15th Affair

by James Patterson

  I said to the young lieutenant, “We wanted more time with Mrs. Chan. We hoped she might have remembered something that would help us with her husband’s murder. We knocked. Brett Chan answered the door.”

  After describing the little boy’s heartbreaking appearance, I gave Lieutenant Traina my take on the crime scene.

  “Looks to me like Mrs. Chan knew the shooter,” I said. “There was no forced entry and she was making coffee for two when she was shot in the forehead at close range. I saw no sign of a robbery—just a well-executed hit.”

  Traina took notes and said, “Uh-huh. Please go on.”

  Conklin said, “Haley, she’s five. She was eating her breakfast when a lady with ‘striped’ hair came in through the outside kitchen door. According to Haley, Mommy told her to get dressed for school. When she went back toward the kitchen, she heard ‘big bangs,’ so she ran to her room and hid.”

  Traina asked, “Striped hair? What’s that mean to you?”

  I said, “Like brown hair with blond streaks.”

  “Hunh. Did she know this lady?”

  “Never saw her before,” Conklin said.

  “And the little boy? Brett?”

  “He was in the shower when this went down,” I said.

  I told Lieutenant Traina we would share information and he said he’d do the same, “Sure thing.”

  We exchanged cards and were getting into our car as Child Protective Services arrived.

  Why had Michael and Shirley Chan—two college professors—been targeted hits? And what, if anything, could this tell us about the dead man with Michael Chan’s name and address who’d been on WW 888 from Beijing?

  Was there a connection?

  Someone had to know.

  CHAPTER 34

  THE BEAUTIFUL AND expansive Stanford University campus is accessed by broad palm tree–lined avenues and dotted with hundreds of other varieties of trees. The handsome buildings are predominantly Mediterranean and Spanish-style sandstone with red-tile roofs. Just lovely.

  We had an appointment with the history department chair, Michael Chan’s former boss, Eugene Levy. Levy was short, bearded, wearing thick eyeglasses. He got up from behind his desk, shook our hands, asked us to have seats, and closed his door.

  Levy said, “What a tragedy. I only knew Michael professionally, but for more than eight years. I liked him. He was reliable. Conscientious. Knew his stuff cold. Although, in light of how he died, maybe I didn’t know him at all.”

  Levy had prepared a list of several of Chan’s colleagues and students, in alphabetical order with phone numbers. He’d starred the names of a few people he thought had personal relationships with Chan.

  “I’m just sick about this. The whole school is rocked. You’ll let me know if I can help further?”

  I told Levy we would do that. After leaving his office, Conklin and I interviewed two dozen people over the rest of the morning, ending late in the afternoon.

  We asked the standard questions: How well did you know Michael Chan? Had he been acting strangely? Did he have any enemies? Can you think of a reason why someone might have killed him last week in a five-star San Francisco hotel?

  Not one person offered a shadow of a clue.

  By five in the afternoon, we were no closer to cracking open a door into Michael Chan’s death than we had been four days ago. We were heading for the car when a breathless voice called out, “Officers.”

  A brawny twenty-something young man in shorts and a school T-shirt was jogging up the walkway behind us. When he caught up, he stopped and introduced himself as Stiles Paul Titherington, assistant football coach. According to Levy’s list, he was a friend of Michael Chan.

  He said, “Got your message. Yeah, Michael and I were tight.”

  The man was bouncing on his feet, seemed hot to tell us what he knew.

  “OK, I don’t know who the hell killed him, but I can tell you this: he was having an affair, like made-in-Hollywood in-love. Michael was not, like, an emotional guy and suddenly, he meets this woman, and she’s the meaning of life.”

  Titherington went on to say that Michael hadn’t been planning to leave Shirley and that apparently Alison was also married with children.

  The name Alison hooked me.

  “He had plans to meet her a couple days ago,” said Titherington. “He was going to let me know how it went. Next thing, I heard that Michael was dead.”

  I said, “Did Michael tell you Alison’s last name?”

  “I’ve told you what he said. She’s gorgeous, smart, funny, a total package.”

