Women's Murder Club [03] 3rd Degree

by James Patterson

  The professor was there, outfitted in a tweed jacket and white linen shirt, entertaining a coed with flowing red hair.

  “Party’s over,” I said.

  “Ah, Madam Lieutenant.” He smiled. That condescending accent, Etonian or Oxfordian or whatever the hell it was. “I was just counseling Annette here on how Foucault says that the same forces which historically depress class affect gender, too.”

  “Well, class is over, Red.” I flashed the student an “I don’t want to see you in here in about ten seconds” look. It took her about that long to gather her books and leave. To her credit, Red flashed me a middle finger at the door. I returned the favor.

  “I’m delighted to see you again.” Lemouz seemed not to mind and pushed back in his chair. “Given the sad affairs on the news this morning, I fear the subject is politics—not women’s development.”

  “I think I misjudged you, Lemouz.” I remained standing. “I thought you were just some pompous two-bit agitator, and you turn out to be a real player.”

  Lemouz crossed his legs and gave me a condescending smile. “I’m not sure I understand what you mean.”

  I took out the envelope with Santos’s photos.

  “What I’m really getting a kick out of, Lemouz, is that I’m what’s keeping your ass away from Homeland Security. I pass along your name, with your public statements, the next time I see you, it’ll be in a cell.”

  Lemouz leaned back in his chair, still with an amused smile. “And you’re warning me, why, Lieutenant?”

  “Who said I am warning you?”

  His expression changed. He had no idea what I had on him. I liked that.

  “What I find amusing”—Lemouz shook his head—“is how your blessed Constitution is so blind to people in this country who are wearing a chador or who have the wrong accent, yet so high and mighty about the threat to a free society when it comes to a couple of greedy MBAs and a pretty D.A.”

  I pretended I hadn’t even heard what he just said.

  “There’s something I want you to look at, Lemouz.”

  I opened the envelope and spread the FBI photos of Stephen Hardaway across the desk.

  Lemouz shrugged. “I don’t know. Perhaps I’ve seen him…. I don’t know where. Is he a student here?”

  “You weren’t listening, Lemouz.” I dropped another photo in front of him. A second. And a third. The ones taken by Santos and Martelli. Showing Hardaway standing with him, one with his arm draped across the professor’s shoulder. “How do I find him, Lemouz? How?”

  He shook his head. “I don’t know. These photos are from some time ago. I believe he was a professor detained after nine-eleven. Last fall. He hung around a couple of our rallies. I haven’t seen him since. I don’t actually know the man.”

  “That’s not good enough,” I pressed.

  “I don’t know. That’s the truth, Lieutenant. He was from up north somewhere, as I remember. Eugene? Seattle? He hung around for a while, but it all seemed to bore him.”

  For once, I believed Lemouz. “What name was he going under?”

  “Not Hardaway. Malcolm something. Malcolm Dennis, I think. I don’t know where he is now. No idea.”

  There was part of me that liked seeing Lemouz’s slick, superior veneer crack. “I want to know one more thing. And this stays between us. Okay?”

  Lemouz nodded. “Of course.”

  “The name August Spies. You know it?”

  Lemouz blinked. The color came back to his face. “That’s what they’re calling themselves?”

  I sat down and pushed myself close to him. We had never let the name out before. And he knew. I could see it on his face.

  “Tell me, Lemouz. Who are the August Spies?”

  Chapter 74

  “HAVE YOU EVER HEARD of the Haymarket Massacre?” he asked me, talking as if I were one of his students.

  “You mean in Chicago?” I said.

  “Very good, Lieutenant.” Lemouz nodded. “To this day, there is a statue there. To mark it. On May first, 1886, there was a massive labor demonstration up Michigan Avenue. The greatest gathering of labor to that point in the history of the United States. Eighty thousand workers, women and children too. To this day, May Day is celebrated as labor’s official holiday around the globe. Everywhere, of course,” he said with a smirk, “but in the United States.”

  “Cut to the chase. I don’t need the politics.”

