Page 75 of 25 Alive

We all groaned, and Yuki said, “Your turn, Cindy.”

Cindy was still chasing the “I said. You dead” story. She twiddled her fork and said, “Let’s hear from Claire. Claire?”

“What? Why, Cindy? We all know you have a story to tell.”

“It’s not wrapped up yet,” Cindy said. “I don’t want to blow this true-crime drama before its time.”

Claire booed and hissed and laughed at Cindy, who was laughing, too. Then Claire said, “All righty. I’m not afraid to blow the punch line.” And then she sighed. “Gene Hallows called me today, seeing as I was the only person around. He said that you sent a table fork to the lab for testing, Lindsay. Brett Palmer’s fork.”

“True. I wrapped it in a cloth napkin and filched it while Cindy and I were having breakfast with him. What came back?”

“Well, Hallows said there was a match between Palmer’s DNA on the fork and DNA found on Caroline Ford, our dumpster victim. Palmer’s DNA was all around her mouth and on some of her clothes. It’s a match to Brett Palmer, no doubt about it.”

It was another link in the chain, but I was done. I hailed Lorraine and asked for my check. I leaned in and kissed all the ladies’ cheeks—and surprised the hell out of Lorraine when I kissed hers, too.

I half hoped that my husband would be waiting to surprise me outside the café, but there was no Joe. It was a starless night, and when I remembered where I’d parked my car, rain was coming down.

CHAPTER110

FBI SPECIAL AGENT James Walsh drove the armored black Escalade. I was in the passenger seat. We were both armed. There was a steel mesh divider between the front and back seats, and in the back seat was another FBI agent, a hefty one. His name was Brian “Buddy” Houghton of the San Francisco field office of the FBI. Today Buddy’s assignment was to be a human restraint on our forthcoming passenger.

Walsh pulled the black Caddy to the curb in front of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. James tipped the valet to leave the car right there, told him we’d be back shortly. Then we entered the hotel through its gilded doors.

I had spoken with maître d’ Ryan McCall at eight fifteen this morning, and he had told me that Brett Palmer had a breakfast reservation for nine.

I hoped to hell Palmer hadn’t changed or cancelled that reservation. I wanted to put this scum away.

Walsh said, “You okay, Lindsay?”

“Sure. Just hoping Brett Palmer is in the dining room.”

I unhooked my badge from the chain around my neck and pinned it to my breast pocket. My gun was in its holster, and if all went to plan, Walsh and I would be out of this place and back in the Caddy with a serial killer in five to ten minutes.

Ryan McCall was at the maître d’s podium. He smiled when he saw me, and I introduced him to Walsh and asked him to point out Palmer’s table.

Ryan said, “He’s at the small table in the far southeast corner. Blue jacket.”

I looked across the floor to the southeast corner. The room was spacious, and the tables were nearly full. I didn’t see Palmer. And then I saw him.

“He’s half hidden by the pillar over there.”

Palmer was alone, facing away from us, using his phone. Keeping in mind that if he suspected anything, Palmer might panic the moment he saw Agent Walsh—and not knowing if he, too, was armed—we made a simple plan.

We would approach Palmer’s table from behind, me to the right, Walsh to the left. It wasn’t a long walk to that table, but the dining room was an obstacle course. I was aware of Walsh as we crossed the room from different angles, and then we were both within five paces from the man in the blue jacket.

Palmer was reading his phone and had a plate of pancakes in front of him.

Walsh called out, “Brett. Hey, Brett. It’s me, Jimmy Walsh.”

Palmer turned around in his seat. He was clearly happy to see Walsh. He put the phone down, tossed his napkin to the table, got to his feet, and opened his arms to his oldfriend. Then he saw me coming toward him, too. And he recognized me.

“Wait,” he said, looking from Walsh to me and back to Walsh as we closed in on his table. “You two know each other?”

“Yes, Brett, we do,” Walsh said. “We’re both armed, and neither of us wants this to get ugly. So just put your hands behind your back. Sergeant Boxer is going to cuff you, and we’re going to walk out of the hotel together without a fuss.”

Palmer looked around for an escape route, knowing that the only way out was through us.

He turned back to Walsh, saying, “What is this? What’s going on here?”

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