12th of Never

Susie’s Café in the back room, the booth by the window. It was happy hour on a Friday night and “our place” was packed tight to the walls. Conversation was almost impossible, but Cindy, Claire, Yuki, and I really needed to connect with one another, and so we shouted over the noise and gestured wildly with our hands.
    An old dude at the bar had sent over a pitcher of tap, so I guess we looked good enough to go out in public, but Cindy was devastated, Claire was depressed, I still smelled like a fire pit, and I hadn’t slept in twenty-four hours.
    Yuki, however, looked as though she’d been granted three wishes: world peace, eternal youth, and everlasting love. The girl was happy. And she does love her fruity margaritas.
    At the moment, Cindy had the talking stick.
    “Just tell me that Richie isn’t showing up here, okay? Promise me that,” she said.
    Last time the girls had been to Susie’s, Rich had crashed the party, after which he and Cindy had broken up. Since then, Cindy had been nursing regret and hope. Now she took us through her horrible encounter with Richie at the Marina Motel, reporting the dialogue between them verbatim.
    I felt like I was in the room with her, watching Richie pull on his socks, then hug her and tell her it was over. The entire time she’d been wishing that he was in their bed, telling her that he was sorry, too, and not to worry anymore.
    Claire put her arm around Cindy and Cindy wept against her bosom. I’d never seen Cindy cry in public before and it just killed me to see her in such pain.
    Lorraine appeared at our table with a giant platter of Buffalo wings, placed them in front of us, and put a hand on Cindy’s shoulder.
    She said, “I don’t think wings will take your mind off a man who probably wasn’t worth your time, Cindy, but the fact is they’re delicious. And they’re on the house.”
    Cindy smiled through her tears, and after Lorraine had gone, Cindy said, “Will someone else talk? Please?”
    Claire kept her arm around Cindy and told us about the latest affront she’d suffered at the incompetent hands of Dr. Morse. She said emphatically that she would give up chocolate for a year if she could just get a decent lead into the recovery of Faye Farmer’s body.
    We batted the missing-body case around for a while, then Yuki took the floor to gloat—graciously—about the road trip to Bolinas, telling us how Brady reeled in Keith Herman and how insanely awesome it felt to have gotten that stupendous crud off the street.
    Claire said, “I don’t think I get Lynnette Lagrande. Did she want Jennifer Herman out of the way or not?”
    Yuki shrugged and said, “How can you comprehend crazy? I spent a lot of time with that woman, so trust me when I say she’s completely nuts. But her story is that she had nothing against Jennifer. She loved Keith, and after being strung along for a couple of years, she was over it—but at the same time still pissed off. And she wanted Keith to pay.”
    I said, “Over it, but she still wanted payback?”
    “Yeah,” said Yuki. “That’s what she says. So she set up the meeting for Keith with her new cop boyfriend, hoping Keith would be arrested for hiring a hit man. But Keith made the cop as a cop.”
    “So he decided to take out Jennifer himself?” Claire said.
    “Right. Divorce by homicide. According to Keith, he didn’t want his wife to end up with Lily. He’s a psycho, but he loves his little girl.”
    I thought about Julie and looked at Claire. She had to be thinking about her little girl, Ruby Rose, too.
    I sang a line from an old song: “Thank heaven for little girrrls.”
    I raised my mug and clinked it against Claire’s.
    Claire said solemnly, “And big girls, too. Getting bigger every day.”
    Cindy cracked up and hoisted her beer. Yuki raised what remained of her second watermelon margarita and we touched glasses across the table.
    Yuki said, “To us.”
    We said it in unison and with feeling.
    “To us.”

EPILOGUE
a bad day for pro football

Chapter 111
    AT EIGHT THAT morning, I was working at my desk across from Conklin when Brenda called to me from the far side of the bull pen.
    “Sarge, I’ve got incoming from a sheriff in Nevada. You want the call?”
    Brady was out of the building, so I was in charge.
    “Transfer it over,” I said.
    The light on my phone console blinked. I picked up the receiver, tapped the button, and said my name and rank into the mouthpiece.
    The man on the other end of