Women's Murder Club [10] 10th Anniversary

by James Patterson

  “I have photos that show otherwise.”

  “Photos. Of what? Oh, now I get it. Willy Steihl has been talking to you. Don’t you know, Sergeant, how jealous these girls can get? Willy has been stalking me for most of the year.”

  “Is that so?”

  “That’s so. There are no incriminating photos of me and Avis because I hardly know her. Is there anything else?”

  “Yes. In case the baby shows up, I’d like to prove that it isn’t yours.” I pulled a buccal swab kit from my pocket and said, “It’s a cheek swab. Takes less than a second.”

  “I can’t do something like that, Sergeant. I mean, if I’m a suspect, you should talk to my dad. He’s listed in the phone book under attorneys-at-law.”

  “I’ll note that you didn’t want to cooperate. That’s all for now.”

  “Well, thanks for stopping by, Sergeant.”

  I put my card on his coffee table between the two coffee cups and left Ritter’s apartment. My phone rang as soon as I strapped into my car. Rich.

  “Hey,” I said.

  “Hey-hey,” he sang into the phone.

  “Congratulations, partner,” I said. “Don’t screw it up.”

  He thanked me, told me that he was the happiest guy in the world. When I could get a couple of words in, I told him about my morning.

  “You’re saying that you suspect Ritter of getting Avis pregnant?”

  “I’ve got a picture on Facebook of Avis and Ritter holding hands. All that means is that he’s a liar, which is something and nothing at the same time. I’ll see you tomorrow,” I said.

  “You bet,” he said.

  It was now a week since Avis had gotten into a black or dark blue sedan driven by a French-speaking man, taken a drive to somewhere or nowhere, and had her baby in a field by the lake or in a bed lit by an aluminum lamp.

  It would be a miracle if her baby was still alive.

  Chapter 47

  “AVIS ISN’T HERE,” Paul Richardson said when he let me into their suite. He invited me in and offered me a drink, which I turned down. It was only three in the afternoon, but he was swaying on his feet as he made his way around the coffee table to an armchair.

  “Avis wanted to go out and see her friends,” Sonja told me. “She was feeling better and said she wanted to ‘hang out.’ ”

  I wondered if she’d been hanging out with Jordan Ritter just before I arrived at his door.

  “She’ll be back here for dinner,” her father said to me. “And she wants to go back to class tomorrow. I guess there’s no reason to say no.”

  “Is there any news, Sergeant? Please give me some hope,” Sonja Richardson said. Avis’s mother looked wrung out and had her arms wrapped tightly around her body as if to hold herself together.

  “We have almost nothing to go on,” I told her. “There was no ad on Prattslist that matched the one your daughter said she answered. I can’t explain that, can you?”

  “She’s like any kid. She makes things up. I don’t know if you should believe her or not.”

  “Has she ever mentioned her English teacher? Mr. Jordan Ritter.”

  “Dear?” Sonja Richardson asked her husband. “Has Avis mentioned Jordan Ritter?”

  Paul Richardson was swirling his drink and didn’t look up or answer.

  “I don’t think I’ve heard her talking about him recently, although I remember she was happy about being in his class,” Sonja Richardson said. “He’s a novelist, you know. And Avis thinks she’d like to write someday. Why are you asking about Mr. Ritter? Does he know something?”

  “His name came up. I met him. He says he hardly knows Avis. Which is what she says about him, too.”

  Sonja Richardson touched the corner of an eye with a tissue. “I guess we just have to get used to the idea that the baby is gone. But it’s hard, Sergeant. We never saw him. We don’t even know for sure if he’s alive or dead.”

  When I got home at dusk, Joe was on the doorstep. I saw his wonderful smile from a hundred feet away. I ran and threw my arms around his neck and jumped into his arms, locking my legs around his waist. Joe’s hug was the warmest, safest place in my world.

  “Let’s make a baby,” I said.

  “If it involves sex, I’m in,” Joe said.

  It did. And he was.

  Chapter 48

  AFTER CINDY TOOK a couple of giddy laps around the office to show off her sparkly new engagement ring, she closed her office door and got to work. Line one was flashing, and she answered it as she logged on to her crime-tipsters blog.

