12th of Never wmc-12

by James Patterson

  “Here we go,” he said to Yuki.

  Brady opened the car door, reached down, tugged on the latch release, and the trunk popped open. Together, he and Yuki went around to the back of the car. Brady held the flashlight. They peered in.

  “You see that?” Yuki said, pointing to the spare tire. She brought her light in close.

  “Human hair,” he said. “Bloodstained carpeting. And right here?” He moved a section of plastic and felt from the side of the trunk. “This looks like a Beretta P×4 Storm.”

  Chapter 89

  BRADY PARKED ON Sotelo, then walked up the street to the corner of Lopez Avenue. It was about eight in the morning and the nice upscale neighborhood of Forest Hill was just waking up.

  Brady had called ahead, said he needed to clear up a few things, and Keith Herman had said, “Sure. Why don’t you meet me at my office?”

  And Brady had said, “I’m on the way to work. I just need three minutes of your time. It would be a big help to me.”

  Herman had just enough curiosity, or fear, to tip the balance from “no” to “yes.”

  Brady looked at his watch. He was early, which was all to the good. He ascended the front steps of the white colonial house with the pediment and black shutters, rang the door-bell, waited a moment, and then Keith Herman opened the door. Brady introduced himself and followed Herman into a study facing the street.

  Herman offered Brady an armchair and he took a matching chair beside it. Herman leaned back and clasped his hands together, elbows resting on the arms of the chair.

  “What can I help you with, Lieutenant?”

  Lily Herman came into the room. She was wearing jeans and a striped shirt, a blue cardigan. She asked her father if she could get some juice from the refrigerator. He said that she could. To be careful. And to hurry. That the nanny would be coming soon to take her to school. He followed her with his eyes as she left him.

  Herman apologized for the interruption, told Brady to go ahead with his questions.

  Brady knew that Herman had been a practicing down-and-dirty lawyer for twenty years and had a foundation of twenty years of street smarts before that. He opened his coat so that his shoulder holster was exposed and said, “Mr. Herman, I came here alone because I want to have a private chat with you, see if we can get somewhere, just the two of us.”

  Herman’s eyes narrowed. Brady saw from the lawyer’s expression that he suddenly understood that this meeting wasn’t going to be quick or easy. Maybe he suspected a shakedown.

  Brady continued, “You remember ADA Yuki Castellano? She and I went to Bolinas last night.”

  “Is that right?” Herman shot a glance toward the kitchen. Lily was singing to herself.

  “We went to Marcia and Alan Kohl’s house with a search warrant. We found the dungeon where they kept Lily, and they’ve explained that you hired them to take care of her. We have them both in custody now.”

  “What are you charging them with?”

  “Kidnapping. Endangering a minor. A few other charges as we work through their statements.”

  “I see,” Herman said. He looked at Brady. Dropped his eyes to Brady’s gun. Raised them again to Brady’s steady blue eyes. Then he looked at Lily as she came back into the study.

  “Daddy, I forgot to tell you. I used the electric toothbrush this morning. It was fun.”

  “Good girl, Lily,” Herman said. “I need to talk to Mr. Brady in private, okay? Daddy will be right with you.”

  Chapter 90

  THE CHILD TOUCHED her father’s cheek, then went back to the kitchen.

  Herman said, “I’ll testify that the Kohls didn’t abduct Lily, if that’s what you want me to say.”

  “So you brought the child to them?”

  “Well, yes. I did that. It’s not a crime. It was only supposed to be an overnight stay. I was going back in the morning, but I got picked up—”

  “I’m not arresting you for kidnapping.”

  “Arresting me?”

  “I am arresting you for the murder of Jennifer Herman. Anything you say can be used against you. You can call your lawyer, but as I said, I want to let you know where we stand so that you can make it easy on yourself and your daughter. I’m giving you a chance to come in with me and make a statement.”

