James Patterson - #1 Suspect

Jack shouted back over the noise, “I have to know if she’s alive,” and kept running toward the crushed red metal that had been Carmelita Gomez’s car.

People came out of their houses in their pajamas and underwear, kids clung to their parents, cop cars piled up in the cul-de-sac. I knew full well that I was running toward a crashed car, but flashbacks were flooding my mind, sending me back to the worst night of my life.

I was in Afghanistan, transporting troops to base, when a rocket grenade tore through the belly of my CH-46, knocking out the rear rotor assembly and bringing us down.

There’d been a terrifying descent. The aircraft dropped into a black vortex of night. I pulled up on the cyclic, praying that I could land the Phrog upright-and miraculously I did.

As Del Rio and I scrambled out onto the sand, fuel ignited. Ordnance exploded. A column of fire burned and, through my night-vision goggles, became a green wall of flame.

We were out of the aircraft intact, but fourteen US Marines were trapped in the cargo hold where we’d taken a direct hit.

It was an honest-to-God hell on earth.

Men I knew, fought with, loved, were certainly dead, but I had to know for sure that no survivors were burning alive. I ran toward the cargo bay, and as he was doing now, Del Rio shouted at me to stop, screamed that the aircraft was going to blow.

“Jack.”

I turned to Del Rio now and shouted, “I have to know if she’s alive.”

The front end of the Impala had hit the wall head-on and compacted like an accordion.

The driver’s-side door was open and the air bag had deployed and deflated. Gomez was hanging limp from the seat belt. She was bleeding from her mouth, but she was breathing.

I leaned into the doorframe and said to her, “Carmelita. Can you hear me?”

She flicked her eyes toward me.

“Who?”

“I’m Jack Morgan, a special investigator. Did you do it? Did you kill Maurice Bingham? Did you kill Albert Singh?”

Her laugh was a wheeze, maybe an answer with her last breath. But it wasn’t answer enough for me.

“You’re dying, Carmelita. You don’t want to go with this secret.”

I felt a hand on my shoulder.

Cruz said, “Candy. Dime la verdad. Pides perdon. ”

She sucked in air and said, “God knows. I killed them. No me necesito maldito perdon, muthafucka. They…got…what they deserved.”

She lifted her hand with great effort and, looking right at me, she gave me the finger. Then her face froze, her eyes went flat, and she died.

Ambulances poured into the bowl of the cul-de-sac, and uniformed cops put up barricades, instructing dazed and frightened homeowners to stay out of the street.

Sergeant Jane Campbell interviewed me beside my car.

Jane was a good cop, twelve years on the job. I had gone to high school with her brother, had had a few sandwiches at her kitchen table a long time ago.

“Looks like about thirty grand in damage,” Sergeant Campbell said, surveying my car. “And that’s just for the rear panel.”

“A police cruiser gave me a tap, but I’m okay. And I’m insured.”

Campbell smiled. “Glad to hear it. Tell me what happened, Jack.”

“Long version or short?”

“Start with the summary, then we’ll back up.”

“Okay. We got information about a case we’re working. Men who were garroted in their hotel rooms. I had a theory that they were killed after having sex with a hooker. We wanted to talk to Ms. Gomez.”

“The LAPD is working that case.”

“We’re on it privately for Amelia Poole.”

“She owns the Sun? On Santa Monica?”

“Right. Another guest was killed in her hotel today, strangled with a wire. She’s concerned for her guests’ safety.”

“You think Carmelita Gomez was the killer-”

“We got a tip an hour ago saying she was. We went to her house to talk to her, and she fled, I mean at warp speed. We called the police immediately.”

“So why are you here?”

“We had to follow her, Jane. She was telling us she was guilty by the fact of her flight. We couldn’t take a chance she’d get away. I saw her drive into that wall. She didn’t try to brake. You’ll see there’s no rubber on the road. It was a suicide.”

“So you had a tip, chased your suspect, and now she’s dead. That’s what you’re telling me?”

“I didn’t see any other option. I still don’t.”

“Emilio Cruz,” she said, indicating him with her chin. “He said Ms. Gomez made a dying declaration.”

“She did.”

“And you’ll testify to her confession?” the sergeant asked.

“Yes. I will.”

“We’re going to have questions. Please don’t leave town, Jack.”

“People keep telling me that,” I said. “Do I have to worry about moving violations? Anything like that?”

“Why? So you can call Fescoe and get it fixed? Just get your taillight repaired,” she told me. “And tell Tommy I said hi.”

I drove my car up to where Del Rio and Cruz sat in the fleet car with the engine idling.

“Is the day over yet?” Del Rio asked.

“It’s done. Good job, both of you.”

I said good night and drove my injured car to the Hollywood Freeway. This time of night, it was only twenty minutes to Hancock Park.

Since my release from jail, I’d spent every free minute analyzing, researching, watching. Then I’d ruminated some more.

Jane’s message to Tommy was the prodding I needed to do what my gut had been telling me to do since the beginning.

I parked in the driveway of a house with a pediment and Doric columns and underwater lights turning the reflecting pool deep ocean-blue. It was the very picture of over-the-top conspicuous consumption as only Californians could do it.

Lights were on in the house.

I set the brake, climbed the walk, rang the doorbell a couple of times, and when no one came to the door, I let myself into the house.

I found my sister-in-law in the five-hundred-thousand-dollar kitchen, making chocolate pudding and watching Goodfellas on TV. Her back was to me.

I said, not too loud, “Annie. Hey.”

Annie screamed and dropped the spoon. She turned, hands to her cheeks, still screaming.

“It’s me, it’s me. I rang the bell.”

She took a breath, put her arms out, and hugged me. “You’re a menace, Jack,” she said. “Feel my heart racing?”

“I’m sorry.” Maybe she’d lied to give my brother an alibi, but I loved her anyway.

“Are you okay?” she asked me.

I hugged her, patted her back, said, “I’m fine. But I’ve got to see Tommy. Believe it or not, I need his help.”

“He’s in the barn. Go wake up your nephew. He’s worried about you. Take this.”

She took a jug of milk out of the refrigerator, poured a glass, and handed it to me. “You remember where his room is?”

Ned was asleep.

I turned on the lamp and lit up a room lined with posters: military recruitment, dinosaurs, action figures. I sat on the side of the bed, looked at the eight-year-old boy who wasn’t my child but carried half my genes.

I put the milk down, touched Ned’s arm, said, “Hey, buddy. It’s your old uncle Jack.”

His eyelids flew open and he sat up fast, throwing his arms around my chest. I hugged him and kissed his hair.

“How are you, buddy? How’s Ned?”

He pulled back and grinned at me. “I was digging and look what I found. Dad says it’s older than he is.”

I followed his finger, saw the old glass Coke bottle on the night table. I picked it up, and admired it under the light.

“This is fantastic. It’s a real antique.”