Women's Murder Club [03] 3rd Degree

by James Patterson

  And also who Marion Delgado was—the latest Hotmail address.

  Molinari draped a fax from the FBI computers across my desk. An old newswire story, with a grainy photo of a grinning, gap-toothed kid in a peasant smock holding a brick in his hand. “Marion Delgado. He was some five-year-old who in 1967 derailed a freight train in Italy by tossing a brick in its path.”

  “Is there a reason you’re thinking this is important to the investigation?” I asked.

  “Marion Delgado was a rallying cry for revolutionaries in the sixties,” Molinari said. “A five-year-old who stood up and stopped a train. The name became a code name to thwart undercover surveillance. The FBI was bugging phones like crazy, trying to infiltrate the Weathermen. They logged hundreds of messages from Marion Delgado.”

  “What are you saying—one of the old Weathermen is behind this current mess?”

  “It wouldn’t hurt to get the names of known members back then who haven’t been brought in.”

  “That’s a good idea,” I said as I opened my desk and took out my gun. “In the meantime, you want to tag along while I go check out the KGB Bar?”

  Chapter 57

  IN THE LONG TRADITION of counterculture dives, where a cop walking in was about as welcome as an ACLU recruiter at a skinhead convention, the KGB set the bar at a new low. There were narrow rows of chipped pine tables with societal dropouts slouched in front of computer screens. Plus a mixed collection of riffraff sucking cigarette butts at the bar. Not much else caught my eye at first.

  “You sure you’re up for this?” I muttered to Molinari. “It’ll be hard to explain if I got your face bashed in here.”

  “I was a prosecutor back in New York,” Molinari said, and stepped forward. “I love this shit.”

  I went up to the bartender, a skinny mouse-faced guy in a muscle shirt with tattoos up and down both arms and a very long ponytail. After about fifteen seconds of being ignored, I leaned over and caught his eye. “We were just passing by and were wondering if anyone would like to support our fellowship mission in Chad?”

  I couldn’t get a half-smile out of him. He poured a beer for a black guy in an African skullcap seated two stools down.

  “Okay, we’re cops”—I dropped my shield—“you saw right through me.”

  “Sorry, we’re a private club,” the bartender said. “Need to see a membership card.”

  “Hey, just like Costco,” I said, glancing at Molinari. “Yeah, like Costco.” The bartender grinned.

  Molinari leaned forward, wrapping his hand over Ponytail’s as he went to draw a beer. He put a silver shield with the words DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY in the guy’s face. “I want you to follow this closely. I take my phone, and in about ten seconds a team of federal agents will barge in here and rip this place down to the two-by-fours. Now as I look around, there’s probably about fifteen, twenty thousand dollars in computers in here, and you know how clumsy these police goons can be when they’re lugging heavy evidence. So we need to ask you a few questions.”

  Ponytail glared at him.

  “What do you say, Six-pack,” the black man in the African skullcap spoke up, “under the circumstances I think we can waive the membership requirement this once.”

  He turned and faced us, a cheerful grin beneath the skullcap, saying in a deep British accent, “Amir Kamor. Six-pack was just expressing his desire to keep the clientele here on its usual high level. No need to make harsh threats. Please, can I invite you into my office?”

  “Six-pack?” I glanced at the bartender and rolled my eyes. “That’s creative.”

  In the rear there was a cramped private cubicle, barely larger than a desk. The walls were papered with posters and event notices—activist stuff, rallies for the poor, Free East Timor, AIDS in Africa.

  I passed Amir Kamor my Homicide card and he nodded, as if impressed. “You said you have a few questions.”

  “Were you here last night, Mr. Kamor?” I started in. “Around ten P.M.?”

  “I’m here every night, Lieutenant. You know the food and liquor business. It’s all about whose hands are in the register.”

  “An e-mail was sent from here last night, at ten-oh-three P.M.”

  “Messages are sent from here every night. People use us as a source to air ideas. That’s what we do here. Air ideas.”

