4th of July (2005)

by JAMES PATTERSON (with Maxine Paetro)

  “A friend of mine who works at the Gazette,” he explained. “Ben O’Malley’s body was found by some kids hiking in the woods.”

  Chapter 56

  JAKE DALTRY’S PARENTS LIVED in a housing development in Palo Alto, a thirty-minute drive southeast of Half Moon Bay. I parked the Explorer on the street in front of their cream-colored raised ranch, one of a dozen like it on Brighton Street.

  A portly, unkempt man with gray flyaway hair, wearing a flannel shirt and blue drawstring pants, answered the door.

  “Mr. Richard Daltry?”

  “We don’t want any,” he said, and slammed the door. I’ve come back from bigger slams than that, buster. I took out my badge and rang the bell again. This time a small woman with hennaed hair and gray roots, wearing a bunny-print housedress, opened the door.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I’m Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD,” I said, showing her my badge. “I’m investigating a homicide case that’s been in our cold-case files.”

  “And what’s that got to do with us?”

  “I think there may be similarities between my old case and the deaths of Jake and Alice Daltry.”

  “I’m Agnes, Jake’s mother,” she said, opening the door. “Please forgive my husband. We’ve been under a terrible strain. The press is just awful.”

  I followed the elderly woman into a house that smelled of Lemon Pledge and a kitchen that didn’t seem to have changed since Hinckley shot Reagan. We sat at a red Formica table, and I could see the backyard through the window. Two little boys played with trucks in a sandbox.

  “My poor grandsons,” said Mrs. Daltry. “Why did this happen?”

  Agnes Daltry’s heartbreak was written on her deeply lined face, her stooped shoulders. I could see how much she needed someone to talk to who hadn’t heard it all before.

  “Tell me what happened,” I urged her. “Tell me everything you know.”

  “Jake was a wild child,” she said. “Not bad, you understand, but headstrong. When he met Alice, he grew up overnight. They were so much in love and wanted children so badly. When the boys were born, Jake vowed to be a man they could respect. He loved those boys and, Lieutenant, he lived up to that promise. He was such a good man, and he and Alice had such a good marriage—oh.”

  She put her hand over her heart and shook her head miserably. She couldn’t go on and she hadn’t talked about the murders at all.

  Agnes looked down at the table as her husband came through the kitchen. He glared at me, took a beer out of the refrigerator, slammed the door shut, and left the room.

  “Richard is still angry at me,” she said.

  “Why is that, Agnes?”

  “I did a bad thing.”

  I was almost desperate to know. I put my hand on her bare arm, and at my touch, tears rose in her eyes.

  “Tell me,” I said softly. She grabbed tissues out of a box and pressed them to her eyes.

  “I was going to pick up the boys at school,” she said. “I stopped off at Jake and Alice’s house first to see if they needed milk or juice. Jake was naked, lying dead in the foyer. Alice was on the stairs.”

  I stared at Agnes, urging her on with my eyes.

  “I cleaned up the blood,” Agnes said with a sigh. She looked at me as if she expected to be whipped herself. “I dressed them. I didn’t want anyone to see them that way.”

  “You destroyed the crime scene,” I said.

  “I didn’t want the boys to see all that blood.”

  Chapter 57

  I WOULDN’T HAVE DONE this a month ago. I would’ve been too busy thinking about the job I had to do. I stood and I opened my arms to Agnes Daltry.

  She put her head against my shoulder and cried as though she would never stop. I understood now. Agnes wasn’t getting the comfort she needed from her husband. Her shoulders shook so hard, I could feel her pain as if I knew her, as if I had loved her family as much as she did.

  Agnes’s grief moved me so much that I was thrown back into the loneliness of losing people I had loved: my mom, Chris, Jill.

  I heard the distant sound of the doorbell. I was still holding Agnes when her husband came back into the kitchen.

  “Someone’s here to see you,” he said, his anger coming off his body like a sour smell.

  “To see me?”

  The man waiting in the living room was a study in dung brown: brown sport jacket and pants, brown-striped tie. He had brown hair, a thick brown mustache, and hard brown eyes.

  But his face was red. He looked furious.

  “Lieutenant Boxer? I’m Peter Stark, chief of police, Half Moon Bay. You need to come with me.”

  Chapter 58

  I PARKED THE EXPLORER in the “guest” spot outside the gray-shingled barracks-style police station. Chief Stark got out of his vehicle and crunched across the gravel toward the building without once looking back to see if I was following him.

  So much for professional courtesy.

  The first thing I noticed inside the chief’s office was the framed motto behind his desk: Do the right thing and do it well. Then I took in the mess: piles of papers over every surface, old fax and copy machines, cockeyed, dusty photos on the wall of Stark posing with dead animals. Half a cheese sandwich on a file cabinet.

  The chief took off his jacket, exposing a massive chest and monster-size arms. He hung the jacket on a hook behind the door.

