James Patterson: 12th of Never

“Aren’t you popular?” Cindy said, going through the door behind Yuki.

“Sooo popular,” Yuki said, her voice ringing in the cement-lined stairwell. “By the way, Cindy, you’d better behave yourself. Every word I say to you is off the record.”

“You think I don’t know that?”

“Yeah,” Yuki said. “You’ve been known to forget. So I’m saying it loud and clear. Don’t mess with me.”

“When did I ever mess with you? When?”

The door on the ground floor, behind the back wall of the grand lobby, swung out into the daylight under the flat of Yuki’s palm and she and her blond-haired, determined friend filed out onto Harriet Street.

“Where to?” Cindy asked, catching up with Yuki.

Fringale was a cute, cozy bistro just a few blocks from the Hall of Justice, a little slice of France on the corner of 4th and Freelon Streets.

When Yuki walked through the door into the little place with its eggshell-colored walls, the aroma of rosemary and thyme filling the air, she felt the stress of the trial fade—all but the hard stone of worry in the part of her skull right between her eyes.

Could she really convict Keith Herman?

Had she forgotten what kind of lawyer John Kinsela was? Kinsela had eviscerated Red Dog Parisi.

The two women ordered salads as entrées, and when the waiter left the table, Yuki asked, “How bad did he hurt us?”

“You talking about how Kinsela gored your witness?”

“‘Gored’ him? It was that bad, huh?”

“Actually, Yuki, I think it made Kinsela look like a bully and a dirtbag. But did it discredit Durden? Yeah, I think so. Depends on what else you have. I take it Lynnette Lagrande is going to put you over the top.”

The waiter placed a salad in front of each of them: a beautiful dish of frisée with bacon dressing, pine nuts, and a poached egg. Yuki broke the yolk with her fork, speared a leaf of lettuce, chewed it, and sipped her water.

“I feel good about my case. It’s solid. But let’s face it, John Kinsela has about twenty years of criminal law to my three.”

“Lay out your case for me,” Cindy said.

Yuki told Cindy the details of her case in the rapid, machine-gun style she was known for. She talked about the bruises on the child, and the fact that Jennifer Herman had confided in a friend, saying that her husband might harm her. She cited Keith Herman’s paramour, Lynnette Lagrande, who not only refuted Herman’s alibi for the time of Jennifer Herman’s murder but would also testify to and document the fact that Keith Herman wanted out of his marriage.

“It’s a good case,” Cindy said. “What does Red Dog say?”

“He says that I’ve got Herman nailed on the evidence, and that he has total faith in me,” said Yuki.

She and Cindy both nodded, Yuki wishing that she weren’t remembering cases she’d lost.

“It’s always about life and death,” Yuki said.

“I have faith in you,” said Cindy. “You can do this.”

Yuki saw doubt in her good friend’s eyes.

Chapter 16

CLAIRE WASHBURN DIDN’T mind putting on a dog and pony show as long as nobody sneezed or puked on the body. A high-profile case like this one would be scrutinized for mistakes, and the last thing she wanted was to have to explain to the court how random DNA got on the victim.

There was a bark of laughter outside the frosted glass of her office door. Claire sighed once, forwarded her phone calls to the front desk, then went to the conference room.

The twelve people who were waiting for her turned as one.

Claire couldn’t stop herself from laughing. To a man, and to a woman, her visitors were dressed in baby-yellow paper surgical scrubs and Tyvek gowns. Most hilarious of all was Rich Conklin, Mr. September in the 2011 Law Enforcement Officers Beefsteak Calendar.

Great big handsome man, outfitted like a hospital kitchen worker.

Claire said, “Good morning, Easter chicks,” and she laughed again, this time joined by the group of cops, junior techs from the crime scene unit, and law school grads from the DA’s office who were getting on-the-job education this morning.

She caught her breath and said, “If we’ve never met, I’m Dr. Washburn, chief medical examiner, and before I begin this morning’s autopsy, please introduce yourselves.”

Claire had everyone’s attention, and when the introductions were concluded, she began a condensed lecture on the purpose of an autopsy—to discover the cause and manner of death.

“You’ll see that the victim will be wearing what she had on when she was recovered from the scene. She’ll have bags on her hands to preserve any DNA she may have scraped from a possible attacker. She will have a complete external exam, including total body X-rays, before we do an internal exam, which I’ll conduct.

“If Ms. Farmer’s death is determined to be a homicide—not saying it was a homicide, but if the evidence leads to an indictment—the defense may try to prove that our evidence was contaminated, that we’re a bunch of fumble-fingered idiots. Remember O.J.? Protecting the integrity of this postmortem is critical to catching and holding a bad guy. Because of lousy forensics, there are innocent people in jail for crimes they never committed and murderers walking the streets.

“To the dead, we owe respect. To the living, we owe the truth. Nothing less, nothing more, no matter where the evidence leads us.

“House rules: keep your prophylactic outerwear in place. Masks must be worn in the surgery and kept on. Understand? If you forgot to turn off your cell phone, do it now. Save your questions until I ask for them. When I’m done, I’ll memorialize my findings for the record. Everything you see or hear from now on is highly confidential and leaks will not be tolerated.

“Are there any questions?

“All right, then. If we’re all clear on the house rules …” Claire turned to her assistant, the fetching Bunny Ellis, her hair done up to look like mouse ears, reverent eyes turned toward her boss.

“Bunny, will you please wheel Ms. Farmer into the autopsy suite? Everyone else, follow me.”

Chapter 17

CLAIRE HIP-BUTTED THE swinging door and entered the autopsy suite. The cops and junior-grade personnel behind her were excited, speaking in whispers that seemed to cut loose, rise in volume, loop around her, then die down to a hush again.

Conklin had the summer intern under his wing. Mackie Morales seemed bright and eager and maybe a little bit too much into Richie—the way she looked at him, the way he was a little puffed up, explaining things to her. Cindy would not be happy if she saw this.

And not too much escaped Cindy.

Claire laughed quietly but didn’t say anything to Conklin. She went to the far corner of the room and pushed the button that turned on the video camera. The light on the camera didn’t go on. She punched it a couple of times and still the little red eye was dark.

That was weird. The camera had been fine yesterday.

She pressed the intercom button, said, “Ryan, check the video setup, please.”

“Yes, ma’am. It was unplugged. It’s on now.”

“Why was it unplugged?”

“I don’t know. I just found it this way.”

Bunny entered the room from the door that led to the morgue. She signaled to Claire as if to say, I need to talk to you.

“What’s the holdup, Bunny?”

“I need to see you for a second, Doctor.”

Claire sighed, crossed the room, and followed Bunny to the morgue, a refrigerated room lined with stacks of stainless steel drawers, each designed to hold a body. Some of Claire’s patients had recently checked in. Some had been waiting for months for someone to ID them before they were buried as nameless corpses.