“He doesn’t know anything about the button murders. He doesn’t know anything about Martin Sweet’s body in his trunk. He certainly doesn’t know how tenacious we are.

“He doesn’t know us at all.”

“I’ll call an ambulance,” Jacobi said wearily.

I slapped my cell phone down on the table under Garza’s nose.

“Here. Phone your lawyer. Tell him that you’re under arrest for the murder of Martin Sweet. Tell him he can find you at Municipal Hospital’s emergency room, cuffed to a gurney under police guard. Tell him that we’ve got enough evidence to convict you a hundred times over.

“Tell him we’re taking you down.”

I was putting on my jacket as Garza fiddled with the tiny buttons on my Nextel, getting it wrong, trying again. I left him in the box with Jacobi.

But before the door swung shut, I heard Garza crying.

Chapter 136

Chapter 136

GARZA’S BEAT-UP FACE was still large in my mind as I drove home from the Hall, thinking it was too bad Yuki hadn’t been behind the mirror, watching Garza barf his guts out and cry like a baby.

Was he afraid?

Feeling sorry for himself?

I didn’t care.

I hoped he was in excruciating pain. The bastard was a proven flight risk charged with a homicide. Bail would be set in the millions, but chances were, he’d still be out by Monday morning.

He was going to have a long, humiliating weekend cuffed to a hospital bed, his former colleagues getting a close-up look at Dr. Garza’s dark side.

His weekend would drag by very slowly.

Mine would fly way too fast.

I cruised up Sixteenth Street, turned onto Missouri. I passed the pretty moon-washed Victorian homes on Potrero Hill, thinking about the long shower I would take to rinse the stink off me, and the six blessed hours of sleep, resting up for my weekend with Joe.

I smiled, thinking about the pure pleasure of being with Joe, lying next to him with my head in the crook between his neck and shoulder, our hands clasped, the small, frequent kisses and the deep ones that would leave us dying for more.

I thought about the hours and hours of talking with Joe. I could hardly wait to tell him about this day, for instance, the eighteen hours of nonstop adrenaline rush that had ended with taking the bad guy out of the game.

I parked the Explorer four doors down from my front door, climbed heavily up the hill, and made my way upstairs to my home-sweet-home with its sliver view of the bay.

I talked to Martha through the shower doors, telling her how sorry I was that I didn’t have a life. She talked back, a yappy dialogue between the two of us. If pressed, I’d have to guess she was complaining that her dog-sitter loved her more than I did.