  She announced her name into the mouthpiece, and the man on the other end of the line announced his.

  “This is Red Sanchez.”

  “Ray Sanchez?”

  “Red. The color. I think I saw something that could help you with that story you wrote about the guy raping women.”

  “Okay, I’m listening. Whatcha got?”

  Cindy adjusted her headphones and mic, opened a blank page in Word, and typed Red Sanchez in the top-left-hand corner with the phone number she took off the caller ID.

  “That large woman who was on the TV?”

  “I know who you mean,” Cindy said.

  Sanchez was talking about Inez Fleming.

  “They didn’t show her face, but I recognized her anyway.”

  “When did you see her?” Cindy asked.

  “It was night before last. I was walking my dog on Baker Street, right near the corner of Clay. Sadie is old. If I don’t walk her when she whines, it’s a mess on the carpet and my wife goes crazy—”

  “Mr. Sanchez.”

  “Call me Red.”

  “Red, when you saw the woman you think might have been the one who was interviewed on TV, what was she doing?”

  “She was doing nothing. That woman was out. I mean O-U-T. I thought she was drunk. Maybe she was drunk. The driver was half holding her up, half dragging her toward an apartment building. Here. I got the address. It’s not too far from my place.”

  Sanchez read off the numbers of a house address on Baker Street. It was a few numbers from Inez Fleming’s home address, but then, Inez had woken up in an alley near her building. Cindy typed the house number on her file.

  “Red, what do you mean ‘driver’? Driver of what?”

  “Sorry. I thought I said it was a taxi. Like one of those minivan types.”

  ”What color was this minivan?” she asked. “Any marks or signs, or maybe you saw a phone number on the van’s door?”

  Sanchez said, “It was a regular yellow-cab-color minivan. I think I did see something, like an ad on the back of it. Like for a movie. The name eludes me. I’ll think about it.”

  “What about the driver? Did you get a good look at him?”

  “Nah. I was putting my newspaper down for Sadie. I saw this man, he had dark hair, I think. Yeah, I know, that’s quite a clue. Anyway, this man was half dragging this lady along the sidewalk. I thought, ‘Man, is she drunk,’ and by the time my dog had done her business, both of them were gone.”

  Cindy thanked Sanchez and asked him to call again if he remembered anything else. Then she called Richie.

  “Sweetheart? I think I’ve got a lead on the serial rapist.”

  Chapter 49

  YUKI AND NICK Gaines were leaving her office on the way to court that Monday morning, a half hour early, as Yuki insisted they be.

  Nick looked Yuki up and down and said, “Something’s different about you this morning.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re smiling,” he said.

  “You’re saying I don’t smile?”

  “You don’t smile on the way to court. Huh. I know what it is. You had sex, didn’t you? I’m staring at post–boom boom glow, right?”

  Yuki laughed. “No. Shut up. I had a doughnut. I’m on a sugar high and you’re not the Mentalist. I hope Angela Walker shows up. What did you think? Did she sound solid to you?”

  “She sounded eager. It would be crazy if she didn’t sh
ow.”

  They were now walking the long green-floored corridor that was the feeder artery to the courtrooms. Panels of fluorescent buzzed overhead. Yuki tipped her chin up to signal Nicky as she passed the woman sitting on one of the backless benches along the wall, talking to a bailiff.

  It was Angela Walker, their surprise witness.

  Walker was forty, had spun-sugar, strawberry-blond hair piled on top of her head, and was wearing a V-necked French-blue sweater and a dark blazer and tailored pants. Yuki thought, If Angela Walker’s testimony is half as good as she looks, this witness will do fine.

  Yuki and Nick entered 3B, walked to the prosecution table, and nodded to Hoffman and his second chair, Kara Battinelli, one of those brainy grads a couple of years out of Boalt Law.

  Battinelli gave Yuki a cat-that-got-the-cream look—which Yuki returned in kind.

  Nick set up his laptop and Yuki’s and got them both squared away before the proceedings began.