  “You have a way of determining who was here? Anybody out of the ordinary?”

  “Anyone who comes in this place is out of the ordinary.” Kamor grinned. No one smiled at his joke. “Ten o’clock, you say… The place was filled. It may help if you could tell me just whom you’re looking for or what they’ve done?”

  I took out the photo of Wendy Raymore and the sketches of the woman who had accompanied George Bengosian. Kamor studied them, ridges digging into his wide brow. He sighed deeply. “I may have seen them over the years or I may have not. Our customers tend to come and go.”

  “Okay, then what about these?” I switched gears, taking out the FBI photos from Seattle. One by one, he leafed through them, merely shaking his head.

  Then I noticed that he stared twice and blinked.

  “You recognize someone….”

  “Merely a thought,” he said, shaking his head. “I don’t think so. Honestly.”

  “No, you recognized a face. Who was it?”

  I re-laid the photos in a pattern on his desk.

  “Remind me, Madam Lieutenant,” Kamor said, looking up, “why do I want to assist the police on this? Your state is one that is built on corruption and greed. As the enforcers of its will, you are part of its foundation.”

  “I guess there’s always this,” Molinari said. He put his face close to the startled Kamor’s. “I don’t really give a damn about what you jerk yourselves off about in here, but you should also know what security bill these crimes will be adjudicated under. We’re not talking withholding evidence, Mr. Kamor. We’re talking treason and conspiracy to commit terror. Take a look at the photos one more time. Please.”

  “Trust me, Mr. Kamor,” I said, meeting his eyes, “you don’t want to be anywhere near the heat on this one.”

  The veins on the bar owner’s neck began to swell. He lowered his eyes and leafed through the photos again. “Maybe… I don’t know…,” he muttered.

  After some hesitation, he nudged one out. “He’s different now. His hair is shorter, not so much like a hippie. He has a beard. He’s been in here.”

  Stephen Hardaway. Alias Morgan Bloom. Alias Mal Caldwell.

  “Is he a regular? How do we find him? This is important.”

  “I don’t know.” Kamor shook his head. “That is the truth. I remember him, once or twice some time ago. I think he came from somewhere up north.

  “One more thing…” Kamor swallowed. “You will remember this the next time you barge in and threaten to deprive me of my rights.”

  He flicked another photo forward. Another face he knew.

  “This one, I saw in here last night.”

  We were staring at Wendy Raymore, the au pair.

  Chapter 58

  WE WEREN’T BACK in the car for five seconds before I was pressing my palms against Molinari’s in an exhilarated, drawn-out high five. Deputy director or not, he had handled himself pretty well.

  “That was good, Molinari.” I could hardly contain my smile. “And you know how clumsy these police goons can be when they’re lugging heavy evidence….”

  Our eyes locked, and suddenly I was feeling that nervousness and attraction again. I put the car in gear. “I don’t know what’s supposed to happen with your contacts,” I said, “but I think we’d better start by calling this in.”

  Molinari speed-dialed his office with Hardaway’s name and aliases. We got a quick response. His Seattle file detailed a criminal past. Weapons possession, arms theft, bank robbery. By tomorrow morning we would know everything about him.

  Suddenly I realized I hadn’t heard from Jill. “I gotta make a call,” I said to Molinari, punching in her
cell phone number.

  Jill’s voice mail came on. “Hi, it’s District Attorney Jill Bernhardt….”

  Damn, Jill usually had her cell phone on. But I remembered about how she said she had a long day ahead in court. “It’s me, Lindsay. It’s two o’ clock. Where you been?” I thought about saying more, but I wasn’t in private. “Call me. I want to know how you are.”

  “Something wrong?” Molinari said when I hung up.

  I shook my head. “A friend… She threw her husband out last night. We were supposed to talk. It’s just that the guy’s turned into a real creep.”

  “She’s lucky, then,” Molinari said, “to have a cop for a friend.”

  The thought amused me. Jill lucky to have a cop for a friend. I thought of calling her at the office, but she’d get back to me as soon as she turned on her phone. “Trust me, she can handle herself.”

