Womens Murder Club - 07 - 7th Heaven by James Patterson Page B

cinched my seat belt, too, said, “It roughly translates as ‘Money is the root of all evil.’ I’d like to get my hands on the sucker who wrote that and show him the victims all crispy and curled up on your table. Show him what real evil is.” Claire grunted. “You got that right,” she said, and pulled the car out onto Bryant heading us north, apparently deciding to take the 1.8 miles to Susie’s like she was racing the Daytona 500. She jerked the wheel around a slow-cruising sightseer, stepping on the gas. “You’re saying ‘him,’ ” Claire pointed out. “So that Debra Kurtz person is off your list?” “She has an alibi,” I told Claire through clenched teeth. I grabbed the dashboard as she cleared the yellow light. “Also, her alibis check out for the nights of the Malone fire and the Jablonskys in Palo Alto.” “Humph,” Claire said. “Well, about the two legible fingerprints on that bottle found at the scene. One belongs to Steven Meacham. The other didn’t match to anybody. But I’ve got something for you, girlfriend. Sandy Meacham had a good-sized blunt-force wound to the skull. Looks like she got clobbered with maybe a gun butt.” I thought about that - that the killer had gotten violent - then I told Claire how the canvass of the Meacham neighborhood had netted us no leads whatsoever. She gave me the results of the blood screen - that Sandy Meacham had been drinking, and that the Meachams had both died of smoke inhalation. It was all interesting, but none of it added up to a damned thing. I said so to Claire as she pulled into the handicapped zone right in front of Susie’s Café. She looked at me and said, “I am handicapped, Linds. I’m carrying fifty pounds of baby fat, and I can’t walk a block without huffing.” “I’m not going to write you up for this, Butterfly. But as for the land speed record you just set in a business district . . .” My best friend kissed my cheek as I helped her down out of the Pathfinder. “I love that you worry about me.” “Lotta good it does,” I said, hugging her, cracking open the door to Susie’s. As we plowed through the gang at the bar toward the back room, the plinking steel-band version of a Bob Marley classic surrounded us, as well as the divine aromas of roasting chicken, garlic, and curry. Cindy and Yuki were already at our booth, and Lorraine dragged up a chair for Claire. She dropped laminated menus that we knew by heart onto the table and took our order for a pitcher of tap and mineral water for Claire. And then with Cindy urging her on - “Yu-ki, tell them, tell them” - Yuki “volunteered” her news. “It’s nothing,” she said. “Okay. I had a date. With Jason Twilly.” “And you were careful what you said to him,” Cindy said, sternly. “You remembered that he’s a reporter.” “We didn’t talk about the case at all,” Yuki said, laughing. “It was dinner. A very nice dinner, no kissing or anything, so all you guys calm down, okay?” “Was it fun? Are you going to see him again?” “Yeah, yeah, if he asks me, I suppose I will.” “Jeez. First date in what, a year?” I said. “Think you’d be more excited.” “It hasn’t been a year,” Yuki said. “It’s been sixteen months, but never mind that. What’re we toasting?” “We’re toasting Ruby Rose,” said Claire, lifting her water glass. “Who?” we all asked in unison. “Ruby Rose. She’s right here,” Claire said, patting her belly. “That’s the name Edmund and I picked out for our little baby girl.”
    Chapter 47

    WHEN I RETURNED home from Susie’s, the sun was still hanging above the horizon, splashing orange light on the hood of a squad car parked right outside my apartment. I bent to the open car window, said, “Hey there. Something wrong?” “You got a couple of minutes?” I said, “Sure,” and my partner opened the car door, unfolded his long legs, and walked over to my front steps, where he sat down. I joined him. I