The 20th Victim Read online

“What? What are you talking about?”

  “Clay, tell Mr. Parisi.”

  “It was on the seat when the police car made us crash. Fell out of his pocket. Uh…it’s only this big.”

  He showed with his fingers a rectangle about the size of a deck of cards.

  Clay Warren looked at his lawyer, who nodded.

  “I put it in my jacket, and when I was booked, I handed over all my possessions. The book. Some change. My keys. They put all of it in an envelope with my name.”

  Parisi said, “Ms. Castellano, please go up to seven and get the book. Mr. Jordan, you and your client please wait outside with Toni. Thank you.”

  Yuki buzzed out of the office. Zac helped Clay to stand and walked with him to the door. It hadn’t quite closed when he heard Parisi’s chair squeak as he spun it so that his back was to the entrance.

  “Your Honor? It’s Len Parisi. I may have some exculpatory evidence to show you before the Clay Warren trial resumes next week.”

  Chapter 120

  The full membership of the Women’s Murder Club planned to have dinner at Susie’s tonight.

  It had been a week or two since Yuki had sung “Margaritaville” in the front room, since Cindy and I had broken bread together, since Claire had given up half a lung, since Yuki’s trial had gone backward, which was what she had wanted.

  And I had yet to tell how I survived the shootout at the Thornton Avenue corral and, with a lot of help from my friends, brought in the baddest gunman in the West.

  We were all excited to catch up, listen, talk, eat with our fingers. Plus I was having a predinner meet-up with Claire. I missed her so much. I had to hear what Dr. Terk had told her, and she felt this wasn’t a conversation to be had on the phone or in email.

  I said to Joe at breakfast, “Please have dinner without me. This is a major girl catch-up night. Urgent. Vital. Long overdue.”

  My husband had never looked more handsome. His stay with Dave Channing had given him a glow. He’d told me all about it, and I admired his ingenuity and his commitment. And that his faith in his friend, and himself, had been renewed.

  We’d had a wonderful welcome-home night together, and now he was sitting on a barstool at the kitchen island. I moved in close and stood between his legs, combed his hair with my fingers.

  He wrapped his arms around my waist and kissed me, so that I felt a charge down to my toes. He looked at me and said, “You want to go out with your friends, how could I possibly say no? But before you decide to go to Susie’s, you have to see this.”

  “See what?”

  Joe got up from the table and opened the freezer, took out a large white paper bag that he’d squeezed in behind the ice cube trays. He brought it back to the counter and said, “Take a look.”

  I pulled open the bag and peered in at a big, round container, the type commercial ice cream is packed in. This container’s lid bore a logo that I remembered well. It was from the French Laundry.

  “What is this, Joe? Ice cream?”

  “What was your favorite dish?”

  “You were my favorite, remember? Don’t make me guess. This is so mean.”

  He laughed.

  “I was planning to defrost this for dinner, Linds. Lobster macaroni and cheese. Three Michelin stars. That’s the most stars you can get.”

  I kissed him.

  I hugged him. I made sure he knew exactly how crazy I was about him for remembering that, and for scoring a quart of it, too. And then I had to say it.

  “How about a rain check, Joe? I need a night out with my girls. We’ll always have Napa.”

  Chapter 121

  Claire and I got to Susie’s before five o’clock and took a small table in the front room, which housed the long bar and the little stage for the steel band.

  “Weird seeing this place in daylight,” Claire said.

  “Nothing’s cooking,” I said. “Literally.”

  Afternoon sunlight lit up the ocher-colored, sponge-painted walls and street paintings of a marketplace in Jamaica. The steel band often played a tune about that marketplace. I softly sang, “‘Ackee rice, salt fish are nice. And the rum is fine any time of year.’”

  Claire didn’t join in, but she signaled to the bartender. He went by the name of Fireman, and that was name enough.

  He called out, “What can I get for you, ladies?”

  Claire called back, “Vodka, rocks.”

  I said, “Anchor Steam. And we need chips.”

