20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,73
crime blog, announcing the urgent need for a ‘new war on drugs.’ That the civilian law-and-order approach had failed to stop the sale of drugs, and that, in fact, more people were dying from drug abuse every year.
“It gives this writer no pleasure to report to the Chronicle’s readers that this past week two police officers were killed by sniper vigilantes. This afternoon the unnamed subject of this article disarmed two police officers, and, as reported, they were injured, one of them seriously.
“We call for an end to this vigilante activity.
“It’s unlawful, it’s dangerous to innocent citizens, and since guilt had not been proven in a court of law, all of these snipers’ victims were not guilty.
“It’s time for voters and those of us with the power of the pen to take a stand against this criminal movement.”
Cindy checked the time. Five to six. No time to double-check it, but that’s why she was sending the article to McGowan. She watched as he read it on his screen, and while he did that, she texted Tyler. I’m just doing a quick polish, she wrote. I need thirty seconds.
McGowan knocked on her door.
“Well,” she said. “What do you think, Jeb?”
“In three words? It’s. Not. News.”
Cindy said, “Well, I guess we’ll see if Henry agrees.”
She attached the Sleep Well Motel story to an email and sent it to Tyler. She turned her back on McGowan and listened to her scanner while she waited, and then her computer pinged. She looked and was elated to see that it was the return mail from Tyler. She couldn’t open it fast enough.
Tyler wrote, “It’s thin. Wait until the SEAL/shooter, if that’s what he is, is in custody. Or until you get a new interview with Kill Shot. Have McGowan keep going with the victim profiles that are confirmed by police.”
McGowan held the elevator door for her.
“What did he say?”
Cindy showed him her fist, then rotated it and pointed her thumb down.
The elevator door opened and they got out.
“See you tomorrow,” Cindy said.
She didn’t wait for a reply.
CHAPTER 92
I LOVE WHAT I do, but these past weeks making me wish I’d become a schoolteacher, like my mom wanted me to be.
After the Sleep Well Motel witness roundup and the transfer of Randi Barkley to her cozy unjail, I’d collaborated with Conklin on a seven-page report for the brass. Following that, we’d gone to Zuckerberg San Francisco General to check in on Nardone and Healy, as well as Bettina Sennick, the motel housekeeper.
Nardone and Sennick were being released in the morning.
Healy was still in the ICU.
Leonard Barkley, damn him, was still at large.
I got home at around eight. Mrs. Rose had fed Julie, but she was still awake, and hungry again. So we split a bowl of leftover noodle soup. Plus a salad. I insisted on greens. Plus a glass of wine for me. Because I deserved it. Plus a cookie for Julie because she demanded it. And one for me, just because.
By nine Julie was sleeping with Martha and Mrs. Mooey Milkington. I was standing in the shower, still streaming adrenaline out to my fingertips. The hot water beat at my bruises, but my mental and muscular tension was unrelenting.
I was occupied with my hydrotherapy and churning thoughts when I heard Joe calling me.
“Lindsayyy. I’m hooome.”
I yelled toward the bathroom door. “Don’t come in!”
“You’re joking.”
“I have to prepare you first.”
“Prepare me? I’m starting to worry.”
“Aw, nuts,” I said. “Come on in.”
Joe slowly inched the door open, so that by the time he was fully standing in the doorway, I was ready to scream. I parted the curtain just enough to show my face. He stared.
“What happened, Blondie?”
“Can I tell you later? It’s not that interesting and I’d rather you go first.”
Joe brought a towel over to the shower, pulled back the curtain, turned off the taps, and wrapped me in a white terry-cloth bath sheet. He helped me step over the side of the tub and took me into his arms. His tenderness so moved me that tears welled up and spilled over, and then cry, I did.
“What happened, sweetie?” he said. “Don’t tell me you walked into a door.”
“I got punched in the face.”
“Look at me, Lindsay.”
I looked into Joe’s eyes and remembered when, not long ago, while he was attempting to rescue people from a bombed glass-and-steel building, a second bomb had gone off. A heavy structure had fallen on his head, and I had thought I would lose him. The operation to relieve