I made it home in less.
I opened the front door, expecting Martha, my old doggy, to charge at me with her trademark welcome-home woofing. But instead Joe was waiting inside the doorway.
He helped me out of my coat and holster.
“You look like you need a drink,” he said.
“Do I?”
“Did you eat?”
“I didn’t even think about food.”
“You’re in luck, Blondie. Big bowl of beef stew is coming right up.”
“Yummy,” I said with enthusiasm I didn’t feel. I wasn’t hungry at all. “Where is everybody?”
He told me, “Julie is curled up with Martha, both of them snoring.”
I threw myself down on the sofa and toed off my shoes. Joe headed to the kitchen, an open-space galley separated from the living room by an island. He talked about TV news while heating up my dinner.
Then he said, “Come sit at the table and tell me all about what happened tonight.”
I dropped into a chair and watched Joe taking care of me. He uncorked the wine and set down two glasses. The oven pinged and Joe brought my dinner to the table, sat across from me, and gave me that most wonderful of gifts: his undivided attention. I swear, it brought tears to my eyes.
“Let’s hear it,” Joe said. “Start talking.”
I told him the four-word headline.
“Dirty, no-good cops.”
CHAPTER 29
IN THE LIVING room of their apartment on Telegraph Hill, Yuki was sitting at her desk, fully dressed in comfortable pants and a pullover. She was typing on her laptop, with cable news on in the background, while waiting to hear Brady’s key in the lock.
When Brady finally came through the door at ten fifteen, he leaned over the back of her chair and kissed her cheek. He shed his jacket and gun belt and was heading toward the bathroom when Yuki called out, “I have an idea. Let’s go out.”
He turned to look at her and said, “Now? I’m a dead man walking.”
“I made a reservation at Renegade.”
“You did?” He looked genuinely pained. “Jesus, Yuki, I’m sorry. Why didn’t you remind me that today was your birthday?”
“They close at midnight,” she said. “I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Yuki let Brady’s assumption that it was her birthday stand. It was a brazen lie of omission, but whatever it took to get her husband across a dinner table from her was worth the small stain on her conscience. She really couldn’t take the silence and the distance and the small talk in their marriage anymore. She had questions, and she was good at getting answers out of people.
She hoped she could handle the truth.
They were quiet in the car on the way to Renegade, a special place where she and Brady had made some history together. The police radio was blatting and squawking, and as usual Brady was tuned in to the job.
Yuki looked out the window as they drove to SoMa. After Brady parked the car, she took his arm as he walked her to the restaurant.
He said, “We had our first date here, right?”
“Uh-huh.”
She loved this restaurant. In the entrance, behind the hostess, was a floor-to-ceiling copper wall with a sheet of water falling into a pool. The hall led into a dining room featuring a million-dollar view of the dazzling lights on the Bay Bridge.
Yuki still remembered everything about that first date. Sitting in a booth close to Brady, a handsome stranger then; tamping down her desire to touch his shoulder-length white-blond hair, gawk at his impressive build, lock in on his lake-blue eyes.
That night he’d charmed her without trying. First there was the Southern comfort of his voice and the offhanded way he described the everyday violence of working in the Miami PD. He told her about his first weeks with the SFPD and his take on the people she knew in his department. Then there was that moment when he stopped talking in midsentence to say, “You’re really somethin’ special, Yuki.”
She had told him about her Italian-American father and Japanese mom, whose voice she could sometimes still hear. He hadn’t laughed at that. The conversation rolled on and the chemistry between them was immediate.
Now, as they followed the hostess past the cascading copper waterfall through the near-empty restaurant, Yuki hoped that something good would come from hijacking her husband, hoped that they would feel that connection that had bonded them the night they met.
CHAPTER 30
WHEN YUKI AND Brady were seated in “their” booth, their drink orders in, Yuki put her hand on her husband’s arm.
“Brady,” she said. “Full disclosure. My birthday is next week. I called an emergency dinner.”
“You’re kiddin’ me. What, hon? What’s wrong?”
She looked down at the table, her rehearsed speech feeling thick and stupid and stuck in her throat. She remembered what Claire had said: That man loves you to death.
Maybe Brady didn’t realize the width of the gap that was opening between them.
She felt the weight of the angel skin coral beads around her neck, Brady’s wedding gift to her before their honeymoon cruise. People had died on that ship. Brady had saved lives. He’d saved her life. She’d loved him then and had come to love him even more. What was he feeling?
“Yuki? What is it?”
“I miss you, Brady. We never talk anymore,” she said. “We need to talk.”
Brady smiled, grabbed her hand, and said, “Aw. Thanks for the sneaky heads-up on your birthday. I’ll be sure to send flowers next week.”
Yuki thought, He doesn’t get it. Or he doesn’t feel the same way. Or he doesn’t want to open up. All of that was possible. All of that was painful.
Their waitress materialized with a blood orange margarita for her, sparkling water with a slice of lemon for Brady. Yuki put down half her drink right away. She had told Claire that neither she nor Brady liked to talk about squishy feelings, but hell, an uncomfortable talk was not just necessary, it was overdue.
Bolstered by tequila, Yuki took the plunge—again.
“It feels like we’re losing each other,” she said.
“I’m right here,” said Brady. “Scooch over.”
She slid toward him, and Brady reached over and dragged her close, wrapping both of his arms around her, resting his chin on the top of her head and saying, “What brought this on? Oh, I get it.”
He pulled back to look into her face.
“This is about your birthday. And now you’re thinking about having a baby?”
Yuki leaned against Brady’s chest, slipped her fingers between his shirt buttons.
“No,” she said, “no, this isn’t about a baby. Not now.”
“Okay, good. What is it, then?” her husband asked.
“Don’t you feel it?” she said. “That we’re kind of drifting apart?”
There was some silence before Brady said, “I see. I see. I’m neglecting you.”
He disengaged from their embrace, seemed flustered or as if he was looking for the right words. He sipped his water before saying, “Jacobi unloaded a pile of administrative work on me. He just can’t handle it all anymore. On top of that and every other dog biting my butt, I’m primary on that attempted murder and suicide.”
Yuki had heard about the case. A woman had left divorce court and driven her car onto a sidewalk and into her husband, his girlfriend, and the husband’s lawyer. Then she had sped to the Golden Gate Bridge, climbed over the railing, and jumped to her death.
Brady said, “The husband and girlfriend are okay, but the lawyer is in ICU. If he dies, it’s got to be processed as a homicide, even though the killer already self-inflicted the death penalty.”
Yuki said, “See, I miss talking like this. Even about work. Hearing what you’re thinking about.”
He tipped up her chin and pecked her lips. When dinner came, Yuki turned down another drink. Brady ate like he hadn’t eaten in the last twenty-four hours. After he had put down his knife and fork, he asked her to bring him up to speed on her woman-on-man rape case.
While she was telling him, he glanced at his phone a couple or three times, saying “Hang on” and “’Scuse me,” returning texts before shutting the phone off.