20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,26
monthly publication called Great Grapes, which contained a lot of ads, a smattering of local news, and profiles of artists and business owners. Joe opened the magazine to where a slip of paper bookmarked an essay by a writer named Johann Archer.
Archer had written about the death of his thirty-eight-year-old fiancée, Tansy Mallory, a dance teacher and long-distance runner, who’d been taken to the hospital with heat exhaustion. He’d written that Tansy was in every other way healthy and recovering—when she died.
Archer had poignantly expressed his shock about the unexpected and still unbelievable loss of the woman he had dearly loved. The writer hadn’t mentioned the name of the hospital or the doctor, only that he disbelieved the hospital’s stated cause of death.
He closed the essay by writing, “Inexplicably, a sunny, generous, and optimistic woman is gone. Somehow my heart still beats and I continue to live. That’s inexplicable, too.”
Joe finished the article and looked up.
“Dave, you got the idea that your dad was murdered from this article?”
“Tansy Mallory’s obituary and two others, not counting Ray’s, are in that file. It’s more than smoke, Joe. I’m calling it a fact-based fire.”
Joe’s thoughts veered to his training in behavioral science with the FBI. He couldn’t read Dave. Of course he was depressed. But he was also edgy and maybe paranoid. That said, in times of tragedy it was common to strike out, blame someone. Dr. Murray was a logical scapegoat for Ray’s death.
Joe asked, “Have you spoken with Archer or the families of these other people who died suspiciously?”
“No. I don’t know how to approach them, so I’m going by what I’ve read here. Two of the obits mention Dr. Murray, which confirms my strong belief that that son of a bitch is on a roll. That he killed my dad.”
CHAPTER 36
EVEN ON A Wednesday night Susie’s Café was packed with millennials gorging on cheap, spicy food, old men hanging out at their neighborhood bar, and office workers from the nearby financial district loosening their ties, kicking off their shoes, and doing the limbo.
As for the Women’s Murder Club, we had an easy time letting down our hair in this diverse and rowdy atmosphere, so much so that years ago we’d made Susie’s our unofficial clubhouse.
The steel-drum band was playing “Happy,” and a group of six was heading out as Claire, Yuki, and I scooted past the kitchen pass-through to the back room, where we could speak without shouting.
Lorraine was wiping down the table in “our” booth and said, “Jerked beef is the special tonight.”
We thanked her and slid into the banquettes, Claire and I on one side, Yuki sitting across from us. It took only seconds to choose from the menu, which hadn’t appreciably changed in at least ten years.
I said to Lorraine, “Cindy’s working overtime.”
It wasn’t a lie, but it was shy of the truth. Cindy had begged off our dinner date because she was still mad at me for asking her to sit on her story that drug dealers were victims of sniper shootings in several cities. It wasn’t just any old scoop. The Barons’ deaths had gone wide on national TV, while Cindy’s name was not on the front page of the Chronicle.
I hadn’t been able to give her a fullhearted apology, and Cindy knew how to hold a grudge. I explained that to Yuki and Claire, and Claire said, “You’re both stubborn.” Yuki’s two cents: “You had to ask her to hold it. She’s a bulldog, but in a day or so she’ll get over it and be on to the next.”
Lorraine appeared at our table with pencil and pad in hand. Claire and I ordered beers. Yuki ordered a shrimp salad, and Claire said, “I’m gonna say … I’ll have jerked beef on a roll.”
I asked for gumbo and a basket of bread.
“That’s all?” Lorraine said.
“I might order some key lime pie in a little while.”
“It could be gone, Lindsay. If not, I’ll nail down a piece for you while I still can.”
The frisky waitress headed for the kitchen pass-through window, and after she had gone, Claire asked Yuki, “What’s the emergency, sweetheart?”
Yuki was clearly dressed for court, in a blue suit, a V-neck silk blouse, and high-heeled shoes.
“Clayton Warren, that junior wheelman I’m charging with car theft, possession of drugs with intent to distribute, and acting as accomplice to murder of a cop.”
We both nodded. We knew. If convicted, Warren, who was eighteen, would get serious time for serious crimes.