Women's Murder Club [05] The 5th Horseman

by James Patterson

  “I’m guessing this fellow came over to have a few words with you,” Jacobi went on. “What did he say? ‘You killed my son’? My little boy is dead because of you’? Maybe he clocked you with that vase. Is that what set you off?”

  “I want a doctor,” Garza said thickly. “I’m in a lot of pain, and I demand to see a doctor right now.”

  “Sure,” I said. “No problem. But you ought to know that we found blood on the soles of Maureen’s shoes,” I said, lying my face off.

  “As soon as the DA gets here, Maureen is going to talk about what went down at your house this morning. She’s going to say how she walked in on you doing a murder. She’ll plead to accessory after the fact and testify for the prosecution, Dennis.

  “She’ll get a year or two in minimum security, and you’ll get the needle. Is that what you want?

  “Or do you want to tell us now how you acted in self-defense. Because if you talk to us now, you’re cooperating. And that’s your best chance to save your sorry life.”

  “Is that right?” Garza croaked.

  “Yeah. That’s right, asshole.”

  I thought about Martin Sweet, that bereaved father crying out to me in agony, This is fucked-up! I want to kill someone, Lieutenant!

  Dennis Garza had beaten him to it.

  “’Scuse me,” Garza gurgled. He stood up and looked around.

  I was about to grab him by his collar and drag him back to his chair, when he went down on his knees and barfed into the trash can.

  Long, retching moments later, he lifted his gigantic head.

  “I want my lawyer,” Garza said.

  Jacobi and I exchanged disgusted looks.

  The interrogation was over.

  I stood up, shoving my chair away from the table. It snagged on the table leg, so I pulled at the chair, wrestling with it noisily, banging it until all four legs were on the ground.

  I knew my anger was running away with me, because I didn’t care who was watching from behind the glass.

  I leaned forward, hands on my knees, stuck my face right up to Garza’s stinking snout and gave him everything I had left.

  “I knew that man you stabbed and slashed to death, you murdering piece of shit. We talked right after his little boy died of a broken arm.

  “Did you see that child when he checked into the ER? A cute little guy. Weighed about fifty pounds. He was found dead with a pair of buttons on his eyes.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Garza said.

  “He doesn’t know anything,” I said to Jacobi as Garza stood up, walked weakly to the chair, hands cuffed in front of him.

  “He doesn’t know anything about the button murders. He doesn’t know anything about Martin Sweet’s body in his trunk. He certainly doesn’t know how tenacious we are.

  “He doesn’t know us at all.”

  “I’ll call an ambulance,” Jacobi said wearily.

  I slapped my cell phone down on the table under Garza’s nose.

  “Here. Phone your lawyer. Tell him that you’re under arrest for the murder of Martin Sweet. Tell him he can find you at Municipal Hospital’s emergency room, cuffed to a gurney under police guard. Tell him that we’ve got enough evidence to convict you a hundred times over.

  “Tell him we’re taking you down.”

  I was putting on my jacket as Garza fiddled with the tiny buttons on my Nextel, getting it wrong, trying again. I left him in the box with Jacobi.

  But before the door swung shut, I heard Garza crying.

  Chapter 136

  GARZA’S BEAT-UP FACE was still large in my mind as I drove home from the Hall, thinking it was too bad Yuki hadn’t been behind the mirror, watching Garza barf his guts out and cry like a baby.

  Was he afraid?

  Feeling sorry for himself?

  I didn’t care.

  I hoped he was in excruciating pain. The bastard was a proven flight risk charged with a homicide. Bail would be set in the millions, but chances were, he’d still be out by Monday morning.

  He was going to have a long, humiliating weekend cuffed to a hospital bed, his former colleagues getting a close-up look at Dr. Garza’s dark side.

  His weekend would drag by very slowly.

  Mine would fly way too fast.

  I cruised up Sixteenth Street, turned onto Missouri. I passed the pretty moon-washed Victorian homes on Potrero Hill, thinking about the long shower I would take to rinse the stink off me, and the six blessed hours of sleep, resting up for my weekend with Joe.

