I parked my car on Jackson Street, buttoned my coat, and lowered my head against the cold April wind as I trudged toward the brightly lit Caribbean-style eatery frequented by the Women’s Murder Club. My feet knew the way, which was good, because my mind was elsewhere. Kingfisher’s trial was starting tomorrow. The media’s interest in him had been revived, and news outlets of all kinds had gone on high alert. Traffic on Bryant and all around the Hall had been jammed all week with satellite vans. None of my phones had stopped ringing: office, home, or mobile. I felt brittle and edgy as I went through the front door of Susie’s. I was first to arrive and claimed “our” booth in the back room. I signaled to Lorraine and she brought me a tall, icy brewski, and pretty soon that golden anesthetic had smoothed down my edges. Just about then I heard Yuki and Cindy bantering together and saw the two of them heading toward our table.
