Behind me, Jacobi was telling Elena Brinkley to hold still and he’d get her out of that chair.
“You have the right to remain silent,” I said to Brinkley.
Elena freed herself — ripped the fabric loose on one sleeve and, tearing open her blouse, released the other arm. She walked over to her son.
“I hate you,” she said. “I wish they’d killed you.” Then she struck him hard across the face.
“Wow. What a shock,” he said slyly to me.
“Anything you say can and will be used against you,” I continued.
“Who are you kidding?” Brinkley shouted at me, seeming oblivious to the roomful of pumped-up law enforcement officers who’d love nothing more than to kick the crap out of him.
“All you can do is take me back to Atascadero,” Brinkley said. “Nothing you charge me with is going to stick.”
“Shut up, asshole,” I said. “Be glad we aren’t zipping you into a body bag.”
“No, you shut up!” Brinkley said, shouting me down, spit flying, a hellish brightness lighting his face. “I’m not guilty of anything. You know that. I’m legally insane.”
And suddenly I heard Elena Brinkley scream, “No!” — as the dishwasher started its run.
Epilogue
THE 6TH ROUND
Chapter 134
I DIDN’T KNOW THE POOR MAN laid out in his birthday suit on Claire’s table, only that his death might have been related to the Del Norte tragedy. Claire had peeled and folded the patient’s scalp down over his face like the cuff of a sock, sawed off the top of his skull, and removed his brain.
She now held a shard of a bullet in the grip of her thumb and forefinger.
“It passed through something first, sugar,” Claire told me. “Piece of wood, maybe. Whatever it was, it reduced the velocity and the impact but finally killed this guy anyway.”
I called Jacobi, who said, “You know what to do, Boxer. Tell him your story, but keep it simple.”
Then he patched me through to the chief.
I told Tracchio the cut-to-the-chase version — that Wei Fong, a thirty-two-year-old construction worker, had just died that morning. That he’d been in a persistent vegetative state for months at Laguna Honda Hospital long term care because of an inoperable gunshot wound to the head. That he’d taken that bullet the day Alfred Brinkley shot up the passengers on the Del Norte.
“Brinkley’s sixth round went wild,” I said. “And it finally killed Wei Fong.”
“You’ve got my cell phone number?” Tracchio asked.
Claire’s normally steady hands shook as she put the fragment into a glassine envelope. Then we both signed the paperwork, and I called the crime lab.
I heard Claire say to the dead man on her table, “Mr. Fong, honey, I know you can’t hear me, but I want to say thank you.”
Claire’s Pathfinder was just outside the ambulance bay. I moved her dry cleaning from the passenger seat and strapped myself in.
“Kind of like in the Manson killings,” I said as we pulled out onto Harriet Street. “Two sets of murders — Tate and LaBianca. Two sets of cops working side by side for weeks before they realized that the same perps did the killings. And now this. Macklin’s crew working Wei Fong’s case, coming up with nothing.”
“Until he died. You’ve got everything?” Claire asked.
“Yep. I do.”
The bullet fragment was resting within my breast pocket. The gun was inside a sealed paper bag between my feet. We took the 280 to Cesar Chavez, and from there went to Hunters Point Naval Shipyard, where the crime lab was housed inside a blue-and-gray concrete building.
Claire parked in a spot under one of the three Phoenix palms standing sentry in the parking lot.
I was out of the car an instant before Claire set the hand brake.
Chapter 135
THE CRIME LAB’S DIRECTOR, Jim Mudge, was waiting inside his office. He greeted us, took the paper bag from me, and then removed Alfred Brinkley’s lethal friend “Bucky.”
We followed Mudge down the hall, second door to the right, and into the indoor range, where he handed the gun to the firearms inspector, who fired the Smith & Wesson Model 10 handgun into a long water-filled chamber. He retrieved the .38 slug and handed it back to me.
