ready for work, her yellow hair pinned up in a twist, pulling hot Pop-Tarts out of the toaster for me and Cat, burning her fingers and crying out “oooh-oooh-ooooh” to make us laugh.

  On those days, workdays, I wouldn’t see her again until dark.

  I remembered how my little sister and I would come home from school to an empty house. Me, making the mac-and-cheese dinners. Waking up at night to our mom screaming at Dad to shut his trap and let the girls sleep.

  And I remember what it was like after my father left us: my mother’s beautiful, short-lived freedom from my father’s iron fist over all of us. She cut her hair into a flingy bob. Took singing lessons with Marci Weinstein, who lived down the street. Had six or seven years of what she called “breathing free”—before runaway breast cancer knocked her down.

  I had a dim memory of standing at this very spot when Mom was buried, not having a shred of the grace or eloquence Yuki had shown today. I was mute, torn up with anger, bent on keeping my face turned so that I didn’t have to look at my father.

  Now, sitting cross-legged beside my mother’s grave, I stared out at the autumn-brown hills of South San Francisco as an Alaska Air jetliner crossed overhead. I wished that my mother could see that Cat and I were both okay, that Cat was strong, that her little girls were smart and fine, and that my sister and I were friends again.

  I wished I could tell her that being a cop had given my life meaning. I hadn’t always been sure of myself, but I think I had become the woman she would have wanted me to be.

  I ran my hand over the curve of her headstone and said something that I didn’t often admit to myself.

  “I really miss you, Mom. I wish that you were here. I wish I’d been sweeter to you when you were alive.”

  Chapter 43

  MY THOUGHTS FLITTED between love and death as I drove back from Colma to San Francisco. Images kept coming to me of the people I’d loved deeply who had died.

  Lights glinted on the Bay Bridge as I entered the city and threaded my way through the narrow, rising streets of Potrero Hill.

  I parked the Explorer a few houses down from mine, thinking ahead to my small chores and pleasures, ready to settle in for the night.

  I had my keys in hand, about to open the front door, when I heard Martha’s distinctive bark coming from outside the house!

  It couldn’t be, because it made no sense.

  Was I crazy?

  Or had Martha somehow slipped out the door when I left this morning for the funeral?

  I whipped my head around, listening intently, frantically sweeping the street with my eyes.

  Then I saw my doggy leaning out of the passenger-side window of a black sedan that had pulled up to the curb and was parked behind my car.

  I was overwhelmed with gratitude. A good Samaritan had found her and brought her home.

  I peered in through the car’s open window to thank the driver for bringing my girl back—and my heart almost stopped.

  How could I have forgotten?

  It was Joe.

  Chapter 44

  JOE’S ARMS WERE FULL of grocery bags as he got out of the car, but I grabbed and hugged and kissed him anyway as Martha leaped at my legs.

  “When did you get here?” I asked.

  “At ten a.m. As planned.”

  “Oh, no.”

  “I had a nice day. Watched some football. Took a nap with Martha. Took her shopping.”

  “Oh, God, Joe.”

  “You forgot that I was coming, didn’t you?”

  “Oh, man. I’m so sorry. I really blew it.”

  “That’s not good enough, sister. Not by half. Not even close.”

  “I can explain.”

  “Make it good,” he said, “and don’t even think of lawyering up.”

  I laughed. Put my arm around his waist as we all clambered up the stairs.

  “I’ll make it up to you.”

  “You bet you will,” he growled, then hugged me tight.

  Inside the kitchen, Joe put the groceries on the counter, the ice cream into the freezer. Then he sat on a stool at the counter, crossed his arms, and gave me a look that said “I’m waiting.”

  “Yuki’s mother,” I said. “We buried her today. Out in Colma.”

  “Aw. Jeez, Lindsay. I’m sorry.”

  “Joe, it was so sudden. Yuki and her mom were going to go on a cruise together next week!”

  Joe opened his arms to me, and I leaned into him. Then I talked for ten minutes straight about how close Yuki had been to her mom, how the hospital might have screwed up by giving Keiko the wrong meds.