  “Sit down, Lieutenant. I keep hearing about you,” said the chief, riffling through a stack of phone messages. He hadn’t given me eye contact since the Daltry house. I took a motorcycle helmet off a side chair, put it on the floor, and sat down.

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

  “Sorry?”

  “What the hell gives you the right to come into my backyard and start poking around?” he said, drilling me with his eyes. “You’re on restricted duty, aren’t you, Lieutenant?”

  “With all due respect, Chief, I don’t get your point.”

  “Don’t screw with me, Boxer. Your rep as a loose cannon precedes you. Maybe you shot those kids without cause —”

  “Hey, look —”

  “Maybe you got scared, lost your nerve, whatever. And that would make you a dangerous cop. Get that?”

  I got the message, all right. The guy outranked me, and a report from him that I had violated police procedures or disobeyed direct orders could hurt me. Still, I kept my expression neutral.

  “I think these recent murders link up with an old homicide of mine,” I said. “The killer’s signature looks the same. We might be able to help each other.”

  “Don’t use the we word with me, Boxer. You’re benched. Don’t mess with my crime scenes. Leave my witnesses alone. Take some walks. Read a book. Get a grip. Whatever. Just stay out of my hair.”

  When I spoke again, my voice was so taut an aerialist could’ve cartwheeled across it to the other side of the room.

  “You know, Chief, in your place, all I’d be thinking about is this psychopath wandering your streets. Thinking, How can I shut him down for good? I might even welcome a decorated homicide inspector who wanted to help out. But I guess we think differently.”

  My little speech set the chief back a blink or two, so I seized the opportunity to get out with my dignity.

  “You know how to reach me,” I said, and marched out of the police station.

  I could almost hear my lawyer whispering in my ear. Relax. Keep a low profile. Nuts, Yuki. Why not advise me to take up the harp?

  I revved the engine and peeled out of the parking lot.

  Chapter 59

  I WAS DRIVING ALONG Main Street, muttering under my breath, thinking up several new things I wish I’d said to the chief, when I noticed that my gas gauge light was practically screaming, Lindsay! You’re out of gas!

  I pulled into the Man in the Moon, ran the Explorer over the air bell, and, when Keith didn’t appear, walked across the asphalt apron into the depths of his shop.

&n
bsp; The Doors’ “Riders on the Storm” billowed out when I opened the door to the repair bay.

  On the wall to my right was a calendar featuring Miss June wearing nothing but a wave in her hair. Above her was a splendid sight: rare and beautiful hood ornaments from Bentleys, Jags, and Maseratis, mounted on lacquered blocks of wood, like trophies. Curled inside a tire was a fat orange tabby cat having a snooze.

  I admired the red Porsche parked in the bay and addressed Keith’s jeans and work boots in the pit below.

  “Nice ride,” I said.

  Keith ducked out from under the car, a smile already lighting his grease-streaked face.

  “Isn’t it, though?” He climbed out of the pit, wiped his hands on a rag, and turned down the music. “So, Lindsay. You having trouble with that Bonneville?”

  “Not at all. I replaced the alternator and the plugs. Engine purrs like this guy.”

  “This’s Hairball,” Keith told me, scratching the cat under the chin. “My attack cat. He rode in on the carburetor of a pickup truck a couple of years ago.”

  “Youch.”

  “All the way from Encino. Burned his paws, but he’s good as new now, aren’t you, buddy?”

  Keith asked if I needed gas, and I said that I did. We walked together into the soft afternoon sunshine.

  “I caught you on TV last night,” Keith told me as high-test gurgled into the Explorer’s capacious tank.

  “You did not.”

  “No, I did. Your attorney was on the news, and they showed a picture of you in your blues,” he said, grinning at me. “You really are a cop.”

  “You didn’t believe me?”

  The kid shrugged winningly. “I pretty much believed you. But it was okay either way, Lindsay. Either you were a cop or you just had a great line.”

  I hooted, and Keith’s face crinkled in laughter. After a bit, I told him about the Cabot case—just the overview, absent the grief and the gore. Keith was supportive and a damned sight more fun to talk to than Chief Stark. Hell, I was even enjoying his attention. Brad Pitt, right?

  He unlatched the Explorer’s hood, pulled out the dipstick, and gave me a direct look with his bright blue eyes. I stared into them long enough to notice that his irises were rimmed with navy blue and flecked with brown, as if there were little drifts of gold dust in them.

  “You need oil,” I heard him say. I felt my face color.

  “Sure. Okay.”

  Keith punched open a can of Castrol and poured it into the engine. As he did, he put his other hand in the back pocket of his jeans, adopting a posture of studied nonchalance.

  “So, satisfy my curiosity,” he said. “Tell me about your boyfriend.”

  Chapter 60

  I WRENCHED MYSELF OUT of whatever the heck was going on between us and told Keith about Joe: what a great guy he was, how funny, how kind, and how smart. “He works in DC. Homeland Security.”

