She was hungry and she was getting mad. It was becoming increasingly impossible to see him as the man “who loved her to death.”
Yuki went to the kitchen and threw together a mayo and Kraft Singles sandwich. She ate it over the sink, then returned to the living room and retook her chair. She stretched out her legs on the footstool, then logged back in to her ThinkPad, glancing at her other necessary work tools—pens, sticky pad, coffee, pretzel sticks, clicker, phone—arrayed on the lamp table to her left.
She was watching cable news out of the corner of her eye, while emptying her mailbox, when her phone vibrated. She shot her hand out to grab it and knocked over her mug. Milky coffee spread quickly across the table, over the edge, and onto her mother’s ancient carpet.
Yuki shouted, “Nanda,” Japanese for “What the hell?” and grabbed the phone. She barked into it, “Brady?” as she ran to the kitchen for a dish towel.
The voice said, “It’s Marc. I’ve been shot.”
She could hardly hear him.
“What? Marc? Where are you?”
“Uh. In an ambulance.”
She mopped up coffee while shouting over the wail of sirens in her ear, “Where were you shot? What’s your condition?”
“Two blocks from my apartment. I was crossing the street to the dry cleaner when I, like, fell down. I didn’t even hear anything.”
His voice faded out.
“Marc. Marc. Can you hear me?”
“I really hurt.”
“Where on your body were you shot?” Yuki asked.
“Right thigh. Paramedic said that the bullet went in and out the other side,” Marc said. “That’s what you call good fricking luck.”
“It sure is. Thank God you’re okay.”
He said, “It was dark, Yuki. If that bullet had hit my femoral artery, I would be dead now.” He laughed. “Maybe I should buy a lottery ticket.”
Marc sounded hysterical. Yuki took her own voice down a couple of notches and said, “Where are they taking you?”
“Metro, right?”
She heard a woman’s voice saying, “We’re two minutes out.”
“My parents are going to meet me there,” Marc said.
“Okay,” she said. “Okay, that’s excellent. Marc, who did this?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t see anyone. My arms were full of laundry. Oh, shit. My laundry …”
“Marc? Keep your head down,” Yuki said. “You have to talk to the police.”
“You know what?” Marc said. “Now I’m scared.”
“Cops will meet up with you at the hospital. Tell them what you know and what you think and have them call me, okay? Marc? Do you hear me?”
“They’re telling me to put my phone away. Uh. Bye.”
The phone went dead.
Yuki stood in the doorway between the kitchen and living room, holding her phone, thinking through what Marc had just told her. Who wanted to shoot Marc? Had Briana Hill stalked him, fired on him? Was Briana that crazy?
Yuki had Sex Crimes officer Phyllis Chase on speed dial. She punched the button and waited impatiently for Chase to pick up.
“Phyllis, it’s Yuki. Marc Christopher was just shot … No, it’s not fatal. He’s on the way to Metro. Have someone take his statement, and pick up Briana Hill. I’ll meet you at the Hall.”
CHAPTER 61
YUKI STOOD IN the observation room with her arms tightly crossed, intently watching Briana Hill’s interrogation through the two-way mirror.
The interview room on the other side of the glass was closet size, furnished with a table pushed up against a grimy wall and three straight-backed aluminum chairs that were all occupied.
Inspectors Phyllis Chase and Phil Thompson from Sex Crimes sat catercorner to each other. Briana Hill faced them and the mirrored window. The camera in the corner of the ceiling recorded it all.
Hill looked wrung out. Yuki knew that she had been arrested at her apartment after returning from the gym. She was wearing gray sweatpants, her hair bunched up in an off-center knot at the top of her head, and she was red faced from crying.
Chase, who had confiscated a pistol from Hill’s gym bag, was saying, “You know you can’t have a gun, Briana. So right away you’re in trouble here. What’s going on?”
“I’m getting hate mail and vicious phone calls,” Briana said angrily. “I’m getting death threats. I think I’m being followed. What am I supposed to do?”
“Stay home. Keep your door locked,” Chase said.
“I have to eat,” she shouted. “I went to the deli on Duboce and Sanchez for soup and a sandwich sometime around lunch. Then the gym tonight at around eight, and I was there for an hour. There’s got to be cameras all over that place. You can see for yourself.”
Martinez said, “So from eight to nine you were at the gym? That’s your story?”
“Yes. Something like that.”
Chase asked her, “And before you went to the gym?”
“I was at home. The doorman can say when I left.”
“Okay, Briana,” said Martinez. “We’ll check your alibi.
Or you can save us a lot of trouble. I know this Christopher guy is a miserable pain in your butt, so look, you didn’t kill him. If you did shoot him, now’s the time to say so. I guarantee if you speak up, it will all go better for you.”
“I did not shoot him. Send my gun to your … your lab or just smell it. It hasn’t been fired in two years.”
“This here,” said Martinez, digging a plastic bag out of his shirt pocket, “is a gunpowder residue test. I’m going to apply some goop to your hands. It’s not going to hurt.”
“I don’t have to agree to that. Do I?” Hill asked incredulously. “I want my lawyer and I want to call him now.”
“In a minute,” said Martinez. “But first show me your hands, palms up.”
“And if I refuse?”
“You can chill in a holding cell with fourteen or fifteen pissed-off prostitutes until we get a court order.”
“Briana,” interjected the motherly Phyllis Chase. “Saying no to a GSR test makes it kind of look like you’ve got something to hide. If you didn’t fire a gun, this will clear you. You want that.”
Yuki knew it wouldn’t clear Briana absolutely. She could have worn and discarded gloves. She could have washed her hands before Chase and Martinez picked her up.
The gun would tell the truth.
Hill said, “Fine. Be my guest.” She held out her hands. Martinez put on latex gloves and applied the test. Then he exited the room, leaving Chase alone with the distraught Briana Hill.
Chase was saying, “You’ll get to make your phone call in a little while, Briana. First we have to process you.”
“I didn’t shoot him!”
“You have a gun, dear, and it was loaded. You violated your bond.”
“Oh, my God, no. Please. Don’t send me back to jail!”
The door to the interview room opened and two cops came in.
Chase said, “Stand up, Briana. Put your hands behind your back.”
Yuki watched the cops cuff the woman, who had not long ago had an extremely promising future. No more.
Hill was crying as she was led out. She turned her head to look at Chase.
“Why is this happening to me? No, let me tell you. He’s setting me up. He set me up again.”
Martinez came into the observation room and said to Yuki, “Ms. Castellano, the GSR test was negative. We’ll send the gun and her clothes to the lab for testing.”
“Thanks, Martinez. What do you think?”
He shrugged. “She’s a sad case. I like her, but I don’t trust her.”
“Check the security tapes in her apartment building and at the gym. See if her alibi holds up.”
Yuki called Brady. It was after midnight. He picked up, sounding disoriented.
Yuki asked, “Are you sleeping?”
“Was,” he said. “Where are you?”
“Do you mind heating up the noodles?”
“Noodles? Oh, shit. I forgot.”
“You’re a bum, Brady. You know that?”
Yuki made a detour to the vending machine on the second floor and spent four bucks on sugar and carbs before going downstairs to her car. She slammed her car into gear, and by the time she got home, she was steaming.
CHAPTER 62