  The bailiff, a bald and expressionless man in a green uniform, called court into session, and Judge LaVan entered the packed courtroom, wearing a scowl. The gallery rose and then sat, causing a rustle to bounce and boomerang off the oak paneling. When the room was quiet again, LaVan greeted the jury.

  Then, he said, “Ms. Castellano. You’re up.”

  Yuki stood and asked that Ms. Angela Walker be called.

  All eyes swiveled toward the aisle as a woman who, even to Yuki’s eyes, looked edible made her languid way to the witness stand and was sworn in.

  Chapter 50

  “MS. WALKER,” YUKI said to her lovely looking witness, “do you know the defendant, Dr. Candace Martin?”

  “I’ve never met her. But of course I know who she is.”

  “Did you know her husband, Dennis Martin?”

  “Yes. I was seeing Dennis for a couple of years. Until about a month before his death.”

  Yuki tucked her hair behind her ears and said to Walker, “By ‘seeing’ Dennis Martin, do you mean you were having a sexual relationship with him?”

  “Yes. I saw him two, three nights a week.”

  “And you knew he was married?”

  “Yes. Yes. I knew. But he told me his marriage was a sham. He was staying with his wife for the sake of the kids.”

  Yuki liked what the witness was saying and the way she was saying it. She was calm and sounded credible and honest.

  “Ms. Walker, can you tell the court why your relationship with Mr. Martin ended?”

  “He told me he was seeing someone else and that it was serious. He said he just couldn’t contain the messiness of his social life anymore.”

  “Did you believe him?”

  “Oh yes. He was a hound. A goat. A snake. A shark. A skunk. Pick your animal, and that was Dennis.”

  “And where were you when Dennis was killed?”

  “Sydney, Australia. As far away from him as I could get.”

  “Ms. Walker. Did you call the Martin house while you were in Sydney?”

  “I hate to admit it, but I called Candace. Might have set this whole debacle into motion.”

  “Really. Could you be more specific?”

  “I was heartbroken. I wanted to get back at Dennis, so I called Candace and told her about my two-year affair with her husband. And I told her that he was still seeing someone.”

  “Did you know who Dennis was seeing?”

  “Nope. Didn’t have a clue.”

  “And how did Candace Martin react to your phone call?”

  “She was really cold. She said, ‘You’re right. He’s an animal. Someone ought to put him down. I might do it myself.’ ”

  “Thank you. Your witness,” Yuki said, walking away.

  Chapter 51

  PHIL HOFFMAN STOOD UP behind the defense table. He looked well rested and at the top of his game, a study in gray pinstripes and old school tie.

  Yuki took note of the way the jurors looked at Phil. They liked him.

  “Ms. Walker, you don’t like Candace Martin, do you?” Hoffman asked.

  “I don’t dislike her. Like I said, I’ve never met her.”

  “Well, you clearly had no regard for her. You were sleeping with her husband for two years, knowing full well that he had a home, two young children, and a wife. Isn’t that right?”

  “Your Honor, counsel is leading the witness.”

  “Sustained. Don’t do that, Mr. Hoffman.”

  “Sorry, Your Honor.”

  Hoffman jingled the coins in his pocket, turned back to the witness, and asked, “Do you have any regard for the defendant?”

  “Not really.” The woman squirmed in her seat. Patted her hair.

  “In fact,” said Hoffman, “you don’t care if Candace lives or dies. Excuse me. Let me make that a question. Ms. Walker, do you care if Candace Martin lives or dies?”

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Would it be fair to say about you that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?”

  “Your Honor!” Yuki said.

  Hoffman smiled and said, “I have nothing further for this witness.”

  Chapter 52

  YUKI WAS AT the bar in MacBain’s when Cindy breezed in, looking like she’d sprouted wings. She was obviously that over-the-moon happy. Yuki hugged her friend and said, “I hope this high you’re on is contagious.”

  “Me, too,” said Cindy.

  Yuki grinned and patted the stool next to her, and as Cindy flung herself onto the seat, Yuki said, “Tell me all about that bended-knee proposal in front of God and all his angels.”

