20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,39
line, giving the address of one of the dead men and the location of the gun.”
“He didn’t want to get involved.”
“Right,” said Brady. “Tip was accurate. Houston PD recovered the weapon a half mile away from the victim, Vincent Morris, black male, fifty-three, unarmed. Shot through the temple while driving. Naturally, lost control of his late-model Mercedes and crashed into an empty van parked at the curb at McKnight Street and Dunlap Street. Morris was killed with one shot.”
“You’re saying the victim was shot dead while driving and from a half mile away? Is that even possible?”
Brady sighed. “Several bystanders saw the Mercedes plow into the parked van, but there were no witnesses to the shooting itself.”
I asked, “Is the gun registered?”
“Number is filed off. It’s at their lab. That’s all I know.
“What about the other two victims?”
“Where’re you at, Boxer? People are piling up outside my office. Conklin has everything—photos, coordinates, contacts. See him soon’s you get here. You two should reach out to Houston. I’ll call San Antonio. See if we get some new puzzle pieces.”
He hung up.
My thoughts were bouncing like a handball inside my skull. My best friend was consulting in her own life-threatening disease, and possibly convincing the surgical team to improvise on the fly.
And now there was a new direction in the sniper case. Three dead people in Texas, and at least one of them had been shot through a car window. I had to wonder if that long-shot marksman was our lone suspect, Leonard Barkley.
If not, was the shooter a member of the same Moving Targets club? Or worse, had psycho copycats seized on a fresh new idea: real-life target practice on random subjects?
I had many questions and one answer: anything was possible.
Minutes after speaking with Brady, I was driving toward the Hall of Justice, cautioning myself to keep my scrambled mind on the road.
CHAPTER 51
BRENDA FOLLOWED ME into the war room, handed me a pile of messages, set up a coffee machine, and, pointing to a plastic-wrapped platter, told me, “I made those cookies from scratch. Peanut butter and chocolate chip.”
“Awww. Thanks, Brenda.”
“Anytime, Lindsay.”
Cappy was taping up the new crime scene photos, and Conklin was on the phone, saying, “Got it. Thanks.”
He turned to me and said, “Lindsay, open your laptop. You’ve got mail.”
The email from Conklin had the pictures and names of yesterday’s shooting victims with appended details: age, marital status, occupation, police record, known associates. All had died where they’d been shot. ID on all had been recovered, as well as drugs on two of them.
“Cindy hooked me up with the Houston PD,” Conklin told me, speaking of his beloved roommate, my pissed-off girlfriend Cindy Thomas. “She’s been on this since 6 a.m. You know, Linds, she sleeps with the police scanner next to the bed,” he said. “Brings it to work, which is where she is now. Don’t get between my girl and her Pulitzer.”
I laughed and sighed at the same time.
Conklin went on. “She says all three victims are known dealers. Victim number one was shot by a single bullet from a long distance.”
“According to Brady’s contact, the shot was fired from a half mile away.”
“Wow. Wow. Wow,” said Conklin. “A half mile away? That’s gotta be some kind of record.”
Conklin got up, walked to the wall, and scrutinized the enlarged photo of the crash: Morris’s Mercedes having come to rest halfway through the rear compartment of the panel van.
He moved a couple of feet to the next photo.
“Victim number two is still unidentified, also shot in his car,” Conklin said. “The light had just changed, and the driver was heading south on San Pedro Avenue when he caught a few rounds to the left arm, chest, and head. Same time as the one in Houston, eight-thirty a.m.”
I got up and took a good long look, trying to work out what had happened from this photo. One of the vehicles had the dead man in the driver’s seat. The other was the recipient of a rear-end collision that had turned the intersection into a four-way gridlock. The photo credit in the corner was from a Channel 7 Eye in the Sky chopper.
“Reminds me of the so-called rehearsal murder at Taco King. That could have been personal,” I said.
“Maybe this one, too,” said Cappy. He was taping up the last photo, victim number three, who’d been taken down in Houston. The photo showed a body spread-eagle on the sidewalk in front of a coffee shop.