Women's Murder Club [10] 10th Anniversary

by James Patterson

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. Dr. Martin, let me make sure I understand your testimony.

  “You were having an affair. You admit your husband was habitually unfaithful. And yet you maintain that you loved him. You were photographed with a known hit man. You found your husband’s gun—”

  Yuki made a gun with her thumb and forefinger, moved in toward the witness, and from five feet away pointed her “gun” at Candace Martin, saying, “And when you had an opportunity to kill him, you shot him dead.”

  Yuki squeezed the imaginary trigger and jerked the imaginary gun as if it were kicking back. And she ignored Hoffman, who was shouting his objections, and ignored the bang of the gavel—a sound as effective as if the bullets she’d fired with her hand were real.

  She spoke over the commotion, saying, “And so, Dr. Martin, after your husband was dead, you fired a few rounds into the air to explain away the gunshot residue on your hands. Isn’t that true?”

  “Your Honor,” Hoffman shouted, “Ms. Castellano just gave her summation. Apart from her disingenuous ‘Isn’t that true?’ there wasn’t a question in that entire herd of bull,” Hoffman said. “I move that this entire cross-examination be stricken—”

  “For God’s sake,” Candace Martin said, gripping the arms of the witness box, leaning forward, the cords of her neck standing out as she shouted at Yuki over her lawyer’s voice.

  “If I were going to kill Dennis, why would I do it in my own home, where my children would see it? This travesty is the fault of bad police work and insane, rabid prosecution. Take a look at yourself, Ms. Castellano. I was angry at Dennis, but I didn’t kill him. Just like I would never kill you.”

  Chapter 71

  THE JUDGE SLAMMED down his gavel again and again, bellowing, “Order! Mr. Hoffman, get your client under control,” he commanded, which only added fuel to the conflagration that was already consuming the courtroom.

  Yuki stood in the well with her hands clasped in front of her, hoping the disturbance would rage on.

  Even if her cross was stricken, even if she was fined, she had turned a blowtorch on Candace Martin’s cool demeanor. The doctor’s vehement protests that she wouldn’t kill her husband had lost their punch.

  The motive to kill was there.

  Her going ballistic had demonstrated to the jury that she could have lost her cool and gunned him down.

  The judge banged his gavel once more, and at last the ruckus died down. He straightened his glasses, peered down at Yuki, and said, “Anything else, Ms. Castellano? Or have you done enough for one day?”

  Yuki said, “I have nothing further for the witness.”

  Hoffman said, “Redirect, Your Honor.”

  But the judge wasn’t listening anymore. His attention had gone to his cell phone. His face was pale.

  A second time Hoffman told the judge that he wanted to reexamine the witness.

  “It’ll have to wait,” said Judge LaVan. “I have to visit someone at the hospital, immediately.

  “Dr. Martin, you may step down. Court is adjourned for the day. Ms. Castellano. Mr. Hoffman. Be in my chambers at eight a.m. tomorrow morning. Don’t be late.

  “We’ll pick up the pieces then.”

  Chapter 72

  I WALKED INTO Brady’s office first thing in the morning, hoping to have the quickest meeting on record.

  Brady put down his phone and said, “Boxer, I’m going to have to pull you off Richardson and send it down to Crimes Against Persons. Look at what’s come in in the past week,” he said, tilting his chin toward the whiteboard in the center of the squad room, legible through the glass walls of his office.

  Six open cases were listed in black letters. Closed cases were always written in red. There were no closed cases.

  “Lieutenant, we’re getting some real movement on Richardson,” I said, pulling out a chair, sitting down across from the big guy. His sunny hair was pulled back, but there was no wedding band on his ring finger. I thought about Yuki, no bigger than a bird, wrapped in the arms of this cop I barely knew, and I was afraid for her.

  Yuki was a brilliant, gutsy prosecutor—and at the same time an absolute loser at picking men.

  Brady was staring back at me, waiting for me to speak.

  “Quentin Tazio found a connection that could crack this case,” I said.

  “QT’s our computer consultant, right?”

  “He’s the best.”

