3rd Degree

by James Patterson

  “We were married fifteen years, divorced for four. Isabel stayed in New York when I started work in Washington. At first, it was just an assignment. Anyway”—he smiled wistfully—“like many things, I would do it differently if I could. How about you, Lindsay?”

  “I was married once,” I said. Then I found myself telling Molinari “my story.” How I was married right out of school, divorced three years later. His fault? My fault? What difference did it make? “I was close again a couple of years ago.… But it didn’t work out.”

  “Things happen,” he said, sighing, “maybe for the best.”

  No,” I said. “He died. On the job.”

  “Oh,” Molinari said. I knew he was feeling a little awkward. Then he did a lovely thing. He simply put his hand on top of my forearm—nothing forward, nothing inappropriate—and squeezed gently. He took his hand away again.

  “Truth is, I haven’t been out much lately,” I said, and lifted my eyes. Then trying to salvage the mood, I chuckled. “This is the best invitation I’ve had in a while.”

  “It is for me, too.” Molinari smiled.

  Suddenly his cell phone beeped. He reached in his pocket. “Sorry …”

  Whoever it was seemed to be doing most of the talking. “Of course, of course, sir … ,” Molinari kept repeating. Even the deputy director had a boss. Then he said, “I understand. I’ll report back as soon as I have anything. Yes, sir. Thank you very much.”

  He flipped the phone back into his pocket. “Washington … ,” he apologized.

  “Washington, as in the director of homeland security?” It gave me a bit of a kick to see Molinari as part of a pecking order.

  “No.” He shook his head and took another bite of his fish. “Washington, as in the White House. That was the vice president of the United States. He’s coming out here for the G-8.”

  Chapter 51

  I can be wowed.

  “If I wasn’t a Homicide lieutenant,” I said, “I might believe that line. The vice president just called you?”

  “I might press *69 and show you,” Molinari said. “Except that it’s important we begin to establish more trust.”

  “Is that what we’re doing tonight?” I asked, smiling in spite of myself.

  Whatever was starting to happen, those little pinballs pattering inside were now crashing around my ribs like the drums in “Sunshine of Your Love.” I was aware of the tiniest film of sweat at my hairline. My sweater was starting to feel prickly. Molinari reminded me of Chris.

  “I hope we’re starting to trust each other,” he finally said. “Let’s leave it at that for now, Lindsay.”

  “Aye-aye, sir,” I said.

  He paid the check, then helped me on with my jacket. I brushed against his arm and, well, electricity flared. I glanced at my watch. 9:30. Forty minutes to the airport to catch that flight I needed to be on.

  Outside, we walked a block or two along Vine Street. I wasn’t really paying attention to the shops. The night was cool but very pleasant. What was I doing here? What were the two of us doing?

  “Lindsay”—he finally stopped to face me—“I don’t want to say the wrong thing.…” I wasn’t sure what I wanted him to say next. “My driver’s down the block if you want.… But there’s always the six A.M. flight.”

  “Listen …” I wanted to touch his arm, but I didn’t. I’m not even sure why not.

  “Joe,” he said.

  “Joe.” I smiled. “Was this what you meant by being out of the field?”

  He took my bag and said, “I was just thinking it’d be a shame to waste a perfectly good change of clothes.”

  I do trust him, I was thinking. Everything about Joe Molinari inspired trust. And I definitely liked him. But I still wasn’t sure if this was a good idea, and that told me all I needed to know for right now.

  “I think I’m just gonna let you think I’m a bit harder to get than I really am”—I bit my lip—“and make that flight at eleven.”

  “I understand.…” He nodded. “It doesn’t feel right to you.”

  “It’s not that it doesn’t feel right.” I touched his hand. “It’s just that I didn’t vote for your administration.…” Molinari laughed out loud. “But just for the record, it wasn’t the wrong thing to say.”

  That made him smile, too. “It’s getting late,” he said. “I have some things to attend to up here. I’ll be seeing you soon enough.”

