“Your Honor, please direct the witness to answer my question.”

Yuki clenched her fists under the table. She hadn’t known Conklin had destroyed his notes, but while it wasn’t kosher, homicide cops did it all the time.

Judge Bendinger shifted in his seat, asked Conklin to answer the question.

Reluctantly, Conklin said, “My notes would be more of a verbatim account, but -”

“But still, you felt it was appropriate to throw them out? Is there a shortage of storage space at the Hall of Justice? Were the file cabinets full, maybe?”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“It is, isn’t it?” Davis asked, letting the question hang in the dead silence of the courtroom.

“Do you remember where you threw the notes? In the garbage perhaps, or out your car window? Maybe you flushed them down the toilet?”

“Your Honor,” Yuki said. “Defense counsel is badgering the witness -”

“Overruled. The witness may answer,” said Judge Bendinger.

“I shredded them,” Conklin said, the cords in his neck straining against the white collar of his shirt.

“Please tell the jury why you shredded your notes.”

Yuki saw the flash in Conklin’s eye but was helpless to stop him from snapping, “The reason we get rid of our notes is so that shyster lawyers like you don’t twist things around -”

Yuki stared at Conklin. She’d never seen him blow up before. Davis had manipulated him, and she was going to nail him to the wall.

“Inspector Conklin, is that how you behaved when you interviewed my client? Lose your temper like that?”

“Objection, Your Honor,” Yuki called out.

“On what grounds?”

“Defense counsel is objectionable.”

Bendinger was unable to stifle a laugh. “Overruled. Watch it, Ms. Castellano.”

Davis smiled, faced Conklin, one hand on her hip. “Only one more question, Inspector. Any other important evidence you shredded that would have exonerated my client?”

Chapter 40

STILL FEELING STUNG by Davis ’s cross-examination of Rich Conklin and the stress of the entire horrid day, Yuki left the Hall of Justice by the back door and walked several blocks out of her way, checking her BlackBerry as she walked.

She deleted messages, made notes for the file, sent an e-mail to Red Dog, who was now back in his home office asking for a report. She entered the All Day parking lot from the rear and had just opened the door of her brownish-gray Acura sedan when she heard someone call her name.

Yuki turned, frisked the crowded lot with her eyes, saw Jason Twilly loping toward her against traffic on Bryant, calling out, “Yuki, hey, hang on a minute.” Yuki reached into the car, put her briefcase on the passenger seat, and turned back to face the superstar writer, who was closing in.

Twilly looked fantastic, Yuki thought, as she watched him maneuver through the crowded parking lot. She liked everything about the way he put his act together: the cut of his hair, the Oliver Peoples glasses framing his intense dark brown eyes. Today he was wearing a fine blue shirt under a well-fitted gray jacket, and his pants were buckled with a plain Hermès belt that must’ve cost seven hundred dollars.

Twilly pulled up to where she stood with her car door opened between them, not even blowing hard from his run.

“Hey, Jason. What’s wrong?”

“Not a thing,” he said, eyes locking on hers. “I just wanted to tell you that I thought you rocked today.”

“Thanks.”

“No, I mean it. You’re great on your feet, and it’s smart the way you’re handling the press. Davis is out there campaigning on the front steps and you’re -”

“The defense has to spin this,” Yuki said. “I have to prove Junie Moon is guilty, and that’s not going to happen in front of the Hall.”

Twilly nodded his agreement, said, “You know, I wanted to tell you that I overheard a conversation in the hallway, and what I heard is that Junie’s a little slow, below average IQ.”

“I don’t get that impression,” said Yuki, wondering what the hell Twilly was getting at. Was he working an angle? Or was her six months in the DA’s office making her cynical?

Twilly set down his briefcase on the asphalt, took a soft leather eyeglass case from his breast pocket, removed a small square of cloth, and massaged the pollution off his Oliver Peeps.

“I gathered that Davis is going to get an expert shrink to tell the jury that Junie is dumb and suggestible and that the brutal cops could make her say anything.”

“Well, thanks for the heads-up, Jason.”

“No problem. Look, Yuki,” he said, adjusting his glasses over the bridge of his nose. “I’m dying to pick your very lovely mind. Would you have dinner with me? Please?”

Yuki shifted her weight in her narrow, pointy shoes, thought of the nice cold Coors waiting for her at home. The ton of work she had to do.

“No offense, Jason. When I’m trying a case, I like to be alone at the end of the day. I need the solitude and the time to clear my head -”

“Yuki. You’ve got to eat, so why not let me treat you to a lavish expense account dinner? Caviar, lobster, French champagne. Anyplace you want to go. You’ll be home by eight, and no business talk either. Just romance,” Twilly said, giving her his full frontal, lopsided grin.

He was charming and he knew it.

Yuki laughed in the face of such practiced seduction, and then she surprised herself.

She said yes.

Chapter 41

STEVEN MEACHAM AND HIS WIFE, Sandy, were watching 48 Hours Mystery on TV in their expansive home in Cow Hollow when the doorbell chimed.

Steve said to Sandy, “Are we expecting someone?”

“Hell no,” Sandy said, thinking of the door-to-door canvassing that had been going on because of the heated school board elections. She took a sip from her wineglass. “If we ignore them, they’ll go away.”

“I guess I can always give ’em a couple of shots to the ribs, make ’em take us off the list,” Meacham said, feinting and punching the air, then slipping his bare feet into his loafers.

He walked to the front door, peered through the fanlight, saw two good-looking boys standing outside, kids about the age of his son, Scott.

What was this?

The heavier of the two wore a peachy-colored T-shirt under a camouflage vest, his hair covering his shirt collar, more Banana Republic than Republican, and definitely not a Jehovah’s Witness. The other boy was dressed traditionally in a glen plaid jacket over a lavender polo shirt, hair long in front like a kid from an English boarding school. The boys had unopened liquor bottles in hand.

Meacham turned off the security alarm, opened the door a crack, said, “May I help you fellows with something?”

“My name is Hawk, Mr. Meacham,” said the one in the sport jacket. “This is Pidge. Uh, those are our pledge names,” he said apologetically. “We’re friends of Scotty’s, you know, and we’re pledging Alpha Delta Phi?”

“No kiddin’? Scotty didn’t call…”

“No, sir, he doesn’t know we’re here. We have to do this on the sneak.”

“Pledges, huh?”

Meacham fondly remembered his own fraternity days. “So, when’s the initiation?” he asked.

“Next week, sir,” said Pidge. “If we make it. We have to ask you about Scotty, things people don’t know about him, and we need to score a baby picture, preferably a naked one…”

Meacham laughed, said, “Okay, okay, come on in.” He threw open the door to his spacious home with its heart-stopping view of the bay.

“Honey, we’ve got company,” he called to his wife, leading the two boys through the foyer. “Hawk, like Ethan Hawke? Or some sort of bird theme, probably.”

Meacham accepted the bottles from the boys with thanks, then he opened the inlaid wooden liquor cabinet in the living room. He took out glasses as the boys introduced themselves to his wife, who said, “It’s quite nice of you to bring something, but it really wasn’t necessary.”