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 m
y front steps, where he sat down. I joined him. I didn’t like the look on Rich’s face as he opened a pack of cigarettes and offered me one.
I shook my head no, then said, “You don’t smoke.”
“Old habit making a brief return visit.”
I’d kicked tobacco once or twice myself, and now I felt the pull of the many-splendored ritual as the match sparked, the tip of the cigarette glowed, and Rich released a long exhalation into the dusky air.
“Kelly Malone is calling me every day so I can tell her that we’ve got nothing. Had to tell her about the Meachams.”
I murmured sympathetically.
“She says she can’t sleep, thinking how her parents died. She’s crying all the time.”
Rich coughed on the smoke and waved his hand to tell me that he couldn’t talk anymore. I understood how helpless he felt. The Malones’ deaths were shaping up to be a part of a vicious serial killing spree. And we were clueless.
I said, “He’s going to screw up, Richie, they almost always do. And we’re not in this alone. Claire, Hanni —”
“You like Hanni?”
“Sure. Don’t you?”
Conklin shrugged. “Why does he know so much and so little at the same time?”
“He’s doing what we’re doing. Wading through the sludge. Trying to make sense of the senseless.”