  After leaving Titherington, Conklin and I talked nonstop on the drive back to the city. We had some leads to go on, but we couldn’t tie them into a bow. Alison Muller had gone to Michael Chan’s room at the Four Seasons. He was in love with her. Both were married; it was an assignation.

  Many questions remained. Why hadn’t Muller called the police when her lover was shot? Had she been abducted? Was she dead? Or had she killed Chan and had gone into hiding?

  I was calling Brady to tell him about our day at Stanford when Conklin’s phone rang.

  He said, “OK, sure. Thanks, Cin. We’ll meet you there.”

  “What was that?” I asked him. “We’ll meet Cindy where?”

  CHAPTER 35

  THE GRAND PACIFIC Hotel was just south of the airport on Old Bayshore Highway. Folding doors between three adjoining conference rooms on the mezzanine level had been opened to create a hall big enough to accommodate the hordes who had come to hear NTSB’s update on the investigation into the crash of WW 888.

  The cream-and-maroon room was packed, standing room only, no chairs at all. I stood off to the right of the room with Conklin and Cindy, in view of the rear exit.

  At six o’clock on the dot, a blond-haired woman in a charcoal-gray suit with an NTSB patch over her breast pocket walked smartly along a hastily built stage at the front of the room. She took her place behind a podium, tapped the microphone, and, without waiting for the room to quiet down, she began to speak.

  “My name is Angela Susan Anton and I’m chairman of the National Transportation Safety Board. I know you’ve been waiting since our initial announcement, but we have been working hard to gather meaningful information in the face of the near-total destruction of the aircraft and the tragic deaths of the passengers and crew.”

  Waves of weeping swept the room as friends and family of dead passengers heard once more and with official certainty that they would never see their loved ones again.

  Chairman Anton resumed her presentation.

  “I’ve been working closely with our chief investigator, Mr. Jan Vanderleest, who heads our team of twenty-five investigators. The work so far includes interviews with those who knew the four pilots and relief pilots.”

  Anton described the pilots’ seventy-two-hour preflight work-rest history, concluding that the flight crew had been rested and in good physical and mental health, all of which was borne out by the progress of the flight from Beijing up to the moment of the incident.

  The chairman pushed through the shouted questions, saying that the air traffic controllers who were in SFO’s control tower when the tragedy occurred had reported that the pilot had checked in on San Francisco tower frequency for landing on runway 28 Left at 8:56 Thursday morning. That landing clearance was issued to WW 888 about a mile and a half from the threshold.

  She said, “This is what the air traffic looked like just prior to the incident.”

  Anton flicked on her PowerPoint and a large screen to her right depicted a simulation of WW 888’s approach to ward the runway, including the explosion and a graphic interpretation of the breakup of the falling aircraft.

  She said, “There have been reports of a flash in the sky just seconds before the aircraft failed. Because of the direction and altitude of the plane in its last moments, we don’t have a clear angle on the right wing, which was the point of impact. And when the fuel inside the wing exploded, the wing failed upward, which
can look from the ground like the contrail of a missile.

  “That said, the possibility of a missile strike exists….”

  The chairman was interrupted by a tsunami of questions and screams and shoving as photographers jostled for a view of the projected visuals. Anton shouted into her mic, “Chief Vanderleest has additional details. Thank you.”

  Anton was barely offstage when Vanderleest took the lectern. He stood like a block of stone until the room was silent again.

  Then he spoke. “As the chairman said, the possibility exists that WW 888 was brought down by a missile, but until the flight recorders are found and the remains of the 777 are assembled and analyzed—the reason for the crash of WW 888 is still undetermined. Information on the location of those of the deceased who have been identified is on our website and with Worldwide Airlines, who will give daily briefings.

  “Thank you for your attention.”

  Conklin called out to me and Cindy over the tidal raging of the crowd, “Stay with me.”