  My voice tightened in my throat as I told him about my own mom, about visiting her grave that afternoon.

  “It’s a rotten shame that I messed up, Joe. I wish you’d been with me today. I’ve really missed you.”

  “How much?” he asked, the glint in his eyes showing me that I was out of the doghouse.

  I stretched out my arms, making the universal symbol for “this much.” Joe pulled me closer, giving me a full-body hug and a five-star kiss.

  We clung together for a long moment, me with a hand in Joe’s thick hair, holding his cheek tightly against mine, feeling his strong arms wrapped around me. This was good, so good.

  He walked me backward to the bedroom, his hands cupping my buttocks. He was hard against me and holding me so that there was no space between us.

  He lowered me onto the bed, lay down next to me, and moved my hair off my face.

  So handsome, my Joe.

  “I missed you more,” he said.

  “No way.” I took his hand and put it over my heart. “Feel that?”

  “You know that I love you, Lindsay.”

  “I love you, too.”

  Joe unzipped my skirt, kissed me, undid the buttons of my blouse, unclipped the barrette from my hair, slowly tugged off my clothes, until I was bare and flushed and, well, panting.

  I hugged pillows to my chest as Joe tossed my clothes and his onto the lap of the chair. Neither one of us was talking now.

  When I couldn’t stand to wait another minute, he flipped up the covers, took away my pillows, and got into bed beside me, his naked body hot against mine.

  I hooked my arms around his neck, pressed my toes against the tops of his feet, fitted my mouth to his, dissolved into the smell and feel and taste of Joe.

  He opened me with his hands and his mouth, and then he moved into me.

  Oh my God.

  It had been a long time since nothing mattered but this.

  Chapter 45

  JOE AND I WERE LEANING into the wind at the bow as the ferry chugged across the bay on the return trip from Sausalito to San Francisco. Joe looked pensive, and I wondered why that was.

  I reviewed our lazy roll out of bed at around 11:00 that morning, the brilliant blue sky as we held hands on the top deck of the outbound ferry. We’d had a cozy late lunch at Poggio, an outstanding restaurant overlooking the water.

  It was as if we’d been transported to the coast of Italy, dining on pasta at the edge of the blue Mediterranean Sea. Yep, it was that good.

  I squeezed Joe’s arm.

  It had been a spectacular six months for the two of us. We’d bridged the geographical distance between us with phone calls and e-mails. Then, once or twice a month, we’d have a magical weekend like this one.


  And then it would be over, which seemed so cruel and wrong.

  In a half hour, I’d be in my apartment, and Joe would be heading to Washington on an air force jet.

  “Where are you, Joe? You look like you’re very far away. Already.”

  He put an arm around me, pulled me to him. I savored these last moments, the gulls calling and swooping alongside the ferry, the spray of water on my face, Joe’s arms tight around me, the feel of his sweater against my cheek.

  “I can’t keep doing this,” he said. “Making love eleven times in twenty-four hours. I’m forty-five for Christ’s sake.”

  I threw back my head and laughed. “Aerobics are always a good thing.”

  “You think it’s funny? You do, don’t you? My manhood’s at stake here.”

  I hugged him hard, reached up and kissed his neck, then kissed it again.

  “Don’t start up with me, blondie. I’m out of steam.”

  “Seriously, Joe. Is everything okay?”

  “Seriously? There’s a lot on my mind. I just haven’t known when or how to get into it.”

  “I guess you’d better start talking,” I said.

  Joe turned his blue eyes on me as the ferry eased closer to the dock.

  “I think we need to spend more time together, Linds. This weekend stuff is unbelievable but —”

  “I know. The drama gets in the way of reality.”

  He paused before saying, “Would you ever move to DC?”

  I know I must have looked shocked. I’d always figured that sometime we would discuss where our relationship was headed, but I hadn’t expected it today.

  How could I live in DC?

  I saw my startled look register on his face.

  “Okay, hang on. There’s another way to look at this,” he said.

  Joe began to tell me some of what I already knew: that the Port of Los Angeles is the entry point for all of the cargo containers coming by ship from Hong Kong, the largest container port in the world.