20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,36
shirtsleeve. I grabbed tissues out of the glove box, and when I could speak again, I said, “Hear me?”
“I haven’t had a cigarette in twenty years. How could my body betray me like this? How could I ignore the symptoms? I’m not ready for this, Lindsay. I’m not ready to die.”
“Did you hear me?”
She nodded. Tears were running down both our faces.
Claire coughed long and hard and painfully.
Then she said, “Yeah. I hear you. Fight like hell.”
“I’m glad we got that straight.”
I hugged her over the console and the gear shift. We rocked within the confines of that front seat, and I told her that I loved her, and she said, “I love you, too.”
I started up the Explorer and heard Claire say, “Lindsay? Look at me.”
Posing like a boxer, she showed me her fists. “I hear you.”
CHAPTER 47
I DROVE BACK to the Hall on autopilot, using a soft touch on the gas, watching the lights and signs, but my mind was on Claire.
When I’d left her private room, she’d been covered in a light cotton blanket, wearing headphones, listening to the San Francisco Symphony, featuring Edmund Washburn on percussion. From the serene look on her face, it appeared that she was in a high-quality, low-stress zone. I suspected there might be some sedative in her IV bag.
I said to her long-devoted husband, “Edmund, you’ll call me when Claire is out of surgery?”
“You’re number one, Lindsay. First call goes to you.”
I leaned down, kissed Claire’s cheek, said, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“Tell the girls,” she whispered, but didn’t open her eyes.
Edmund got to his feet and hugged me tightly. There was nothing to say that hadn’t already been said, all of it cheerleading with stark fear lying just beneath our words. I kissed Edmund’s cheek, too, and after he released me, he squeezed my hand, hard.
I told him that I’d speak with him soon and fled before emotion took me over.
The stop light at Seventh Street was red. When it turned, I parked at the next empty spot on Bryant and fast-walked to the Hall, where I badged security and took the elevator to four. Instead of turning left to the Homicide squad room, I turned right and headed back to the corner-office war room.
I hit the light switch, got my computer bag out of the desk drawer, and was stuffing the charger into the outside pocket when there was a knock.
“Boxer. Got a sec?”
It was Brady.
I said, “Sure. What’s happening?”
“Do you remember Bud Moskowitz?”
“He was with SWAT. He retired. Wait, Brady. You don’t think Moskowitz had anything to do with the shootings?”
“No.” He laughed. “Bud saw that news clip this morning with the crime scene photos. He has an idea.”
“Great. Give me his phone number.”
“He’s in my office. I’ll send him back.”
CHAPTER 48
I WAS STRAIGHTENING up the desk, organizing my notes, when Moskowitz said, “Hey. Boxer.”
“Hey, Bud. Come in, come in.”
I stretched out my hand. We shook and I offered him a chair. Bud was more than twenty years older than me. I hadn’t known him well, but I had a good feeling about him.
“So, you have a tip for us, Bud? Because we could use one.” Moskowitz looked fit, as well as focused and competent.
“You mind if I take a look at those photos?”
“Go ahead.”
He walked over to the wall and looked at the crime scene photos taken of the victims from different angles. He spent time with each one, slowly, methodically examining them, taking a couple off the wall to hold under the light, asking me about the victims and the caliber of the rounds.
I told him what little I knew, that the shells were of different types, that the casings hadn’t been found, that Forensics hadn’t gotten any hits in the database because of the bullets’ impact with bone or plaster or brick.
I asked Moskowitz, “What do you see?”
“All the shots were taken from a good distance. Very professional work.”
“We all agree.”
“Boxer, I don’t know if this is worth anything, but when I read in the paper about all these shootings taking place at the same time, it reminded me of this website I used to belong to.”
“Moving Targets, by chance?”
“Well,” he said, slapping the desk, “you stole my tip. I’ll be going now.”
I laughed and told him to stay. “No, really. Our computer tech also came up with Moving Targets, but we’re still in the weeds. Tell me what you know.”
“My wife is waiting for me downstairs, so let me give you the short version. I