18th Abduction - James Patterson Page 0,25

elbowed the door open and said, “Sergeant, Inspector Conklin called. He’s waiting upstairs for you.”

I told Claire, “Thanks. Talk to you later,” and left the ME’s office, taking the breezeway to the back entrance of the Hall’s garnet-colored, marble-lined lobby. An elevator was waiting, and I rode it to four and then walked the short, brightly lit corridor to the homicide squad.

Conklin was sitting behind his desk—and Cindy sat behind mine. Even at that time, before they’d gotten together, there was chemistry between my friend and my partner, known by women in and around the Hall as Inspector Hottie. I’d liked seeing it.

Cindy said, “What can you tell me?”

It was quite bold of Cindy—coming to our house, taking my chair, making demands. She’s infuriating and funny, often at the same time.

I smiled and said, “This is absolutely all I can tell you, Cindy. You can say that the deceased is, in fact, Carly Myers and that the authorities are looking for anyone who may have seen her or her killer.”

“Cause of death?”

“Still undetermined. Claire is doing the post now.”

“So, a positive ID of Carly Myers, deceased. What about the other two women? By my calculations, they’re still missing on day four.”

“We’re working on it. All of us.” I waved my hand to encompass the squad room, which was largely empty.

“Okay. I’ll do another blog post about the missing women.”

“Good. Thanks. And here’s something we haven’t released,” I said. “Nancy Koebel was a housekeeper at the Big Four. She disappeared. Can you say on your blog that the SFPD needs to get in touch with her? She may have seen or heard something regarding this crime.”

I spelled Koebel’s name, hoping that going public with that wouldn’t drive her further underground.

Cindy closed her tablet and gathered her possessions, saying, “I’ve got some work to do. I’ll speak to you later. That means both of you.”

She waved in our direction and headed out.

Conklin followed her with his eyes.

“Back to work, Tiger,” I said to him.

I filled him in on what I’d learned from Claire and Clapper.

“First and worst, Richie. No trace evidence has been found on Carly’s body. Clapper thinks and Claire agrees that the body was washed to destroy evidence. There’s also nothing of interest on Carly’s phone or laptop as far as Clapper can tell. Blood and DNA swabs are out for analysis.”

“Shit. The killer rolled up his trail,” said Rich. “He threw her in the shower before he strung her up.”

“Yep. And washed her down with the freebie shampoo. The shirt she was wearing is a generic men’s cotton shirt that could have been purchased anywhere. Claire is positive—unofficially—that Carly was strangled manually. The electric cord wasn’t the murder weapon.”

“It was window dressing?” Conklin asked.

“Exactly,” I said. “A distraction. A feint. An artistic touch.”

I told my partner the Claire-stumping news that Carly had been cut in a dozen places front and back with a sharp unidentified blade that left an unusually shaped slit. I showed him the photo. “Narrow on both ends and broader in the center.”

“What does Claire make of these … injuries?”

“She says that Carly was alive when she was cut. Some of the incisions were made like this.”

I used a letter opener to demonstrate a slice to my forearm.

“Others were at an angle. One of the cuts just grazed her shoulder, opening a flap of skin.”

“If the wounds weren’t lethal, what was the point?” Conklin asked.

“I think he wanted to scare her, Rich. Or force compliance. Either way, Carly was tortured.”

CHAPTER 34

Joe tailed Petrović’s blue Jag from the yellow house on Fell, hanging back behind several cars at all times.

When the Jag pulled into a spot in front of Tony’s Place for Steak on California, a valet appeared and ran around to open the driver-side door.

The man in the Jag was getting celebrity treatment.

Joe glimpsed only a blue-trousered leg and a shoe as he passed the driver disembarking from his car.

Blending into the stream of traffic, Joe drove east for another couple of blocks before turning right onto Mason Street. Then he wrapped around the block again and one more time until he was back on California.

He parked on Taylor and walked one long uphill to the steak house, entering at quarter to one. He took in the whole of the room from the entrance. It was densely carpeted, mirrored on both long walls, with chandeliers overhead casting a flattering light over the well-dressed lunchtime crowd seated in the red leather booths and at round tables down