  “A statement about what? You have nothing on me for anything. Don’t buy anything Alan Kohl says about me. He’s a loser, a … a … desperado. He’ll say anything—”

  “Let me stop you there. We’ve got your car at our forensics lab. Your wife’s blood and hair are in the trunk. The Beretta you bought last year was also in the trunk. It’s been tested against the bullet extracted from your deceased wife’s head. Alan Kohl will testify that he drove you back to this house the night you left Lily with him and Marcia.

  “So you’re going down, Mr. Herman. You make a full statement, including how and where you murdered your wife, you save the people the time and expense of a trial, it will count in your favor. You see that, don’t you?”

  “I’m not saying a word. You can talk to my lawyer, John Kinsela. See you in court.”

  Something fell to the floor in the kitchen. Lily said, “Uh-oh.”

  “If that’s the way you want it, Mr. Herman. Your face will be all over the media again, every single day you’re in court. Just curious. Don’t you think you owe your daughter something? Don’t you think that if you spent the next two hundred years in jail, you still couldn’t pay her back for what you’ve taken from her?”

  Herman looked at Brady, kept a steady gaze.

  Brady stood up, took his cuffs in hand, and said to Herman, “Stand up and put your hands behind you, right now, or I’ll have a half dozen cops in here in ten seconds to drag you out.”

  “And if I make a statement?”

  “I’ll make sure you’re incarcerated at Folsom. There’s a nice little suburb around there. Your mother could move there with Lily.”

  Herman stared out the window, his face expressionless, unreadable. Brady readied himself for whatever was going to happen in the next few seconds. He was watching for furtive movements. If Herman bolted for the kitchen, Brady had to get to him before he grabbed the little girl. If Herman rushed him, he’d have to take the man down.

  Keith Herman stood up, turned around, and put his arms behind his back.

  “Done,” he said.

  Chapter 91

  MACKIE MORALES ASKED Richie, “Have you ever thought about getting married?”

  He said, “Instead of that, why don’t I tell you the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job?”

  She laughed. “I see. Okay. Tell me your funny story.”

  It was their first actual date, Sunday lunch in Sausalito. They were at Scoma’s, a terrific old restaurant right on a pier with a first-class view of the bay, Angel Island, and, of course, the city skyline.

  Mackie had pulled her thick hair into what she said was a “side pony,” and her gold cross glinted in the V of her blue pullover. Rich couldn’t decide where to put his eyes. She was just entirely adorable.

  He said, “So four new mosques had opened in town and we were supposed to go around, get on a first-name basis with the imams, you know, facilitate community relations.”

  The waiter came over with their order—a chilled shellfish platter, iced tea, and freshly baked bread. Rich passed Morales the basket of rolls and she took one.

  “Go on with your story,” she said. He could tell that she wanted the story to be good.

  “Okay. So we’re at a mosque and one of the imams comes up to me and my partner and says he’s got some information on a possible terrorist threat. And he wants to give us the info, but not there. He says he has to be really careful.”

  “Oh, my God,” Morales said, eyes fixed on his.

  “So we arrange to meet him at a little park after morning prayers and whatnot, and I check out a car from impound, looks nothing like a cop car.”

  “Like a sports car?”

  “Exac
tly. A BMW. Red. And so me and my partner drive to the park, and there’s the imam sitting on a bench, wearing his robe and his cap and reading the Koran. And my partner waves to him like to signal him, the plan being we’ll park the car in the shadows and talk. But the imam doesn’t see us. And so we go around the block three times, trying to signal him, and he looks right past us.”

  “Humph,” said Morales. “That must’ve been frustrating.”

  “Now, at the same time we’re going around and around, this almost retired cop drives to the park in his black-and-white, parks at the far corner under the trees. He’s just running out his time before getting his pension. And so he’s sitting in the car reading his fishing magazines—and I see this whole thing unfolding.”

  They were cracking crab legs with their hands, putting shells in a bowl.

  “Hang on a sec,” Morales said. She reached over, knocked a bit of crab off his chin.

