James Patterson - Private

“How can you stand yourself?” I asked him.

“It was Fat Fred who told you about my debt, though, am I right?”

My knuckles were throbbing.

“It’s always good to see you, Tommy. Take care of yourself.”

“Buh-bye, Jacko.”

He was still laughing as he righted his chair.

I went back into the administration office and paid Tommy’s bill for the rest of the month. The girl behind the desk was very nice, and she asked how my brother was doing. I couldn’t say a word to her. Just gave her my credit card, and after she ran it through, I got the hell out of there.

It’s a hard thing-hating your own brother.

I stopped at home to change my wings and buff my halo, then I drove to Beverly Hills.

I needed some quality time to myself, so I went to Mastro’s, one of the best steak houses west of Kansas City. The vibe at Mastro’s was retro crooner, and not just because someone was singing “My Way” at the piano.

I saw Joseph Ricci in the corner getting into something with Frank Mosconi. They didn’t see me. I told the maitre d’ I wanted a quiet table on the second floor, and after I was seated, I ordered a highball and studied the menu of gonzo prime beef that the place is justly known for.

The liquor, also first-class, was settling me down. I had brought a book with me, a well-worn paperback of Me Talk Pretty One Day, by the humorist David Sedaris. He’s brutally honest and laugh-out-loud funny, and his family life seems to have been almost as messy as mine.

I got a call from the head of our office in London. I told him my pick for deputy manager, then went back to my book.

I was starting to feel like a prince, one of the chosen few in LA. I didn’t lift my eyes from the pages until the bone-in rib eye and broccoli rabe showed up at the table.

Once I put the book down, my mind started circling back to the real world.

I thought about my brother, older than me by three minutes, so much like my father that I disliked him just because of that. Tommy was easily as narcissistic as Dad had been, just as arrogant, felt just as entitled to have what he wanted his way; but I didn’t think he had always been like that.

We’d been inseparable from pre-K through ninth grade. I remember we even had hand signals and secret words. We were total confidants, we stuck up for each other, we got our black belts the same day. And then our father started to pit us against each other. We got competitive, and everything changed.

Clearly, Dad had favored the son with his name and the same cynical view of the world. I gravitated to Uncle Fred. Tom became cruel to my mother, like my father was. I tried to protect her, and Tom and I became real enemies after that.

The waiter broke into my thoughts to ask if I wanted another drink, and I said that I did.

A couple came in and sat at the table next to mine. It was a first date; I could just tell. The two exchanged one long look that said everything they saw in each other was fascinating and that they were probably going to end the evening in bed.

I drank some more, and my thoughts turned to Colleen. She would have liked this place. I thought about taking her home to the house that I’d once owned with Justine. I’d never brought Colleen there for the night. It just confused me too much. I liked Colleen an awful lot, and I didn’t want to hurt her, though I knew I sometimes did.

I had told her that my place wasn’t entirely safe, that I found it more relaxing to spend the night in her arms in her sweet nest of a house. She knew I was keeping her at arm’s length, but she was taking what she could get, hoping I would change, which only multiplied my guilt and confusion about what should happen with the two of us.

My hand was on my phone. I started to dial Colleen’s number, then I closed the phone gently and slugged down the rest of my drink. I wasn’t being fair to her. I was going to have to end it, but I couldn’t imagine causing her all that pain, and losing her too.

I paid the check, left a big tip, and took to the road, thinking, Fuck you, Jack.

Justine couldn’t get the Schoolgirl case out of her head, even when she desperately wanted to.

She walked down a long, cool corridor hung with fluorescent fixtures and pushed open the door marked 301. Detective Sergeant Charlotte Murphy’s desk was one of four in the large water-stained room in a hidden wing of the police station, the place where cold cases lived and died.

“ Charlotte,” the detective introduced herself, shaking Justine’s hand.

Charlotte Murphy was wearing navy blue man-tailored pants and a button-down collared shirt. A gold badge hung from a chain around her neck. Her expression was guarded, but its severity was offset by exceptionally pretty blue eyes and a welcoming smile.

Murphy introduced Justine to her colleagues, then offered her a chair. She said, “I had a few hours to get Wendy Borman’s effects out of archives. Want to look at the murder book first? Take your time. I’ve got plenty of other hopeless work to do.”

Detective Murphy pushed a thick three-hole-punched notebook toward Justine.

Justine couldn’t open the notebook quickly enough, and then she wanted to pore over it slowly so that she didn’t miss a thing.

The pages were glassine sleeves, the contents catalogued and in chronological order.

The first several pages were photos of Wendy Borman lying dead in the alley off Hyperion, yards from where Connie Yu’s body had been found. She was fully dressed, her hair soaking wet, her left arm hidden under a pile of trash bags.

Following the photos were sketches of the crime scene and a photocopy of a seven-page report from the ME. Cause of death: manual strangulation.

Copies of Detective Bruno’s case notes followed, the pages stapled together and stuffed into a single sleeve. After the notes were transcripts of the interview with the only witness, Christine Castiglia, eleven years old.

Next, Justine looked over the list of stolen property, an itemized account of the contents of Wendy Borman’s backpack. A piece of handmade jewelry had also been taken, a gold chain necklace with a gold charm in the shape of a star.

Toward the back of the book was a photograph of Wendy Borman wearing that necklace while she was alive. She was posed standing between her parents. She was already taller than they were, and she had looped her arms over both their shoulders. Wendy had been a grinning, blond-haired girl with an athletic build. She didn’t look like she should ever die. How sad was that?

“I’m ready for the contents of the evidence box,” Justine said. “I think so, anyway.”

Detective Murphy offered Justine latex gloves from a dispenser, then used a pocketknife to slit the red tape around a plain cardboard box. She removed the lid, lifted out a large paper bag, and sliced the seal on that.

Justine was hit with an adrenaline high, a rush of bright anticipation she couldn’t control. This was precisely the feeling that had gotten her into forensics and made her good at it. Something here might open a window into the Schoolgirl case.

Maybe it would even reveal a killer.

She reached into the bag and pulled out a pair of stretch jeans, size six, and a baby blue jersey-knit top with a scoop neckline.

She plunged her hands into the bag again and brought out a pair of Nike cross-trainers and baby blue socks.

She spread out the clothing, examining where samples had been cut out of the fabric by the LA crime lab.

“I take it the blood belonged to the victim.”

Murphy nodded yes.

“I need to borrow her clothes,” Justine said.

“Chief Fescoe and DA Petino already okayed their release,” said Murphy. “You’re the man.”