Me? Stop wondering? Never happen. Even now I was wondering if Spence would make it through rehab, and if he didn’t, would Kylie leave him, and if she did, would Matt ask her out, and if he did—
Cheryl smiled at me, reached across the table, and, without caring who was watching and who wasn’t, took my hand in hers.
I smiled back, covered her hand with mine, shook all the other baggage out of my head, and wondered, How the heck did I get to be this lucky?
Acknowledgments
The authors would like to thank Undersheriff Frank Faluotico and First Sergeant Alan Rowe of the Ulster County NY Sheriff’s Office, NYPD Detective Sal Catapano, Dr. Lawrence Dresdale, Bob Beatty, Mel Berger, and Jason Wood for their help in making this work of fiction ring true.
For the Women’s Murder Club, this is more than bad luck. This is murder.
For an excerpt, turn the page.
It was an ugly Monday just after noon. There had been no sign of sun so far, just a thick fog that had put the blocks to traffic around the Golden Gate. I was behind the wheel of the squad car and Inspector Rich Conklin, my partner of many years, was in the seat beside me when Claire called my cell phone.
Claire Washburn is my closest friend, and also San Francisco’s Chief Medical Examiner. This call was strictly business.
“Lindsay,” Claire had shouted over the braying of car horns. “I’ve got two DBs in a single-car smashup and I don’t know what the hell I’m looking at. If you and Richie are in the neighborhood, I could use another opinion.”
She gave me her location and I told her we’d be there as soon as weather and traffic permitted. I repeated to Rich what Claire had said and turned the car around.
My partner is smart, steady, a glass-half-full type of guy, and on this particular day he was pretty happy with himself.
He said, “Claire wants us to look at a traffic fatality?”
“She doubts it’s an accident.”
I followed Lincoln through the Presidio and past the Crissy Field Overlook toward the bridge as Conklin called Brady and told him we were answering Claire’s call. He phoned Claire and told her we were about eight minutes out, then picked up where he left off, asking my advice on his romantic dilemma.
“It’s Tina’s birthday. We’ve been together for two months,” he said. “So, what do I get her that means ‘I like you a lot so far?’”
This line of conversation was tricky. Rich is like a younger brother to me. We’re tight. We talk about everything. But his ex-girlfriend, Cindy, is my home girl. And Cindy was still suffering from their breakup six months ago. She hadn’t given up hope that she and Richie could get back together.
To tell the truth, I was hoping for that, too.
I kept my eyes on the road, stayed on Lincoln, a two-laner flanked by historic buildings on the left and a parking lot on the right for visitors to the bridge. We drove slowly past the nifty old houses on Pilots’ Row and then hit a wall of traffic.
“Looks like we’re walking,” I said.
I braked on the shoulder, turned on the flashers, grabbed my jacket, and locked up. Then my partner and I started up the incline. Richie didn’t miss a beat.
“So, I was thinking I’d get her a pair of earrings. Or does the ring in earring send too much of a message?”
“Not unless they’re diamonds,” I said.
“Hah,” said Conklin.
I said, “Rich, in my humble opinion, you and Tina are at flowers and dinner. That’s safe, sweet, and her mother won’t send out invitations.”
“Okay. And do I sign the card love or not?”
I couldn’t help it. I rolled my eyes and threw a sigh.
“Richie, do you love her? Or don’t you? You have to figure that one out.”
He laughed.
“Could you stop giggling,” I said.
He gave me a salute. “Yes, ma’am, Sergeant Boxer, ma’am. And could you put in for a sense of humor?”
“You’re asking for it,” I said.
I gave him a little shove and he laughed some more, and we kept walking up the incline, passing cars that were inching forward, passengers getting out, shouting curses into the fog.
My cell phone rang again.
Claire said, “Hurry up, okay? I can’t hold off the damned Bridge Authority much longer. The tow truck is here.”
The scene was surreal, and I don’t use the term lightly.
From what I could see, a late-model red Jeep had lost control in the outside northbound lane and careened across five lanes before hitting the walkway barrier and slamming into the railing, which was bulging to accommodate the Jeep’s front end.
All but one lane had been closed, and a narrow ribbon of traffic was opened to alternating north- and southbound traffic that crawled past the Jeep, which was half swallowed by fog up to its taillights.
Law-enforcement vehicles were haphazardly parked on the roadway: Bridge Authority SUVs, fire department, CHP vehicles, black-and-whites and personnel to match were clumped around the Jeep. I saw people I knew from the ME’s office shooting pictures of the accident. A traffic cop heaved over the railing.
At the same time, a tow truck was pulling into position to remove the Jeep, in prep for reopening this, the only thoroughfare between San Francisco and Sausalito.
A Bridge Authority uni checked out our badges and called out, “Dr. Washburn. You got company.”
Claire came out from behind her van, shaking her head, saying, “Hey, you guys. Welcome to some kind of crazy. Let me give you the tour.”
She looked worried, and as we closed in on the Jeep, I saw why. The windshield had exploded outward, the front end was crushed, accordion-style, and as I peered into the front seat, my scalp actually crawled.
