Read Online 3rd Degree by James Patterson, Andrew Gross - Free Book Online Page B

the street rats hawking pot and bumper stickers. The sun was beating onto Sproul Plaza, students in back-packs and sandals sitting around, reading on the steps.
    Lemouz's office was in Dwinelle Hall, an official-looking concrete structure just off the main quad. “Please, it's open,” a strong, Mediterranean accent answered my knock. A hint of something more formal, educated. British?
    Professor Lemouz leaned back behind a chaotic desk in the small office cluttered with books and papers. He was large-shouldered and swarthy, with curly black hair falling over his forehead, a shadowy growth on his face.
    “Ah, Police Inspector Boxer,” he said. “Please sit, be my guest. Sorry the surroundings are not so plush.” The room was musty and smelled of books and smoke. An ashtray and a pack of unfiltered Rothmans were on the desk.
    I lowered myself into a seat across from him and pulled out my pad. I handed him a card.
    “Homicide,” Lemouz read, bunching his lips, seemingly impressed. “So I suspect it's not some rogue etymological nuance that brings you here?”
    “Perhaps another interest of yours,” I said. “You're aware, of course, of the events going on across the bay?”
    He sighed. “Yes. Even a man with his nose in his books most of the time brings it out now and then. Tragic. Totally counterproductive. Fanon said, `Violence is its own judge and jury.' Yet, one cannot find it completely surprising.”
    Lemouz's phony sympathy appealed to me about as much as a dentist's drill. “You mind telling me just what you mean by that, Mr. Lemouz?”
    “Of course, Madam Inspector, if you would be so kind as to tell me just why you are here.”
    “It's Lieutenant,” I corrected him. “I head up the Homicide detail. And I was given your name as someone who might have some firsthand knowledge of what's going on here. The ideological scene. People who might find blowing up three sleeping people and almost killing two innocent children as well as virtually imploding someone's vascular system an acceptable form of protest.”
    “By `over here,' I assume you mean the peaceful, academic groves of Berkeley,” Lemouz said.
    “By `over here,' I mean wherever someone would want to do these awful things, Mr. Lemouz.”
    “Professor,” he replied. “The Lance Hart Professor of Romance Languages” - I saw the glimmer of a smile - “as long as we're spouting credentials.”
    “You said you didn't find these murders surprising.”
    “Why should they be?” Lemouz shrugged. "Should the patient be surprised he is ill when his body is covered in lesions? Our society is infected, Lieutenant, and the very people who transmit the disease look around and go, `Who, me?'
    “Do you know,” he said, raising his eyes, "that the power-ful multinational corporations now have an output larger than the GNP of ninety percent of the countries around the globe? They have supplanted governments as the system of social responsibility in our world.
    “Why is it,” he laughed cynically, “we are so quick to rail against the moral outrage of apartheid when it threatens our racial sensibilities, but are so asleep to recognize it when it is economic. It is because we do not see it through the eyes of the subjugated. We see it through the culture of the power-ful. The corporation. On TV.”
    “Excuse me,” I interrupted, “but I'm here about four gruesome murders. People are dying.”
    “Yes they are, Lieutenant. That's exactly my point.”
    There was a part of me that would like to have grabbed Lemouz by the lapels and shaken him. Instead, I pulled out the photo of the au pair on Wendy Raymore's ID and a police artist's sketch of the woman videotaped walking into the Clift Hotel with George Bengosian. “Do you know either of these women, Professor?”
    Lemouz almost started to laugh. “Why would I want to help you? It's the state who is the architect of this injustice, not these two women. Please tell me, who has committed the larger