20th Victim (Women's Murder Club #20) - James Patterson Page 0,89
but he wouldn’t let me.”
Atkins continued to look at the man who was threatening her with a gun. “I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ll see the papers. Dave decided to commit suicide. He wrote it all down.”
Carolee Atkins planned her next move. She would leave the papers and just start walking toward the office. It was only thirty yards to the door. Her key card was in her bag inside the van, but people leaving the building would let her in. Even now the parking lot was coming to life. The sounds of electronic locks opening. Headlights coming on. She heard the purr of a motor. She was taking a chance, but she didn’t believe that this Joe guy would shoot her in the back.
She’d taken a few steps toward the medical building when Dave came around the side of the van, maneuvering his chair so that whichever way she walked, he blocked her way.
What was going on? He looked wide awake and fully cognizant. And he, too, held a gun on her. He had his phone in his lap, and he lifted it, pressed a button.
She heard her own voice saying, “Your father had been sedated, Dave. They’re all sedated. I put a little something in the drip line. They’re already asleep and they’re asleep when they die. Ray felt nothing. He didn’t have to suffer like you.”
Then Dave’s voice: “You do that. For them?”
“I’m a helper. Someone has to do it, and I know how.”
CHAPTER 113
THE GROUND WAS swimming.
Atkins said to Dave, “What? What’s in the wine?”
“Napa Valley’s best Cabernet. Nothing more.”
Joe Something said, “Do what I told you to do, Ms. Atkins. Put your hands behind your back. You’re under arrest.”
It was coming to her now. She’d been tricked. Dave had feigned his suicide, every bit of it. And now she was filled with rage. It wasn’t legal to tape people without telling them.
She said to Joe, “Arresting me? By what authority, mister?”
“My authority as a citizen. It’s quite legal. And if you’re thinking a taped telephone conversation can’t be used in court, the confession you made to Dave, in person, is allowable, and strong evidence.”
Joe forced her arms back and cuffed her wrists. Then he picked her up and gently laid her in the back of the van on the nest of quilted mover’s blankets.
“Next stop, police station,” Dave called in to her. “We can all give our statements. That goes for Mr. Archer and Mr. Horowitz, who’ll meet us there. They saw and heard you in the rooms of the deceased. They know what you did.”
“Don’t you understand?” she shouted, her voice echoing lazily against the inside walls of the van. “I was doing a good. A good thing. I’m a helper. I was helping people.”
Joe said, “You’re a serial killer, Carolee. But tell your story to the police. And then you can tell it to the FBI.”
He slammed the rear doors shut and locked them. Then he said to Dave, “The SFPD and the Napa sheriff have an arrangement on cases involving the DEA. He’ll be handing her off to SFPD.”
Dave was grinning so hard it hurt.
“My God, Joe. We did it. We did it.”
“We sure did,” Joe said.
The two friends grinned and exchanged a high five, a low five. The kicking from the rear of the van stopped. Joe said, “So what was in the wine?”
“Grapes. But I took a couple of Dad’s pills, beta-blockers, to lower my blood pressure, slow down my heart. I needed to make her believe I was checking out. But then she got greedy for our Private Reserve Cab. She’s just tipsy.”
Joe and Dave laughed for a good long time. And then Dave said, “What a day. I wish I could tell my dad. He went crazy with happiness seeing the two of us together again, Joe. Have I thanked you lately?”
“Yeah. You have. And thank you, Dave.”
“For what?”
“For believing in me.”
CHAPTER 114
MIKE STEMPIEN WAS in his office at the Hall, remotely hacking into Randi Barkley’s computer.
Randi wasn’t online, but Leonard Barkley had just signed on from a new location near his house. Piggybacking onto Barkley’s screen name, Stempien followed Barkley from his IP address at his new location on Thornton Avenue to an internet café in Gotland to a private home in Budapest to a travel agency in Medellín, working his way layer by layer, ever deeper into the onion layers of the dark web.
He had a pretty good idea that the final location would be Moving Targets.