Yuki followed him, her heels clacking loudly on the lobby floor. Now she was wondering what she was going to say or do when she caught up with him.

This was so unlike her, Yuki thought as she pushed open the heavy door, stumbling into the blinding light outside. She wasn’t this impulsive.

She was organized, disciplined.

But right now, she couldn’t stop herself. The obsession was taking over, as if she were in a wild Hitchcock movie.

Yuki searched the sidewalk, saw Garza heading along McAllister toward the Civic Center, head up, forging through the pedestrian traffic.

Yuki followed, running at times to catch up with him, then pacing herself behind him; finally, she called out his name. “Garza!”

The doctor stopped, and he spun around to face her. He squinted his eyes against the sunlight.

Yuki drew closer, stopping just short of handshaking distance.

“I’m Yuki Castellano.”

“Yes, I know who you are. The question is, why are you stalking me?”

“I asked the medical examiner to autopsy my mother’s body,” she said.

Garza struggled not to look surprised. “I hope that made you feel a lot better. Did it?”

“I do feel better, Doctor, because I don’t feel crazy anymore. But I am in a rage. My mother died because you screwed up. Again.”

Garza looked incredibly annoyed now.

“Me? Personally? You’re sure of that?”

“Don’t play games with me. I’m talking about my mother!”

“I’m sure the ME will send me her report. Maybe I’ll even read it.” Then Dr. Garza turned away and walked to a black Mercedes parked at the curb.

He opened the car door and stooped to get in, but then he stopped. He looked back at Yuki. “Hey, why don’t you sue me, bitch? What an original idea. Join the crowd.”

Chapter 53

IT WAS 6:15 ON WEDNESDAY NIGHT, and Claire and I were in our favorite booth at Susie’s. The calypso band was tuning up with the Jimmy Buffett national anthem, and we’d ordered a pitcher of draft while we waited for Yuki and Cindy to show.

Claire and I clinked glasses, then continued unloading the small complaints that are like fleas on a dog—not life-threatening, but annoying as hell.

“You know Bob Watson?” Claire said.

“Your assistant, Bob?”

“Yes. My dear, strong, willing, smart, workaholic assistant, Bob. He’s moving to Boston, and now I have to promote the mayor’s twenty-two-year-old niece.”

“What? She’s a courtesy hire?”

“Shoved right down my larynx. Child’s called Bunny.” Claire moaned. “Bunny can hardly lift her coffee cup, let alone a two-hundred-fifty-pound body.

“Keeps changing the CDs from Shostakovich to hip-hop. ‘Dr. Washburn, we need the right music.’ Sure thing, Bunny. No rush. Mr. Doe here is resting comfortably.”

I laughed, snorting beer up my schnoz just about the time Cindy blew in and plopped into our booth.

“Greetings, girlfriends.”

“Back at you, girl reporter,” said Claire. “Where’s Yuki?”

“I just left her in front of the courthouse. She sends her regrets.”

“She’s still really hurting?”