20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,58

explain her position. If Mrs. Warren could get Clay to agree to testify against Antoine Castro, Yuki would be able to get the charges against him lightened significantly.

“Let’s go to the cafeteria and talk,” Yuki said. “Maybe together we can make a plan.”

“You should leave. That’s what. Leave my son alone.”

“Please tell me what happened to him.”

“Do you need glasses?”

Yuki was actually wearing glasses, through which she watched Clay’s mother point a shaking finger at the whole length of Clay’s chest and abdomen, bandages wrapped around him. He must have been stabbed multiple times.

“He was shanked in the shower,” Mrs. Warren said so loudly she got the attention of the huge man at the front of the ward.

“Is that right?” he said.

Clay’s mother ignored him. “You have children, ADA Castellano? Try to imagine it. My son had lost gallons of blood by the time they got him here. His heart even stopped. Grace of God he’s alive. He should be out on bail, not in that place with those animals.”

There was laughter from the oak tree. “You don’t mean me, right? Because I didn’t do it.”

“Mrs. Warren, I have no power over Clay’s situation if he doesn’t help himself. He was driving a stolen car with a trunk full of dope. A cop was shot dead. The gun was inside the car. If Clay won’t testify against the real criminal, I cannot do a thing but try to convict him.”

“If he talks, he’ll be dead before his birthday.”

After strafing Yuki with her condemning eyes, Clay’s mother, who had dressed as though she was already in mourning, returned to her pale and motionless son. She sobbed as she leaned over the side rails and caressed her boy’s head. Yuki went over and touched her arm. She was roughly shaken off.

Yuki knew damned well she shouldn’t be here, shouldn’t see Clay without his attorney present, but she felt sick for the kid. His mother didn’t really get it. It was highly probable that Clay wasn’t talking in order to protect her.

If Yuki couldn’t turn him around, he was cooked.

Could he hear her?

“Clay. Here’s my card again. Feel better soon.”

Yuki placed the card and a bag of small chocolate bars on the side table, said “Take care” to Clay’s mother, and headed for the doorway.

Mrs. Warren shouted after her, “Pull some strings, damn it. Throw your weight. Be humane. If you don’t stand up, you will think of Clay every day he is in prison, and then, when they kill him, you will think of him forever. Welcome to hell, ADA Castellano.”

Yuki called for a taxi, and one was waiting by the time she got to the street.

“Hall of Justice,” she said to the driver.

She stared out the window as she headed back to work. Parisi would have to listen to her. This wasn’t justice. This was closing a case by charging the wrong man.

CHAPTER 76

I WATCHED YUKI blow through the swinging gates to the squad room in a great big hurry.

She waved at Brenda without stopping and landed at my desk, saying, “Lindsay, you’ve got to come with me.”

“Where are we going?”

She pointed to the far end of the room, took me by the wrist, and led me to Brady’s office. He was working, head down, but he looked up when she spoke his name from the doorway.

“I can’t go downstairs,” she told him. “Can we use your office for a couple of minutes?”

His look said, Why?

“We need some privacy.”

“Okay. Sure thing. Have fun, darlin’.”

He headed to the front of the bullpen and appropriated my desk. Yuki dropped into Brady’s well-worn swivel chair. I closed the door and pulled up a seat. We settled in, but I didn’t think we were going to have any fun.

I was highly agitated. My brain was sparking from three sugared cups of black coffee and my newfound obsession with the so-called “new war on drugs.” I pictured the photos on the casualty wall of the war room, starting with Paul’s body splayed across the desk, Ramona’s dead and staring eyes, and the ruby cabochon hanging just above the bullet hole through her chest. From there I ticked off the victims in LA, Chicago, San Antonio, and Houston. At that point I stopped ticking off and dwelled on Detective Carl Kennedy, a murdered cop, leaving even more questions about Moving Targets.

As is completely normal for detectives, I was obsessing, or as I call it, searching what I knew for a missed clue, an anomaly, or a pattern,