The 20th Victim

by James Patterson

  Perkins stared over Joe’s head at the painting.

  When he spoke again, his anger had cooled. He said, “Saint John’s isn’t Cedars-Sinai. It’s a country hospital, and we did our best, you understand? Ray’s blood pressure was high. Cholesterol was high. But he was stable. As I understand it, you saw Ray the day after he was admitted.”

  “Yes, I did,” Joe said. “He looked good to me, sounded good, too, but I’m no expert.”

  “I am an expert. I saw him on Saturday. I told him that after he got his MRI on Monday, if everything looked okay, we’d release him. I put in some provisos. That he was going to have to see me more often, do what his doctor ordered, blah, blah.

  “Monday comes, he turns down the MRI. He said, ‘I don’t need it, Doc. I’m fine.’ I stopped by on Monday late afternoon to see his chart, make sure it was okay to release him the next day. He wasn’t hale. But again, he was stable. I prescribed a mild sleep aid.

  “I was shocked when I got the call on Tuesday that he had died.”

  Nurse Atkins leaned into the doorway.

  “Doctor, your ten o’clock is here.”

  Perkins patted his jacket pocket, touched his glasses perched on his nose, and looked at his watch.

  “Time got away from me.” To Atkins he said, “Just be a minute.”

  When she had gone, he said, “No, it wasn’t the .5 milligrams of valium that killed him. It was his heart. Complications from his aneurysm. I feel terrible that we lost Ray. I miss him. But Dave is being very unfair to me. I save lives, Mr. Molinari. I don’t take them.”

  “Dr. Perkins. Thanks for your time. I’ll have a stress test when I get home.”

  “Smart. Take care of yourself.”

  Chapter 55

  The former roommates shared a late lunch at the plank table in Dave’s great room with its soaring ceiling and 180-degree view of the vineyard.

  “Talk to me,” Dave said. “What did that son of a bitch have to say for himself?”

  Joe said, “Dave, you remember that I came up through the Behavioral Analysis Unit of the FBI.”

  “Yes, yes, I’ve seen the TV show. You were some kind of profiler.”

  Joe sailed past Dave’s snarky humor and said, “I’m good at reading psychological cues.”

  “I also watched The Mentalist.”

  “I missed that one, Dave. So shut up for a minute, will you?”

  Dave threw a sigh, drank wine, said, “Go ahead. Please.”

  “Here’s what I gleaned from my meeting with Daniel Perkins. He’s a little distracted. He’s got a slight tremor in one hand, and that’s neurological or stress. He’s busy. And he’s highly pissed off at you for calling him a murderer in front of his patients, which, by the way, could get you sued.”

  “I’m up for it. Tell him to go ahead and sue me. My countersuit will be quite a revelation to him.”

  Joe gave Dave a warning look and went on. “He’s quite regretful about Ray, but he also fought his corner.”

  “Arrogant asshole.” Dave emptied his glass.

  “You know what he said to me, Dave? Words to the effect of, ‘I wish I’d been harder on Ray. But I know it wouldn’t have done any good. You can’t make people do what they don’t want to do. I tried. I’d tell him to take his blood pressure meds, and he’d tell me to fuck off.’”

  Dave said, “So he won you over completely. Not a doubt in your mind.”

  “He told me your father wouldn’t take his meds, and that was the truth, Dave. I’ve toured Ray’s medicine cabinet, and there are prescription drugs, blood pressure meds and statins, unopened, with expiration dates from last year and the year before.”

  Dave pushed his chair back from the table, got more bread and brie from the kitchen, and returned with it to the table. When Dave was facing Joe, he said, “Let me ask you this.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Are being a bad patient and becoming a murder victim mutually exclusive?”

  Joe said, “You’re asking, if it’s true that he didn’t take his meds, can it also be true that his doctor killed him?”

  “Exactly. He could have gotten fed up with side effects and didn’t take his meds. And still, his doctor could have killed him along with a few others in the same one-year period.”

  “Say you’re right, Dave. What was his motive? Because unless you tell me that Perkins is going to inherit the winery, I can’t think of one.”

