Claire put down the ME’s autopsy report on Jane Doe 91 and picked up the second report.
She read, “‘Faye Farmer, cause of death, gunshot to the head.’ Uh-oh. Here’s something interesting.”
Claire looked over at me. “Faye Farmer was pregnant.”
Chapter 113
I WAS VERY damned pleased that we would have the victims’ bodies returned to San Francisco. That took away some of the stink from the abduction of Faye Farmer’s corpse and the mysterious disappearance of the ME’s nighttime security guard.
But it wasn’t enough.
All of us, Claire included, were responsible for getting justice for Faye Farmer and Tracey Pendleton, and that meant finding their killer and gathering enough evidence to charge him with homicide.
Clearly, we were severely handicapped.
Whatever forensic evidence had once been on the bodies of Pendleton and Farmer had since gone up in a thousand degrees of gasoline-fueled flames. Faye Farmer’s unborn child might lead to a motive—but it would be weeks before we’d know if there was viable DNA from the fetus’s remains.
Conklin said, “Sergeant Rinker, what’s this about a lead to the shooter?”
“I’ve got some crap-quality videotape. What other kind is there, right?”
As the sergeant punched keys on his computer, he told us that Ely was a small town, not much in it but a café, a few Western-style brick storefronts, something called the Frosty Stand, and a gas station called the Stagecoach that held down the intersection of the highway and the strip mall.
“The Stagecoach Gaseteria is your typical gas and food mart—three pumps and sandwiches to go. But here’s the thing,” Rinker said. “It’s one of only a few gas stations around here for about a hundred miles.
“Here we are.”
Rinker clicked his mouse to play the footage.
The so-called crap-quality video was grainy. Still, there was no mistaking the black Escalade when it pulled off the highway and parked at the pump.
Rinker said, “See, I can just make out two numbers on the plate, but they’re Ohio plates. Stolen off a car about three months ago.”
We watched the driver get out of the Escalade, take his wallet out of his back pocket, and go into the gas station, presumably to pay. The angle of the camera showed us the back of his head.
I was pretty sure I knew who he was from that partial view, but it wasn’t what you’d call a positive ID.
Conklin asked, “Is there footage from inside the store?”
Rinker said, “Would have been, but the camera was broke. So this is it. Now look, here he comes out of the store. And now he lifts his hand, waves to this guy parked out on the street.”
There was a hulking guy standing next to a silver Audi that had pulled up on the roadside, just barely within the camera’s range.
“That’s Cal Sandler,” I said. “Plays for the Niners with this man right here.”
I stuck out my finger and stabbed the ghostly image of Jeff Kennedy, who was now filling up a red five-gallon gas container. I could make out Kennedy’s face this time.
I thought anyone could.
Kennedy put the gas container in the backseat of the Escalade, got behind the wheel, and pulled out. His friend driving the Audi moved out right behind him.
Claire said, “Sons of bitches killing those women. A murder of an innocent person done to cover up the murder of an innocent person. Makes me sick.”
“Three homicides,” I said. “Baby makes three.”
Chapter 114
IT WAS SUNDAY evening and I was alone in the bathtub with my thoughts.
I had just come back from a meeting with attorney George Fenn and his superstar client, the former football hero Jeff Kennedy.
Neither of them looked as self-assured in our little interview room as they had at Fenn & Tarbox’s extraordinary conference room only a few weeks ago.
Today, Fenn blustered.
Kennedy denied shooting anyone, claimed that the man in the gas station video wasn’t him, and that he was going to sue the city for defamation of character.
It was a nice try, but no sale. We had Kennedy with the gas container, the Escalade, and we had a solid witness who wanted to keep himself off death row—Cal Sandler, Jeff Kennedy’s best friend and accomplice.
It was a bad day for pro football.
But it was a good day to be a cop.
I was running more hot water into the tub when Joe brought Julie and Martha into the bathroom. It was a tight fit. Joe sat on the lid of the toilet seat and bounced our little girl on his knee. He asked me if I wanted reheated lasagna or if I wanted to go out to eat.
“Easy one,” I said. “Please nuke the pasta.”
Martha lowered her snout into the tub and lapped at the bathwater until, laughing, Joe pulled her away.
I wanted to savor these last few hours of the weekend, just soak them up. When the phone rang, I didn’t answer it.
Whoever was calling could darn well wait until morning. But Joe looked at the caller ID, picked up, and said, “Hey, Richie.”
I said, “Tell him I’ll call him back.”
“He said he’ll wait,” Joe told me.
I stepped out of my luxurious bath, threw on a robe, and took the phone from Joe.
“I’m off duty, Richie.”
“You want to hear this.”
There was something in his voice that told me not to blow him off. He sounded bone-tired, or in shock, or simply at the end of his rope. Whatever the reason for his call, it was damned important to my partner.
“Then you’d better tell me,” I said.
He said, “It’s … it’s …”
His voice cracked, as though he were going to cry.
“Rich. What’s wrong?”
“It’s Morales,” he said. “She got herself out of the hospital. She escaped.”
Acknowledgments
Our gratitude to these top professionals who were so generous with their time and expertise during the writing of this book: Dr. Humphrey Germaniuk, Medical Examiner and Coroner, Trumbull County, Ohio; Captain Richard Conklin of the Stamford, Connecticut, police department; attorney Philip R. Hoffman of New York City, New York; and Robert A. Wilson, MD.
We also wish to thank Andrea Spooner for sharing the experience of a lifetime.
As always, we are grateful to our excellent researchers, Ingrid Taylar and Lynn Colomello, and to Mary Jordan, who keeps it all together.
I’m proud to support the National Literacy Trust, an independent charity that changes lives through literacy.
Did you know that millions of people in the UK struggle to read and write? This means children are less likely to succeed at school and less likely to develop into confident and happy teenagers. Literacy difficulties will limit their opportunities throughout adult life.
The National Literacy Trust passionately believes that everyone has a right to the reading, writing, speaking and listening skills they need to fulfil their own and, ultimately, the nation’s potential.
My own son didn’t use to enjoy reading, which was why I started writing children’s books – reading for pleasure is an essential way to encourage children to pick up a book. The National Literacy Trust is dedicated to delivering exciting initiatives to encourage people to read and to help raise literacy levels. To find out more about the great work that they do, visit their website at www.literacytrust.org.uk.
James Patterson
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Published by Century, 2013
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Copyright © James Patterson, 2013
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Table of Contents
About the Book
About the Author
Also by James Patterson
Title Page
Dedication
Prologue: A Dark and Stormy Night
One
Two
Three
Book I: Three Weeks Later
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Book II: Off The Bench
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Book III: 103 In The Shade
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Book IV: Eclipse
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
Chapter 110
Epilogue: A Bad Day for Pro Football
Chapter 111
Chapter 112
Chapter 113
Chapter 114
Acknowledgments
Copyright