Джеймс Паттерсон - The 18th Abduction

“Still undetermined. Claire is doing the post now.”

“So, a positive ID of Carly Myers, deceased. What about the other two women? By my calculations, they’re still missing on day four.”

“We’re working on it. All of us.” I waved my hand to encompass the squad room, which was largely empty.

“Okay. I’ll do another blog post about the missing women.”

“Good. Thanks. And here’s something we haven’t released,” I said. “Nancy Koebel was a housekeeper at the Big Four. She disappeared. Can you say on your blog that the SFPD needs to get in touch with her? She may have seen or heard something regarding this crime.”

I spelled Koebel’s name, hoping that going public with that wouldn’t drive her further underground.

Cindy closed her tablet and gathered her possessions, saying, “I’ve got some work to do. I’ll speak to you later. That means both of you.”

She waved in our direction and headed out.

Conklin followed her with his eyes.

“Back to work, Tiger,” I said to him.

I filled him in on what I’d learned from Claire.

“First and worst, Richie. No trace evidence has been found on Carly’s body. Clapper thinks and Claire agrees that the body was washed to destroy evidence. There’s also nothing of interest on Carly’s phone or laptop as far as Clapper can tell. Blood and DNA swabs are out for analysis.”

“Shit. The killer rolled up his trail,” said Rich. “He threw her in the shower before he strung her up.”

“Yep. And washed her down with the freebie shampoo. The shirt she was wearing is a generic men’s cotton shirt that could have been purchased anywhere. Claire is positive—unofficially—that Carly was strangled manually. The electric cord wasn’t the murder weapon.”

“It was window dressing?” Conklin asked.

“Exactly,” I said. “A distraction. A feint. An artistic touch.”

I told my partner the Claire-stumping news that Carly had been cut in a dozen places front and back with a sharp unidentified blade that left an unusually shaped slit. I showed him the photo. “Narrow on both ends and broader in the center.”

“What does Claire make of these…injuries?”

“She says that Carly was alive when she was cut. Some of the incisions were made like this.”

I used a letter opener to demonstrate a slice to my forearm.

“Others were at an angle. One of the cuts just grazed her shoulder, opening a flap of skin.”

“If the wounds weren’t lethal, what was the point?” Conklin asked.

“I think he wanted to scare her, Rich. Or force compliance. Either way, Carly was tortured.”

Chapter 34

Joe tailed Petrović’s blue Jag from the yellow house on Fell, hanging back behind several cars at all times.

When the Jag pulled into a spot in front of Tony’s Place for Steak on California, a valet appeared and ran around to open the driver-side door.

The man in the Jag was getting celebrity treatment.

Joe glimpsed only a blue-trousered leg and a shoe as he passed the driver disembarking from his car.

Blending into the stream of traffic, Joe drove east for another couple of blocks before turning right onto Mason Street. Then he wrapped around the block again and one more time until he was back on California.

He parked on Taylor and walked one long uphill to the steak house, entering at quarter to one. He took in the whole of the room from the entrance. It was densely carpeted, mirrored on both long walls, with chandeliers overhead casting a flattering light over the well-dressed lunchtime crowd seated in the red leather booths and at round tables down the center of the room.

There was a closed door to his right that looked like it went to a private dining room.

The maître d’ approached.

Joe said, “I don’t have a reservation. Can you fit me in?”

“I can give you a small table in the back.”

“That’ll be fine.”

As he followed behind the maître d’, Joe looked for the man who might be Petrović, but didn’t see him. He took his seat with his back to the kitchen doors. A waiter introduced himself as Giorgio and asked Joe for his drink order. Joe went with sparkling water and accepted the menu.

It was a nice place, reminding him of the Palm in New York. The kitchen doors behind him swung open as elderly waiters in uniform came in and out with trays. Soon Giorgio returned and asked Joe if he was ready to order.

Joe asked for a New York strip steak, medium, with creamed spinach and a baked potato. When the waiter had gone, he thought about his conversation with Lindsay last night.

She’d advised him to get on the right side of this Petrović investigation. He knew he had to do it. But he didn’t yet see how to get a green light from Steinmetz.

The kitchen doors swung open again and two men came out, passing by Joe’s table.

One was of average height and build, wearing a gray suit. He had a thin mustache and gray hair. The other man was big, bulky, wearing blue serge, a white shirt, and a striped tie. Joe saw his face in profile as he said a few words to the man in gray. They were speaking Serbian.

There was no mistaking the bulky guy for anyone else.

He was Slobodan Petrović.

The man in gray was saying in Serbian basic enough for Joe to follow, “Tony, I just heard about it a minute ago. I can take care of her tonight.”

Tony. Antonije Branko was Petrović’s pseudonym. The two men were walking toward the front of the restaurant when Petrović paused midstep and pivoted back around.

Joe felt a shock to his heart.

It was clear that Petrović, too, had cop or military attentiveness. Petrović recognized him. It had just taken a moment for the cogs to engage, for him to place Joe’s face.

Petrović took a few steps back toward Joe and stood at the table, looking down at him.

He said, “Well, hello. Nice to see you here. We’ve only just opened up again as Tony’s. I’m Tony Branko,” he said, sticking out his hand.

Joe shook Petrović’s large hand, saying, “Nice place. Congratulations.”

“And you are?”

“Molinari. Joe.”

The man in blue released Joe’s hand and asked, “Where’s your girlfriend? The one who rides a bike past my house on Fell.”

Shit. Petrović had seen Anna. Did he know who she was?

The waiter came to the table with Joe’s lunch, saying, “Excuse, Mr. Branko,” and put the plates down in front of Joe. “Can I get you something else?”

Joe said, “No, thanks. I’m all set,” and the waiter disappeared.

Petrović remained at Joe’s table. He didn’t introduce the man in gray standing uncomfortably a few feet away from him. He said to Joe, “You’re a cop?”

Joe said, “Good call.”

Petrović smiled. “Now I think federal cop. Hey. Molinari. If you need a girl, I mean another one, let me know. I think we could be friends.”

And then he was gone.

Joe forced himself to eat, but he felt like an ass. He shouldn’t have stopped. He should just have kept driving. What the hell was wrong with him?

He asked for the check, paid in cash, then, throwing down his napkin, he headed to the front of the restaurant. As he passed the private room just off the entrance, now open, Petrović/Branko stood up from a table of male diners and leaned out of the room. He called after him, “I hope you found everything to your satisfaction, Joe Molinari. Come again.”

Joe’s face burned as he left the restaurant and walked downhill to his car.

Chapter 35

It was Saturday morning, five days since Carly Myers, Susan Jones, and Adele Saran had gone to work at Pacific View Prep School for what may have been the last time.

The task force on this case had taken over the squad room. Besides me and Conklin, McNeil and Chi, it now included two additional career homicide inspectors, Samuels and Lemke. Also present were a dozen volunteers from Robbery and Crimes Against Persons. Even our squad assistant, Brenda Fregosi, had come in this morning to make sure we had fresh coffee and eats.