  I smiled, thinking about the pure pleasure of being with Joe, lying next to him with my head in the crook between his neck and shoulder, our hands clasped, the small, frequent kisses and the deep ones that would leave us dying for more.

  I thought about the hours and hours of talking with Joe. I could hardly wait to tell him about this day, for instance, the eighteen hours of nonstop adrenaline rush that had ended with taking the bad guy out of the game.

  I parked the Explorer four doors down from my front door, climbed heavily up the hill, and made my way upstairs to my home-sweet-home with its sliver view of the bay.

  I talked to Martha through the shower doors, telling her how sorry I was that I didn’t have a life. She talked back, a yappy dialogue between the two of us. If pressed, I’d have to guess she was complaining that her dog-sitter loved her more than I did.

  I told her it wasn’t so.

  Maybe twenty minutes later, I was naked under the sheets, about to switch off the bedside lamp, when I noticed the flashing light on my answering machine.

  I wanted to let it go, but instead I pressed the Play button, knowing that if I didn’t, my sleep would be colored by that damned thing blinking next to my head all night.

  “Lindsay, it’s me,” said Joe’s recorded voice. I sighed, calling his face to mind, hearing his disappointment, sensing that mine was only nanoseconds away.

  “Honey, I’m sorry. It’s bad news. I caught an earlier flight. I was going to get in early and surprise you, but there was a major flap at the airport, and the runways were closed down for a couple of hours.

  “We got detoured, Linds, and now I’ve been reassigned. I’m on a plane to Hong Kong.”

  I heard the voice of the pilot in the background telling the passengers to turn off their electronic equipment.

  Joe’s voice came back.

  “I’ll call you as soon as the wheels touch down. We’ll make a new plan. A bigger one. A better one. Hang with me, Lindsay. I love you.”

  There was a click, and then the dial tone cut in.

  I pressed Rewind, listened to the message once more, listened to Joe’s voice. The flap at the airport—it would be funny if it wasn’t so damned sad—was me arresting Garza.

  Chapter 137

  CLAIRE, CINDY, AND I were at Bix that Saturday night, an outrageously wonderful restaurant hidden away on Gold Street, known for its fantastic food and also Art Deco trappings calling to mind the glory days of speakeasies and the glamorous steamships of the thirties and forties. We were draped around the booth we love best on the mezzanine, with its view of the action at the mahogany bar on the floor below.

  I’d shut off my cell phone and was drinking a perfect martini. Twenty hours after the arrests of Garza and O’Mara, I was still tired to the bone.

  And I was worried about Yuki, who should have been here a half hour ago.

  I was leaning against Claire’s shoulder, and she was kidding me.

  “How long since you had some vitamin L, girlfriend?”

  “I don’t remember. So that must mean it’s been way too long.”

  “When’s that man of yours coming to throw you onto the bed?”

  I laughed. “We’ve made an unbreakable date for this coming weekend. Nothing short of a terrorist attack can stop us. Are you clairvoyant, Butterfly?”

  “Yeah, pretty much,” said Claire. “But I can’t read your mind on what happened with Dr. Garza. We both want to know. Please don’t make us
wait for Yuki.”

  I saw that I wasn’t going to get out of this.

  Cindy and Claire had fixed their eyes on mine, so I took a sip of my martini, put down my glass, and then told the girls about the scary takedown at SFO, and that we’d booked Garza, charged him with everything we had.

  “O’Mara went for a deal,” I told them. “Get this. She and Garza were working together on that lawsuit against Municipal. It was all planned out. A scheme. When he took the Fifth —”

  “That was planned?” Cindy asked.

  “Sure was. Garza did a superfine job of turning the jury against Municipal. O’Mara raked in her cut of the millions and shared it with Garza. Also, she was in love with the guy.”

  “Defies logic and reason,” Claire said.

  “Doesn’t it, though? But in her deluded mind, they were going to run away together and live happily ever after.”

  “But he dumped her?” Cindy guessed.

  “Tried to,” I said. “He was packed and ready to fly when Martin Sweet showed up at his house. Mad as hell. We think he took a swing at Garza with a lead-crystal vase to the back of the head.”