  “What about compulsion? What about psychosis? What about a God complex?”

  Joe said, “Possible. What about Occam’s razor?”

  “There were no razors involved, as far as I know.”

  “Occam’s razor is—”

  “I know what it is. I went to a good school, you know. Occam’s razor. Don’t multiply motives unnecessarily. The simplest explanation is usually right.”

  “Yep.”

  “So in your estimation, it’s easier to believe that Ray and another three of Perkins’s patients died from heart disease rather than were murdered by their doctor.”

  “Dave, Ray’s chart for the day before he died is marked ‘Patient refused MRI.’ The ME’s report says cause of death was complications from a thoracic aortic aneurysm. The other three patients you identified also died of heart ailments. I’m just one man and I don’t have a badge, so I’m going on leads and these documents.”

  “You have a lot of charm, Joe. Always did.”

  “Thanks. I remember when you had charm yourself.”

  The two men grinned at each other, and then Joe said, “I’m going home tonight, Dave. I’m still only going to be a text and an hour-and-a-half drive away. If you need me, call me. If you have any evidence that Ray was murdered, I strongly suggest you call the police and let them do a complete investigation.”

  “Thanks for all you’ve done, Joe. I know I sound like an ingrate or maybe a crank, but I know I’m right. And I also really appreciate your help.”

  “I know. We’re good.”

  Chapter 56

  I was elated to see Joe’s car parked outside our apartment building.

  When I opened our front door and shouted, “I’m home,” Joe appeared in the foyer and hugged me, rocked me, kissed me, danced me, and hugged me some more. It was as if we’d been separated for months, not days.

  The small entranceway filled up, Julie tugging at me and hugging Joe’s legs, Martha yipping, and Mrs. Rose off to the side, beaming, saying, “This is like something out of a movie.”

  I laughed. Joe thanked her for standing in for him over the last few days.

  “Gloria, you’re the absolute best,” he said, then told her he’d brought her a souvenir from the Channing Winery.

  He said to me, “Be right back,” and carried Gloria’s case of wine across the hall for her. I unbuckled my gun, locked it in the antique gun cabinet Dave Channing had given us as a wedding gift. Then, swinging Julie up into my arms, I asked her if she’d like to go with me to take Martha for a quick walk.

  “We already did it, Mommy. Look what Daddy brought me!”

  I marveled at her stuffed cow, yet to be named, and when Joe returned from across the hall, he opened our case of wine, uncorked the Channing Winery Private Reserve Cab. I poured juice for Julie, and Joe and I kept our glasses handy as we made dinner.

  While Joe prodded the winery-made pizza in the oven, I brought him up-to-date.

  “Claire is out of surgery, asleep in her private room. I wasn’t allowed to see her. Believe it or not, I’m not in her immediate family.”

  He grinned. “How do they know that?”

  “They had a list. Edmund told me that she’s resting comfortably, considering they took out half of her lung.”

  “Half? A half of her lung?”

  “Edmund told me that Claire argued for the most aggressive treatment—and that’s what she got. Sounds like she decided to take her best shot.”

  Julie came back to the room with Martha, demanding to know what we’d just been talking about. Joe distracted
her.

  “You know, if you have a cow, that makes you a cowgirl.”

  “Really?”

  “And even cowgirls eat dinner.”

  Joe’s reheated Channing Winery pizza was delicious, and so was the arugula salad with shaved Parmesan and fresh Napa fruit. The Channing vino was also mighty good.

  As soon as was reasonable, Julie-Bug plus her new cow were tucked into her bed, the dishwasher rumbled, and, after changing into sweatpants and T-shirts, Joe and I stretched out together on the long leather sofa.

  Of course we both fell asleep.

  I heard his phone and tried to slip it out from his pant pocket. Woke him up, of course. I said, “This is the second call, Joe.”

  He looked at the screen, saying, “It’s from Perkins’s office.” He pressed the Talk button, but the caller had hung up.

  He played the message on speakerphone. It wasn’t Dr. Perkins. It was a woman’s voice.

