20th Victim: (Women’s Murder Club 20) (Women's Murder Club)

by James Patterson

  “He pays for the girlfriend experience.”

  “Aw, jeez. Do whatever you need to do,” she said.

  Lindsay told him that after she put Julie to bed, she’d ask Mrs. Rose to take over for another couple of hours so she could have dinner with the girls.

  “I’ll bring her a case of Channing’s Private Reserve Cab,” Joe said.

  “And one for us.”

  “No problem.”

  Joe said he’d be home tomorrow, and after exchanging good nights and phone kisses, he returned to Dave’s small, two-story stone house, which was identical to the house about twenty yards away—the house where his parents, Ray and Nancy, had lived. Dave had left the lights on, telling Joe, “If Ray’s restless spirit is still around, he’ll want to see the lights.”

  Dave’s living room was sparsely furnished with two upholstered armchairs in front of the fireplace, a standing lamp, and a handmade end table made from what looked like antique wine crates. A collection of framed oil paintings, including one luminous view of the vineyard at sunup, hung over the fireplace. Joe had taken a close look. They were signed “Nancy Channing.”

  An aged-plank dining table dominated the dining area. There were four straight-backed dining chairs, and Joe saw a short stack of folders in front of one of them.

  Joe took a seat and opened the folder on top. It contained a thin sheaf of clippings from local papers, primarily obituaries. Dave brought Joe a cup of tea and said, “Read this one.”

  “This one” was a glossy Napa Valley monthly publication called Great Grapes, which contained a lot of ads, a smattering of local news, and profiles of artists and business owners. Joe opened the magazine to where a slip of paper bookmarked an essay by a writer named Johann Archer.

  Archer had written about the death of his thirty-eight-year-old fiancée, Tansy Mallory, a dance teacher and long-distance runner, who’d been taken to the hospital with heat exhaustion. He’d written that Tansy was in every other way healthy and recovering—when she died.

  Archer had poignantly expressed his shock about the unexpected and still unbelievable loss of the woman he had dearly loved. The writer hadn’t mentioned the name of the hospital or the doctor, only that he disbelieved the hospital’s stated cause of death.

  He closed the essay by writing, “Inexplicably, a sunny, generous, and optimistic woman is gone. Somehow my heart still beats and I continue to live. That’s inexplicable, too.”

  Joe finished the article and looked up.

  “Dave, you got the idea that your dad was murdered from this article?”

  “Tansy Mallory’s obituary and two others, not counting Ray’s, are in that file. It’s more than smoke, Joe. I’m calling it a fact-based fire.”

  Joe’s thoughts veered to his training in behavioral science with the FBI. He couldn’t read Dave. Of course he was depressed. But he was also edgy and maybe paranoid. That said, in times of tragedy it was common to strike out, blame someone. Dr. Murray was a logical scapegoat for Ray’s death.

  Joe asked, “Have you spoken with Archer or the families of these other people who died suspiciously?”

  “No. I don’t know how to approach them, so I’m going by what I’ve read here. Two of the obits mention Dr. Murray, which confirms my strong belief that that son of a bitch is on a roll. That he killed my dad.”

  CHAPTER 36

  EVEN ON A Wednesday night Susie’s Café was packed with millennials gorging on cheap, spicy food, old men hanging out at their neighborhood bar, and office workers from the nearby financial district loosening their ties, kicking off their shoes, and doing the limbo.

  As for the Women’s Murder Club, we had an easy time letting down our hair in this diverse and rowdy atmosphere, so much so that years ago we’d made Susie’s our unofficial clubhouse.

  The steel-drum band was playing “Happy,” and a group of six was heading out as Claire, Yuki, and I scooted past the kitchen pass-through to the back room, where we could speak without shouting.

  Lorraine was wiping down the table in “our” booth and said, “Jerked beef is the special tonight.”

  We thanked her and slid into the banquettes, Claire and I on one side, Yuki sitting across from us. It took only seconds to choose from the menu, which hadn’t appreciably changed in at least ten years.

  I said to Lorraine, “Cindy’s working overtime.”