  Rich grabbed her wrist, kissed her palm, released her hand, and went on with his story. Mackie colored, smiled up at him, and he smiled back at her.

  “So the old-timer is reading Outdoor Life,” Richie said, “and the imam sees him and jumps off the bench and starts running toward the cruiser. Now, understand, this sergeant knows nothing about this. He hears the door open behind him, jerks his head around, sees this guy in Middle Eastern clothes dive into the backseat.”

  Morales was shaking her head and laughing into her napkin.

  Rich said, “And we can see all this going down and there’s nothing we can do. The old-timer goes flying out of the car, screaming that there’s a suicide bomber in his car, and ‘Everyone run.’”

  Morales was laughing with tears in her eyes. “Richie, no, please.”

  “Yeah, and we get the imam out of the backseat and calm the cop down and we get the info and turn it over to the FBI. And they tell us that the intel involved New York City, and we never hear another word about it.

  “And that, since you asked, is the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job.”

  “Good story.” Morales dried her eyes, looked at him, and said, “This is nice, Rich. I’m getting a little bit crazy about you.”

  He couldn’t stop looking at her. Was he available? He wasn’t sure. It was too soon after his breakup with Cindy to get involved and yet he really, really liked Morales.

  He said, “Let me see a picture of Benjamin.”

  She went for her purse, which was looped onto the back of her chair, opened her wallet, and pushed the photo toward him.

  “Oh, man. He is a good-looking boy.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Where is his father?”

  “So you want me to tell you about the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job?”

  She grinned.

  He said, “Come here.”

  He pulled her into a hug, her hair tickling his nose, her arm going around him, both of them still sitting at the table. He kissed the top of her head and said, “We’ve got time to get into the deep stuff.”

  “Yes,” she said. “I want this to take a lot of time.”

  Richie held her, thought how good this felt, and that he couldn’t wait for more.

  Chapter 92

  IT WAS THE end of another torturous night in the Saint Francis pediatric oncology wing. As light slashed through the windows, Joe and I were still waiting for something good to happen. Dr. Sebetic and his colleagues had stuck pins and needles into our daughter, ran her small body through imaging machines, sent her fluids out to labs, but nothing had yet been concluded. I’m a good interrogator, but I got nothing from the medical staff.

  And so two days after we checked Julie into Saint Francis, the death sentence that would not quit still hung over her precious head.

  Right then, Joe was sleeping beside me in our private hospital room and Julie was dozing fitfully in her incubator, within arm’s reach of the bed.

  Neither of them stirred when my phone rang.

  Brady said, “How’re you all doing, Boxer?”

  He actually said “ya’ll,” his voice sugared with a trace of drawl from his years in Florida.

  I told him there was still no news and then asked, “You need something, Lieutenant?”

  “Someone wants to talk to you. Here’s a hint. He’s with the FBI. A very big cheese. I’ve been told he’s got a private line to Washington in his pocket.”

  Brady patched me through to Parker’s phone, after which Parker and I went a few rounds. As before, Parker told me that if I didn’t help him with this world-class dirtbag, Randy Fish, the case would always be half closed, half solved, and the remains of the dead girls would never be buried in their family plots.

  That would be a crime, to be sure, and that’s the part that always got to me.

  “I ran the new names he gave me through Missing Persons and they’re all Fish’s type. Every one of them is a dark-haired young female going to college on the West Coast. We’ve got another girl from San Francisco, Debra Andie Lane, eighteen. We had never connected her to Fish until he told me he’d killed her.”

  “How exactly am I going to help you, Ron? You’ve got the FBI at your disposal. I’m a midlevel homicide cop. On leave. And all he’s done is mess with me.”

  “The fish man asks for you. All the time. He has conversations with you when you’re nowhere around. You can help with the force of your personality. By withholding and giving praise. Dial it up, cut it off; that’ll work with him.”

  “You believe that?”

  “Yes, if there’s any chance in the world.”