  I told Brady that through the wizardry of telephony and electronic databases, QT had tracked a phone call to Jordan Ritter from the Lake Merced area during the time Avis Richardson was delivering her baby.

  “According to Avis, she asked one of the two women who had assisted in the delivery to lend her a phone so she could call her boyfriend.

  “The phone used to call Jordan Ritter belongs to Antoinette Burgess, age forty, used to be a schoolteacher. She lives in Taylor Creek, Oregon. Population three thousand forty-two.”

  Brady said, “You think Burgess may have the baby?”

  “Avis says Burgess was there when the baby was born.”

  “I’m starting to feel a little hopeful. Seem okay to be hopeful, Boxer?”

  I nodded and told Brady that Burgess didn’t have a record and that I wanted to meet her. If she had the baby, I would get him out of Taylor Creek before sirens and helicopter and SWAT made an intervention dangerous.

  “Conklin is going to stay here and work on locating Avis and her boyfriend,” I told Brady. “Claire Washburn is coming with me. We’re both working off the meter.”

  “Work on the meter,” Brady said. “Let’s wrap this up. I’ll contact the local authorities in whatever the largest town is near Taylor Creek. I’ll do it now.”

  “Lieutenant. With all due respect, I think we should get a feel for the situation first.”

  Brady and I went a few rounds about the logistics, but I could tell he was excited. After I assured him that I would call him as soon as I reached Taylor Creek and give him postings throughout the day, he gave me the green light.

  I got out of Brady’s office, relieved that I was still on the case. I knew that this one lead to a woman who lived in Oregon was probably my last chance to find Avis Richardson’s missing child.

  And it might be the baby’s last chance, too.

  Book Three

  ROAD TRIP

  Chapter 73

  I MET CLAIRE in the parking lot outside the Medical Examiner’s Office. She piled in next to me in the front seat of the Explorer with a diaper bag doing duty as a picnic carryall.

  Like me, Claire hadn’t gone on a road trip in more than a year. Unlike me, Claire was in a cheery mood.

  I punched “Main Street, Taylor Creek, Oregon” into the Explorer’s nav system and set out toward the Bay Bridge and I-80 East. It was a four-hundred-and-thirty-mile trip, and I planned to make it all in one day.

  By this time tomorrow, I hoped to have Baby Boy Richardson in my care. I could almost see him all bundled up, lying in his car seat.

  “I brought you a fried-egg sandwich,” Claire told me as we passed the Berkeley exit and got a foggy-morning Bay view across the marina to the west. “I had the deli man put a slice of ham in there. And here’s your coffee. Extra milky.”

  “You’re a sweetie, ya know?”

  “I do know,” Claire said, chuckling. Man, she was glad to be getting out of town. By the time we hit the interstate, Claire was in full throat about her baby and my goddaughter, Ruby Rose Washburn.

  She spared no detail in singing out stories about Ruby’s adventures in the pots-and-pans cabinet, her first taste of hot dog with relish, and how Ruby’s daddy was her favorite person.

  “Edmund plays the cello for her,” Claire told me as I got in the Fas Trak lane. We crossed the Carquinez Bridge. I took in the view of San Pablo Bay and Mare Island, the site of the old Mare Island shipyard and the sugar refinery in the town of Crockett to the east.

  “She lies in the puffy chair when he practices and coos along with the m
usic. She loves Vivaldi, Edmund says. It’s all so delicious, Lindsay.”

  “Uh-huh,” I said. I couldn’t say more. I love Ruby Rose. I was looking for a missing baby. And I had babies on my mind.

  I ached to have a baby with Joe. I wanted what Claire had—hot dogs and pots and pans and cooing babies. I wanted to hear Joe singing amazing arias to our child in Italian.

  I didn’t even know they were there, but salty tears leaked out of my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. I palmed them away, but Claire caught me in the act.

  “What is it, Lindsay? What’s wrong?”

  “Just tired,” I said.

  “After all these years, you still think you can get away with lying to me?”

  “No. No, I don’t.”

  “So, what is it?”

