20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,25
tell you, unless we nab the son of a bitch, we gotta break the wife.”
Randi hadn’t cracked while she was in pain and with me questioning her. Conklin was good with everyone, but he was especially good with women. His sincerity always came through.
I said, “Sounds like a job for my partner.”
Cappy called over from his desk, “Hey, Richie. Cindy’s on the tube.”
Brady rearranged things on my desk until he got his hand around the remote. He pointed it at the TV mounted on the wall, where it could be seen throughout the squad room, and boosted the volume.
And there was Cindy Thomas standing in front of the Barkleys’ house, miked up, made up, a lower-third screen graphic displaying her name and San Francisco Chronicle. Brian Whalen, a TV reporter from the local CBS affiliate said, “Cindy, can you bring us up to date on the incident that took place here this morning?”
“Brian, this is what we know. This man”—she held up an enlargement of a photo I had scrutinized dozens of times—“Leonard Barkley, is wanted for questioning in the murders of Paul and Ramona Baron.”
“You’re saying he’s a suspect in those murders?”
“The police department is calling Barkley a person of interest. He may be a witness and have useful information. The incident this afternoon involved the police trying to bring him in, but he got away, and his whereabouts are unknown.
“If anyone knows or sees this man, do not approach him. He’s presumed to be armed and dangerous. Call the SFPD hotline immediately.”
She gave the number.
Then she added, “Mr. Barkley, if you’re listening, the police want you to know that your wife has been injured by gunfire and is in police custody. Please call the number on the screen. The SFPD and your wife need to speak to you.”
I was pretty sure that if Barkley was watching from his bunker, he was scoffing and loading his weapon. Brady muted the volume on the TV.
He said, “Before you start looking for leakers, I’m Cindy’s police source.”
I said, “You told her?”
“Thanks, Brady,” said Conklin. “We owed her one.”
“That’s what she said. Y’all go home now and brace for a deluge coming over the tip line. Let’s hope for a lead that pays off.”
CHAPTER 35
“I CAN’T LEAVE Dave right now,” Joe told Lindsay.
He was sitting in his car in the parking lot, watching a rabbit hop across the patio outside the Channing restaurant.
“Hang on a sec,” she said. “I’m parking the car.”
He heard her shut the door and set the car alarm. He wanted to be home with her, talk to her, hold Julie-Bug on his lap and rock her to sleep.
“He’s a mess, huh?” Lindsay asked.
Joe said, “Well, he thinks Ray’s doctor murdered him. I don’t know if he’s grief stricken or delusional or both. But I do know that he’s alone and in a bad place.”
Joe heard Mrs. Rose speak to Lindsay over the intercom. “Come on up, Lindsay dear.”
“Thanks. I’ll be right there.”
Lindsay said to Joe, “I never asked. Does Dave have a girlfriend?”
“He pays for the girlfriend experience.”
“Aw, jeez. Do whatever you need to do,” she said.
Lindsay told him that after she put Julie to bed, she’d ask Mrs. Rose to take over for another couple of hours so she could have dinner with the girls.
“I’ll bring her a case of Channing’s Private Reserve Cab,” Joe said.
“And one for us.”
“No problem.”
Joe said he’d be home tomorrow, and after exchanging good nights and phone kisses, he returned to Dave’s small, two-story stone house, which was identical to the house about twenty yards away—the house where his parents, Ray and Nancy, had lived. Dave had left the lights on, telling Joe, “If Ray’s restless spirit is still around, he’ll want to see the lights.”
Dave’s living room was sparsely furnished with two upholstered armchairs in front of the fireplace, a standing lamp, and a handmade end table made from what looked like antique wine crates. A collection of framed oil paintings, including one luminous view of the vineyard at sunup, hung over the fireplace. Joe had taken a close look. They were signed “Nancy Channing.”
An aged-plank dining table dominated the dining area. There were four straight-backed dining chairs, and Joe saw a short stack of folders in front of one of them.
Joe took a seat and opened the folder on top. It contained a thin sheaf of clippings from local papers, primarily obituaries. Dave brought Joe a cup of tea and said, “Read this one.”