  “Mr. Molinari. I couldn’t tell you today for fear of being overheard. One day I saw Dave Channing hurl a potted plant at Ray. One of those heavy terra-cotta urns. And he threw some punches, too. Thought you should know.”

  The call ended abruptly.

  Joe clicked off and said to me, “That was Nurse Atkins, Dr. Perkins’s nurse. She says that Dave got physical with Ray.”

  “Hit him?”

  “Yeah. And threw things at him. My brain is closed for the night,” he said. “How about it, Blondie? Bed?”

  “You don’t have to ask me twice.”

  Chapter 57

  Joe had announced that his mind was closed for the night, but that was an aspiration more than a fact.

  The late call from Dr. Perkins’s nurse had rattled him, and hearing that Dave had gotten physical with Ray aroused Joe’s worst fears.

  I held on to Joe, my arm across his chest, my leg over his thighs, and I listened as he ticked off the first three items on an investigator’s checklist when considering a murder suspect.

  “Dave had the means,” Joe said. “He has sleep meds in his medicine cabinet. Could he have crushed an overdose of sleeping pills, loaded up a glass of juice, and handed it to his father? Yes. ‘Here, Dad. Drink this.’

  “He definitely had opportunity. He visited Ray in the hospital several times, and Ray had a private room. You’re going to ask me about motive, Blondie, and that’s the tough one. So what could be his motive to kill his only living relative?”

  Joe rolled onto his side and put his arms around me.

  “Exactly,” I said. “Ray was Dave’s everything. His life is going to be a lot poorer without the love and support of his father. Without Ray, who is there for him? His by-the-hour hot dates? The seasonal workers? His virtual friends online? Sounds lonely.”

  Joe said, “Well, I can imagine it a different way. Ray ran everything. Dave worked for Ray. He took orders, and I saw that, Lindsay. ‘Run to the cafeteria for me, son. Hand me my tablet. Give us some privacy, Dave.’”

  “You’re saying Dave resented that.”

  “I’m saying that reporting to his father at his age could have been more than annoying, it could have been a motive for murder. Ray owned the business, and Dave ate there, lived there, worked there. Dave’s income and way of life depended on his father, and his father was sick. He was demanding and sick. Maybe he’s looking at the lives of other fortysomething men, who have careers, homes, wives, kids, even grandchildren. Maybe if his father was dead, he could leave the small-town restrictions of Napa Valley with a sizable nest-egg inheritance. Move. Reinvent himself. Make sense?”

  I saw Joe’s point and said so.

  “But did he murder his father, Lindsay? Or did Dr. Perkins do it? And I have to ask the same three questions of Perkins. Did he have the means? Yes. He’s a doctor. Did he have the opportunity? Yes. Same reason. So what’s a possible motive? Why would he kill his own patient?”

  I said, “Isn’t it most likely and utterly probable that no one killed Ray but Ray? Perkins told you, Ray neglected his own health.”

  Joe rolled over onto his back and sighed. “I really would love to know for certain that Ray died of natural causes.”

  “Me, too. I like Dave. And answer me this. If Dave killed his father, why would he have you looking into it? If he did it, you’d have to turn him in.”

  Joe thought about it for a long minute. Then said, “How about guilt? If he killed Ray, he could have so much guilt we can’t even imagine it. He might want to be sure he’s covered his tracks by involving me. Or he might have an unconscious motivation.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Dave might want to get caught.”

  Chapter 58

  Joe fell asleep fast and slept silently and still, his mind and body resting after a long run of worry and wakefulness.

  I couldn’t sleep for thinking about Joe’s theory, that Dave had killed his father out of resentment and then felt so much regret, shame, and guilt that he wanted to be punished.

  Eventually, I slept—a light, dream-tossed state in which I envisioned shooters lining up shots at moving targets. I saw Paul and Ramona in their office, making morning small talk. And then the sound of broken glass, Paul sprawling across his desk, blood sheeting over the edge, soaking into the carpet. Ramona standing, another shot. My eyes opened and I pictured the cabochon ruby pendant on a gold chain hanging an inch above the bullet hole through her chest.

