16th Seduction: (Women’s Murder Club 16) (Women's Murder Club)

by James Patterson

  PART THREE

  CHAPTER 49

  A MAN WITH a slight build, thinning sandy-blond hair, and short arms, who could have been in either his late thirties or his early fifties, depending on the light and the angle, stood over the body on the sidewalk.

  The deceased was a real estate broker who had been standing outside his office on Stockton having a smoke when a stranger with a sharp in his hand had come up behind him and jabbed him in the right buttock.

  The broker had turned, given the stranger a questioning look, and grabbed at his chest, making a strangled “Whhaaaa” sound before dropping to his knees and falling facedown on the pavement.

  The man with the blond hair was Edward Lamborghini, as in the Italian racing car, and was known as Neddie Lambo. Neddie started to laugh when the broker dude fell, but cautioned himself to stay cool until he was actually dead. That might take another minute or so.

  Neddie looked around in all directions. No cars had stopped, no pedestrians had walked by, but there were people inside the office waiting for Mr. Homes for Sale to return.

  Sadly, Neddie had to go. Thank you, Mr. Homes. I am free. And you, you’re as good as dead. You’ve got nothing to worry about anymore. Have a good trip.

  Neddie stuffed his weapon into a pocket of his khaki Windbreaker and walked casually away from the dead man, up to the corner of Stockton and Pine. He looked both ways, crossed at the green, and headed west toward home.

  The traffic on Pine was moving, and there were even a few pedestrians making the climb up Powell to the cross street. Neddie began to trot as if he were out for a run. His mind was full of endorphins or serotonin—or some natural jet fuel created by his own special brain. As he ran, he exulted in his latest perfect crime.

  The exhilaration he felt was like flying a kite in a lightning storm. No, it was like being that kite. The risk, the danger, the freedom of flight. He had earned his flights. That’s why he was not just free, he was untouchable.

  As for Mr. Homes, Neddie silently thanked him again for providing this excellent flight of well-being. He ran down the hill of Mason Street, feeling the incomparable rush.

  Breathless, he turned the corner onto Bush Street, dashed in front of a couple who were taking their time, and made it to the other side before the light changed.

  He began walking at a regular pace. When he was a block from home, he stopped in front of the frame shop on the corner and looked through the windows. There was a tall, gold-framed mirror on an easel, and he could see himself and the traffic flowing behind him at the same time. When he was sure no one had followed him, Neddie made his move.

  CHAPTER 50

  THE TWIN BRICK towers of the Hyde Street Psychiatric Center, known to the “clients” as the Hyde and Seek Loony Bin, were vine covered, connected by the one-story administrative block and fronted by a spiked wrought-iron fence.

  An alley ran along the dark side of the North Tower, ten feet wide by a block long, bounded by the blank concrete wall of the Walgreens next door—the corner of healthy and happy.

  Neddie slipped into the alley and went directly to the green metal fire door leading to the Loony Bin’s garbage room.

  The metal door squealed when he opened it, but he was the only one around to hear it. Commercial garbage days were Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, and this being Sunday, the overflow garbage was piled high in plastic bags, with a narrow path between them leading to the tunnel door.

  Neddie unlocked and cracked open the painted wooden door to the tunnel that ran between the Loony Bin and Saint Vartan’s Medical Center, the gigantic teaching hospital across the road.

  Right away he heard the rattle of trolley wheels and saw the orderly pushing a food cart from the kitchen. Neddie popped inside the tunnel and closed the door behind him, hearing the solid click of the lock.

  Another food cart came toward him. The orderly called out, “Hey there, Neddie! How’s our Neddie? Lookin’ good, Neddie.”

  He answered in a practiced, high-pitched falsetto, “Hey there, Mr. Larry. Neddie’s good!”

  He gave the orderly his bright-young-child look, then crossed the width of the fluorescent-lit tunnel and jogged up a flight of stairs to the top landing, which was the lower-level entrance to the North Tower. There was a keypad beside the doorframe, as well as a doorbell. Neddie knew the code to the keypad, but that was his secret. He pressed the button.

  He waited a minute, and then the door swung open and Dr. Hoover was there.

