I heard the voice of the pilot in the background telling the passengers to turn off their electronic equipment.
Joe’s voice came back.
“I’ll call you as soon as the wheels touch down. We’ll make a new plan. A bigger one. A better one. Hang with me, Lindsay. I love you.”
There was a click, and then the dial tone cut in.
I pressed Rewind, listened to the message once more, listened to Joe’s voice. The flap at the airport—it would be funny if it wasn’t so damned sad—was me arresting Garza.
Chapter 137
CLAIRE, CINDY, AND I were at Bix that Saturday night, an outrageously wonderful restaurant hidden away on Gold Street, known for its fantastic food and also Art Deco trappings calling to mind the glory days of speakeasies and the glamorous steamships of the thirties and forties. We were draped around the booth we love best on the mezzanine, with its view of the action at the mahogany bar on the floor below.
I’d shut off my cell phone and was drinking a perfect martini. Twenty hours after the arrests of Garza and O’Mara, I was still tired to the bone.
And I was worried about Yuki, who should have been here a half hour ago.
I was leaning against Claire’s shoulder, and she was kidding me.
“How long since you had some vitamin L, girlfriend?”
“I don’t remember. So that must mean it’s been way too long.”
“When’s that man of yours coming to throw you onto the bed?”
I laughed. “We’ve made an unbreakable date for this coming weekend. Nothing short of a terrorist attack can stop us. Are you clairvoyant, Butterfly?”
“Yeah, pretty much,” said Claire. “But I can’t read your mind on what happened with Dr. Garza. We both want to know. Please don’t make us wait for Yuki.”
/>
I saw that I wasn’t going to get out of this.
Cindy and Claire had fixed their eyes on mine, so I took a sip of my martini, put down my glass, and then told the girls about the scary takedown at SFO, and that we’d booked Garza, charged him with everything we had.
“O’Mara went for a deal,” I told them. “Get this. She and Garza were working together on that lawsuit against Municipal. It was all planned out. A scheme. When he took the Fifth —”
“That was planned?” Cindy asked.
“Sure was. Garza did a superfine job of turning the jury against Municipal. O’Mara raked in her cut of the millions and shared it with Garza. Also, she was in love with the guy.”
“Defies logic and reason,” Claire said.
“Doesn’t it, though? But in her deluded mind, they were going to run away together and live happily ever after.”
“But he dumped her?” Cindy guessed.
“Tried to,” I said. “He was packed and ready to fly when Martin Sweet showed up at his house. Mad as hell. We think he took a swing at Garza with a lead-crystal vase to the back of the head.”
“Ouch,” said Cindy.
“Yeah. So then Garza went nuts and wound up killing poor Martin Sweet. How many stab wounds, Butterfly?” I asked Claire.
“Forty-two. Sliced his neck through to the spinal column.”
I nodded, kept talking.
“Maureen says when Garza told her to ‘have a good life,’ she drove over to his house, wanted to change his mind. Instead she caught him stuffing Martin Sweet into the trunk of his car. And that earned her a ticket to Brazil with Garza.”