  “I’m impressed,” said Keith.

  I saw the kid swallow before he asked, “Are you in love with the guy?”

  I nodded, picturing Joe’s face, thinking how much I missed him.

  “Lucky guy, that Manicotti.”

  “Molinari,” I said, grinning.

  “Lucky, whatever his name is,” Keith said, closing the hood. Just then, a black sedan with rental-car plates pulled up to the garage.

  “Damn,” Keith muttered. “Here comes Mr. Porsche, and his car’s not ready.”

  As I handed Keith my MasterCard, “Mr. Porsche” stepped out of his rent-a-car and into my peripheral vision.

  “Hey, Keith,” he called out. “How’s it coming, my man?”

  Wait a minute. I knew him. He looked older in broad daylight, but it was that obnoxious guy who’d hit on me and Carolee in the Cormorant. Dennis Agnew.

  “Just give me five minutes,” Keith called back.

  Before I could ask him about that creep, Keith was heading toward the office and Agnew was walking straight toward me. When he got within spitting distance, he stopped, put his hand heavily on the hood of my car, and shot me a look that hit me right between the eyes.

  He followed up the look with a slow, insinuating smile. “Slumming, Officer? Or do you just like young meat?” I was honing a retort when Keith came up from behind.

  “You calling me meat?” Keith said, aligning his body with mine. He matched Agnew’s sarcastic smile with a sunny one of his own. “I guess I should consider the source, you dirty old man.”

  It was a grin-off, both men holding their ground. A long blistering moment passed.

  Then Agnew took his hand off my hood.

  “C’mon, meat. I want to see my car.”

  Keith winked at me and handed me back my card.

  “Stay in touch, Lindsay. Okay?”

  “Sure thing. You, too.”

  I got into my car and started up the engine, but I just sat for a while watching Agnew follow Keith into the repair shop. The guy was wrong, but how wrong, and in what way, I just didn’t know.

  Chapter 61

  I’D SLEPT BADLY. WILD, fractured dreams had awoken me repeatedly. Now I leaned over the bathroom sink and brushed my teeth with a goofy vengeance.

  I was edgy and I was furious, and I knew why.

  By threatening me, Chief Stark had effectively stopped me from investigating leads that might finally solve the John Doe #24 homicide. If I was right, Doe’s killer was still active in Half Moon Bay.

  I banged glass and crockery around in the kitchen, feeding Martha, making coffee, eating my Wheaties.

  I was half-watching the Today show on the small kitchen TV when a red banner flashed on the screen.

  LIVE. Breaking News.

  A somber young woman, a local TV reporter, stood in front of a redwood house, the crime scene tape behind her cordoning off the house from the street. Her voice rose over the sounds of a crowd visible at the edges of the frame.

  “At seven-thirty this morning Annemarie and Joseph Sarducci were found dead in their home on Outlook Road. Their slashed and partially nude bodies were found by their thirteen-year-old son, Anthony, who was unharmed. We spoke with Police Chief Peter Stark just minutes ago.”

  The scene cut away to a shot of Stark facing reporters outside the station house. The crowd jostled for position. There were network call letters on some of the microphones. This was a siege.

  I turned up the sound.

  “Chief Stark. Is it true that the Sarduccis were slaughtered like animals?”

  “Chief! Over here! Did Tony Sarducci find them? Did the kid find his parents?”

  “Hey, Pete. Do you have a suspect?”

  I watched transfixed as Stark negotiated the balancing act of his life. Either tell the truth or lie and pay for it later, but keep the public calm and don’t give the killer any information he can use. I’d seen the same look on the face of Chief Moose when the DC-area sniper was at large.

  “Look, I can’t say more than this,” Stark said. “Two more people have died, but I can’t tell you anything of an evidentiary nature. We’re on it. And we’ll inform the public as soon as we have something substantive to report.”

  I grabbed a chair, pulled it right up to the screen, and sat down hard. Even though I’d seen so many murdered people, this case got me to the core.

  I didn’t think I could have a reaction like this. I was so outraged at the killer’s audacity I was shaking.

  I joined the throng outside the police station by proxy. I found myself talking at a thirteen-inch Sony and Chief Stark’s shrunken image.

  “Who is doing this, Chief?

  “Who the hell is murdering all of these people?”

  Part Four

  Trials and Tribulation

  Chapter 62

  THEY WERE CARRYING THE bodies out of the house just as I arrived. I parked between two black-and-whites on the lawn and looked up at a stunning glass-and-redwood contemporary.

  The gaping crowd parted as paramedics bumped down the steps with the stretchers, then slid the t
wo body bags into the open maw at the back of the EMS van. Although I didn’t know Annemarie and Joseph Sarducci, I was swamped by unspeakable sadness.

  I edged my way through the mob and up to the front door, where a uniformed officer was on security detail, at ease, with his hands behind his back.