  Then Molinari waved down the block for his car. The black Lincoln drove up. The driver climbed out and opened the door for me. Still not completely sure that I was doing the right thing, I got in.

  Suddenly something hit me and I rolled down the window. “Hey, I don’t even know what flight I’m on.”

  “Taken care of,” Molinari said. He waved and slapped the side. The car started to pull away.

  As soon as we were on the highway, I shut my eyes and began to review the day, but mostly my dinner with Molinari. After a while the driver said, “We’re here, ma’am.”

  I looked outside and saw that we were at some remote part of the airfield. Yep, I can be wowed. Waiting for me on the tarmac was the Gulf stream G-3 jet I had flown up in that morning.

  Chapter 52

  Jill had it all planned out. And in her mind, it was going well.

  She had come home early and prepared one of Steve’s favorite meals, coq au vin. In truth, other than half a dozen kinds of eggs, it was the only thing she knew how to cook—or at least that she was confident about.

  Maybe tonight they could talk about how to proceed. She had the name of a therapist that a friend had given her and Steve had promised he would actually go this time.

  She had vegetables simmering in the pan and was about to add wine when Steve came home. But when he walked up the stairs, he seemed to look right through her. “Look at us,” he said. “You’d think we were an ad for domestic bliss.”

  “Trying,” Jill said. She was wearing pressed jeans and a pink V-necked T-shirt, and she had her hair down the way he liked it.

  “Just one thing wrong.” Steve tossed his newspaper down. “I’m going out.”

  Jill felt her stomach sink. “Why? Look at me, Steve. I’ve gone to a lot of trouble.”

  “Frank needs to bounce a proposal off me.” Steve reached across to a fruit basket and took a peach. There was a part of him that seemed almost to be gloating, amused that he’d ruined the evening.

  “Can’t you see Frank at the office tomorrow? I told you, there was something I needed to talk about. You said okay. I’ve got all this food.”

  He took a bite out of the peach and laughed. “You break one night before eight and get it in your head to play Alice on The Brady Bunch, and I’m the one blowing the script?”

  “It’s not a script, Steve.”

  “You wanna talk”—he sucked out another bite of the peach—“go ahead. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s still my check that pays for those Manolo Blahniks. The market the way it is these days, the only thing scarcer than the Ice Queen with an urge to have sex is a promising deal. Given the odds, I’ll throw in with the deal.”

  “That was really cruel.” Jill glared at him. She was determined to hold herself together. “I was trying to do something nice.”

  “It is nice.” Steve shrugged, took another bite. “And if you hurry, you might still catch one of your girlfriends to share this special moment with you.”

  She saw herself reflected in the window, suddenly feeling ridiculous. “You’re an incredible bastard.”

  “Aw …” Steve whined.

  Jill flung the spatula down, grease splattering over the counter.

  “That’s a five-thousand-dollar slab of limestone you’re redecorating there,” Steve said.

  “Goddamn you,” Jill cried, her eyes starting to well up with tears. “Look what I’m trying to do for you.” Everything had fallen apart. What was she trying to hold on to anyway?

  “You belittle me. You criticize. You make me feel like crap. You want to walk
out that door, go… Get out of my life. Everyone thinks I’m crazy for wanting to keep this together anyway.”

  “Everyone…” She saw the venom in his eyes, the switch suddenly tripped. He grabbed her by the arm and squeezed it hard, forcing Jill down to the floor. “You let those bitches run your life. I run your life. Me, Jill …”

  Jill held back more tears. “You’re gone, Steve. It’s over!”

  “It’s over when I say it’s over,” he said, hovering close to her face. “When I make your life so miserable, you beg me to leave. And I will, Jill. Until then, this is the way it is. It’s not over, honeybuns.… Things are just starting to warm up.”

  “Get out,” she said, and pulled away from him.

  He cocked his fist, but she didn’t even flinch. Not this time. Not even a blink. Steve moved fast, as though he was going to strike, and Jill just held her ground. “Get out, Steve,” she seethed again.

