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Authors: James Patterson
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is. I need it ASAP , Stu.”
I followed the shot up with two other versions of the same image: the decal on the rear of the white van and a Polaroid of the basement wall where Estelle Chipman had been killed
. Lion, goat, tail of a snake or lizard.
Kirkwood stiffened. “I don’t have any idea,” he looked up and said.
“This is
our killer
, Stu. So how do we find him? I thought this was your specialty.”
“I told you, gay bashing’s more my bag. We could e-mail the pictures to Quantico.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “How long will it take?”
Kirkwood straightened up. “I know a chief researcher down there I took a seminar with. Let me put in the call.”
“Do it quick, Stu, then finish your bagel. And let me know as soon as you get something back. The minute you hear something.”
Upstairs, I nudged Jacobi and Cappy into my office. I slid Kirkwood’s Templar file and a copy of the biker photo across my desk. “You recognize the artist, guys?”
Cappy studied the photo and glanced up. “You’re thinking these dust mites have something to do with the case?”
“I want to know where these guys are,” I said. “And I want you to be careful. This crew’s been implicated in stuff that makes La Salle Heights seem like a paintball outing. Weapons traffic, aggravated violence, murder for hire. According to the file, they operate out of a bar over in Vallejo called the Blue Parrot. I don’t want you busting in there like you’re razzing a pimp down on Geary And remember,
it’s not our jurisdiction.”
“We hear you, Loo,” Cappy said. “No thumping. Just a little R and R. It’ll be nice to spend the day out of town.” He picked up the file and tapped Jacobi on the shoulder. “Your clubs in the trunk?”
“Guys.
Careful,”
I reminded them. “Our killer’s a shooter.”
After they left, I leafed through a handful of messages and opened the morning
Chronicle
on my desk. There was a headline, with Cindy’s attribution, reading, “ POLICE WIDEN CHURCH SHOOTING PROBE , OAKLAND WOMAN’S DEATH THOUGHT TO BE BROUGHT IN.”
Quoting “sources close to the investigation” and unnamed police contacts,” she outlined the possibility that we had widened our investigation, citing the murder in Oakland. I had given her the green light to go that far.
I speed-dialed Cindy. “This is Source Close to the Investigation calling,” I said.
“No way. You’re Unnamed Contact. Source Close to the Investigation is Jacobi.”
“Oh, shit.” I chuckled.
“I’m glad you have your sense of humor. Listen, I have something important I need to show you. Are you going to Tasha Catchings’s funeral?”
I looked at my watch. It was scheduled in less than an hour. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Look for me,” Cindy said.
Chapter XXVII
A BITING DRIZZLE was coming down as I arrived at the La Salle Heights Church.
Hundreds of black-clad mourners were jammed into the bullet-scarred church. A canvas was draped over the gaping hole where the stained-glass window had been. It flapped like a somber flag whipped by the breeze.
Mayor Fernandez was there, along with other important faces I recognized from city government. Vernon Jones, the activist, was stationed an arm’s length from the family. Chief Mercer was there, too. This little girl was getting the biggest funeral the city had seen in years. It made her death seem even sadder.
Standing in the rear of the chapel, in a short black suit, I spotted Cindy. We both nodded as we caught each other’s eye.
I took a seat near Mercer among a delegation from the department. Soon, the famous La Salle Heights choir began a haunting rendition of “I’ll Fly Away.” There is nothing more stirring than uplifting hymns resonating through a filled church. I have my own private credo, and it starts not far from what I’ve seen on the streets: Nothing in life ever breaks down simply into good or bad, judgment or redemption. But when the swell of voices lifted up the
I followed the shot up with two other versions of the same image: the decal on the rear of the white van and a Polaroid of the basement wall where Estelle Chipman had been killed
. Lion, goat, tail of a snake or lizard.
Kirkwood stiffened. “I don’t have any idea,” he looked up and said.
“This is
our killer
, Stu. So how do we find him? I thought this was your specialty.”
“I told you, gay bashing’s more my bag. We could e-mail the pictures to Quantico.”
“Okay.” I nodded. “How long will it take?”
Kirkwood straightened up. “I know a chief researcher down there I took a seminar with. Let me put in the call.”
“Do it quick, Stu, then finish your bagel. And let me know as soon as you get something back. The minute you hear something.”
Upstairs, I nudged Jacobi and Cappy into my office. I slid Kirkwood’s Templar file and a copy of the biker photo across my desk. “You recognize the artist, guys?”
Cappy studied the photo and glanced up. “You’re thinking these dust mites have something to do with the case?”
“I want to know where these guys are,” I said. “And I want you to be careful. This crew’s been implicated in stuff that makes La Salle Heights seem like a paintball outing. Weapons traffic, aggravated violence, murder for hire. According to the file, they operate out of a bar over in Vallejo called the Blue Parrot. I don’t want you busting in there like you’re razzing a pimp down on Geary And remember,
it’s not our jurisdiction.”
“We hear you, Loo,” Cappy said. “No thumping. Just a little R and R. It’ll be nice to spend the day out of town.” He picked up the file and tapped Jacobi on the shoulder. “Your clubs in the trunk?”
“Guys.
Careful,”
I reminded them. “Our killer’s a shooter.”
After they left, I leafed through a handful of messages and opened the morning
Chronicle
on my desk. There was a headline, with Cindy’s attribution, reading, “ POLICE WIDEN CHURCH SHOOTING PROBE , OAKLAND WOMAN’S DEATH THOUGHT TO BE BROUGHT IN.”
Quoting “sources close to the investigation” and unnamed police contacts,” she outlined the possibility that we had widened our investigation, citing the murder in Oakland. I had given her the green light to go that far.
I speed-dialed Cindy. “This is Source Close to the Investigation calling,” I said.
“No way. You’re Unnamed Contact. Source Close to the Investigation is Jacobi.”
“Oh, shit.” I chuckled.
“I’m glad you have your sense of humor. Listen, I have something important I need to show you. Are you going to Tasha Catchings’s funeral?”
I looked at my watch. It was scheduled in less than an hour. “Yeah. I’ll be there.”
“Look for me,” Cindy said.
Chapter XXVII
A BITING DRIZZLE was coming down as I arrived at the La Salle Heights Church.
Hundreds of black-clad mourners were jammed into the bullet-scarred church. A canvas was draped over the gaping hole where the stained-glass window had been. It flapped like a somber flag whipped by the breeze.
Mayor Fernandez was there, along with other important faces I recognized from city government. Vernon Jones, the activist, was stationed an arm’s length from the family. Chief Mercer was there, too. This little girl was getting the biggest funeral the city had seen in years. It made her death seem even sadder.
Standing in the rear of the chapel, in a short black suit, I spotted Cindy. We both nodded as we caught each other’s eye.
I took a seat near Mercer among a delegation from the department. Soon, the famous La Salle Heights choir began a haunting rendition of “I’ll Fly Away.” There is nothing more stirring than uplifting hymns resonating through a filled church. I have my own private credo, and it starts not far from what I’ve seen on the streets: Nothing in life ever breaks down simply into good or bad, judgment or redemption. But when the swell of voices lifted up the
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