  We were in the hallway outside the ad hoc auditorium when an Asian man in jeans and a black jacket body-slammed me. I staggered back into a group of people, somehow getting my balance before I fell. I looked around wildly to see who had assaulted me and for a half second, I got a clear look at his face: wide forehead, thin, white scar across his chin.

  Just then, the doors opened at the back of the room and hundreds of people stampeded toward the exit, carrying us along with them.

  CHAPTER 36

  I WAS OUT of gas when I came through the doorway that night. Martha charged me and I held her back by her shoulders and called out, “Honey,” forgetting that I hadn’t seen Joe in days, or maybe just hoping he would answer.

  Mrs. Rose sang out a sweet hello and appeared in the foyer, wiping her hands on a dish towel.

  “Joe isn’t here, but Julie is fine. Are you OK?”

  I nodded and tried to block the images of Shirley Chan’s body and the complete devastation of her children’s lives.

  Where was Joe?

  I wanted my husband. I wanted him to be all right. To be innocent of what felt like betrayal. To spend the night holding me and being held and talking and making love.

  “Lindsay, I wasn’t sure when you’d be home.”

  “I’m so sorry,” I said to Mrs. Rose. “The day got away from me.”

  “Not a problem. I made a roast—”

  “I love you,” I blurted.

  “I love you, too,” she said. She opened her arms and hugged me and she told me to go see my daughter. “She’s really chatting up a storm.”

  She brought a glass of wine into the baby’s room and I rocked Julie and stared out the window and told myself that I was fine, I just needed to sleep.

  By nine, Julie and I were alone. She said, “Story,” and it was a demand, not a request. Joe had taught her that word. I took her and Martha into bed with me and told Julie the story of finding Martha at a border collie rescue league.

  “We fell in love at first sight, didn’t we, Boo?”

  Martha barked and Julie laughed, and I had a few laughs myself. First time in a few days, that’s for sure.

  I intended to return Julie to her crib in just a few moments, but she woke me around three with the little distressed cry that usually precedes a meltdown.

  “Sweetie, sweetie, Mommy’s here.”

  Where was Daddy? Where was Joe?

  CHAPTER 37

  CLAIRE WAS RAGING as she left Metropolitan Hospital.

  It was definite. Dr. Marshall had lost Michael Chan’s body. Her earlier statement, “I’ll call you,” had been amended to “Damned if I know what happened to him,” and a moment later escalated to “I’m starting to wonder if we actually had Mr. Chan, or if we just had his wallet in a plastic bag.”

  “So where’s his wallet?” Claire had asked.

  “Damned if I know. Look, I haven’t slept in three days.”

  It was Saturday morning and Lindsay wasn’t answering her phone, and Claire didn’t want to wake her.

  Still.

  Claire got into her car and called again, and this time Lindsay picked up.

  “What time is it?” Lindsay asked with a scratchy voice.

  “Quarter to eleven,” Claire said. “You’re asleep. I’ll make it quick. Michael Chan’s body is still missing and Metropolitan has stopped looking for him. This isn’t over until I have his body in my morgue.”

  “Never mind,” Lindsay said to her. “They tried.”

  “They tried? What’s wrong with you, Lindsay?” Claire said.

  “Nothing. Everything’s fine,” Lindsay told her.

  “Joe? He’s come home?”

  “Nope. He’ll turn up.”

  Claire said, “OK,” hung up, and started her car. It was time to do something about this weird and unhealthy state of affairs. She called Cindy and Yuki, and by the time she arrived at Lindsay’s address, both of them were waiting for her in Cindy’s car.

  Claire knocked on the window.

  “Ready?”

  “You betcha,” said Cindy. “It’s a good day for an intervention.”

  The three of them, carrying shopping bags, went to the doorway of Lake Street and Twelfth, and Claire pressed the buzzer. When Lindsay answered the intercom to say, “No one’s home,” Claire shouted, “It’s me, lazybones. Open up.”

  The buzzer sounded and Claire, Cindy, and Yuki entered the old residential building and climbed the wide stairs to the third floor, and Claire rang the bell.

  Barking preceded the clacking of locks and the opening of the door.