  Once, after Neddie first met Dr. Hoover, the doctor had given him a quizzical look and asked him, “You’re just fooling with me, aren’t you, Edward?”

  Neddie had said, “Fool-fool-fooling with you.” He had grinned brightly, like the brain-damaged, mentally challenged dolt he pretended to be. Hoover had said, “I’ll see you in our session tomorrow, same time, okay, Edward?”

  Neddie had said, “Same time!”

  Dr. Hoover was smart and wary, but that was okay for now. Hoover kept Neddie on his game. If Hoover ever got onto Neddie’s act for real, he would have a surprise heart attack. What a shame. What a loss that would be.

  Now Hoover said, “I was just looking for you, Edward.”

  “I went down for a snack,” Neddie said, clapping his hands.

  “I hear you. But it’s time for dinner now.”

  As Neddie followed Dr. Hoover down the linoleumfloored corridor, past the dispensary, he sneaked the empty vial and the used syringe out of his Windbreaker pocket and dropped them into the needle disposal can outside the nurses’ station.

  A second later he ran, catching up to Dr. Hoover’s longlegged stride, entering the common room and going from there to the noisy, joyful chow room that fronted on Bush Street.

  Neddie squealed “Helloooooos” and waved various hand signals to other patients, cupped the cheeks of Billy the Kid, saying, “Hiya Billy, Billy good?” He pushed Billy the Kid’s wheelchair up to table 6 and took a seat at one end.

  Dinner servers came by with the trolley loaded with big vats of food, ladled out the green beans and the mash, slapped down a side of fish next to the veg. Another server came with the jugs of lemonade, pouring it into upheld plastic cups, orderlies watching on the sides, breaking up the fights.

  The Hyde and Seek Loony Bin was a zoo, all right, populated with some of the most peculiar people in the city.

  Neddie knew how to fit right in. No one would ever suspect him. No one would ever find him here. They thought he was autistic. They thought he had fetal alcohol syndrome or that he’d been dropped on his head. They said he had a low IQ and couldn’t live a productive life on the outside. But Neddie knew better.

  He had been getting away with perfect murders for years. That—that was genius.

  He held up his cup for lemonade, and when it was full to the brim, he sucked it all down.

  Ahhhhhh. It was good to be Neddie Lambo.

  And it was good to be home.

  CHAPTER 51

  YUKI WAS ON the phone with Brady when Len Parisi loomed huge in her office doorway.

  “Jury’s back,” he said.

  “I’ll call you later,” she said to her husband.

  For the last two weeks, sleeping in the same bed with Brady had been impossible. He was the kind of sleeper that could jump awake if the faucet was dripping in the bathroom down the hallway. And she couldn’t sleep without flailing, punching pillows, making a cocoon for herself with the blankets, and talking in her sleep.

  So she’d “slept” on the couch, her mind poring over every word of the days of testimony and her interpretation of things said, not said, questions asked and answered or not asked at all.

  Brady had called this trial her “comeback tour,” and it felt that way to her. The Sci-Tron disaster was a big-league crime that would never be forgotten; nor would the horrible, insane defendant, who was as clever as the very devil. And Yuki felt rusty after the year of pro bono small potatoes.

  Now Len was waiting for her and within the next half h
our they both would learn if the jury’s decision was win, lose, or hung.

  Yuki locked up her handbag and followed Parisi out into the busy hallway, threading the maze of cubicles and taking the elevator down to the second floor.

  A sheriff opened the courtroom door for them, saying, “Good luck.” Yuki smiled, said, “Thanks,” and with Len headed up the center aisle, through the filled gallery toward the prosecution table.

  As heads turned to look at her, Yuki read the anxiety on the faces of the friends and families of the victims, all of whom had suffered the sudden loss of loved ones and were now hoping for swift punishment for Connor Grant.

  Yuki was right there with them.

  She and Len took their seats, noting that the defense table was unoccupied, which was reasonable.

  Grant’s legal adviser, Elise Antonelli, had to bring a change of clothes for the defendant, wait for him to dress, then, along with two armed guards, escort him from the jail on the sixth floor, down the back stairs to the second floor, and through the side entrance to the courtroom.

  Was Grant sweating the verdict?