  I told my best bud, “Once a month I get body-slammed by the loss of another opportunity, you know? Getting married makes me want a baby more than ever. It’s come over me like a freakin’ baby-love tsunami,” I said.

  “You and Joe have been trying?”

  I nodded.

  “For how long?”

  “A little while. Three or four months.”

  “That’s nothing,’ ” Claire said.

  By then we were on Interstate 5 about one hundred miles north of San Francisco. Knee-high thickets of scrub flanked both sides of the freeway, and wire fences separated the road from the plains of parched grass that stretched to the horizon.

  The word “barren” came to mind.

  “You having PMS right now?” Claire asked me.

  “Yuh-huh,” I said.

  Claire reached over and gave my shoulder a shake. “You’re getting a chocolate bar at the next gas station,” she said.

  I croaked, “What is that? Doctor’s orders?”

  Claire laughed. “Yes, it is, smarty-pants,” she said. “It most definitely is.”

  Chapter 74

  ANY COP WOULD SAY that emotional attachment messes with your objectivity. You just have to accept that innocent people get hurt, raped, scammed, kidnapped, and murdered every day.

  But if you’re a cop and you don’t bring everything you’ve got to nailing the bad guys, what the hell is the point? For the same time and money, you might as well be punching tickets on a train.

  We gassed up the Explorer outside Williams, then had lunch at Granzella’s, a restaurant that looked like a feed store on the outside and a hunting lodge inside. Claire and I sat at a table under the mounted heads of deer and bear as well as zebras, water buffalo, and long-horned goats.

  Along with the exotic taxidermy, Granzella’s specialized in a very nice linguine with a spicy red sauce. While we ate, I groused about Avis.

  “She’s wasted more than a week of our time, Claire. And she’s such a liar, even this could be a flyin’ goose chase.”

  Claire clucked sympathetically as I ranted, then raised the heat by reminding me about the last big case we’d worked together. Pete Gordon, a bona fide psycho killer, had murdered four young moms and five little kids a few months ago in a murder spree that had torn me and Claire to pieces.

  I went to the bathroom, sat on the rust-stained throne, and got some major weeping out of my system. Then I washed my face, came out, and said to Claire, “I’ve got the check. Let’s go, butterfly.”

  We were back on the road again by a quarter past two. About two hundred miles north of San Francisco, the freeway crossed a section of Shasta Lake.

  For the first time in a week, I stopped thinking of babies. The sight of pink-and-yellow sandstone banks rising from the impossibly vivid bands of sea-green and peacock-blue water simply blew everything else out of my mind.

  And then sightseeing was over. Surely we would find Avis’s baby boy. Surely we would.

  We pulled into Taylor Creek at 5 p.m.

  It’s a one-traffic-light town, a typical small town in the great northwest. Main Street was a row of western facades from the late 1800s. Brick buildings that were once banks or warehouses now housed boutiques and small storefront businesses.

  Cars crawled along the main drag. Streetlights and headlights came on as the sunlight faded to a streak of pink.

  “I want to drive by Antoinette Burgess’s house,” I said to Claire. “Get a fix on the place.”

  The disembodied voice of the GPS guided us to Clark Lane, a narrow, tree-lined street with a sign reading DEAD END. Green picket fences edged the front yards, and behind the fences was an assortment of homes from different decades—Victorians, ramblers, Craftsmans, and ranches.

  The house belonging to Antoinette Burgess was a cedar-shingled A-frame with a wraparound deck and a satellite dish on the roof. I saw no lights on inside the house and no car in the driveway.

  I parked the Explorer on a pile of fallen leaves at the curb, and Claire observed, “Looks like no one’s home, Lindsay.”

  I thought, Excellent opportunity to poke around.

  I turned off the headlights and said, “Be right back,” and got out of the car.

  Chapter 75

  THE FRONT YARD was unkempt; the grass hadn’t been mown, and the leaves hadn’t been raked. To my right, a weedy gravel driveway flowed past the house to an open, freestanding two-car garage.

  I flicked on my flashlight and proceeded down the driveway, the pea stone and dry leaves crunching loudly underfoot.

