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

by James Patterson

  Parisi stood as Yuki made the introductions, and Clay stretched out his left hand and said, “Thanks for seeing me, sir.”

  “Hello, Mr. Warren. Have a seat.”

  The teen was in obvious pain. Zac knew he had bandages wrapping his torso under his orange jumpsuit. He looked for and found a chair with arms, close enough to Parisi’s desk.

  Zac stood and took a stance he might have used to examine a witness in court.

  He said, “Clay, why are you now willing to discuss your relationship with Antoine Castro?”

  “Because he’s dead, Mr. Jordan. He can’t personally hurt me, but I don’t feel exactly safe.”

  “Explain what you mean.”

  “He’s a gangsta, Mr. Jordan. I did nothing to Antoine, but snitches don’t live to sing. I didn’t say anything, and his crew just about destroyed my whatchacallits … organs. My stomach is punched through in about four places.”

  “Why did you try to hang yourself, Clay?”

  “I was afraid I was going to get killed. And I thought if I offed myself, they wouldn’t hurt my mother. My little sister is only twelve. Jesus. I can’t stand to think about those animals getting to her.”

  Tears were falling now.

  Yuki walked to the credenza behind Parisi’s desk and brought a box of tissues over to Clay. He took a handful and held them to one eye and then the other. His hands shook.

  Zac waited for Clay to pull himself together and then said, “Can you tell Mr. Parisi how you came to be involved with Antoine Castro?”

  He nodded. “I was his gofer, sir. He gave me money to get him things. Go buy him a box of Ding Dongs at the gas station. Wash his car. That’s how it started about a year ago. He’d call and tell me, do this, do that, then he’d give me money, and we needed it. I have a part-time job. Mom makes almost nothing.” He sighed and said, “I didn’t like Mr. Antoine, but he said he was watching out for me.”

  Zac said, “Tell Mr. Parisi about the day Officer Morton was killed.”

  Clay Warren said, “He, Mr. Antoine, needed me to make some deliveries with him.”

  “Deliveries of what?” Zac asked.

  “Drugs. I didn’t know what kind. They were in a suitcase. I put that into the trunk for him.”

  “You knew he was a drug dealer.”

  “Everyone did.”

  “Go on,” Zac said.

  “So he hands me the car keys and tells me, ‘First stop, South San Francisco.’ He says he’ll tell me which way to go. I said okay. I like to drive. And the car handles good. So I’m driving, and this part is all my fault,” said Clay Warren. “The light is yellow, but it turns red. No one is coming, so I gun it.

  “Mr. Antoine’s laughing. Like, Good job, boy. Now there are cops following me. And the rest is a blur. Somehow I got locked into traffic. Then the cop car makes us crash. The cop comes over and I don’t have a driver’s license. I don’t have registration. Next thing I know, Mr. Antoine is over on my side of the car and he shoots the cop and steals a car.

  “He’s gone, and I get arrested for everything.”

  Yuki asked, “Did you know that Antoine had a gun?”

  “I didn’t see it, but sure. I knew he had a gun.”

  “You say you knew he sold drugs. How about the car?”

  “It wasn’t his. But he didn’t tell me it was stolen.”

  Parisi said, “Mr. Warren, so you knew a lot, but not everything. Here’s what I need to know now. Do you know where Castro got the drugs?”

  “Yes, sir. I know his special source.”

  “Do you know the names of his customers?”

  “Sure. I’ve driven him before.”

  “And do you know the names of his crew? People who are also participating in Mr. Castro’s criminal enterprise?”

  There was a long silence as Clay more or less shut down. Yuki saw the same expression on his face that she had seen when he’d stopped talking to Zac and to her, when she’d been looking at a slam-dunk conviction for felony murder.

  His expression was flat. He didn’t make eye contact.

  No one was home.

  CHAPTER 119

  YUKI STOOD IN the center of the room with her hands on her hips, staring at the kid.

  “Zac, tell him,” she said.

  “Clay,” Zac said. “If you don’t want to go through with our agreement, I’ll be happy to take you to jail and say good-bye.”

  The kid shook his head, looked past Yuki and Zac to the doorway as if he were going to make a run for it, a physical impossibility.

  “Sorry, Len,” Yuki said. “We won’t take up any more of your time.”

  Clay seemed to understand he’d reached the point of no return. He said, “I could give you a list. Better than that, I have Mr. Antoine’s book. I hid it. Everything you want is in there. His allergies are in there. His PIN codes and passwords to his phone. His lists of people and I don’t know what all. He was always afraid the government would hack his phone.

  “But I have a question. How are you going to stop his crew from killing me and my family?”

  Zac said, “Mr. Parisi, I haven’t seen the book, but I know where it is. If it’s all my client says it is, we need to get him into witness protection.”

  “Where is it?” Len asked.

  “It’s in the property desk on the seventh floor.”

  “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, too
k 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 Cl
aire 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.