  “The demonstration was peaceful,” Lemouz went on, “and over the next couple of days, more and more workers went out on strike and rallied. Then, on the third day, the police fired into the crowd. Two protestors were killed. The next day another demonstration was organized. At Haymarket Square. Randolph and Des Plaines Streets.

  “Angry speeches blasted the government. The mayor ordered the police to disperse the crowd. One hundred seventy-six Chicago cops entered the square in a phalanx and stormed the crowd, wielding their nightsticks. Then the police opened fire. When the dust settled, seven police and four demonstrators lay dead.

  “The police needed scapegoats, so they rounded up eight labor leaders, some of whom were not even there that day.”

  “Where is this heading?”

  “One of them was a teacher named August Spies. They tried and hanged them all. By the neck. Until dead. Later on, Spies was shown not to have even been at Haymarket. He said, as he stood on the scaffold, ‘If you think that by hanging us you can stamp out the labor movement, then hang us. The ground is on fire where you stand. Let the voice of the people be heard.’”

  Lemouz stared deeply into my eyes. “A moment barely recorded in the history of your country, Lieutenant, but one that would inspire. One that apparently has.”

  Chapter 75

  PEOPLE WERE GOING TO DIE here soon. Quite a lot of people, actually.

  Charles Danko sat pretending to read the Examiner underneath the giant fountain in the sparkling glass atrium of the Rincon Center just off Market Street, downtown near the Bay Bridge. From above him, an eighty-five-foot plume of water splashed breathtakingly into a shallow pool.

  Americans like to feel awe, he thought to himself—they liked it in their movies, their pop art, and even their shopping centers. So I’ll make them feel awe. I’ll make them feel in awe of death.

  It would be busy here today, Danko knew. The Rincon Center’s restaurants were getting ready for the surge of the lunch crowd. A thousand or more escapees from law firms and real estate trusts and financial advisers around the Financial District.

  Too bad this can’t stretch out a little longer, Charles Danko thought, and sighed, the regret of someone who has waited such a long time for the moment. The Rincon Center had proved to be one of his favorite places in San Francisco.

  Danko didn’t acknowledge the well-dressed black man who picked out a place beside him facing the fountain. He knew the man was a veteran of the Gulf War. Despondent ever since. Dependable, though perhaps a little high-strung.

  “Mal said I could call you ‘Professor.’” The black spoke out of the side of his mouth.

  “And you are Robert?” Danko asked.

  The man nodded. “Robert I am.”

  A woman started to play on a grand piano in the center of the atrium. Every day at ten to twelve. A melody from Phantom of the Opera began to fill the gigantic space.

  “You know who to look for?” Danko asked.

  “I know,” the man said, assured. “I’ll do my job. You don’t have to worry about me. I’m a very good soldier.”

  “It must be the right man,” Danko said. “You’ll see him come into the square at about twenty after twelve. He’ll cross it, maybe drop some change off for the pianist. Then he’ll go into Yank Sing.”

  “You seem awfully sure he’ll be here.”

  Danko finally looked at the man and smiled. “You see that plume of water, Robert? It falls from a height of precisely eighty-five point five feet. I know this because having sat in this spot for a very long time, I have calculated the exact angl
e of an imaginary line stretching from the center of the pool, and the corresponding right angle created at its base. From there, it was easy to extrapolate its height. You know how many days I’ve sat and watched this fountain, Robert? Don’t you worry, he’ll be there.”

  Charles Danko stood up. He left behind the briefcase. “I thank you, Robert. You are doing something very brave. Something that only a small few will ever commend you for. Good luck, my friend. You’re a hero today.” And you’re serving my purpose as well.

  Chapter 76

  ON A DANK, DRIZZLY AFTERNOON in Highland Park, Texas, we said good-bye to Jill. I had said good-bye to people I loved before. But I had never felt so empty or numb. And never so cheated.

