I ordered a Dark & Stormy—Gosling’s Black Seal rum and ginger beer—and was sipping it when my best bud in the world came toward me.
“I know you,” Claire said, sliding into the booth, wrapping me in a huge hug. “You’re the gal who went and solved a whole buncha murders without any help from her homegirls.”
“And lived to tell the tale,” I said.
“Just barely, the way I heard it.”
“Wait,” said Cindy, scooting into the booth on my other side. “I want to hear. For the record, if you don’t mind, Lindsay. I think a little profile of our homicide ace is in order.”
I bussed her on the cheek. “You’ll have to clear it with PR,” I told her.
“You’re such a pain,” she said, kissing me, too.
Claire and Cindy each ordered one of the exotic drinks the bar was famous for as Yuki arrived, straight from the office. She was still in her prim lawyer’s suit, but she had a new sassy red streak in her glossy black hair.
The oysters and firecracker shrimp came, and the hand-cut steak tartare was dressed by a waiter at tableside. As the food and libations were served, I told the girls about the takedown at the stucco house on the hill.
“It was so freaking weird that I thought of her as a buddy,” I said of Carolee, “and I didn’t know her at all.”
“Makes you doubt your intuition,” said Cindy.
“Really. And she fooled my sister, too.”
“You think she was just keeping tabs on you because you investigated this Brian Miller’s murder?” said Claire.
“Yeah. Keeping her ‘friend’ close and her enemy closer.”
“To John Doe Number Twenty-four. His case is closed,” said Yuki, lifting her glass.
“Case closed,” we repeated, clinking our glasses to hers.
We ordered monkfish, skate with asparagus, Maine lobster spaghetti, and New York Black Angus steak, and somehow, between chowing down on the sensational food and all of us trying to speak at once, everyone got her story in.
Cindy was writing a story about a bank robber who’d gotten caught because he wrote his “stick ’em up” note on the back of his own deposit slip.
“He left the deposit slip and took off with the dough,” Cindy said. “Cops were waiting for him when he got home. This one goes to the head of my ‘Dumb Crooks’ column.”
“I’ve got one for you!” Yuki jumped in. “My client—to remain nameless—is a stepson of one of the partners, and I had to defend him,” she said, twirling the red streak in her hair. “A coupla cops bang on his door looking for a robbery suspect. My guy says, ‘Come on in,’ because he doesn’t know anything about a robbery. Then he says, ‘Look anywhere you like—except the attic.’”
“Go on, go on,” we urged her. Yuki sipped her Germain-Robin Sidecar and looked around the table.
“Judge grants a search warrant, and the cops find my client’s setup in the attic. Hydroponic marijuana under grow lights. Sentencing is next week,” she said over our laughter.
As the conversation swirled around the table, I felt lucky to be with this gang again. We all felt so comfortable together and had shared so much—even with our newest friend, Yuki, who’d been unanimously admitted to the group for saving my butt and my life as I knew it.
We were about to order dessert when I saw a familiar white-haired man with a slight limp coming toward us.
“Boxer,” Jacobi said, without even acknowledging the others, “I need you now. The car’s running outside.”
I put my hand over my now-empty glass reflexively. My heart rate shot into high gear, and a mental slide show of a car chase and a shoot-up flashed before my eyes.
“What’s going on?” I asked him.
He bent his head toward mine, but instead of whispering, he kissed me on the cheek.
“There’s nothing going on,” he said. “I was going to pop out of a cake, but your girls here dissuaded me.”
“Thanks, Jacobi,” I said, cracking up. I put my hand on his arm. “Come and join us for dessert.”