  It wasn’t a lie, but it was shy of the truth. Cindy had begged off our dinner date because she was still mad at me for asking her to sit on her story that drug dealers were victims of sniper shootings in several cities. It wasn’t just any old scoop. The Barons’ deaths had gone wide on national TV, while Cindy’s name was not on the front page of the Chronicle.

  I hadn’t been able to give her a fullhearted apology, and Cindy knew how to hold a grudge. I explained that to Yuki and Claire, and Claire said, “You’re both stubborn.” Yuki’s two cents: “You had to ask her to hold it. She’s a bulldog, but in a day or so she’ll get over it and be on to the next.”

  Lorraine appeared at our table with pencil and pad in hand. Claire and I ordered beers. Yuki ordered a shrimp salad, and Claire said, “I’m gonna say … I’ll have jerked beef on a roll.”

  I asked for gumbo and a basket of bread.

  “That’s all?” Lorraine said.

  “I might order some key lime pie in a little while.”

  “It could be gone, Lindsay. If not, I’ll nail down a piece for you while I still can.”

  The frisky waitress headed for the kitchen pass-through window, and after she had gone, Claire asked Yuki, “What’s the emergency, sweetheart?”

  Yuki was clearly dressed for court, in a blue suit, a V-neck silk blouse, and high-heeled shoes.

  “Clayton Warren, that junior wheelman I’m charging with car theft, possession of drugs with intent to distribute, and acting as accomplice to murder of a cop.”

  We both nodded. We knew. If convicted, Warren, who was eighteen, would get serious time for serious crimes.

  “His arraignment was set for today. I’m looking for him, and his attorney comes in, tells me that his client tried to hang himself this morning.”

  “Whaaaat?” Claire and I said in unison.

  “Let me restate that,” said Yuki. “He did hang himself with a bedsheet hooked over a heating pipe in the bathroom.”

  Claire was consumed with a sudden coughing fit, excused herself, and said, “My asthma.” I gripped her hand under the table as she said to Yuki, “He’s dead?”

  “Not quite. Another prisoner grabbed his legs and yelled for help. He’s in solitary with a neck brace and round-the-clock guards. But think about it. He hasn’t been indicted, let alone tried. He could go free. And if he’s convicted, he could appeal. There’s no death sentence in the charged crimes. So why’d he try to kill himself?”

  We tossed Yuki’s question back and forth across the table, agreeing finally that in the absence of an answer from the kid, his family’s lives must have been threatened as a warning not to flip on the actual killer dealer. Claire thought he was depressed, ashamed, and certain he would be convicted.

  I said, “Sounds like he would rather die than go to prison.”

  Yuki didn’t buy it. “There’s something we don’t know. His attorney doesn’t know it, either. The kid’s been completely passive since his arrest.” Yuki shook her head. “Maybe it doesn’t matter why he’s working against himself, but I’m sure he’s got a reason. So where does that leave me? I’m wondering if I can just do a C-minus job when he comes to trial.”

  I said, “Are you kidding?”

  She wasn’t. Yuki looked at our stunned expressions and said, “Look. I could get away with it. I’ve got a reputation, you know. I lose cases when I’m brilliant and the defendant is guilty.”

  Sadly, that was true.

  CHAPTER 37

  CLAIRE SAID TO Yuki, “How about this instead? Tell Red Dog you want off the case. How can you possibly prosecute a person you don’t believe in?” />
  “Okay, say I go to Parisi,” Yuki said, referring to DA Len Parisi, a formidable, red-haired, three-hundred-pound hulk who had a fierce reputation for being tough on crime. “He takes me off the case and reassigns it to one of his killer ADAs who eat knives for breakfast. Clayton refuses to defend himself and gets life in prison with no possibility of parole. As soon as he can, he commits suicide.”

  I said, “It’s not your problem, Yuki. You can’t direct his life.”

  Plates were cleared and coffee arrived along with my wedge of heavenly key lime pie. Lorraine bent to my ear and said, “I’ve got connections.” I gave her a thumbs-up, and when I turned back to Yuki, she was scowling.

  She said, “Lorraine, a pitcher of margaritas, please. Anyone joining me?” She got no takers.

  “Only one glass,” she said to Lorraine, who returned with the pitcher in no time.