  The blood seemed to drain from Steve’s face. “My pleasure,” he said, backing away. He picked up another peach from the basket and rubbed it against his shirt. He tossed a last smirk toward the messy stove.

  “Be sure and save the leftovers.”

  As soon as she heard the door close downstairs, Jill broke into tears. That was it! She didn’t know if she should call Claire or Lindsay. There was something she had to do first. She pulled the Yellow Pages out of a kitchen cabinet and paged through them, frantically dialing the first number she found.

  Her hand was trembling, but this time there was no turning back. Answer, someone… please!

  “Thank God,” she said when a voice finally did.

  “Safe-More Locksmiths …”

  “You do emergencies?” Jill asked, resolve mixed with her tears. “I need someone over here now.”

  Chapter 53

  My message light was flashing.

  It was after one in the morning when I finally got back to my apartment.

  I threw my suit jacket over a chair and pulled off my sweater, hitting the PLAYBACK button of the answering machine.

  5:28. Jamie, Martha’s vet. She’s ready to be picked up in the morning.

  7:05. Jacobi, just checking in.

  7:16. Jill. A quiver of nerves in her voice. “I need to talk to you, Lindsay. I tried your cell phone, but it didn’t answer. Call me, whenever you get home.”

  11:15. Jill again. “Lindsay? Call me as soon as you get home. I’m up.”

  Something had happened. I punched in her number and she answered on the second ring. “It’s me. I was in Portland. Is everything okay?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. A pause. “I threw Steve out tonight.”

  I almost dropped the phone on the floor. “You really did it?”

  “This time’s for keeps. We’re done, Lindsay.”

  “Oh, Jill …” I thought of her carrying this all night, waiting for me to come home. “What did he do?”

  “I don’t want to go into it right now,” she said, “other than it won’t be happening anymore. I threw him out, Lindsay. I changed the locks.”

  “You locked him out? Wow! So where is he now?”

  Jill coughed out a laugh. “I don’t have any idea. He went out about seven and when he came back, about eleven-thirty, I heard him pounding on the door outside. It would have been worth the past ten years of bullshit just to see the expression on his face when his key didn’t fit. He’ll swing by tomorrow to get his stuff.”

  “Are you alone? Have you called anyone?”

  “No,” she answered. “I was waiting for you. My buddy.”

  “I’m gonna come over,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “I just took something. I want to go to sleep. I have to be in court tomorrow.”

  “I’m proud of you, Jilly.”

  “I’m proud of me, too. You’re not going to mind if I need a little hand-holding over the next few weeks?”

  “No hand I’d rather hold. I’m giving you a big hug, honey. Get some sleep. And here’s some advice from a cop: Keep that door locked.”

  I hung up the phone. It was going on two in the morning, but I didn’t care. I wanted to call Claire or Cindy and tell them the news.

  Jill finally booted the asshole out!

  Chapter 54

  “Hey, lieutenant,” Cappy Thomas shouted as I walked in the following morning. “Leeza Gibbons on the line. Entertainment Tonight? Wants to know if you can do lunch.”

  I had made the mistake of calling Jacobi from the plane last night, and maybe gave a few too many details about the day. Some snickers rippled around the squad room.

  I took some hot water back to my desk. A light was flashing on my phone. I punched it in.

  “Listen, LT”—Jacobi’s voice—“me and the missus were thinking about heading over to the Big Island sometime in July. Any chance you can snag the G-3?”

  I punched off the line, spooning a pouch of Red Zinger into my mug.

  “Hey, LT, phone!” Cappy yelled again.

  This time I picked it up and snapped, “Look, I didn’t sleep with him, I didn’t ask for the jet, and while you bozos were scratching your balls back here, I actually moved the homicide case along.” “I guess that’ll have to do as an update.” Cindy laughed. “Oh God …” I lowered my head, letting the blood drain

  from my face. “Believe it or not, I didn’t call to bust your chops. I’ve got news.”

  “I’ve got news, too,” I said, thinking of Jill. “Yours first.” Cindy’s tone was urgent, so I didn’t think she was talking about Jill.