“Here you are, Sarge. Good luck with it. Bring that bastard down.”
Mudge escorted Claire and me down to a room at the end of the hallway. It had a horseshoe arrangement of tables and workstations, and a long wall of comparison microscopes.
A young woman greeted us, saying, “I’m Petra. Let’s see what we’ve got.”
I handed her the .38 slug from Alfred Brinkley’s gun and the fragment Claire had removed from Mr. Fong’s brain.
I sucked in my breath and mentally crossed my fingers.
Claire and I crowded around the technician as she set each of the rounds on a stage under the microscope.
Petra was smiling when she stepped back and said, “Take a look for yourselves.”
It was clear even to me as I peered through the double eyepieces and compared the two slugs.
The striations, the lands and grooves on the fragment, were a match to the bullet just fired from Alfred Brinkley’s gun.
The fragment was from the sixth shot, which Alfred Brinkley had fired at Claire’s son Willie — and missed.
That same bullet was going to put Alfred Brinkley on trial again.
I turned to Claire but didn’t know whether to slap her a high five or hug her — so I did first one, then the other.
“Got him,” Claire said as we held each other.
Chapter 136
AN HOUR LATER, Rich Conklin and I stood in a gray room full of small tables and chairs at Atascadero. Brinkley entered, looking rosy-cheeked and well-fed.
I thought he might ask me to dance, he looked so glad to see me. “Do you miss me, Lindsay? Because I sure think about the last time I saw you!”
“Don’t bother to sit down, Fred,” I told him. “We’re here to arrest you. We’re charging you with homicide.”
“You’re joking. Kidding me, right?”
I gave him a smile I couldn’t contain due to the fireworks display that was exploding inside my head. I was that happy. “Your big day on the Del Norte?”
“What about it?”
“That last shot you fired missed Willie Washburn. But it found another target. We’re here to arrest you for killing Mr. Wei Fong, Fred-o. Charge of murder, second degree.”
“No way, Lindsay,” Brinkley said and shrugged indifferently. “You’re saying I shot someone I didn’t even see?”
“Yeah. You’re a hell of a great shot.”
“You’re dreaming, little lady. I’ve been cleared of the Del Norte shootings. I’m legally insane, remember? What you’re talking about is double jeopardy.”
“You weren’t charged for Mr. Fong’s death in your trial, Fred. This is a new case. New evidence. New jury. And I’m guessing that your mother is going to be a witness for the prosecution this time.”
Brinkley’s smile faded as I told him to turn around. I cuffed him, and Conklin read him his rights.
Rich and I marched Alfred Brinkley out to our car. As soon as we arranged him in the backseat behind the mesh screen, his face changed, took on a pained expression that made me think perhaps he’d gone back to an earlier time — when he was a boy and bad things started happening to him.
But Fred was singing by the time we got back to the freeway. “Ay, ay, ay, ay, canta y no llores / Porque cantando se allegran / Cielito lindo.”
“Your mother teach you that, Fred?” I asked him. I knew the words to the old song: “Sing, don’t cry. Because by singing, the sky lightens and becomes beautiful.”
I glanced into the rearview mirror and was startled to see that Brinkley was looking at the reflection of my eyes. He stopped singing and said in a loud stage whisper, “Hey, Lindsay, you really think you’ve got me?”
About the Authors
JAMES
PATTERSON is one of the best-known and best-selling writers of all time. He is the author of the two top-selling new detective series of the past decade: the Alex Cross novels, including Cross; Mary, Mary; London Bridges; Kiss the Girls; and Along Came a Spider, and the Women’s Murder Club series, including 1st to Die; 2nd Chance; 3rd Degree; 4th of July; and The 5th Horseman. He has written many other #1 bestsellers, including Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas, Lifeguard, Honey-moon, Beach Road, and Judge & Jury. He lives in Florida.
MAXINE PAETRO is a novelist and journalist. She lives with her husband in New York.
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