“Perfect.”
It was the best idea in the world, and there was no one I’d rather have lunch with.
We met at Claire’s car, and she drove us to the noodle shop on King Street. There was a line outside the restaurant, but by the time we were standing inside, two seats had opened at the counter.
We ordered tekka maki and spicy sesame noodles, and after the sushi chef placed the seaweed-wrapped raw tuna in front of us, we got to talking.
I told my BFF about taking Julie to see Joe, and she told me about her domestic concern.
Claire’s husband, Edmund, plays bass with the San Francisco Symphony.
“He told me he can’t stand the hours anymore and his arthritis is getting worse,” said Claire. “I think he’d really like to stay home, work on compositions of his own. Rosie would love to have her dad pick her up after school. He’ll collect social security in a couple of years. He’s not a terrible cook.”
“So dinner would be waiting when you got home.”
“Dinner. Wine. Living on less, but also a less grumpy husband. Still thinking about it.”
Sushi trays were removed and the very hot bowls of savory soup arrived. Between spoonfuls Claire said, “I wanted to talk to you about something else, Lindsay.”
“Uh-oh. I think I hear spooky suspense music.”
Claire laughed. “Yeah, well, I’ve been out on the medical examiner spooky music network and found out something interesting.”
I said, “Shoot,” pouring more tea for the two of us, and Claire went on.
“The pathologist at Metro Hospital took in a fatal heart attack victim a month ago. She thought that the heart attack was suspicious.”
“Same MO as the others?”
“Yes. Needle mark in the haunch. No lethal toxins in the blood. Heart wasn’t pristine, but didn’t look like cardiac arrest. One distinct difference.”
“Well, don’t stop now.”
“The victim was male, homeless, a drug addict. It’s a miracle that the pathologist who found this needle prick thought something of it at the time. Made a note on the autopsy report. But no one claimed the body, so that needle mark wasn’t investigated. However, there was a witness to the stabbing.”
“Really. There was a witness?”
“A do-gooding citizen. A landscaper. Had his earmuffs on and was trimming some shrubbery or something. Saw the victim go down. Saw someone rush away. The landscaper had seen this homeless person earlier, given him a couple of bucks.”
“You have contact info for me?”
“I know you’re busy, Linds.”
“Not too busy.”
In fact, my last case had been a man who shot his wife, then dove off the Golden Gate Bridge before I could arrest him. After that I’d kept my desk clear for the trial.
“Good, because I’d like to work this case with you.”
“Sure thing.”
Claire took out her phone, tapped on the keys.
“Okay,” said Claire. “I’ve sent you the name of the victim, contact info for the pathologist and the landscaper.”
“Got it,” I said.
“I’m telling you,” Claire went on, “some stealthy needle sticker is out there somewhere with a drug that stops hearts and fades very quickly from the bloodstream. Lab tests haven’t found the toxin.”