  I must have fallen back asleep, because when my eyes opened again, I was thinking about Claire. Had she been drugged into a dreamless sleep? Was she in pain, staring at the ceiling, thinking about her precious young daughter? Had her doctor given her good news or bad? I needed to know.

  It wasn’t yet six when I slipped out of bed without waking my husband. I padded softly into the main room and then peeked in on our sleeping, curly-haired cowgirl. I watched her for a little while, wondering what kind of woman she would grow up to be.

  Martha mouthed my hand. I assured her that I was on it, and quickly dressed in jeans and sweatshirt to take my good dog for a walk. I remembered something told to me by a stranger on a train. She was holding her baby, and she jerked on her dog’s leash to pull it under the seat.

  She saw me looking at her, I guess with judgment in my eyes. She said, “Before you have a baby, your dog is your baby. When you have a baby, your dog is a dog.”

  I stooped down to look Martha in the eyes.

  “You know I still love you, don’t you?”

  She wagged her tail, whined, and licked my face. I leashed my old friend, and we rode the elevator to street level.

  It was still early morning. Other people walked their dogs, crossing the nearly empty street against the light. Martha wanted to play, but I gave her the next-best thing, a sprint to the corner of Lake and Eleventh and back.

  All night my mind had flopped like a beached tuna. Claire. Dave Channing. Dead bodies in cold boxes awaiting burial and justice. My job.

  We took the elevator up, and once inside our home, Martha cocked her head and whined, Feed me.

  In the kitchen I filled a bowl for my fluffy old girl, brewed my morning joe, and flicked on the small under-cabinet TV to keep me company. The first morning show was in full swing when a bright-red breaking-news banner streaked across the screen.

  What now? What the hell is it now?

  Chapter 59

  Early that morning Cindy was in her office, checking the East Coast news feeds, when her cell phone rang.

  It was Lori Hines an old friend. They’d gone to Michigan together, and Lori had recently moved from Chicago to San Francisco for a high-profile job with KRON4.

  “Cin, I’ve just heard that one of the snipers has issued a memo to the press,” she said. “Check your mail.”

  With Lori on hold, Cindy scanned her mailbox and opened an email headed For Immediate Release.

  Every word contained in its four paragraphs was a stunner.

  She read it out loud to Lori, who said, “Get ready to break news, girlfriend. I’m in
a satellite van less than ten minutes from the Chronicle’s front door.”

  Cindy said, “I’ll call you right back.”

  She read the email again.

  It shook her as much on the second read and appeared to be every bit a blockbuster—raw, bloody, and ready to be splashed across TV screens everywhere. If it had been widely disseminated, the clock was ticking and the deadline was now.

  She printed out the email and phoned Tyler to bring him into the loop, but at 7 a.m. her call went to voice mail.

  What to do?

  It was risky to go on the record with a story based on a totally blind lead, but it was done often enough. Unconfirmed at this time. Confidential sources say. And then there were the breathtaking Deep Throat leaks during Nixon’s last days.

  Cindy thought over her options: take a moon shot, or go by a more cautious route. If she broke the news, she owned the scoop. If she waited…

  She called Lori. “Give me ten minutes.”

  Opening a new email file, Cindy wrote to Tyler, saying that a news bomb was about to drop, that she had judged the lead as authentic, and that she had moments to go live with the story before the competition broke it.

  Cindy roughed out the story, and it was ready for edit in nothing flat. She gave it a headline, attached the unverified email, and, marking the package Urgent, fired it off to the publisher and editor in chief’s inbox.

  Then she stuffed a copy of the email into her coat pocket, darted into a closing elevator, and rode it down to the street.

  Lori was waiting for her on Mission, already set up for the interview.

  The two friends and colleagues talked over the upside-downside ramifications while standing in the shadow of the Chronicle’s clock tower and agreed—the risk was worth taking. The business they were in, it was either go big or go home.

  They took their seats in the tall director’s chairs facing the camera, their backs to the Chronicle Building, an umbrella shading their faces, the morning breeze messing with their hair.