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her.
    All I could think of was Jill, the face I saw on her, that of a little girl. Not the Chief Assistant D.A., top of her class at Stanford, who seemed to breeze through life. Who put mur-derers away with that icy stare. My friend.
    I tossed and turned the whole night. The following morn-ing, it took all I had to focus on the case. Overnight the lab tests confirmed Claire's findings. It was ricin that had been ingested by George Bengosian.
    I had never seen the Hall as tense as it was that morning, bustling with dark-suited Feds and media managers. I felt as if I was sneaking past security just to call Cindy and Claire.
    “I need to see you guys,” I told them. “It's important. I'll meet you at Susie's at noon.”
    By the time I arrived at the quiet counter caf‚ down Bryant, Cindy and Claire were squeezed into a corner booth. Both wore anxious looks.
    “Where's Jill?” asked Cindy. “We figured she was coming with you.”
    “I didn't ask her,” I said. I sat in the seat across from them. “This is about Jill.”
    “Okay...” Claire nodded, confused.
    Piece by piece, I took them through my first suspicions about the marks I had seen on Jill while we were jogging. How I didn't like the looks of them and how maybe, in the aftermath of losing the baby, she had done them to herself.
    “That's ancient history,” Cindy shot in. “Isn't it?”
    “You asked her?” asked Claire. Her gaze was deadly serious.
    I nodded, my gaze fixed on hers.
    “And...?”
    “She said, `What if I didn't make those marks myself?'”
    I watched Claire studying me, trying to read my face. Cindy blinking, beginning to understand.
    “Oh, Jesus,” muttered Claire. “For God's sake, you don't mean Steve...”
    I nodded, swallowed.
    A deep, sickening silence fell over the table. The waitress came. We ordered numbly. When the waitress left, I met their eyes.
    “That son of a bitch.” Cindy shook her head. “I'd like to cut off his balls.”
    “Join the club,” I shot back, “that's all I thought about last night.”
    “How long?” asked Claire. “How long has this been going on?”
    “I don't really know. She keeps saying it was the baby. When she lost it, Mr. Sensitivity there laid the blame on her. `You couldn't do it, could you? The big hotshot. You couldn't even do what every other woman can. Have a child.' ”
    “We have to help her,” Cindy said.
    I sighed. “Any ideas how?”
    “Get her the hell out,” Claire said. “She can stay with one of us. Does she want out?”
    I didn't know. “I'm not sure she's gotten there yet. I think what she's dealing with now is just shame. Like she's letting people down. Us. Maybe him. Strange as it sounds, I think there's a side of her that wants to prove she can be the wife, and mother, he wants her to be.”
    Claire nodded. “So we talk to her, right? When?”
    “Tonight,” I answered.
    I looked at Claire. “Tonight,” she agreed.
    Our food came and we picked at it without much appetite. No one had even asked about the case. Suddenly Claire shook her head. “Like you didn't have enough go-ing on.”
    “Speaking of which” - Cindy pulled up her bag - “I have something for you.” She brought out a spiral notebook and ripped off a page.
    Roger Lemouz. Dwinelle Hall. 555-0124.
    “This guy's at Berkeley. In the Linguistics Department. Globalization expert. Be prepared: his view of life, let's just say, may not exactly coincide with yours.”
    “Thanks. Where'd you get this?” I folded the paper in my purse.
    “I told you,” Cindy said, “a million miles away.”

Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree

Chapter 33
    I PUSHED THE SITUATION with Jill to the back of my mind as best I could; I phoned and managed to catch Roger Lemouz in his office. We spoke briefly and he agreed to see me.
    Just getting out of the Hall was a breath of fresh air. These days, I rarely went over to this part of the bay. I parked my Explorer near the stadium off of Telegraph Avenue and headed past