Read Online Womens Murder Club - 07 - 7th Heaven by James Patterson - Free Book Online
Authors: James Patterson
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anyway?” “Maybe him,” Conklin said, slapping down a photocopy of the Polaroid of Ronald Grayson. “I can keep this?” Cooper asked. “Sure, and here’s my card,” Rich said. “Homicide.” “That’s right.” “So, this was what? Armed robbery?” Conklin smiled. “If this kid comes in, if anyone comes in with this stuff, we want to know.” I noticed a small black-and-white snapshot stuck to the cash register. It was a photo of Ernie Cooper coming down the steps of the Civic Center Courthouse, and he was wearing the uniform of the SFPD. Cooper saw me looking at the photo, said, “I notice your shield says Boxer on it. I used to work with a guy by that name.” “Marty Boxer?” “That’s the guy.” “He’s my father.” “No kidding? I couldn’t stand him, no offense.” “No offense taken,” I said. Cooper nodded, rang up a “no sale,” and put the photocopies of Grayson’s picture and the Malone jewelry along with Conklin’s card inside the cash register, under the tray. “I’ve still got the instincts, maybe even better than when I was on the Job. I’ll put out the word. If I hear anything,” Ernie Cooper said, shoving the cash drawer shut, “I’ll be in touch. That’s a promise.”
Chapter 29
THE SKY HAD TURNED GRAY while Conklin and I were inside Ernie Cooper’s pawnshop. Muted thunder grumbled as we walked to Twenty-first Street, and by the time we got into the squad car, the first fat drops of rain splattered against the windshield. I cranked up the window, pinching the web between my thumb and forefinger. I shouted, “Damn,” with more vehemence than was absolutely necessary. I was frustrated. So was Rich. The long workday had netted us exactly nothing. Rich fumbled with the keys, his brow wrinkled, exhaustion weighing him down like a heavy coat. “You want me to drive?” My partner turned off the ignition and sighed, threw himself back into the seat. “It’s okay,” I said. “Give me the keys.” “I can drive. That’s not the problem.” “What is?” “It’s you.” Me? Was he mad at me for questioning Kelly? “What did I do?” “You just are, you know?” Aw, no. I tried to ward off this conversation by imploring him with my eyes and thinking, Please don’t go there, Richie. But the pictures flashed into my mind, a strobe-lit sequence of images of a late work night in LA that had turned into a reckless, heated clinch on a hotel bed. My body had been screaming yes, yes, yes, but my clearer mind slammed on the brakes - and I’d told Richie no. Six months later, the memory was still with us inside the musty Crown Victoria, crackling like lightning as the rain came down. Richie saw the alarm on my face. “I’m not going to do anything,” he insisted. “I would never do anything - I’m just not good at keeping what I feel to myself, Lindsay. I know you’re with Joe. I get it. I just want you to know that I’ve got this arrow through my heart. And I would do anything for you.” “Rich, I can’t,” I said, looking into his eyes, seeing the pain there and not knowing how to make it right. “Aw, jeez,” he said. He covered his face with his hands, screamed, “Aaaaaargh.” Then he pounded the steering wheel a couple of times before reaching for the keys and starting up the car again. I put my hand on his wrist. “Rich, do you want another partner?” He laughed, said, “Delete the last forty-two seconds, okay, Lindsay? I’m an idiot, and I’m sorry.” “I’m serious.” “Forget it. Don’t even think about it.” Rich checked the rearview mirror and turned the car into the stream of traffic. “I just want to remind you,” he said, cracking a strained smile, “when I worked with Jacobi, nothing like this ever happened.”
Chapter 30
THE POPULATION OF COLMA, California, is heavily skewed toward the dead. The ratio of those below the ground to those breathing air is about twelve to one. My mom is buried at Cypress Lawn in Colma, and so is
Chapter 29
THE SKY HAD TURNED GRAY while Conklin and I were inside Ernie Cooper’s pawnshop. Muted thunder grumbled as we walked to Twenty-first Street, and by the time we got into the squad car, the first fat drops of rain splattered against the windshield. I cranked up the window, pinching the web between my thumb and forefinger. I shouted, “Damn,” with more vehemence than was absolutely necessary. I was frustrated. So was Rich. The long workday had netted us exactly nothing. Rich fumbled with the keys, his brow wrinkled, exhaustion weighing him down like a heavy coat. “You want me to drive?” My partner turned off the ignition and sighed, threw himself back into the seat. “It’s okay,” I said. “Give me the keys.” “I can drive. That’s not the problem.” “What is?” “It’s you.” Me? Was he mad at me for questioning Kelly? “What did I do?” “You just are, you know?” Aw, no. I tried to ward off this conversation by imploring him with my eyes and thinking, Please don’t go there, Richie. But the pictures flashed into my mind, a strobe-lit sequence of images of a late work night in LA that had turned into a reckless, heated clinch on a hotel bed. My body had been screaming yes, yes, yes, but my clearer mind slammed on the brakes - and I’d told Richie no. Six months later, the memory was still with us inside the musty Crown Victoria, crackling like lightning as the rain came down. Richie saw the alarm on my face. “I’m not going to do anything,” he insisted. “I would never do anything - I’m just not good at keeping what I feel to myself, Lindsay. I know you’re with Joe. I get it. I just want you to know that I’ve got this arrow through my heart. And I would do anything for you.” “Rich, I can’t,” I said, looking into his eyes, seeing the pain there and not knowing how to make it right. “Aw, jeez,” he said. He covered his face with his hands, screamed, “Aaaaaargh.” Then he pounded the steering wheel a couple of times before reaching for the keys and starting up the car again. I put my hand on his wrist. “Rich, do you want another partner?” He laughed, said, “Delete the last forty-two seconds, okay, Lindsay? I’m an idiot, and I’m sorry.” “I’m serious.” “Forget it. Don’t even think about it.” Rich checked the rearview mirror and turned the car into the stream of traffic. “I just want to remind you,” he said, cracking a strained smile, “when I worked with Jacobi, nothing like this ever happened.”
Chapter 30
THE POPULATION OF COLMA, California, is heavily skewed toward the dead. The ratio of those below the ground to those breathing air is about twelve to one. My mom is buried at Cypress Lawn in Colma, and so is
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