Read Online The 9th Judgment by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: James Patterson, Maxine Paetro
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Sergeant Jackson Brady.”
The cop sitting in the back lifted his hand in a wave and looked around as he was introduced.
“Jack Brady is a new transfer,” Jacobi said. “He’s put in a dozen years with Miami PD, most of those in Homicide. Chief Tracchio
has attached him to our unit as a pinch hitter in the short-term, pending his permanent assignment. God knows we need the
help. Please make him feel welcome.”
Jacobi dismissed us, and Jackson Brady came over to my desk and put out his hand. I shook it, told him my name, and introduced
him to Conklin.
Brady nodded and said he’d heard about the firebugs, a case involving two boys who set fire to houses, killing the residents—a
case Conklin and I had closed.
I saw Brady’s sharp blue eyes raking the small squad room as I talked. I turned to see Claire speaking with Jacobi, Cindy
huddling with Yuki, the TV in the corner of the room showing Marcus Dowling still chatting up the press.
“The more they talk, the less I believe them,” Brady said, jutting his chin toward the images of Dowling.
“We’ve been working the case for a few days,” I said. “We’re just getting our teeth into it.”
“I heard your report, Sergeant,” Brady said. “You don’t have a clue.”
Chapter 30
ERNIE COOPER’S PAWNSHOP is wedged between a Chinese fast-food restaurant and a smoke shop on Valencia, at the heart of the
Mission. Casey Dowling’s high-ticket jewelry was out of Ernie Cooper’s league, but Cooper was retired from the SFPD and had
offered help anytime we needed him.
Today, the hulking ex-cop’s frame was filling up a faded art deco fan chair on the sidewalk outside his shop. His gray hair
was braided down his back, iPod cords dangled from his ears, an open racing form was on his lap, and there was the bulge of
a handgun under his aloha shirt.
Cooper grinned when he saw us and stood up to shake Conklin’s hand and mine.
“We’re working a burglary that turned into a murder,” I told him.
“Movie star’s wife? I read about that,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I pulled up a toy trunk, and Conklin balanced his rump on a bamboo bar stool. Cooper said, “Fill me in.”
I handed him the folder of insurance photos, and he flipped through them, stopping often to take in the sapphires in platinum
settings, the chains of diamonds, and then the real showstopper—the yellow diamond ring looking like a pasha’s cushion set
in a throne of pavé diamonds.
“Man alive,” Cooper said. He flipped the photo over and read the specs of the piece. “Appraised at a million. And I’m betting
it’s worth every penny.”
“It’s one of a kind, right?” Conklin asked him.
“Oh, sure,” Cooper said. “A twenty-karat diamond of any kind is rare. But a canary diamond? The setting alone says it’s an
original. I wonder why it’s not signed.”
“So what would you do if you stole this?” I asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t shop it here, that’s for sure. I’d hand it off to a flying fence, take my ten percent, and be done.”
“Flying fence” was a new term for me. I asked Ernie to explain.
“A flying fence is like the regular kind, except he takes possession of the goods immediately, catches a flight to LA or New
York or another jewelry-laundering hub, and is in the air within an hour or so of the robbery.”
“And then what?”
“The route fans out to anywhere. In the case of this ring, maybe it’s been sold as is, but not in this country. Probably on
the finger of a young lady in Dubai as we speak.”
Cooper drummed his fingers on the folder. I thought I could see a lightbulb going on over his head.
“You know, there was a flying fence who took a bullet in New York a couple of months ago. Yeah, Maury Green. He specialized
in high-priced gems. Normally he’d be the guy you’d go to with a hot rock like this.”
“He was killed?”
“Yep, on the spot. Green was taking possession of a haul, and the cops tagged
The cop sitting in the back lifted his hand in a wave and looked around as he was introduced.
“Jack Brady is a new transfer,” Jacobi said. “He’s put in a dozen years with Miami PD, most of those in Homicide. Chief Tracchio
has attached him to our unit as a pinch hitter in the short-term, pending his permanent assignment. God knows we need the
help. Please make him feel welcome.”
Jacobi dismissed us, and Jackson Brady came over to my desk and put out his hand. I shook it, told him my name, and introduced
him to Conklin.
Brady nodded and said he’d heard about the firebugs, a case involving two boys who set fire to houses, killing the residents—a
case Conklin and I had closed.
I saw Brady’s sharp blue eyes raking the small squad room as I talked. I turned to see Claire speaking with Jacobi, Cindy
huddling with Yuki, the TV in the corner of the room showing Marcus Dowling still chatting up the press.
“The more they talk, the less I believe them,” Brady said, jutting his chin toward the images of Dowling.
“We’ve been working the case for a few days,” I said. “We’re just getting our teeth into it.”
“I heard your report, Sergeant,” Brady said. “You don’t have a clue.”
Chapter 30
ERNIE COOPER’S PAWNSHOP is wedged between a Chinese fast-food restaurant and a smoke shop on Valencia, at the heart of the
Mission. Casey Dowling’s high-ticket jewelry was out of Ernie Cooper’s league, but Cooper was retired from the SFPD and had
offered help anytime we needed him.
Today, the hulking ex-cop’s frame was filling up a faded art deco fan chair on the sidewalk outside his shop. His gray hair
was braided down his back, iPod cords dangled from his ears, an open racing form was on his lap, and there was the bulge of
a handgun under his aloha shirt.
Cooper grinned when he saw us and stood up to shake Conklin’s hand and mine.
“We’re working a burglary that turned into a murder,” I told him.
“Movie star’s wife? I read about that,” he said. “Have a seat.”
I pulled up a toy trunk, and Conklin balanced his rump on a bamboo bar stool. Cooper said, “Fill me in.”
I handed him the folder of insurance photos, and he flipped through them, stopping often to take in the sapphires in platinum
settings, the chains of diamonds, and then the real showstopper—the yellow diamond ring looking like a pasha’s cushion set
in a throne of pavé diamonds.
“Man alive,” Cooper said. He flipped the photo over and read the specs of the piece. “Appraised at a million. And I’m betting
it’s worth every penny.”
“It’s one of a kind, right?” Conklin asked him.
“Oh, sure,” Cooper said. “A twenty-karat diamond of any kind is rare. But a canary diamond? The setting alone says it’s an
original. I wonder why it’s not signed.”
“So what would you do if you stole this?” I asked.
“Well, I wouldn’t shop it here, that’s for sure. I’d hand it off to a flying fence, take my ten percent, and be done.”
“Flying fence” was a new term for me. I asked Ernie to explain.
“A flying fence is like the regular kind, except he takes possession of the goods immediately, catches a flight to LA or New
York or another jewelry-laundering hub, and is in the air within an hour or so of the robbery.”
“And then what?”
“The route fans out to anywhere. In the case of this ring, maybe it’s been sold as is, but not in this country. Probably on
the finger of a young lady in Dubai as we speak.”
Cooper drummed his fingers on the folder. I thought I could see a lightbulb going on over his head.
“You know, there was a flying fence who took a bullet in New York a couple of months ago. Yeah, Maury Green. He specialized
in high-priced gems. Normally he’d be the guy you’d go to with a hot rock like this.”
“He was killed?”
“Yep, on the spot. Green was taking possession of a haul, and the cops tagged
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