  I assessed how Claire looked and sounded, and determined that she was tired and sad and sobered by her medical experience.

  She said, “I know what you’re thinking. But it’s not as bad as I look.”

  “Tell me,” I said.

  We had to wait for Fireman to set down the drinks and the bowl of chips, and after he’d said, “Can I get you anything else?” we shook our heads no in unison.

  “Are you in pain?” I asked her.

  “Not like you’d expect,” she said. “And I’m half a lung lighter, can you tell?”

  I forced a grin. It was hard to do.

  Claire sipped her drink, commented that they’d given her no alcohol at the hospital. She crunched on some chips as I tried to find a way to ask her, What’s the prognosis, girlfriend? What’s the deal?

  “Have you met my replacement?” she asked. “Mary Dugan?”

  “Temporary replacement. She’s nice.”

  “Qualified, too,” Claire said.

  “I’m going to kill you now,” I said. “If you don’t talk, this fork is the last thing you’ll ever see.”

  She laughed, and God, it was a great sound. She looked happy for a couple of seconds and my heart expanded. Was she going to take her job back from the blonde in the ME’s office? Was she going to go to Napa with Edmund and have another life-changing meal at the French Laundry? Or was Claire stalling? Was she looking for a way to tell me very bad news?

  “You know how much I like Mitchell Terk?”

  “Dr. Terk. Yeah. I know.”

  I swear I couldn’t help it. I was gripping the fork so hard my knuckles were white.

  “He says the margins are clean.”

  “This is true? You’re telling me the truth.”

  She gave me a look like, This is me. I don’t lie to you.

  “There’s a little more,” she said.

  “Don’t stop now.”

  “Put down the fork, Sergeant. Keep your hands where I can see them.”

  I laughed, hard.

  Then I said, “Will you please frickin’ tell me, Butterfly? Speak and don’t stop until I say so.”

  She took a pause to sigh, then said, “Cancer’s a bastard, Linds. I’m good right now. But I have to go in for a checkup every three months for a while. Then every six months. And I have to take doctor’s orders. No problem. Terk said I’ll dance at my daughter’s wedding. He’ll be dancing, too.”

  I stood up, reached across the table, and put my arms around Claire’s neck. It was not the most graceful hug in the world, but I couldn’t let go. Claire got an arm around me and patted my back and said, “I love you, Lindsay.”

  I told her that I loved her, too, bent to kiss her cheek, and rocked the table, knocked over the drinks, soaked the chips, listened to the beer bottle hitting the floor.

  “Oh, man.”

  Fireman called from the bar, “Set you up again, ladies?”

  “Please and thank you,” I said. “This time double chips and I’m having what she’s having. With a bow on top.”

  Chapter 122

  Fireman said, “Your table is ready.”

  That was great news. Claire and I made our way through the bar, which was filling up rapidly, passed the pickup window, and crossed into the back room. We slipped into the red leatherette booth we considered our own and sat opposite each other.

  Lorraine checked in with us and brought sparkling water, and within a couple of minutes Yuki arrived, looking like she’d had a full-body massage and a mani-pedi.

/>   “So damned great to see you,” she said to Claire, sliding in beside her. “What’s it been? Couple of decades?”

  “Couple of weeks, Yuki, dear. All’s well. I was just telling Lindsay it’s checkups for a while, but Dr. Terk blew the all-clear whistle and said I’m free to go.”

  Yuki hugged Claire and said, “We missed you. When are you coming back to work?”

  “Soon. Going to try something new. Sleep late. Play with my little girl. Listen to music. I told the powers that be not to expect to see my shadow until Groundhog Day.”

  Ha. Groundhog Day had passed, but never mind the details.

  Yuki asked where Cindy was, and to be honest, I wasn’t sure she was coming. And if she came, were we buddies again?

  I said, “Why don’t I go first. Cindy knows all about the firefight in Silver Terrace.”

  “You go, girl,” said Claire.