  The garage smelled of motor oil, and there was grease on the floor. I flicked my light across a rowboat in the rafters, stacks of plastic tubs, and cartons of what looked like motorcycle parts: sprockets, valves, and brake shoes.

  There was nothing of interest here.

  I left the garage and headed toward the back of the house. Flashing my beam through the multipane windows. I could make out worn furniture, a woodstove, and a baby’s car seat on the kitchen table.

  My eyes fixed on the car seat. It was blue and it was empty. My heart rate jacked up another twenty beats a minute as I put my hand on the doorknob and twisted.

  The door was unlocked—but a half second before I pushed the door open, I saw a tiny red flashing light reflected in the microwave door across the room.

  Burgess had an alarm system, and the house was armed.

  I let go of the doorknob, and at that moment, I heard the distant sputtering and roar of motorcycles, a sound that got louder the closer it got to Antoinette Burgess’s house.

  The bikes were coming to this house, I was sure of it. I had to get out of here.

  I turned off my flashlight and retraced my steps by the waning glow of twilight. Claire buzzed down the window and called out to me, “You hear that, Linds?”

  “Couldn’t miss it,” I said.

  I pulled myself up into the driver’s seat and started the engine as a stream of seven or eight single headlights drew closer.

  My wheels whinnied as I jammed on the gas, spun out, and left the curb in a sharp U-turn.

  “That was smooth. You think anyone could possibly have noticed us?” Claire asked as she gripped the dash.

  “Hey, that’s me. Subtle as a jackhammer.”

  We passed the motorcycle cavalcade coming toward us and I continued up the street with my eyes on the rearview mirror. Bikes wheeled up to the Burgess house and turned down the driveway toward the garage.

  Was Antoinette Burgess in that motorcade?

  Where was the baby?

  I glanced back at the mirror and saw the silhouette of a biker who had stopped at the entrance to the Burgess driveway. The bike was still there and the biker was still astride it as I took the next right turn and sped away.

  Crap.

  It looked like someone had taken down my plate number.

  Chapter 76

  THE HOTEL CLEARWATER was a faded blue two-story Victorian facing Main Street, with a second-floor exterior balcony supported by columns. It looked right out of the Wild West or maybe a movie featuring Sundance and Butch.

  Claire and I entered the lobby, which hadn’t seen any changes since the 1920s. I took in the Victorian floc
k wallpaper, satin-covered armchairs, and sepia photographs of long-dead people in ornate frames on the walls.

  The man behind the desk was also a relic of earlier times. Not from another century, but definitely from another time. His thinning gray ponytail and frameless specs made me think the hotel had been named for Creedence Clearwater Revival, a band I liked from the ’70s.

  I signed the register and credit-card receipt and collected the keys. As Claire called home, the desk clerk told me his name was Buck Keene and that he owned the place.

  We chatted about the weather and the local restaurants, and then I said, “I’m trying to look someone up. Maybe you know her? Antoinette Burgess?”

  “Everyone knows everyone here. Sure, I know Toni. She’s the president of Devil Girlz—with a z. It’s a motorcycle club, girls only. They mainly work as bouncers for one of the saloons in Winchester.”

  “She has a friend—Sandy someone?”

  The man with the gray ponytail jerked back as if he’d said too much or I’d put ammonia under his nose.

  “You’re a cop,” he said. “I should have figured as much.” He opened a drawer to show me his sheriff’s badge, and I showed him my shield.

  “Is Toni in trouble?” Keene asked.

  “Not at all. I just want to talk with her about an ongoing investigation.”

  “Then find another source,” Keene told me. “She’s had a rough time, but she’s clean. Getting her life straightened out. Being questioned by the cops…” Keene shook his head. “Checkout is at noon tomorrow.”

  The bathtub in my room had claw feet. The towel rack was brass, and there was a basket of toiletries on the pedestal sink. I ran the hot water, poured some bath salts into the tub, and called Conklin.

  “Antoinette Burgess is in a motorcycle gang called Devil Girlz,” I told him. “Outlaw type, I’m guessing.”