I’ve seen a lot of gruesome scenes in my eleven years in Homicide, but this one vaulted to the top of the “most gruesome” list. I mean, number one.
Two young people, white male in the driver’s seat, white female in the passenger seat. Both looked to be in their late teens or early twenties. Their arms were akimbo and their heads thrown back, mouths open in silent screams.
But what drew my attention directly were the victims’ midsections, which were gaping, bloody holes. And I could see where the blood and guts had gone.
The driver’s side was plastered with bits of human debris mixed with fragments of clothing and other detritus I couldn’t identify. One airbag was draped over the steering wheel. The other covered the passenger from the thighs down.
Claire said, “We’ve got blood and particles of human tissue stuck all over everywhere. We’ve got damage to the seat belts and the dashboard and the instrument panel, and that’s a button projectile stuck in the visor. Also, we’ve got a dusting of particulate from the airbags sugaring everything.
“These areas, right here,” she said, pointing to the blown-out abdomens of the deceased, “this is what I’m calling explosive points of origin.”
“Aw, Christ,” Rich said. “They had bombs on their laps? What a desperate way to kill yourself.”
“I’m not ready to call manner of death, but I’m getting a handle on cause. Look at this,” Claire said. She got an arm around the passenger and leaned the young woman’s body forward. I saw spinal tissue, bone, and blood against the back of the seat.
My morning coffee was now threatening to climb out of my throat, and the air around me seemed to get very bright. I turned away and took a couple of deep breaths, and when I turned back I had the presence of mind to say, “So, this bomb, or should I say bombs plural, blew all the way through the bodies?”
Claire said, “Correct, Lindsay. That’s why my premature but still educated opinion is that we’re looking at a bomb that exploded from inside the abdomen. Abdomens, plural.
“I’m thinking belly bombs.”
The lunch-hour rush had escalated from peeved to highly outraged. Traffic cops were taking crap from irate drivers, and TV choppers buzzed overhead like houseflies circling a warm apple pie.
The to
w-truck operator called out in my direction, “Hey. Like, can someone extract the victims? We gotta open the bridge.”
Here’s what I knew for sure: I was the ranking homicide cop on the scene, the primary investigator until the case was permanently assigned. Right now, my job was to protect the scene from contamination, and—no joke—the scene was a six-lane highway.
I marched over to the tow-truck driver and told him, “Thanks, but the wreck is staying here and please extract your truck from my bridge.”
As the tow truck moved out, I addressed my fellow law-enforcement officers, saying, “Whatever this is, it’s not an accident. I’m locking the bridge down.”
“Bravo,” Claire said. “We agree.”
I dismissed nonessential personnel and phoned Charlie Clapper, head of CSU. I told him to drop whatever he might be doing and hustle over.
“Jam on the gas and jack up the sirens,” I said.
I reported in to Brady, told him what I knew. He said he would get hold of the chief and the mayor and would be on scene ASAP.
Yellow tape was unspooled and a perimeter set up with a wide margin around the Jeep, and roadblocks were placed at both ends of the bridge. Conklin and I documented the scene with our cell-phone cameras and notepads and chewed over some theories.
I was enormously relieved when Clapper’s van came through with a flatbed truck behind it. Both vehicles parked outside the cordon, and the unflappable Clapper and half a dozen criminalists disembarked.
Clapper is a crisply turned out man in his late forties, a former homicide cop, and a very fine CSI. I went over to him and said, “I don’t think you’ve ever seen anything like this.”
After I briefed him on what I was calling a crime scene, we walked over to the wreck and Clapper poked his head into the vehicle.
He took a long look, then he backed out and said, “It’s an explosion, all right. But the way I understand belly bombs, they’re mechanical devices, surgically implanted. Powder. Cap. Detonator. I don’t see wires. I don’t smell explosive powder.
“And this is strange,” Clapper continued. “The blast was restricted to the front seat. Bombs of this type are meant to blow up not just the vehicle, but everything around it. You’re right, though. This is a new one on me.”
I said, “We’ve run the plates, but I want the bodies ID’d before Eyewitness News notifies next of kin.”
I pointed to a red nylon backpack in the rear foot well. After a tech shot photos of the bag and the fairly untouched rear seat, I unzipped the bag. Inside was a toy dog, a bunch of CDs, a cell-phone charger, and a blue spangled wallet.
Inside the wallet was a driver’s license.
“Our female victim is Lara Trimble, twenty-one, lives in Oakland,” I said.
There was a mess of paper litter in the rear foot well, and I found myself staring at something that might be important.
“Can you shoot that?” I asked.
Once forensics had photos, I gloved up and lifted out a hamburger bag that hadn’t been damaged in the blast.
“Hello,” I said out loud. “Is this where they had their last meal?”
Clapper said, “Thank you,” then deftly took the bag from my fingers and sealed it in a glassine envelope. “This is what we like to call evidence.”