  I filled my friends in on the whole fandango, condensing a bit so that Susie’s didn’t close up for the night while I was still talking. Yuki was following so closely, it was like she was taking notes.

  “Does Barkley have a lawyer?” she asked.

  “All I know is that he asked for one. And he made no statement at all.”

  “That’s too bad,” said Claire. “How’re you gonna pin any of those murders on him? No witnesses. No forensics. What?”

  “Guy by the name of Marty Floyd,” I said. “He’s not military. He says he never shot anyone, but he knows Moving Targets like the back of his dog.”

  I explained that Randi was in the women’s jail, not talking, but Marty Floyd had spent eight consecutive hours with Mike Stempien, who now could decode Moving Targets.

  “When Stempien goes back to the FBI next week, he’s going to be the man of the hour, the week, and maybe the year,” I said. “Here’s hoping there’s going to be a clean sweep of Moving Target shooters on both coasts.”

  I ducked my head and whispered, “We gave Cindy the exclusive story. Here she comes.”

  Chapter 123

  Cindy sailed into the back room with a big grin, a police scanner under her arm and a computer bag over her shoulder.

  She scooted in next to me, put her radio on the table, and said, “Claire.” All she said was “Claire.”

  “I’m gonna be fine,” said Claire. “That’s your headline and your bottom line, and I don’t know when I’m going back to work. Maybe when I get enough of being home all day with Edmund and Rosie.”

  “Yahoo,” said Cindy. “All caps. Above the fold.”

  Claire grinned.

  Cindy had questions, of course, but when she was assured that Claire was on the right road, she linked her arm into mine. She said, “Damn it, Lindsay. That was awfully good of you.”

  “To?”

  “To hand me the finale on the Kill Shot series. Holy cow, I’ve been struggling to keep up, let alone get a good front-row seat on these killings, but that interview with Brady ahead of the FBI announcement gave me a seat on the stage.”

  “Great, Cindy. I’m glad it turned out that way. And when Stempien’s back with the FBI, I think they’re going to shut down the whole Moving Targets operation.”

  “It’s going to be hard,” Cindy said. “Killing drug dealers really caught fire with the populace. They liked it. They cheered every time a drug dealer bit the dust. But the good guys won. Oh. Before I forget, I got a raise.”

  Yuki said, “And that means…”

  “Dinner’s on me,” Cindy said.

  We lifted our glasses and ordered our dinners, and I swear it was like starlight was beaming down on the four of us. And as our meals were served, Yuki had a few things to say.

  “I picked this up on the ADA grapevine,” she said. “Lindsay, Joe was mentioned.”

  “My Joe?”

  “The very one.”

  Yuki told us what she’d heard about Carolee Atkins, RN, who was some kind of angel of death.

  “The DA’s office here will be prosecuting her. Two murders have been charged to her so far, but I have a feeling about this. More bodies are going to turn up. When old men with heart disease die in a hospital, nobody is alarmed. But I think the alarm has just sounded. I see autopsies in the near future looking for a medication that just plain stops your heart.”

  Claire said to Yuki, “Last I heard you were trying a case of a kid wheelman in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

  Yuki said, “Sorry to say, I cannot tell you more, but that young man disappeared with his family, and we’re about to roll up a lot of drug dealers without firing a single shot.”

  We ate with our fingers, got a little sauced, and reveled in our camaraderie. Before we refused to let Cindy take the check, she asked me to come with her to the ladies’ room.

  “Hey. Linds. I’m sorry I was such a pill. I was wrong to push you where you couldn’t go.”

  “You were doing your job, Cindy.”

  “And you were doing yours, Sergeant. I really cannot express how much I admire you.”

  I thought of the many times Cindy had been instrumental in solving crimes with her press card, by being the dogged bulldog she is. I remembered her taking a bullet and bringing down an armed killer on the block where I lived.

  I said, “I feel the same way about you, Cin. You’re the best.”

  Back at the table, we made a coffee toast to the Women’s Murder Club, and to how lucky we all were in our jobs, and our friendships.