  Yuki is not a drunk, but once or twice a year she succumbs to tequila’s siren call. This was the night. Claire was coughing some, but she reached across the table and took Yuki’s handbag, dug out her car keys, and handed them to me.

  “Fine,” Yuki said. “Be that way.”

  I called Brady and told him that Yuki was going to need a ride home in about an hour. Claire and I clinked our beer mugs to Yuki’s salt-rimmed glass, and we toasted her for having a good heart.

  Lorraine came by and said to Yuki, “One of our customers is playing your song.”

  We could hear it now. Jeff Rudolph, a talented amateur with a guitar, was singing about the sun baking, pop-tops and flip-flops. Yuki was cleared for launch and blasted off when Lorraine passed her the mike and walked with her into the front room.

  Claire and I joined the parade.

  Rudolph had already sung the first stanzas, and his face brightened when Yuki began to sing along with him, her clear soprano voice lifting the refrain.

  “‘Wasted away again in Margaritaville …’”

  Jeff stamped the floor. “Salt, salt, salt, salt.”

  Diners were singing and clapping now.

  “‘But I know …’”

  And as everyone instinctively stopped singing, Yuki belted out the last line: “‘It’s my own damn fault.’”

  Someone shouted, “Encore,” and there was clapping and more calling out, “Encore. Encore.”

  Claire said loudly, “She’s done. Really.”

  Lorraine took back the mic and when we were snug in our booth, she asked, “Coffee, Yuki? Just made it fresh.”

  Yuki said, “Ha. No, thanks,” and drained her glass.

  That evening I almost forgot that Claire was facing the challenge of her life, that the Barons’ bodies were cold, that Randi hadn’t talked, and that Leonard Barkley was still, as they say, in the wind. All of this would wake me up at around three in the morning, but right now it felt so good to be joking around with my buds.

  I said, “Lorraine. Coffee all around and pie. Whatever kind you’ve got left.”

  “Cherry,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “From Monday.”

  “Sold,” I said. “Bring it on.”

  CHAPTER 38

  YUKI WAS LYING on the bed, eyes closed against the light coming from the old-fashioned ceiling fixture.

  Brady took off her shoes, rubbed her toes.

  “Ohhhhhh,” Yuki said. “That’s too good.”

  “Can you sit up?”

  “Maybe. I think so,” she said. But she didn’t actually move. Brady said, “I’m going to try to get your jacket off, Yuki-san. If you can’t help, okay, but don’t fight me.”

  Yuki laughed.

  Pretty soon Brady was laughing, too. This woman’s appealing laughter could send a statue into giggles. He got her jacket off, and her blouse while he was at it, rolled her over, and unzipped her skirt.

  She said, “I’m loving this, Brady. You must’ve done this before.”

  “You are a silly woman, you know that, don’t you?”

  “I had a tellible … terrible day.”

  “I want to hear about it,” he said. He unhooked her bra, brought her a WALK FOR A CURE T-shirt, and asked, “Can you handle it from here?”

  “Where you going?”

  “I’m going to hit the rain box. Be right back.”

  When Yuki opened her eyes again, Brady was in bed with her, his hair was damp, and the light was out. She rolled toward him and he put his arms around her. His big arms. Loved them.

  “I’m right here, darlin’. Tell me what happened.”

  “You know what? I’ll tell you tomorrow. I don’t want to think about it now.”

  She put her arms around Brady’s neck, and he hoisted her so that they were in their best position, her left leg hooked over his hip, their arms around each other, resting her head under his chin. This was as close as two people could get.

  He said softly, “So you’re saying you want me to take advantage of you.”

  “I think. I know you want to.”

  He kissed her. She moaned and squirmed and told him she loved him. He said, “I love me, too.”

  She laughed.

  He said, “I love you so much it scares me.”

  “I’m harmless.”

  They rocked together slowly in the big bed. He flipped her so that she was on top, put his hands on her hips, and moved her until they caught fire. Then they held each other until sleep tugged at them, and Yuki slid off her dear husband onto the rumpled heap of bedding.

  They nuzzled and kissed and grinned at each other, then fell asleep holding hands. When Yuki woke up, she separated herself from Brady’s embrace, bunched her pillow, and turned her back to him.

