The 19th Christmas (Women's Murder Club #19) - James Patterson Page 0,34

now and thanked God for his life.

Julie didn’t have any memories like these. She was big-eyed, bubbling with questions that I couldn’t answer. How could I explain to her why so many people were sobbing, keening, holding on to one another?

I turned to face Joe and we exchanged looks. On a bad-parenting scale of one to ten, bringing Julie here had sent the needle off the dial. And yet how could we leave without knowing what had happened to Mrs. Rose?

Short of an assault on the ER, I had done my best to find out her condition. I had badgered the head nurse, who had explained that since I wasn’t a relative, she was forbidden by law to tell me anything about the patient.

I persisted. I produced my badge. I told her that a paramedic had called me from the ambulance, for God’s sake, to say Mrs. Rose was being taken to Metro. I told her I was as good as Mrs. Rose’s closest relative, that she had no one else in San Francisco.

The nurse shook her head no. But then she relented.

She scribbled on a pad of paper and turned it around so I could see the word Stroke. After I read it, she ripped the page from the pad, balled it up, and threw it into the trash.

I told Joe I’d be right back, took my phone out to the street, and looked up emergency treatment for stroke victims. Mrs. Rose was probably having a CT scan right now. Whatever was learned would determine her course of treatment over the next few hours or days.

If she lived.

I had stored her daughter’s number, and I punched it in, expecting to get Becky’s outgoing message again. But instead I heard her actual voice, a breathless, frantic “Oh, thank God. I tried to reach you so many times. How’s my mother?”

I filled her in, telling her I’d hit a bureaucratic wall but that she could get information on her mother’s condition. “I have the keys to your mom’s apartment,” I said. “Let me know your plans. And tell me what I can do to help.”

Just after ten, as Joe, Julie, and I were headed back home to Lake Street, my phone buzzed.

It was Conklin.

“I’m outside your door,” he said. “Where are you?”

“About ten minutes out. What’s wrong?”

“I’ll wait,” he said. “A hot Loman tip just came in. We’re catching.”

CHAPTER 40

MEGAN RAFFERTY WAS too smart for this, yet here she was.

Six years ago she’d graduated from high school having been voted most likely to become rich and famous. She’d spent the two years after that in college. Then two years in rehab.

Now she was living in a housing project next door to a Superfund site, sweating in a stinking van, waiting, waiting, waiting for directions from someone she didn’t know via the drug-riddled brain of her current boyfriend.

What came from Mr. Loman’s call would either set her free or earn her a stretch in a state pen.

She was glad her mother couldn’t see her now.

Using. Living with Corey. Not a mother or a schoolteacher or a doctor. It would break her heart.

Megan busied herself in the navy-blue transport van neatening the shelves and picking up after Corey, who was a pig.

The van was an aging Chevy with a spunky new motor and amazing pickup. It had rear cargo doors and decals reading TANYA’S CAT AND DOG GROOMING: WE COME TO YOU on the side panels. No phone number. No email. But in Megan’s humble opinion, it was perfect camouflage.

They were parked on Donahue Street near the construction dump behind the replacement housing where they lived. The field was four city blocks of radioactive dirt and rubble from the bulldozed former shipyard, polluted with petroleum, pesticides, heavy metals.

What a dump.

Other vehicles were parked at a distance from one another on both sides of Innes Avenue, their occupants steaming up the windows.

Here inside the van, Corey was in the driver’s seat, fiddling with his playlist, earbud cord dangling from his ear. He was singing along with some vocalist, killing time.

The two of them, waiting for Mr. Loman. Waiting.

Megan had a high idle. She hated to wait.

She climbed up behind the front seat and pulled the bud out of Corey’s ear. He spun around like he was ready to pull his piece.

“What’s the latest?” she asked.

“I told you never to sneak up on me,” he said.

Corey was good-looking for his age and weight. Thirty-eight. Five foot ten. One ninety. A semiretired drug dealer and not