  Claire said, “I’m gonna add some heavy cream to that.”

  She creamed her coffee, and then all of us, even those who hadn’t had real cream in years, dosed our java.

  I looked around at my three friends and thought how we didn’t take our luck for granted. We never did.

  We split the check and, soon after, went home to the men and children we loved.

  May it always be so.

  Acknowledgments

  With thanks to top attorneys Phil Hoffman and Steven Rabinowitz, partners at Pryor Cashman, LLP, in New York for their wise counsel, and, at the Bureau of Criminal Investigations, Stamford, Connecticut, Police Department, the real Captain Richard Conklin and tech wiz Mike Stempien.

  We also wish to thank Mitchell Terk, MD, of Jacksonville, Florida, who advised us in the care of Claire Washburn, and thanks, too, to Michael A. Cizmar, Special Agent, FBI (retired), PMC (private military contractor), Afghanistan.

  And our admiration for Mary Jordan, who keeps innumerable plates in the air without dropping a one, to our gifted researcher, Ingrid Taylar, West Coast, USA, and to Team Patterson at Little, Brown. You are #1.

  Want more James Patterson?

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  About the Authors

  JAMES PATTERSON is the world’s bestselling author and most trusted storyteller. He has created many enduring fictional characters and series, including Alex Cross, the Women’s Murder Club, Michael Bennett, Maximum Ride, Middle School, and I Funny. Among his notable literary collaborations are The President Is Missing, with President Bill Clinton, and the Max Einstein series, produced in partnership with the Albert Einstein estate. Patterson’s writing career is characterized by a single mission: to prove that there is no such thing as a person who “doesn’t like to read,” only people who haven’t found the right book. He’s given over three million books to schoolkids and the military, donated more than seventy million dollars to support education, and endowed over five thousand college scholarships for teachers. The National Book Foundation recently presented Patterson with the Literarian Award for Outstanding Service to the American Literary Community, and he is also the recipient of an Edgar Award and six Emmy Awards. He lives in Florida with his family.

  MAXINE PAETRO is a novelist who has collaborated with James Patterson on more than two-dozen thrillers, including the bestselling Women’s Murder Club, Private, and Confessions series; Woman of God; and other stand-alone novels. She lives with her h
usband, John, in New York.

  Books by James Patterson Featuring

  the Women’s Murder Club

  The 19th Christmas (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 18th Abduction (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 17th Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 16th Seduction (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 15th Affair (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 14th Deadly Sin (with Maxine Paetro)

  Unlucky 13 (with Maxine Paetro)

  12th of Never (with Maxine Paetro)

  11th Hour (with Maxine Paetro)

  10th Anniversary (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 9th Judgment (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro)

  7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro)

  The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro)

  4th of July (with Maxine Paetro)

  3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross)

  2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross)

  1st to Die

  A complete list of books by James Patterson is at the back of this book. For previews of upcoming books and information about the author, visit JamesPatterson.com, or find him on Facebook.

  Read on for an excerpt

  from the next

  Women’s Murder Club thriller…

  Chapter 1

  Cindy was at work in her office at the San Francisco Chronicle when she heard a woman calling her name.

  More accurately, she was screaming it.

  “Cinnn-dyyyyyyy.”

  Cindy lifted her eyes from her laptop, looked through her glass office wall that faced the newsroom and saw a tall, nimble woman zig-zagging through the maze of cubicles. She was taking the corners with the deftness of a polo pony as a security guard with a truck-size spare tire chased her—and he was falling behind.

  As a reporter Cindy had a sharp eye for details. The woman shrieking her name wore yoga pants and a Bruins sweatshirt, a knit cap over chin-length black hair, and had mascara bleeding down her cheeks. She looked determined—and deranged. The woman didn’t slow as she raced toward Cindy’s open door, but a moment later, the lanky woman was inside Cindy’s office, both hands planted on her desk, black-rimmed red eyes fastened on hers.