  “Ouch,” said Cindy.

  “Yeah. So then Garza went nuts and wound up killing poor Martin Sweet. How many stab wounds, Butterfly?” I asked Claire.

  “Forty-two. Sliced his neck through to the spinal column.”

  I nodded, kept talking.

  “Maureen says when Garza told her to ‘have a good life,’ she drove over to his house, wanted to change his mind. Instead she caught him stuffing Martin Sweet into the trunk of his car. And that earned her a ticket to Brazil with Garza.”

  “He would have killed her down there, I’ll bet,” said Cindy.

  “I think so, too. We probably saved her life by getting those two off that plane.”

  “What about the button murders?” Cindy asked. “Are you still working on that case?”

  “Not officially,” I said. “I have a couple of ideas about the button murders. Maybe even a solid lead.”

  I explained that Sonja Engstrom was pulling out the stops. “She’s hired a staff of data-security experts, and they’re turning the computer system inside out.

  “It’s only going to get worse for Garza. As for O’Mara, she’ll be disbarred for fraud. Conspiracy. Witness tampering, you name it.”

  “You nailed him, honey. You did a spectacular job,” said Claire.

  “Unbelievable,” said Cindy, shaking her head, blond curls bobbing around her face. “We’re so proud of you, Lindsay.”

  “Come on, guys, I had an awful lot of help. I sure didn’t do this alone.”

  “Shut up. You’re a superstar,” said Claire, she and Cindy lifting their glasses to toast me. I was still squirming under their lavish praise when Yuki suddenly appeared and slipped into the booth beside me.

  I almost didn’t recognize her.

  Chapter 138

  YUKI LOOKED GORGEOUS.

  Her hair was glossy, her skin was radiant, and she was wearing an off-the-shoulder black dress, giving her a girlish sexiness I hadn’t seen before.

  She apologized for being late, said something had come up and she hadn’t been able to call.

  By the time our dinner plates were cleared away, and coffee and dessert were served, my fatigue had been burnished with pleasure; I was feeling warm and safe in the company of my closest friends.

  I’d just sunk my fork to the hilt in chocolate brioche bread pudding when Yuki said almost shyly, “I have big news.”

  “Do tell,” Cindy said. “Enquiring minds and all that.”

  Yuki’s smile blazed. She paused, holding on to her news for a last few moments before she finally told all.

  “I’ve quit my job at Duffy and Rogers—and I have a new job.”

  A barrage of overlapping questions came at her, and Yuki laughed her rolling chortle, a lovely sound I hadn’t heard in a very long time.

  “I’m switching sides. I want to prosecute criminals,” she said. “Put the bad guys away. I’m going to work on Monday in the district attorney’s office. It’s official. I’m an ADA. Want to see my card?”

  We clapped and whistled, took turns hugging Yuki and congratulating her.

  I was so happy for my friend. This was a great life change for Yuki, and I knew she wouldn’t regret working for less money and more satisfaction. She’d be a terrific addition to the office of the DA. An instant star, I’d bet.

  “To Yuki,” I said, raising my coffee cup, the others doing the same. “And to putting bad guys away.”

  Music floated up from the piano, and a lovely young chanteuse began singing “Sentimental Journey.”

  As I sat back in the banquette, basking in so many good feelings, my thoughts skipped a couple of grooves. And I found myself thinking again about Dennis Garza.

  I wondered at the complex nature of the man.

  Could his personality be so divided that he could kill as savagely as he’d done Martin Sweet? And on the other hand kill so stealthily we weren’t even sure that those patients at Municipal had been murdered?

  I wondered if I’d ever know. But I did have one good lead. Maybe it would work out.

  “Where are you, Lindsay?” Claire asked me.

  “Right here, Butterfly.”

  She pressed my hand. “No, really,” she said.

  “I was thinking about Garza and his dark, crazy eyes,” I said. “He’s fifty years old. He’ll die in prison. He’ll never hurt anyone ever again.”

  Yuki put her arms around me and hugged me really hard.

  “I can’t thank you enough,” Yuki said. “Thank you for taking my mom’s death to heart, Lindsay. Thank you for chasing Garza down.”