  While asleep, he wrapped his arms around her and held her against him. Yuki was coming down from the booze, but she was still high on Brady. They needed more times like this. A song was going through her mind.

  She sang the last line in a whisper. “‘Baby, baby. Baby, you’re the best.’”

  CHAPTER 39

  THE TWO OLD friends sat in front of the fireplace, each with a glass of an excellent house Cabernet.

  Dave said, “I’m grateful, Joe. If you hadn’t agreed to help me, I really don’t know what the hell I would have done.”

  Joe leaned toward Dave and said, “Let’s talk.”

  “What have we been doing?”

  Joe just looked at him. Like a therapist would do.

  Dave got it. He said, “Okay. Just don’t tell me you think that I’m crazy.”

  He pushed himself closer to the fireplace, extracted a poker from a tool caddy, and stirred the smoldering coals.

  Joe thought, More avoidance.

  Dave had asked for his help, but he wasn’t ready to get into the hard stuff. Over dinner he had talked about a woman he’d met online, said he hadn’t told her about his injuries. He talked about how even though Ray had been moody, they’d watched sports together on TV; now he watched by himself, or with Jeff the Chef if the game was on early enough.

  While Dave threw logs on the fire, Joe sat silently, balancing his good feelings for Dave against his unwanted suspicions.

  Dave returned to the table and said, “You were saying?”

  Joe said, “I was saying, it’s time to really talk about all of it, Dave. You. Ray. Dr. Murray, and me. I want to talk to you about my limitations.”

  “You? I wish I had your limitations,” Dave said. “Sorry, that didn’t come out right.”

  Joe said, “It’s fine. I know what you meant.”

  He sipped his wine and watched his friend’s face cloud over with sadness.

  Dave said, “Damn Murray to hell for what he did …”

  Was blaming Murray a reaction to grief? Or was Dave right?

  Joe said, “I don’t have a badge, Dave. I’m a freelance consultant. I’ll try to talk to Murray, but if he refuses, I can’t force him to talk. That said, I should be able to poke around enough to see if there’s reason to bring in law enforcement.”

  “I can pay you to be my consultant.”

  “S
hut up, Dave. On second thought, pay me a dollar. Then we’re official.”

  Dave thanked him, dug a single out of his shirt pocket, and slid it over to Joe. Joe made a note on the back of his checkbook, “Hired as consultant to D. Channing,” then added the date and his signature. He passed the ad hoc document over to Dave, and Dave signed it, too.

  Then he put his hands over his eyes and cried.

  Joe tried to comfort him, but he was worried. Although he had accepted without question that Dave loved his father, he couldn’t ignore the nagging feeling that had come up almost a week ago when he had gone with Dave to the hospital to see Ray.

  Ray had treated Dave like a kid or like an employee, sending him to the cafeteria, ordering him around.

  “You told me that you were very close,” Joe said to Ray, carefully steering his friend back to the present. “So what happens to you now?”

  “I don’t know. I suppose I’ll sell the place. Move to LA or New York. I’ve been here for so long, mainly to help out my parents. Mom was a buffer between me and Ray.”

  “More about that,” Joe said.

  “Well, he was bitter at how things turned out. How I turned out. He made unnecessary cracks. Like, ‘Why don’t you run to the store, Dave?’ If he was drinking, he’d tell me that this was God’s punishment for getting Rebecca killed.”

  “Oh, Christ, Dave.”

  “I’ve forgiven him. I understand his disappointment. I felt the same way about what I did, a line of thought that dead-ends on that damned highway. But, as you know, my dad took care of me, gave me a job … responsibilities. And before I do another thing with my life, I have to get to the truth about why Ray died. I have to square things. If Dr. Murray is killing people, he has to be stopped. He has to pay.”

  Joe said, “I want to see Ray’s medical records, the name of the medical examiner, and Ray’s death certificate.”

  “I’ve scanned all of that to my laptop. I’ll get it.”

  While Dave went for his laptop, Joe used the bathroom. As he ran the water in the sink, he opened the medicine cabinet. Dave had shelves of medications: antidepressants, drugs for pain and sleep. Joe pointed his phone at all of the little bottles and snapped photos. He had an unwelcome suspicion and he had to allow it.