Claire joined us and said, “Charles, what are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking that this scene is going to be on the national news in a wink. The FBI, Homeland Security, ATF, as many feds as can fit on the deck, will be here in a half hour and the bridge will be closed until next Christmas. For twenty-four hours, anyway.”
The Golden Gate Bridge was a high-quality target, an American icon. Bombs on this bridge would scare everyone in San Francisco. It was scaring the crap out of me.
I called Brady’s cell and said that we were looking at possible terrorist activity.
He said, “Shit. Of course we are.”
Then we all stood around in the swirling fog and waited for the feds to arrive.
About the Author
JAMES PATTERSON has created more enduring fictional characters than any other novelist writing today. He is the author of the Alex Cross novels, the most popular detective series of the past twenty-five years, including Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider. Mr. Patterson also writes the bestselling Women’s Murder Club novels, set in San Francisco, and the top-selling New York detective series of all time, featuring Detective Michael Bennett. James Patterson has had more New York Times bestsellers than any other writer, ever, according to Guinness World Records. Since his first novel won the Edgar Award in 1977, James Patterson’s books have sold more than 280 million copies.
James Patterson has also written numerous #1 bestsellers for young readers, including the Maximum Ride, Witch & Wizard, and Middle School series. In total, these books have spent more than 220 weeks on national bestseller lists. In 2010, James Patterson was named Author of the Year at the Children’s Choice Book Awards.
His lifelong passion for books and reading led James Patterson to create the innovative website ReadKiddoRead.com, giving adults an invaluable tool to find the books that get kids reading for life. He writes full-time and lives in Florida with his family.
MARSHALL KARP has written for stage, screen, and TV, and is the author of The Rabbit Factory and three other mysteries featuring LAPD Detectives Mike Lomax and Terry Biggs. NYPD Red 2 is his third collaboration with James Patterson.
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Books by James Patterson
NYPD Red Novels
NYPD Red 2 (with Marshall Karp)
NYPD Red (with Marshall Karp)
Featuring Alex Cross
Cross My Heart
Alex Cross, Run
Merry Christmas, Alex Cross
Kill Alex Cross
Cross Fire
I, Alex Cross
Alex Cross’s Trial (with Richard DiLallo)
Cross Country
Double Cross
Cross (also published as Alex Cross)
Mary, Mary
London Bridges
The Big Bad Wolf
Four Blind Mice
Violets Are Blue
Roses Are Red
Pop Goes the Weasel
Cat & Mouse
Jack & Jill
Kiss the Girls
Along Came a Spider
The Women’s Murder Club
12th of Never (with Maxine Paetro)
11th Hour (with Maxine Paetro)
10th Anniversary (with Maxine Paetro)
The 9th Judgment (with Maxine Paetro)
The 8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro)
7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro)
The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro)
The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro)
4th of July (with Maxine Paetro)
3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross)
2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross)
1st to Die
Featuring Michael Bennett
Gone (with Michael Ledwidge)
I, Michael Bennett (with Michael Ledwidge)
Tick Tock (with Michael Ledwidge)
Worst Case (with Michael Ledwidge)
Run for Your Life (with Michael Ledwidge)
The Private Novels
Private L.A. (with Mark Sullivan)
Private Berlin (with Mark Sullivan)
Private London (with Mark Pearson)
Private Games (with Mark Sullivan)
Private: #1 Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)
Private (with Maxine Paetro)
Summer Novels
Second Honeymoon (with Howard Roughan)
Now You See Her (with Michael Ledwidge)
Swimsuit (with Maxine Paetro)
Sail (with Howard Roughan)
Beach Road (with Peter de Jonge)
Lifeguard (with Andrew Gross)
Honeymoon (with Howard
Roughan)
The Beach House (with Peter de Jonge)
Stand-alone Novels
First Love (with Emily Raymond)
Mistress (with David Ellis)
Zoo (with Michael Ledwidge)
Guilty Wives (with David Ellis)
The Christmas Wedding (with Richard DiLallo)
Kill Me If You Can (with Marshall Karp)
Toys (with Neil McMahon)
Don’t Blink (with Howard Roughan)
The Postcard Killers (with Liza Marklund)
The Murder of King Tut (with Martin Dugard)
Against Medical Advice (with Hal Friedman)
Sundays at Tiffany’s (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)
You’ve Been Warned (with Howard Roughan)
The Quickie (with Michael Ledwidge)
Judge & Jury (with Andrew Gross)
Sam’s Letters to Jennifer
The Lake House
The Jester (with Andrew Gross)
Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas
Cradle and All
When the Wind Blows
Miracle on the 17th Green (with Peter de Jonge)
Hide & Seek
The Midnight Club
Black Friday (originally published as Black Market)
See How They Run
Season of the Machete
The Thomas Berryman Number
For Readers of All Ages
Maximum Ride
Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure
ANGEL: A Maximum Ride Novel
FANG: A Maximum Ride Novel
MAX: A Maximum Ride Novel
The Final Warning: A Maximum Ride Novel
Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports: A Maximum Ride Novel
NYPD Red 2 Page 26