  We turned on the ramp to the Bay Bridge. I didn’t even have to use the top hat, as there was almost no traffic into the city. “Smooth sailing,” I said. “We caught a break. Finally.”

  “Listen, Lindsay…” Molinari turned to me, his tone changed. “What do you think about having dinner with me tonight?”

  “Dinner?” I thought for a second. I turned to him. “I think we know that might not be the best idea.”

  Molinari nodded in a resigned way, as if the thought got the better of him. “Still, we both gotta eat….” He curled a smile.

  Holding the wheel, I felt my palms starting to sweat. Geez. There were a hundred reasons why this could be wrong. But hell, we had lives, too.

  I looked at Molinari and smiled. “We gotta eat.”

  Chapter 59

  THE LATEST E-MAIL had Cindy rocking back on her heels. For once, she was in the story, not just merely writing it.

  And she felt a little scared. Who could blame her, with what was going on? But for the first time in her career, she also felt that she was really doing some good. And that’s what thrilled her. She sucked in a deep breath and faced the screen of her computer.

  That wasn’t us in Portland, the message had said.

  But why disclaim the killing? Why the five-word denial, nothing more?

  To separate themselves. To distinguish their crusade from a copycat killer. That seemed obvious.

  But the knot growing in her stomach told her that maybe there was something more.

  Maybe she was pressing too hard. But what if—completely outside the box—what if what was coming through wasn’t a denial, but something else. A conscience.

  No, that’s crazy, she thought. These people had blown up Morton Lightower’s town house with his wife and a child inside. They had shoved horrible poison down Bengosian’s throat. But they had spared little Caitlin.

  There was something else…. She suspected that the person corresponding might be a woman. She had referred to “her sisters in bondage.” And she’d chosen to write to her. There were plenty of other reporters in the city. Why her?

  Cindy was thinking that if there was any humanity in this person, maybe she could reach it. Maybe she could tap into it. Reveal something. A name, a place. Maybe it was the au pair writing, and maybe she did have a heart.

  Cindy cracked her knuckles and leaned over the keyboard. Here goes…

  She typed:

  Tell me, why are you doing these things? I think you are a woman. Are you? There are better ways to achieve your goals than killing people who the world views as innocent. You can use me. I can get the message out. Please… I told you I was listening. I am…. Use me. Please… Don’t kill anymore.

  She read it over. It was a long shot. Longer than a long shot.

  And she felt, pausing over the message, that if she sent it, she really would enter the story, that her whole life would change.

  “Sayonara,” she whispered to her old life—the one of passively watching and writing. She pressed SEND.

  Chapter 60

  IT WAS HARD working the rest of the day. I met with Tracchio for an hour and had Jacobi and Cappy retrace the bars around Berkeley with Hardaway’s photo. Every once in a while I felt my mind drifting and my heart beating a little faster when I thought about tonight. But as Joe Molinari had said, we gotta eat.

  Later, in the shower at home, inhaling a fresh lavender smell as I rinsed myself clean from the day, a guilty smile spread over my face: Here I am, a glass of Sancerre on the ledge, my skin tingling like a girl on her first date.

  I hurried around, straightening up a bit; arranged the bookshelf; checked the bird roasting in the oven; fed Martha; set the table overlooking the bay. Then I realized I still hadn’t heard from Jill. This was crazy. Still in my towel and wet hair, I placed another call to her. “This is getting ridiculous. C’mon, get back to me. I need to know how you are….”

  I was about to call Claire to see if she had heard from Jill when the buzzer rang. The front door buzzer!

  Shit, it’s only 7:45.

  Molinari was early.

  I threw another towel around my hair and frantically hopped around—dimming lights, taking out another wineglass. I finally went to the front door. “Who’s there?”

  “Advance team for Homeland Security,” Molinari called.

  “Yeah, well, you’re early, Homeland Security. Anyone ever tell you about buzzing up from the outside door?”

  “We generally bypass those things.”