  Yuki hoped he was drowning in his sweat. She and Len had talked for days about what had gone right and what might have gone wrong in the People’s case. Len, who rarely looked back, had questioned his decision to let Grant’s statement “One suspect. No Evidence” stand rather than repeat what they had already fully refuted. Now, Len seemed to be having second thoughts.

  Yuki had been sure his instincts had been correct and had said so to Len.

  On the other freaking hand, reasonable doubt on the part of one juror could hang the jury.

  Len checked his watch, and just then Antonelli and Grant breezed into the blond-wood-paneled courtroom through the side door. Yuki noted that Grant had aged in the twoplus months he’d spent in jail. His skin was pale. He needed a haircut. His beard was unkempt, and the scar cutting through his top lip was obscured by the growth of his mustache.

  But despite his scruffy appearance, his clothes were clean and pressed and his posture was good. He looked confident.

  Judge Philip R. Hoffman came through the door behind the bench. A low rumble of cross talk moved like an oncoming storm from the back of the gallery forward and was shut down hard by a few good bangs of the judge’s gavel.

  Hoffman said to the bailiff, “Bring in the jury.”

  CHAPTER 52

  AFTER THREE DAYS of deliberation the jurors entered the jury box. Yuki searched their faces for tells. Several of them—the car salesman, Mr. Louis; the software engineer, Ms. Shannon; the elderly, retired haberdasher, Mr. Werner—avoided her gaze.

  Len said, “Jesus,” so softly no one heard him but Yuki, but that one barely audible word chilled the blood pumping at 120 beats per minute through her veins.

  When the main doors were closed and guarded, the bailiff announced that court was in session. The judge said, “I’ve been told that the jury has a verdict.”

  The foreman, Dennis Lockley, stood. He was a chainstore pharmacist, forty-two, married, and the father of two boys.

  “We have, Your Honor.”

  Mr. Lockley passed a folded sheet of paper to the bailiff, who carried it to the bench. The room was utterly silent as Judge Hoffman unfolded the paper, read it, and turned it back over to the bailiff, who returned it to the jury foreman.

  The judge said, “The defendant will rise.”

  Grant and Antonelli stood and faced the jury, and Hoffman asked Lockley to announce the verdict.

  Lockley read the name and number of the case and then said, “In the first count of murder in the second degree in the above entitled action, we find the defendant, Connor Grant, not guilty.”

  Connor Grant’s face lit up with relief. His attorney clapped him on the back as a dissonance of gasps and shocked exclamations sparked in the gallery, caught fire, and exploded.

  The gavel banged repeatedly. The judge issued loud warnings. When the noise quieted at last, he asked the foreman to continue.

  Lockley read out twenty-four more not-guilty verdicts in the deaths of the other victims.

  Yuki was frozen to the seat of her chair. She stared at the jury foreman, and when he sat down, she dimly heard the judge thank the jurors for their service and release Connor Grant from custody.

  But it wasn’t over.

  A man in the gallery shouted the defendant’s name, breaking Yuki’s stunned paralysis. She turned to look at the man who’d shouted and saw him jump to his feet. He was in his early forties, Yuki thought, six feet, husky build, his dark hair slicked down tight.

  He shouted at the former defendant, Connor Grant, “You did it, you bastard. You killed my wife. I’m Master Sergeant Cary Woodhouse. My dear wife was Lisa Woodhouse. Don’t forget me. I’m the one who’s going to make you pay.”

  Grant yelled back, “You’re crazy. I’m an innocent man. I’ve always been an innocent man. Maybe you set off that bomb.”

  The judge’s voice boomed. “Quiet! Court is adjourned. Bailiff, clear the courtroom.”

  Hoffman stood and disappeared through his private doorway, accompanied by the clamor of the crowd as they rushed for the exit.

  Yuki felt Len’s hand encircle her biceps, and she stood up like an automaton. Her mind filled with cases that had gone against her.

  “Yuki, this isn’t on you. You did a fine job. We couldn’t prove what we knew, that’s all. Grant is a smart mother. And a damned lucky one.”

  CHAPTER 53

  IT WAS THE day Connor Grant had been found not guilty. Those of us who’d watched it on the squad room TV, which hung from the ceiling, saw the infuriated mobs that sprang up spontaneously downstairs on Bryant.