  The temple was a modern brick-and-glass structure with a steep-angled sanctuary filled with light. The rabbi was a woman, and Jill would’ve liked that. Everyone flew down. Chief Tracchio, D.A. Sinclair. Some associates from the office. Claire, Cindy, and me. A group of girls from high school and college Jill had kept in touch with over the years. Steve was there, of course, though I couldn’t bear to speak to him.

  We took our seats, and an aria from Turandot, Jill’s favorite, was sung by a local choir.

  Bennett Sinclair said a few words. He praised Jill as the most dedicated prosecutor on his staff. “People said she was tough. And she was tough. But not so tough that respect and humanity were ever casualties in how she conducted herself. Most of us have lost a good friend”—he pressed his lips—“but the city of San Francisco is going to miss one hell of a lawyer.”

  A classmate from Stanford showed a picture of Jill on the women’s soccer team that went to the national finals, and made the crowd laugh when she said it didn’t take long to know who really had it together, as Jill was the only one on the team who joked that “doubling up” meant carrying two majors.

  I got up and spoke briefly. “Everyone knew Jill Meyer Bernhardt as this self-assured, achieving winner. Top of her law school class. Strongest conviction rate on the D.A.’s staff. Free-climbed the Sultan’s Spire in Moab,” I said. “I knew her for all those things, too, but mostly as a friend whose deepest inner wish wasn’t about convictions or big cases but simply to bring a child into this world. That was the Jill I loved best, the real Jill.”

  Claire played the cello. She slowly climbed the platform and sat there for a while, then the choir joined in the background in a hauntingly beautiful version of “Loving Arms,” one of Jill’s favorite songs. How many times we used to sing that song, meeting after work at Susie’s, straining in margarita-drenched harmony. I watched Claire close her eyes, and the tremors of the cello and the softly singing voices in the background were the perfect tribute to Jill.

  As the final verse began, the pallbearers picked up the casket, and Jill’s family reluctantly rose to follow.

  And as they did, a few of us began to clap our hands. Slowly at first, as the procession walked by. Then one by one, everyone joined in.

  As the casket neared the rear doors, the pallbearers stopped and held it for a few seconds, as if to make sure Jill could hear her tribute.

  I was looking at Claire. Tears were streaming down my face so hard, I thought they would never stop. I wanted to shout out, Go, Jill…. Claire returned to her seat and squeezed my hand. Then Cindy squeezed the other.

  And I thought to myself, I’ll find the bastard, Jill. You sleep easy.

  Chapter 77

  IT WAS AFTER MIDNIGHT by the time Cindy got home. Her eyes were raw, her body numb, and she wondered if she would ever recover from losing Jill.

  She knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep. The answering machine was blinking. She’d been out of touch all day. She ought to check her e-mail, maybe just to get Jill off her mind.

  She went to her computer and checked out the Chronicle’s front page. The story of the day was ricin. Jill’s COD had gotten out. Her death, coupled with Bengosian’s, had put the city in a panic. How easily could ricin be obtained? What were the symptoms? What if it got into the water supply? Were there antidotes? How many people could die in San Francisco?

  She was about to check her e-mail when an Instant Message bubbled through. Hotwax1199.

  Don’t waste your time trying to trace this, the message began.

  Cindy froze.

  No need to even write it down. It belongs to a sixth-grader in Dublin, Ohio. He doesn’t even know it’s gone. His name is Marion Delgado, the message continued. Do you know who I am?

  Yes, Cindy wrote back. I know who you are. You’re the son of a bitch who killed my friend Jill. Why are you contacting me?

  There’s going to be another strike, the answer appeared.

  Tomorrow. Not like before. A lot of innocent people are going to die. Completely innocent people.

  Where? Cindy typed. She waited anxiously. Can you tell me where? Please!

  This G-8 meeting has to be canceled, the message returned.

  You said you wanted to help, so help, goddamnit! These people, the government, they have to own up to their crimes. Murdering innocent people, just for oil. Multinationals on the loose, preying on the poor across the world. You said you wanted to get our message across. Here’s your chance. Make these thieves and murderers stop their crimes now.

  There was a silence. Cindy wasn’t sure if the messenger was still there. She didn’t know what to do next.

