Unlucky 13(73)

Joe was shaking Brady’s hand when a woman in a bright red sweater appeared and grabbed Brady’s right biceps. She said, “You’re in my prayers for life, Mr. Brady. Christmas cards until the end of time. I’ll write to you soon.”

People flowed around us as Yuki said to me, “He saved us. I mean, Lindsay, he saved us all. I don’t know how many passengers. Many, many. Hundreds.”

Brady said, “You have no idea what strong stuff my wife is made of. She—”

Brady stopped, putting his hand over his eyes. His shoulders shook, and that great big man, the hero who fought for the passengers of the FinStar, started to cry.

Yuki put her arms around him, very gently.

“Okay,” she said. “It’s okay, dear one.”

“I’m not crying,” he said. “This is…”

It hurt to hear his huge wracking sobs, but I understood that he was feeling overwhelming relief. He was alive. Yuki was alive. He was home.

“Let’s get out of here,” Yuki said.

“Car’s right outside,” said Joe.





CHAPTER 100


EVERY COP IN Homicide, all three shifts, as well as Robbery, Vice, and the brass on the fifth floor, was crowding our squad room, spilling out the gate and into the waiting room and halfway down the hall.

It was an insanely happy crowd and a very tight fit.

Cappy and Samuels were trying to hang a WELCOME BACK BRADY banner over Brady’s office door. Really. Watching those two extra-large cops balancing on wheelie chairs, ordering each other around—well, it was hilarious.

I was putting out cookies on Brenda’s desk, telling Conklin about last night.

“So Yuki says, ‘I want barbecued spare ribs. No, make that I neeeeed barbecued spareribs.’ And Brady says, ‘Pasta with red sauce. Eggplant parmigiana. Osso buco.’”

Conklin laughed and popped a chocolate-walnut cookie.

“And Yuki says, ‘Egg rolls. Pork fried rice. Oh, my God. Lobster in black bean sauce. Anything in black bean sauce.’ And Brady tries to hold his broken ribs, and he says, ‘Please darlin’, whatever you want. Just don’t make me laugh.’”

Conklin and I both fell apart at that and then a shadow fell across my desk.

It was Jacobi. There was a bad look on his face.

“There’s been another belly bomb explosion,” he said. “Young guy, just back from Afghanistan. Supposed to get married next week.”

Conklin said, “Not possible, Chief. Not a belly bomb.”

“Tell that to the dead soldier with his guts blown out. This time, the victim had his burger ‘to stay.’ There were assorted nonfatal casualties as well.”

Jacobi took out his phone and showed us the interior of a Chuck’s restaurant after a consumed belly bomb went off.

“Aw, fuck,” my partner said.

Jacobi nodded, then said, “Conklin. You and I are going upstairs to question Walt Brenner. Maybe he’ll brag on planting a delayed-action bomb. That’s what we’re hoping for.”

“I’ll talk to Timko,” I said.

The women’s jail is around the corner from the Hall on 7th. Timko was incarcerated there, awaiting trial, and I hoped she was getting a good sense of life without an office, a staff, a new Caddy, a house—nothing but a jumpsuit and a lot of time to catalog her mistakes.

I made a couple of calls as I jogged down the fire stairs and then continued out the lobby onto Bryant. Five minutes later, I ran up the steps to the huge Sheriff’s Department Building. I passed through security with no hassle, found my way to the appropriate reception area, and twiddled my thoughts while Timko was located.

An hour later, Officer Bubbleen Waters found me.

She’d gone blond since I’d last seen her, and she’d been working out with weights.

She said, “Lucky you, Sergeant. Ms. Timko will see you now. What a nasty piece of work.”

“And her lawyer?”

“She doesn’t want him, because she didn’t do anything and she’s not going to say anything. And that’s a verbatim quote.”

“Huh.”

“She wants to give you the evil eye, she told me.”

“Okay. I’m wearing my invisible force field. So.”

“Oh, wow. Where can I get one of those?”

“Walmart, where else?”

Officer Waters laughed, and I followed her into an elevator. I stared up at the blinking numbers as the car rose to the seventh floor.

She escorted me past more security checkpoints and through several gates to a gray windowless room with two plastic chairs and a yellow Formica table. This is where I waited to talk with the former head of Chuck’s product-development division.

Then I heard Bubbleen’s voice in the corridor, saying, “You got fifteen minutes to stare your eyes out, Ms. Donna Timko. Go right in.”