20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,23
ear and said my name again, adding, “You fired on police officers. Do you understand? That’s a serious crime.”
She gave me a glancing look, gasped for breath, and said, “You are going to feel so stupid.”
She groaned, rolled onto her side, and threw up, just missing my shoes.
I got her a wet towel and a glass of water from the bathroom and helped her sit up and use the towel on her tearing eyes. I told her to sip from the glass, but she slugged the water down. With my hand on her back, just us girls, I said, “Help me find Barkley. I only need to establish his whereabouts at the time of a shooting, ask him a few questions. That’s all.”
She hacked out a short, dismissive laugh I translated as Forget about it.
Commandos filled the room where I stood over the injured woman. We cuffed her wrists in front of her belly as she yowled in pain. I didn’t enjoy this, but it had to be done. I asked her again, “What’s your name?”
“Snow White.”
Barkley’s wife’s name was Miranda White Barkley. Maybe we were getting somewhere after all.
Out on the street, sirens wailed toward Thornton from Venus Street, getting louder, cutting out suddenly in front of the house. Car doors slammed.
I said and meant it, “Miranda. We’re running out of time to help your husband. Can you hear me? I want to bring him in safely, but our chief is organizing a manhunt. Barkley can’t hide. Every cop will be combing the city looking for him.”
Footsteps pounded up the stairs, then Brady appeared in the doorway.
“Got us a Mincey warrant,” he said, slapping the folded document against his hand. “Conklin and I are going to grab up laptops, phones, whatever. Did she tell you anything?”
More footsteps sounded on the stairs. Conklin appeared in the doorway with news.
“The dog was lying in front of the door to the basement. There’s a tunnel down there. If Barkley was here, he’s gone down the rabbit hole.”
CHAPTER 33
I LEFT CONKLIN at the scene and followed the paramedics taking Miranda White Barkley on her stretcher down to Thornton Avenue.
By then, because of the SWAT team ruckus, the street was teeming with curiosity seekers and law enforcement officers of every type and stripe. Car horns blatted as frustrated drivers tried to move stalled traffic with the heels of their palms.
I walked up to one obnoxious jerk, who had buzzed down his window and was blowing his horn, yelling at the ambulance, “Move your ass, goddamnit.”
I put my badge up to his face and said, “Cut it out.”
The ambulance hadn’t left the street. I jogged along Thornton and caught up with EMT Andy Murphy as he and another paramedic wheeled Miranda’s gurney up to the back of the bus.
“Andy, I need to ride with my prisoner.”
I held up the handcuff key. He nodded okay, and we swapped out my handcuffs for Flex-Cuffs and secured Miranda’s wrists to the gurney’s rails.
Murphy gave me a hand up, said “Brace yourself,” and pulled the doors closed. I used the shoulder harness to buckle up, and sitting on the narrow bench, my knees up against the gurney, I also grabbed an overhead strap. The sirens whooped and the ambulance shot up Thornton. I leaned down close to the injured woman’s ear.
“Miranda.”
“Randi.”
“Randi. For everyone’s sake, I need to find your husband before he makes another mistake.”
“Go away.”
She tried to turn away from me, but I persisted.
“If I talk to him first … look at me, Randi. I’m trying to stop this from ending in a funeral.”
The bus took a hard right on Bayshore Boulevard and Randi yelped. Then she opened her eyes and looked into mine. “Leave him alone. Okay? He didn’t do anything except run. He has PTSD.”
I squeezed her good arm and gave it a little shake. “That may be true, but that’s only one part of what’s happening here.”
She watched as I took out my phone, then shouted, “He doesn’t have his phone. It’s on the nightstand. Charging.”
Well, damn it, so much for giving him a friendly call. I barely clung to my seat on the bench as the ambulance pitched and yawed. If Barkley had executed the Barons, he might not have told his wife about it. If he had told her, she was legally protected from testifying against him.
That thought led to another.
Randi had said that I was going to feel stupid. Why was that? Was she working undercover? Was Barkley?