  Reporters cornered men and women on the street and asked for their views on the not-guilty verdict of Connor Grant, and were told that the DA was to blame because clearly Connor Grant had blown up Sci-Tron. Not a smidgeon of doubt could be found.

  An old chant was dusted off and repurposed.

  “Hey, hey, ho, ho, Len Parisi’s got to go.”

  Cindy Thomas was one of the reporters on the street. She interviewed the jury foreman, Mr. Dennis Lockley, for the San Francisco Chronicle and as a stringer for NBC.

  Conklin and I were watching her when Brady came out of his office and pulled the side chair out from my desk and straddled it so he had a direct sight line on the monitor.

  On-screen Cindy was shouting her questions over the chaos of horns and chanting around her, and Lockley looked about as comfortable as a man standing in a puddle of gasoline surrounded by chain-smokers.

  Cindy asked, “How did the votes break down?”

  Lockley said, “It was unanimous for acquittal.”

  “No one thought he was guilty?” Cindy asked incredulously.

  Lockley started to walk away. “I didn’t say that,” he said.

  “Mr. Lockley,” Cindy said loudly as he started to cross the street. “What are you saying? People thought he was guilty but couldn’t vote that way?”

  “Right,” said Lockley over his shoulder, while breaking for the opposite side of the street. Jurors had the right to decline post-verdict interviews, and reporters shouldn’t pursue them if they didn’t want to talk.

  Still, reporters noticed Lockley making his getaway and followed him as Cindy summarized her interview for the camera.

  “What I’m hearing, David, is that the jury didn’t find that the case against Connor Grant had been proven beyond a reasonable doubt.”

  This story was repeated all day as other jurors were interviewed. At quarter to four Len Parisi gave a less-thantwo-minute press conference on the steps of the Hall.

  “The verdict was decided by a jury of Mr. Grant’s peers. He was found not guilty. I have to accept that. We all do. Thank you, no questions at this time.”

  I got hold of Yuki, and she filled me in on the whole ghastly post-verdict eruption in courtroom 2A.

  “Not guilty on each of the twenty-five counts,” she told me. “Then this retir
ed army guy got up and he was livid. Cary Woodhouse. His wife, Lisa, had been killed in Sci-Tron, and he threatened to make Grant ‘pay.’ That’s a quote. I thought everyone in the gallery was going to cheer.”

  I took the name of the guy who’d threatened Grant’s life, went to Brady’s office. Brady called Antonelli.

  “Your client needs police protection,” Brady said.

  Antonelli put Grant on the phone, and Brady put him on speaker. Grant said, “I don’t want to see another cop for as long as I live. Get me?”

  “Someone threatened you, Mr. Grant.”

  “I’m not worried,” said Grant.

  Brady threw up his hands. We’d tried. He left for the day at five, which may have been the first time since I’ve known him. I left a minute or two after that. I had to fight off three reporters’ requests for “Just one question, Sergeant” on my way to the car.

  At home I cooked your basic spaghetti with marinara sauce and meatballs for me and Julie. We walked our good dog, after which I bathed Julie, read her a book with kittens and ponies in it, and put her to bed.

  At eight I was starting to relax. I had shut off the TV and was ready for an early night in bed when Brady called.

  There was no acceptable reason to ignore his call.

  I said my name into the phone.

  He said, “Boxer, here’s a no-surprise surprise.”

  I listened as Brady told me that Connor Grant had called him directly. “He says gunshots were fired through his window. That someone is trying to kill him. He wants protection. You heard me. I told him I had wanted to assign cars to his house.”

  “I remember vividly,” I said.

  Brady scoffed. “Well, he’s changed his mind. Done a Uturn. Conklin is on the way over to Bayview. You go, too. Maybe now that he’s scared, he might blurt out something semi-useful.”

  I was wearing fluffy socks and my favorite pajamas. I’d been ten minutes from dreamland. “Okay,” I said. “Okay, okay.”

  I hung up with Brady, called the darling Mrs. Gloria Rose. I asked her, “Will you do a shift with Julie, please? She’s already eaten. She’s asleep.”