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defense’s explanation for the gunshot residue on Candace Martin’s hands.
    “There’s only one problem,” Yuki said to the fourteen men and women in the jury box. “This story is entirely
bogus.
    “There was no intruder.
    “There was no forced entry into the house, and nothing was stolen.
    “But Candace Martin had told several people that she wanted her husband dead, and the
very evening
of the fatal incident she was seen handling a gun.
    “Our job in the DA’s office is to speak for the victim,” Yukisaid, “and we will do that. But if Mr. Martin could speak for himself, he’d tell you who killed him,” said Yuki, pointing at the pretty, blond heart surgeon who was chewing on the ends of her hair.
    “He’d tell you that his dear wife shot him dead.”

Chapter 15
    SUSIE’S CARIBBEAN CAFÉ is a mood changer in the best possible way. The walls are yellow, the calypso music is live, the food is hot, and the beer is cold. Susie’s is also the unofficial clubhouse of our gang of four, branded the Women’s Murder Club by our friend, girl reporter Cindy Thomas.
    I desperately needed an hour at Susie’s. Conklin and I had spent the day looking for a newborn baby. We’d walked with cadaver dogs, checked in with divers at the edge of Lake Merced, and made an all-day, fruitless canvass of houses in the area, with Avis Richardson’s photo in hand, asking, “Have you seen this girl?”
    Then, ten minutes ago, a stunning call had come in to Jacobi. Avis Richardson had turned up behind the locked doors of a schoolmate’s parents’ apartment on Russian Hill. These “do-gooders” were keeping Avis away from the copsuntil her parents could arrive from New Zealand. So Avis had been located, but we still had no leads on her baby, who was either missing or dead.
    Probably both.
    Claire and I drove to Susie’s together in my car and parked in a miraculously empty spot on Jackson Street near the corner of Montgomery. We came through the door into the lilting beat of steel drums and laughter, and waved to casual friends. We passed the bar and took the narrow and aromatic aisle past the kitchen to the cozy back room where Yuki was already holding down our booth.
    Lorraine called out, “Hey, y’all,” and brought over a frosty pitcher of beer, along with Yuki’s watermelon margarita. Yuki cannot hold her liquor, but that doesn’t stop her from drinking it.
    I slid into the banquette next to Yuki, while Claire took the other side of the booth. Yuki lifted her glass of pink liquid mind-bender and took a slug.
    “Sip it!”
we shouted to her in unison.
    Yuki snorted tequila up her nose and sputtered, “I have earned the right to get drunk. I made a brilliant opener and then the judge gets a call. His sick mother is fading fast. He adjourns court for the day. By tomorrow, Phil Hoffman will have read the transcript and will pick my bones clean in his opener.”
    At that, Cindy, dependably the last to arrive, scooted into the booth next to Claire and bumped her hip, saying, “Give me a couple of inches here, girlfriend.”
    Claire said, “Are you all going to listen to what happenedto me today? Or do I have to fight for the talking stick? Because I will do it.”
    “You go first,” Yuki said, holding up her empty glass to the light. Claire didn’t wait for anyone to object.
    “I get called to go to this house in the Sacramento Delta,” she said. “A friend of mine called in a favor. So I drive to this swampland—can only get there by these veiny little roads and levees—and I find this hunting cabin.
    “This old dude who lives there paid all his bills two weeks in advance and hasn’t been seen since. Now people are starting to ask, ‘What happened to Mr. Wingnut?’ ”
    Cindy was thumbing the keys on her Crackberry while Claire told her story.
    “There’s this long lump under the bedcovers,” Claire said, plucking the PDA out of Cindy’s hand, putting it in her pocket, treating Cindy like she was a