20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,86
I stood at the bench, looking up at the judge.
Yuki said just above a whisper, “Your Honor, the man who we believe killed Officer Todd Morton has been positively identified by his photo. His fingerprints on his gun matched his prints inside the Chevy and Mr. Hunt’s RAV4. I would prefer you hear this information from Sergeant Boxer, who is a homicide investigator with the SFPD.”
Judge Rabinowitz looked at Zac.
“Okay with you, Mr. Jordan?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
He said, “If we were on a TV show, I would say, ‘This is highly irregular.’”
Irregular or not, the judge called court into recess, and Yuki, Zac, and I followed the judge into his private chambers. He didn’t ask us to sit, so we stood around his desk.
Judge Rabinowitz said, “What can you tell me about this individual, Sergeant?”
I said, “The man we believe was the passenger in the stolen white Chevy, the one who shot officer Morton, is a drug dealer by the name of Antoine Castro.”
“You have him in custody?”
“He was shot dead yesterday, Your Honor.”
“You say the man suspected of shooting Officer Morton is dead?” Rabinowitz said. “And what do you infer from that, Mr. Jordan?”
Zac Jordan said, “As I’ve told the court, Clay Warren was terrified that the shooter would have him killed or harm his family. Absent the immediate threat, my client may cooperate with the DA. If he tells what he knows about the drugs in the car, if he had a working relationship with Castro, we may be able to roll up some major criminal activity.”
“Lot of ifs and maybes,” Rabinowitz said.
Zac added, “We need a little time, Your Honor. The defense requests a continuance.”
“This is highly irregular,” said the judge. “But you’ve got until one week from today.”
CHAPTER 109
LEONARD BARKLEY KNOCKED on the back door of a small brown stucco house on Thornton Avenue, two doors down from the nearly identical house where he’d lived with Randi for four years.
His neighbor, friend, and coconspirator, Marty Floyd, opened the door and gave Barkley a wide smile.
“I was worried about you, man,” said Floyd. “I never saw so many cop cars as was on TV yesterday. Hey. I’ve got pork chops and potatoes still hot. Sound good?”
“Fantastic. Got milk?”
“Sure do. And I set up the game. Maybe we can go a few rounds.”
“I’ve walked miles,” said Barkley. “I need to wash up, change out of these clothes. And no kidding, I need to sleep.”
“Eat first. Shower later. Sleep when you’re dead. Sounds like a T-shirt slogan, doesn’t it?”
Barkley laughed. He hadn’t eaten since yesterday morning. He couldn’t remember when he’d last laughed.
“You win, Marty. Eat first.”
Marty Floyd—transit cop, political junkie, and full-ranking member of Moving Targets—carefully placed a heaping plate of food in front of his friend Barkley and sat down across from him at the kitchen table.
“Barko,” he said. “You’re a folk hero. There’s going to be ballads written about you someday. How’d it go down?”
Barkley put his phone down next to his plate. A clamshell burner. He sawed off a hunk of pork chop with a steak knife.
“Eat first,” he said. “Then talk.”
Floyd laughed, got up, and poured Barkley a glass of milk.
Five blocks away Randi White Barkley was riding inside a squad car with her minder, Officer Pat Hudson.
The dog had been left behind, because as Randi had told Hudson, she just needed to pick up her electric toothbrush, her own pillows, a box of dog treats, a phone charger, and her personal massager, none of which she’d taken when the police kidnapped her.
Hudson found Randi quite amusing. She pulled up to the Barkley house on Thornton near the junction with Apollo and parked in the short driveway.
She said, “We should hurry.”
“I told you, Officer. Pat. This’ll take two minutes. Just wait for me.”
“You’re in custody, dear,” said Hudson. “Besides, I’m coming too.”
“Suit yourself,” said Randi, as if she had a choice.
She walked up the three wooden steps to her door, cautioning herself not to look at Marty’s house two doors down, where a kerchief had been tied to his car antenna, signaling her that Barkley was there.
The house key was in her hand when she heard Marty Floyd call out to her across two patchy front yards.
“Randi, how’s it going?”
“Good, Marty. I have company.”
“Yeah, I see. You look rested.”
“Later, buddy. Be good,” she called out.
Feeling nervous because Leonard was so close and knowing that she wouldn’t get to see him, Randi opened the front door.