  “Well, thanks for your faith in me, but I’m done with the fish man. Please. Cross me off your call list until further notice.”

  I told Parker that yes, I was sure, said good-bye, and flung myself back onto the bed.

  Joe opened his eyes, ran his hand over his stubble. “Done with what?”

  I told him.

  He rolled toward me, put his arm over my waist. “Give it some thought.”

  “No.”

  What was there to think about? I had to stay near Julie. I had to be right here if a life-or-death decision had to be made.

  “Julie is getting the best of care, Lindsay. I’ll be here all day and we’ll both be here all night. I’ll call you, I promise, the second I know anything. You don’t function well when you can’t take action. You’re driving yourself crazy and I hope you’ll understand that I love you and I say this in the kindest possible way. You’re driving me a little crazy, too.”

  “Really.”

  “Randy Fish is a very big deal, and whatever you can do to clear the case, that’s what you should do.”

  We argued in whispers for several minutes, but when Joe talked about giving peace of mind to those lost girls’ families, he pushed my buttons, as Ron Parker had done.

  “You’re going to nail him this time,” Joe said. “I just know it.”

  “You know me, Joe. I’m sure as hell going to try.”

  Chapter 93

  I MET CONKLIN up on Bryant, in front of the Hall. He had the keys to a squad car and also an extra coffee and a chocolate brownie, which I gladly accepted.

  “Where to?” he asked, folding his lanky frame behind the steering wheel.

  It was about noon when we got on the freeway. A cold front was forming, and the marine layer filled the roadbed from shoulder to shoulder. I knew every twist, turn, and lane change by heart, and so the slow drivers and the fog didn’t worry me.

  I just wanted to get there, let Randy Fish do his thing, and get back to my family.

  Two hours later, under a dull afternoon sun, we parked in the Atwater penitentiary’s north lot. Conklin and I met Ron Parker at the front gate, then a group of us trudged down cement steps, through echoing corridors, through a gauntlet of profanity-spewing prisoners, and at last confronted Randolph Fish, who was seated behind a triple layer of Plexiglas.

  Fish looked bad—bruised, small, and broken. If you didn’t know better, you’d think that
he was as dangerous as a sparrow.

  “Tell me about Debra Lane,” I said.

  Fish didn’t look at Parker or Conklin or the menacing, muscle-bound guards.

  “Debby Lane,” he said to me, “was a cute girl, but she had no fight in her, Lindsay. She wouldn’t talk to me. She didn’t bargain. She just screamed until I couldn’t take it.”

  I stared at him. I’m pretty sure my face was frozen in horror as Fish complained about his teenage victim.

  “She just screamed and screamed,” Fish said again. “I hardly touched her. I wanted to, but I just ended up cutting off her air. She was a bad choice, I have to admit.”

  Conklin was also looking at Fish, but without expression. However, out of the killer’s sight, my partner was clenching his fists, punching his thighs. I knew he was flashing on the remains of Fish’s victims, wanting to do something illegal to get Fish’s head on straight. Knock out a few teeth. Shatter a few bones.

  Well, that’s what I was thinking, anyway.

  Fish told me, “I locked up Debby’s body in a self-storage facility out by Pier 96. I was going to dispose of her later, but you changed my plans for me, Lindsay. You remember. You caught me outside the movie theater. Where you and I met for the first time.”

  “Why should we believe you?” I said. “You’re a good liar, Randy. First class. In fact, when have you ever told the truth?”

  “It’s in my best interest to help you, Lindsay. Because I want something—and telling you the truth is how I’m going to get it.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I want to prove to myself that I can change.”

  I looked into his deep brown eyes, something a lot of women had done while begging for their lives. Despite Ron Parker’s magical belief in me, I had no leverage. Fish would take us to Debra Lane’s body. Or he wouldn’t.

  “Let’s go,” I said.

  Chapter 94

  WE WERE BRINGING up the rear of the Randy Fish motorcade, the cherubic serial killer and his armed guards bumping along ahead of us on the patchy road.