  More words appeared on her screen.

  Get them to acknowledge their crimes. It’s the only way to stop these deaths.

  This was something else, Cindy was thinking. The writer was reaching out. Maybe a sliver of guilt, or reason, holding back the insanity.

  I can tell you want to stop this insanity, Cindy wrote.

  Please, tell me what’s going to happen. No one has to get hurt!

  Nothing. No further reply came.

  “Shit!” Cindy pounded the keyboard. They were using her, that’s all. To get their message out.

  She typed:

  Why did Jill Bernhardt have to die? What crime did she commit? Stealing oil? Globalization? What did she do?

  A full thirty seconds elapsed. Then a minute. Cindy was sure she had lost the messenger. She shouldn’t have gotten mad. This was bigger than her anger or her grief.

  She finally rested her head against the monitor. When she looked up, she couldn’t believe it. More words had appeared.

  Jill Bernhardt didn’t have anything to do with G-8. This one wasn’t like the others. This one was personal, the message read.

  Chapter 78

  SOMETHING TERRIBLE was going to happen today. Cindy’s latest e-mail assured us of that. And her strange pen pal hadn’t been wrong yet, hadn’t misled her or lied.

  It was a sickening, helpless feeling to watch the dawn creep into the sky and know: in spite of all the resources of the U.S. government, all the fancy vigilance and warnings and cops we could put out on the street, all my years of solving homicides… August Spies were going to strike today. We couldn’t do a thing to stop the killers.

  That dawn found me in the city’s Emergency Command Center, one of those “undisclosed locations” hidden in a nondescript cinder-block building in a remote section of the naval yard out in Hunter’s Point. It was a large room filled with monitors and high-tech communications equipment. Everyone there was on edge. What were August Spies going to pull now?

  Joe Molinari was there. The mayor, Tracchio, the heads of the fire department and Emergency Medical Task Force, all of us crammed around the “war table.”

  Claire was there, too. The latest warning had everyone freaked out that this new attack could be a widespread one involving ricin. Molinari had a toxins expert on alert.

  During the night we had decided to release Hardaway’s name and description to the press. So far we hadn’t been able to locate him, and the situation had only gotten exponentially worse. Murder had given way to public safety. We were certain that Hardaway was involved somehow and that he was extremely dangerous.

  The morning news shows
came on. Hardaway’s face was the lead story on all three networks. It was like some nerve-racking doomsday countdown straight out of a disaster movie, only much worse. The thought that any minute in our city a bomb could go off or a poison be spread, maybe even by plane.

  By seven, a few of the inevitable Hardaway sightings had started to trickle in. A clerk was sure he’d seen him in Oakland at an all-night market two weeks ago. Other calls came from Spokane, Albuquerque, even New Hampshire. Who knew if any of them were for real? But all the calls had to be checked out.

  Molinari was on the phone with someone named Ronald Kull, from the WTO.

  “I think we should issue some kind of communiqué,” the deputy director pressed. “No admissions, but say that the organization is considering the grievances, if they show a cessation of violence. It’ll buy us time. It could save lives. Maybe a lot of lives.”

  He seemed to have gotten some agreement and said he would draft the language. But then it had to be approved, by Washington and by the WTO.

  All this red tape. The clock ticking. Some kind of disaster about to strike at any moment.

  Then, like the e-mail foretold, it happened.

  At 8:42 A.M. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the time of day.

  Chapter 79

  KIDS HAD BEEN DRINKING from a water fountain at the Redwood City Elementary School. They got sick…. Those were the first chilling words that we heard.

  Every heart in the room slammed to a stop at the same time. 8:42. Within seconds, Molinari was patched through to the principal of the school. A decision was made to evacuate it immediately. Claire, who had strapped on a headset, was trying to get through to the EMS vehicle carrying the kids who had gotten sick.

  Never before had I seen the most capable people in the city so utterly panicked. Molinari carefully instructed the principal: “No one touches the water until we get there. The school has to be cleared right now.”