  “Look, I’m gonna let you in, but you can’t look.” I couldn’t believe I was standing there in my towel. “I’m opening the door.”

  “My eyes are closed.”

  “They’d better be.” Martha came up beside me. “I’ve got a dog who’s very protective of me….”

  I unlocked the door, opened it slowly.

  Molinari stood there, his suit jacket thrown over his shoulder. A bouquet of daffodils. Eyes wide open.

  “You promised.” I took a step back, blushing.

  “Don’t blush.” Molinari stood there, smiling. “You’re gorgeous.”

  “This is Martha,” I said. “You behave, Martha, or Joe’ll have you tossed into a doghouse in Guantánamo. I’ve seen him work.”

  “Hey, Martha.” Molinari squatted down. He massaged her head behind the ears until she closed her eyes. “You’re gorgeous, too, Martha.”

  Molinari stood up, and I grabbed my towel tighter. He grinned a little.

  “You think Martha would get upset if I said I was dying to see what’s under that towel?”

  I shook my head, and the towel covering my hair fell away to the floor. “How’s that?”

  “Not exactly what I had in mind,” Molinari said.

  “While you two are talking,” I said, backing away, “I’ll get dressed. There’s wine in the fridge, vodka and scotch on the counter. And there’s a bird in the oven if you have an urge to baste.”

  “Lindsay,” Molinari said.

  I stopped. “Yes…”

  He took a step toward me. My heart stopped—except for the part that was beating violently out of control.

  He put his hands on my shoulders. I felt myself shudder, then seem to sway very slightly in his hands. He put his face close. “How long did you say before that bird is ready?”

  “Forty minutes.” Every little hair on my arms stood on edge. “Or so.”

  “Too bad…” Molinari smiled. “But it’ll have to do.”

  And just like that, he kissed me. His mouth was strong, and as soon as he touched my lips heat shot through me. I liked his kiss and I kissed him back. He ran his hands down the length of my back, pressed me close. I liked his touch, too. Hell, I liked him.

  My bath towel fell to the floor.

  “I have to warn you,” I said. “Martha’s a terror if someone gets the wrong idea.”

  He glanced over at Martha. She was curled up in a ball. “I don’t think I have the wrong idea.”

  Chapter 61

  JOE MOLINARI was facing me, and the bedsheets were rumpled in a mess around us. I was noticing that he was even better lookin
g up close. His eyes were deep blue and had a nice sparkle to them.

  It was hard to describe how good I felt, how natural this seemed, how right. The little tremors rippling down my spine were unexpected, but definitely pleasant. It had been two years since I had felt anything like this, and that was, well… different. I didn’t know everything about Molinari. Who was he away from the office? What did he have going on back home? Truth was, I didn’t care right now. I just felt good. It was enough.

  “This may seem like a strange time to ask this question,” I said, “but just what is your personal situation back East?”

  Molinari took a breath. “Not complicated… Usually I just mess around with interns and subordinates I meet on the case.” He smiled.

  “C’mon.” I sat up. “It’s a legitimate after-sex question.”

  “I’m divorced, Lindsay. I date now and then. Time permitting.” He stroked my hair. “If you’re thinking, does this happen very often…?”

  “What do you mean, this?”

  “You know. This. Where we are. On assignment.”

  Molinari turned and faced me. “Just so there’s no doubts, I’m here because the moment you walked into that meeting, I, well… bells started going off. And since then, the only thing I’ve been impressed with more than how good you are on the job is how good you looked once I pulled that towel off you.”

  I took a breath and stared into those very blue eyes. “You just make sure you’re not an asshole, Joe Molinari.”

  All of a sudden, I shot up in bed. “Oh my God, dinner.”

  “Forget the chicken.” Molinari smiled and pulled me closer. “We don’t gotta eat.”

  The phone rang. What next?

  My first urge was to let it go. I waited for the answering machine to pick up.

  When the voice came on, it was Claire’s, sounding urgent. “Lindsay, I’m worried. Pick up if you’re there. Linds?”