  “Your fax should be ringing any second.”

  Just then Brenda knocked on my window, and handed me Cindy’s transmittal. Another e-mail. “This was on my computer when I got to work this

  morning,” Cindy said. I was jolted back to reality. This time the sending address

  was MarionDelgado@hotmail.com. The message was only one line: That wasn’t us in

  Portland. It was signed, August Spies.

  Chapter 55

  “I’ve got to take this upstairs,” I said, shooting out of my chair, almost pulling the phone out of the wall. I was halfway up to Tracchio’s office before I realized I forgot to tell Cindy about Jill. Things were going too fast now.

  “He’s behind closed doors,” his secretary warned. “You’d better wait.”

  “This can’t wait,” I said, and pushed the door open. Tracchio was used to my barging in.

  He was facing me, seated at his conference table. He was flanked by two others with their backs to me. One was Tom Roach, the local FBI liaison.

  I almost fell when I saw that the other was Molinari.

  I felt as if I had hit a wall, bouncing off and vibrating like in the Roadrunner cartoons.

  “Soon enough, Lieutenant,” Molinari said, rising.

  “Yeah, that was what you said. I thought you had pressing matters in Portland.”

  “I did. They’re taken care of now. And we have a killer to catch down here, don’t we?”

  Tracchio said, “We were just about to call you, Lindsay. The deputy director informed me how well you handled the situation up there in Portland.”

  “Which situation was he referring to?” A glance Molinari’s way.

  “The Propp homicide, of course.” He motioned for me to sit down. “He said you were helpful in putting forth your theory of the crimes.”

  “Okay”—I handed Tracchio Cindy’s e-mail—“then you should love this.”

  Tracchio scanned the page. He passed it across to Molinari.

  “This was sent to the same reporter at the Chronicle?” he asked.

  “Seems like they got a regular chat room going on,” Molinari replied as he read. “We could make that useful.” He pursed his lips. “I was just asking the Chief if you could work directly with us. We need help here on the ground. I’ll need a place to work. I want to be right in the thick of it, Lieutenant. In your squad room if possible. That’s how I work best.”

  Our eyes met. I knew we weren’t playi
ng games. It was a matter of national security.

  “We’ll find you an office, sir. In the thick of it.”

  Chapter 56

  Molinari was waiting for me out in the hall, and as soon as Roach had ducked into the elevator, I looked at him reprovingly. “Soon enough, huh?”

  He followed me down the stairwell to my office. “Look, I had the local FBI office to placate up there. There’s always a lot of politics. You know that.”

  “Anyway, I’m glad you’re here,” I said, holding the stairwell door for him. I let it close. “I never had a chance to thank you for the ride. So, thanks.”

  I put Molinari in our squad room, cleared out a small office for him to work in. He told me he had declined something more fitting and private on the fifth floor next to the Chief.

  It proved to be not such a bad thing, having the Department of Homeland Security working hand in hand with us, though Jacobi and Cappy looked at me as though I’d gone over to the enemy. Within two hours he had traced back the origin of the latest e-mail: an Internet caf? called the KGB Bar in Hayward that was popular with students across the bay.

  And also who Marion Delgado was—the latest Hotmail address.

  Molinari draped a fax from the FBI computers across my desk. An old newswire story, with a grainy photo of a grinning, gap-toothed kid in a peasant smock holding a brick in his hand. “Marion Delgado. He was some five-year-old who in 1967 derailed a freight train in Italy by tossing a brick in its path.”

  “Is there a reason you’re thinking this is important to the investigation?” I asked.

  “Marion Delgado was a rallying cry for revolutionaries in the sixties,” Molinari said. “A five-year-old who stood up and stopped a train. The name became a code name to thwart undercover surveillance. The FBI was bugging phones like crazy, trying to infiltrate the Weathermen. They logged hundreds of messages from Marion Delgado.”

  “What are you saying—one of the old Weathermen is behind this current mess?”