  Yuki took a breath, then slowly let it out. “When my dad came home from the war, he was changed in many ways. He told my mom about the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—Famine, Death, Pestilence, and War—you know. But he said the Fifth Horseman was Man, and that Man was the most dangerous of all. You got Garza, Lindsay. You got the Fifth Horseman.”

  Epilogue

  UNFINISHED BUSINESS

  Chapter 139

  IT WAS THE START of the midnight-to-8:00 shift at Peachtree General, the largest hospital in the metropolitan Atlanta area.

  The nurse stepped into a single room in the crowded cardiac wing and approached a patient who was lying restless and awake in the dark. She turned on the lamp at her bedside.

  “How’re you doing tonight, sweetheart?”

  “Just like I told you yesterday. I’m depressed as hell,” said Mrs. Melinda Cane. She was a middle-aged white woman with gold hair extensions, looking at Botox or a face lift pretty soon. “With Frankie dead and gone, and my kids living God knows where, I might as well be dead myself.” She twisted her heavy gold wedding band as if that might bring her husband back.

  “Look around,” she continued. “See any flowers in the room? Any happy helium ballons? No one cares about me.”

  “Now, I don’t want you to be so worried,” said the nurse. “I’ve brought you something to help you sleep through the night.”

  “Luz, keep me company while I drift off,” said Mrs. Cane.

  “Tell you what,” Luz said. “Take your meds. I’ll see to my other patients and come back.”

  Melinda Cane smiled, took the cup of pills, the glass of water, and, being a good girl for Luz, swallowed all her medicine.

  The Night Walker tucked the blankets up to the woman’s chin, thinking how much she liked her new identity. Wondering at how easy it had been to get all that new ID for only $175. Not that anyone ever did much of a background check on a nurse.

  She walked down the hall with her rolling cart, stopping in every room, checking beds, dispensing medication, saying good night. Then she returned to Melinda Cane’s room.

  She closed the door behind her and walked out of the shadows to the bed just as the patient began to gasp for breath.

  Melinda Cane reached out to her, patting the air frantically wit
h her hands.

  “Something’s wrong, Luz,” she wheezed. “Help me. I can’t breathe. Please help me!”

  The Night Walker took the woman’s hand and squeezed it gently. “It’s all right, lovey. Luz is right here with you.”

  Melinda Cane strained desperately for air, the cords of her neck standing out, her hands clutching at the blue flannel blankets as the opiate paralyzed her central nervous system.

  She looked up at the nurse with disbelief, tried to pull her hand away, to reach for the call button beside the bed.

  The Night Walker moved the call button to the nightstand, but she stayed with Mrs. Cane the whole time, winding the lady’s blond ringlets around her fingers.

  She steeled herself for the spasms when they came, and in just a few moments, Melinda Cane was still.

  Luz Santiago had also been Marie St. Germaine, and before that, Yamilde Ruiz, and way before that, she’d been born and raised LaRaine Johnson of Pensacola, Florida.

  It was truly a gift to have this power over life and death, and also to be invisible to everyone.

  In a few minutes, the Night Walker straightened the woman’s body in her bed, arranged the bedding.

  Then she reached into her pocket and took out a small black doll. She’d hidden the buttons there, inside the rough woolen strands.

  She took the buttons out from between the threads of the doll, put one on each of the dead woman’s eyes. The caduceus, serpents around a winged staff, symbol of the medical profession.

  “Good night, princess,” she said. “Good night.”

  The Night Walker stepped out into the hallway—and saw the police waiting there for her. A half dozen officers, at least.

  She even recognized one of them, the lieutenant from California.

  The tap on her shoulder from behind surprised her even more than the police waiting in the hallway. She turned to see Melinda Cane. Melinda was very much alive, and she was holding a gun.

  “Put your hands in the air, Luz. Or whatever your name is. You’re under arrest for attempted murder. I’m Detective Cane.” Then the Atlanta Homicide detective smiled. “You probably remember Lieutenant Lindsay Boxer from San Francisco. She’s the one who nailed you to the wall.”