20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,84
Brady. He wasn’t in the bullpen. He wasn’t in Jacobi’s old office on five. His assistant told me he was in a meeting out of the office. And then he walked through the squad room door.
“I was with the ME,” Brady said, speaking of Claire’s stand-in. “Where’s Conklin?”
“Right here,” he said, coming through the gate.
Brady said, “Follow me.”
Once we were seated in his office, Brady said, “Close the door, will ya?”
Conklin reached behind him and swung it shut.
I was dying to start the meeting with what we knew. A witness to the massacre at the jazz center had come forward. She had taken pictures of the probable shooter. The photo had been vetted by Stempien, who had stated with 95 percent certainty that the man in the picture was Barkley. Conklin had found a shell casing that had gone with the car back to the lab, and the odds were good that it would match the caliber of the rounds in the three dead men.
We’d need prints on Barkley’s gun to put these pieces together, but we knew more now than when I woke up this morning.
My gut told me that Barkley was the jazz center killer.
We needed to find him, alive and willing to talk, and we had something to trade. The release of Randi White Barkley.
Brady’s expression told me that he had something big to say, so I listened.
“Northern Station got IDs on Kreisler’s bodyguards. The one who was walking in front of Kreisler was Bernie Quant, a well-known body man, freelanced for celebrities up and down the coast. The other one is the prize. Name is Antoine Castro, number three on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted.”
“Antoine Castro? Are you sure?”
Brady passed me Castro’s jacket. I saw his mug shot and his morgue shot dated today. They were a match to his photo on the FBI’s Ten Most Wanted bulletin. Also in his jacket was a long list of prior offenses, convictions he’d dodged because of lack of evidence, and the big one: a bank heist in Seattle. Four people died. The gang fled. A survivor identified Castro, absolutely, positively, and that had vaulted him onto the FBI list.
In more recent news, Yuki had told me that before Clay Warren went mute, he’d once mentioned Castro as Todd Morton’s killer but had stopped short of positively, then backtracked, and had refused to cooperate ever since.
Now Castro was dead, and I was shocked. After the shootout on Highway 1, I had theorized that Castro had gotten a fresh horse and ridden out of town.
It seemed that he’d been in San Francisco all along.
I said, “Castro is the number one suspect in the killing of Todd Morton. Yuki is trying the kid Castro left twisting in the wind. Brady, don’t you and Yuki talk about your cases at home?”
“She never mentioned his name,” Brady said.
I said, “Warren is on trial right now. With Castro dead, maybe he’ll talk about him, his drug operation, where he lived, you know what I’m saying, Brady? Make himself useful in exchange for a deal.”
“Go,” he said.
I left the office at a fast clip, leaving Conklin to watch Brady’s face when he told him that we had a phone shot of Leonard Barkley getting into a stolen car outside the jazz center, where three people, including Castro, had been killed.
For Clay Warren, Castro’s death might be the best thing that could have happened to him.
I ran to the courtroom.
I had to find Yuki before the jury came back with a verdict.
CHAPTER 106
DAVE HAD PARKED his van in the medical center parking lot.
He had reclined the seat back a few degrees so that he could watch the lot and also see Dr. Murray’s second-floor office. At 4 p.m. on the nose Murray left the building, got into his car, and drove away.
The open bottle of wine rested between Dave’s thighs. He lifted it, took a couple of pills along with some fine Channing Cabernet, and waited for his pulse to slow.
Then he made a phone call to the doctor’s office.
He recognized her voice.
“Nurse … Atkins?”
“Yes. To whom am I speaking?”
“Uh. It’s Dave. Channing.”
“What do you want, jackass?”
His words were coming slowly. He took long breaths and exhaled deeply. He said, “I came to, uh, bring something for, uh, the doctor.”
“He just left,” she snapped. “Don’t call here again.”
Before she hung up, Dave shouted, “Wait! I brought something. An apology. And a check. For the damage … for what I did, uh, to his car.”