20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,11

stood beside me. He said, “If they were running a mailbox fentanyl business, we’re talking about big money here.”

I felt sick with a letdown that was hard to understand, let alone explain. I had been feeling sympathy for the Barons. Now I saw what Clapper saw: an addictive drug, a mailbox business. And if the drug was fentanyl, it was addictive and deadly. If the Barons were dealing, I cared a lot less. Still. I’m a cop. Two people were dead on the floor behind me.

I said, “What the hell, Charlie? Possibly millions in drugs and nothing was stolen. These people were professionally assassinated—but why?”

“What’s your theory?” he asked me.

“I see two options. This was a calculated hit, planned and executed by a pro, motive unknown. Or … maybe it was a psycho with a high-powered rifle playing God this morning.

“Either way, shooter braces his rifle on the top of his car, takes a look through the sight. He sees two people he can take out with little to no chance of getting caught. Bang. Bang. Hit man or thrill killer gets back into his car and takes off.”

Clapper said, “And now he’s on his couch, waiting for headline news.”

I didn’t like it either way. Joe would say, “You’ve been on the case for a half hour, Linds. Take it easy on yourself.”

Clapper said, “I’ve got guys out on the road looking for shell casings, a cigarette butt, something.”

“I’ll check on that warrant,” I said.

CHAPTER 18

CONKLIN TEXTED ME: Judge Hoffman signed the ticket.

“We’re good, Charlie,” I said to Clapper. “We own this place.”

I left the Barons’ house by the side door as a half dozen CSIs, carrying kits, lights, cameras, and other accessories of their trade, headed up the front walk.

I remembered that I needed a ride back to the Hall and was about to text my partner when the medical examiner’s van arrived. I waited to exchange a few words with Claire, but the doctor who climbed down from the van was not a busty black woman with a wry comment about the crispy critters in her cold room. This doc was white, dainty, with streaked blond hair and purple eyeglass frames.

I introduced myself, and the pathologist told me her name, Dr. Mary Dugan, and that she was on loan from Metro Hospital until Dr. Washburn returned.

I asked, “I just saw Claire a couple of hours ago. Do you know what this is about?”

“All I know is that Lieutenant Brady called the hospital asking for a pathologist to sub for Dr. Washburn. And here I am.”

It made sense that Claire was probably sacked out at home and would call me when she woke up. I told Dr. Dugan that as soon as she retrieved the slugs from the victims, she should get them to Clapper.

“No problem,” said Dugan.

I gave her my card and was looking up the street when I heard my name. There, behind the tape, was Cindy waving to get my attention.

I waved back and ducked under the tape, and Cindy took me by the arm, saying, “Richie said you could use a ride.”

I laughed out loud. “What a great guy.”

But I knew that by taking Cindy up on this offer, I was essentially giving her a green light to grill me for twenty-five minutes in the car.

She was going to be disappointed.

“Fine, Cindy. Thanks.”

An attractive man elbowed his way through the gathering crowd toward me. He was about thirty, was wearing expensive, classic-cut clothes, and had the intensity of a reporter hot on a scoop. He pushed past Cindy, interrupting us to say, “Sergeant, I’m Jeb McGowan from the Chronicle. Can you tell us what happened here?”

Cindy looked at me, switched her eyes toward McGowan, and gave off a subzero vibe.

“Mr. McGowan? I can’t discuss an investigation in progress.”

“Sergeant, it’s all right. I’m only asking for a quote.”

“Sorry. No can do.”

It hadn’t taken long for news of the Barons’ deaths to get out. A news chopper chattered overhead. An ABC7 News van rolled up the street and stopped at the tape.

Cindy said, “My car’s a block away. Follow me.”

I followed, got into her car, strapped in, and got ready to keep Cindy at arm’s length all the way back to the Hall. In fact, although she huffed and puffed, everything I told Cindy was off the record.

I said that the fatal shootings this morning had added two young orphans to the world, and that we had no suspects or witnesses to the murders. I did not