  Cindy laughed and Yuki leaned in to hear all about it—and Cindy didn’t spare any detail.

  Yuki had always liked Rich. It was rare to find a guy who was both movie-star gorgeous and not in love with himself. Yuki knew Rich to be the opposite of a narcissist. He was a genuinely sweet guy of the old-fashioned, chivalrous kind. Perfect man for Cindy.

  And now Yuki was dating a cop, too.

  A married one.

  “Hey, I’ve done all the talking,” Cindy said. “I think that’s a first. Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Yuki blurted, “I’m going out with Jackson Brady.”

  “No. You are not,” Cindy said. “Are you kidding me?”

  Yuki took a look around to make sure Brady hadn’t come inside the saloon while she wasn’t looking.

  “I swear. It’s true.”

  “Holy cow,” Cindy said, the shocked look on her face saying that she was way impressed. “Tell me everything. Don’t leave out a word.”

  Yuki laughed, then filled her friend in on the whole story: the conferences with Brady regarding the Martin case, their first date at First Crush, a cool wine bar and restaurant, perfectly named. And she told Cindy about her date with Brady Friday night at Renegade.

  “He told me things about himself that were pretty revealing.”

  “Did you sleep with him?” Cindy asked.

  “Everyone is so interested in my sex life. Why?”

  “Well, did you?”

  “No. No, I didn’t. But I wanted to.”

  “When are you seeing him again?”

  “Well… if I remember correctly, Saturday night,” Yuki said, with a coy smile.

  “Hah! Well, I have a feeling you’re going to have another chance to get his clothes off. Jeez. You’d better tell me all about it, girlfriend. I’m not kidding. This, I gotta hear.”

  The waiter carried their drinks to a small table by the window. He brought their lunches right after that, saying, “Please be careful. These plates are hot. Can I get you ladies another drink?”

  Yuki passed on a second beer and removed the onions from her burger and cut it in half. “I find Brady tremendously attractive,” she said.

  “Who doesn’t?” said Cindy, taking aim at her fries with a ketchup bottle, thwacking the bottom. “He’s like Don Johnson in that old show Miami Vice. Tubbs. No, Crockett.”

  “One problem,” Yuki said.

  “Only one?”

&nbs
p; “He’s married. Lindsay says.”

  “Wait. He’s married? And he didn’t tell you?”

  “No, but he will. Don’t forget what I do for a living.”

  “Be careful, Yuki. You’re hooked, you’re cooked. That plate is hot.”

  “I’m on it,” Yuki said. “I am.” She finished most of her burger, checked her watch, and pictured setting off Judge LaVan if she was late. “Crap. I’ve got to go.”

  “I’ll get the check,” Cindy said.

  “But I’m taking you out to lunch.”

  “Next time,” Cindy said.

  Yuki dabbed her lips with a napkin, kissed Cindy’s cheek, and rubbed her engagement ring with her thumb as if making a wish on Aladdin’s lamp. With Cindy’s laughter in her ears, Yuki ran out of the bar.

  Chapter 53

  YUKI’S WITNESS LOOKED surprised but pleased to find himself the center of attention.

  “Mr. White, you own a store called Oldies But Goodies on Pierce?” she asked him.

  “Yes, that’s right. On Pierce near Haight.”

  “And what do you sell in your store?”

  “Lots of different things. Jukeboxes. Musical instruments. Vinyl LPs. Odds and ends.”

  “Do you sell guns?”

  “Rarely, but yes.”

  “In April of last year, did you sell a twenty-two-caliber Smith and Wesson handgun to Mr. Dennis Martin?”

  “Yes. He had a license to carry. I checked it and I checked his driver’s license. It was him.”

  “Your Honor,” Yuki said, “I’d like to admit this receipt, which documents the sale of a twenty-two Smith and Wesson handgun to Dennis Martin.”

  Yuki handed the sales slip up to the judge, who passed it to the clerk, who showed it to Phil Hoffman.

  “Any objections, Mr. Hoffman?” LaVan asked.

  “None.”

  “People’s exhibit number thirty is admitted into evidence,” LaVan said.