  “Claire, what? Can’t I sleep in once in a while?” Then Lindsay saw the rest of the gang and threw the door open. Claire saw that Lindsay was wearing maternity pajamas and gave her a questioning look.

  “No, I’m not expecting,” she said. “This is all I have that’s clean.”

  Martha danced, the baby cried from somewhere inside, and Lindsay said, “Just so you know, I’m not leaving this apartment until Monday. I might not leave then.”

  “Agreed,” said Claire. “Time for us to all have a good visit.”

  “We got sandwiches and cookies. Also coffee,” said Yuki.

  Cindy said, “Linds, just so you know. Anything anyone says here is off the record. Even if you know who really shot Kennedy. Even if you know the location of the Holy Grail.”

  Lindsay laughed and Yuki got the baby out of her crib and handed her to her mom.

  “Lindsay, sit your ass down,” said Claire. “Let the feast begin.”

  When the four best friends had gathered around the finger food on the coffee table, Claire announced, “Now that we’re all settled in, Lindsay, let’s have it. When was the last time you saw Joe?”

  CHAPTER 38

  IF CLAIRE HAD called first, I would have said, “Thanks, but no way. I’m going to sleep in, all day long.”

  But she didn’t ask, and without warning or my permission, my well-earned deep funk was shattered by Yuki’s infectious laughter, Claire’s bossy mothering, and Cindy’s genuine joie de vivre.

  Plus food.

  Julie loved a crowd and was super-glad of the company. I put her in her bouncy chair about five feet from the action and Martha curled up at my feet, so it was all girls and all good. Correction, it was great.

  Claire said, “Time to work, Linds. When did you last see Joe? When did you last hear from him?”

  “And what do you think is going on?” Cindy added. “No matter how bad this is, you know we’re not going to judge.”

  “We just want to clear up the mystery,” said Yuki. “We need to know what we’re dealing with, am I right?”

  Yuki, her legal mind at work, asked for a calendar of events. So I started from the beginning and proceeded in chronological order.

  I started with the remarkable fact that Joe hadn’t come home Monday night but had been snoring beside me on Tuesday morning. I told them he’d been perfectly fine—in fact, romantic. He’d made breakfast for
me and Julie Anne, and I’d left him home with her as I ran out to work.

  I said, “Monday was the day of the shootings at the Four Seasons. Rich and I were consumed with it. We got an ID on Michael Chan the next day and went out to see his widow.”

  My friends were nodding, saying “Uh-huh, uh-huh” and encouraging me to keep talking.

  I said, “I spoke to Joe on Tuesday while Rich and I were driving Shirley Chan back to the Hall. Late that night, I reviewed the surveillance video from our van we had sitting on the Chan house from across the street. He was on that tape.

  “Wait, I’ll show you.”

  I woke up my laptop, and as the girls stood around me, I showed them the clip of Joe stopping his car on Waverley and staring directly into the SFPD’s dedicated spy cam. And I told them about Richie picking out a guy in the hotel’s lobby footage who looked like Joe.

  “Joe’s face on that tape—that’s the last I’ve seen of him.”

  A lot of questions came at me from my clever, mystery-solving friends, but they were questions I couldn’t answer.

  “Here’s what I think,” said Cindy. “He’s involved in this, Lindsay. I don’t mean in a bad way, but his drive-by in Palo Alto can’t be a coincidence.”

  “I don’t know, Cindy,” I said. “I agree it means something, but we may not know all the angles.”

  “Meaning?”

  “He’s a consultant. He knows everything about port security. He could be working some kind of hush-hush job. He might be prohibited from contacting me. Maybe phones are being hacked.”

  “Did you call the people he works for?”

  “I would if I knew who they were.”

  Cindy was undeterred.

  “So keep going with your ticktock,” she said.

  “OK, OK.”

  I told the girls about the mysterious blond woman who’d been seen entering Chan’s room at the Four Seasons. Cindy jumped in, saying, “I posted her picture on our site and got a tip.”

  “The next day,” I said, throwing my hands into the air, “before we could follow up—”