James Patterson - Private

Cruz tapped buttons on his iPhone, calling Jack.

“Good news, very good news. I recorded the fix. Do you receive me, captain?”

“Loud and clear. We got it all here. Audio and video. Who’s that in the blue jacket?”

“Victor Spano. Out of Chicago. Marzullo family.”

“Unreal,” Jack said. “Good job, Emilio. Come home. We need you here.”

Justine was at BESO, the spectacular restaurant owned by Eva Longoria and Todd English. It was a huge vaulted space known for its Mexican cuisine with an original twist.

Justine’s round booth gave her a wide view of the room, but she hadn’t exactly been stargazing. That wasn’t her style.

She’d been passing the time paging through a short stack of yearbooks from Gateway Prep. The waiter cleared the table and brought her check.

“Everything was good this evening, Dr. Smith? You enjoyed your lemon sole?”

“Yes, Raphael. I’m practically addicted to the lemon sole. Everything was perfect.”

Actually, nothing was perfect, other than the fish. She’d tagged ten boys, Gateway graduates from the years 2004 through 2006, who somewhat matched Christine Castiglia’s description. Some had pointy noses, some had sticking-out ears; none of them had a police record.

Justine paid her check, and as she waited for the valet to bring her car around, she switched on her phone and checked her messages. She saw that Bobby had called and so had Christine Castiglia’s mother, Peggy.

Was it possible? Had Christine made a breakthrough? Justine tapped the button to return Peggy Castiglia’s call. She muttered, “C’mon, c’mon,” until the phone was answered on the fifth ring.

“Leave my daughter alone,” Christine’s mother told her. “She’s an anxious child, and now she’s got you to worry about. You can’t rely on anything she says, do you understand? Because she doesn’t want to disappoint you. She’s in her room crying right now.”

Justine blocked out the traffic, the pedestrians on the sidewalk. She stared at her blue pumps as she told Peggy Castiglia that she was sorry, she didn’t want to upset Christine, but it was necessary to keep her involved.

“Necessary? Not for Christine,” Peggy Castiglia said.

Justine’s head throbbed. She clenched the phone and said, “Peggy. Someone has already murdered thirteen girls-that we know about. Christine is our only real lead so far. Do you seriously want to get in the way of bringing down a killer?”

“I can’t afford to worry about other girls, Dr. Smith. If you had a daughter, maybe you’d understand. Just stay away from Chrissy. Don’t make me call the authorities.”

“I am the authorities. I can have her interrogated as a material witness,” Justine said, her voice high, strained, getting away from her. “Please,” she said to Peggy Castiglia. “Don’t make me force her to talk to the cops.”

“You just try it, Dr. Smith. I’ll fight you to my last breath.” And then Peggy Castiglia hung up the phone.

Justine was seething as she headed toward home on the freeway. Sci had gotten viable DNA from Wendy Borman’s clothes, but there were no matches in the database. Without a match, she couldn’t put a name to the DNA left by Wendy Borman’s killer.

They were so close-and they were nowhere.

And right now, the Street Freeks were planning another kill.

Justine saw a familiar exit sign and made a snap decision. She took the off-ramp and turned in the direction of Bobby’s house.

Bobby had a way of quieting her anxiety. Maybe he could reason with Peggy Castiglia. If not, he could start legal proceedings to get her daughter’s cooperation.

Okay, good.

Bobby’s car was parked in the narrow one-car spot that clung to the sloping roadway above his house. Justine parked on the verge of the hill, walked through the gate, and rang the bell. When Bobby didn’t answer right away, she took the familiar stone path around to the vast back lawn with its extraordinary canyon view.

She slipped off her shoes and let her feet feel lush grass.

Then she saw him. Bobby was in the hot tub, so Justine called out, “Bob. I’m returning your call.”

He stood up in a self-conscious crouch-and that’s when Justine saw that a woman was in the hot tub with Bobby. She was naked.

Justine took it all in at once. The woman in the tub screamed, then covered her small breasts with both hands. Bobby’s face contorted with anger as he called out, “Justine. Stay right there.”

He patted the edge of the hot tub for his glasses while his “date,” bright pink from the heat, shouted at him, “Get me my robe. Please, I need my robe!”

Justine recognized the naked woman now. She was Bobby’s wife, Marissa, the woman he’d separated from over a year ago, the one he didn’t love anymore, the one who had moved to Phoenix and was ready to sign the divorce papers any day.

Justine’s guts liquefied, then froze. She was so disappointed and so hurt.

She wanted to run, but it would be better to do the hard thing. Face the truth. Get answers.

She had a pretty good idea why Marissa Petino was here, but she had to ask anyway.

Justine’s feet carried her within speaking range of the hot tub. She said to Marissa Petino, “I’m Justine Smith. I’m sorry to interrupt. I thought Bobby would be alone.”

Marissa clutched a robe to her chest, turned blazing eyes on her husband.

“Bobby, who is this?”

Justine said, “Bobby and I have been seeing each other for-what, Bobby? About a year?”

Bobby had tucked a towel around his waist. His glasses were perched at a cockeyed angle on his nose. He looked as though he’d lost his cool in the hot tub, and Bobby hated that. The man had to be in control.

“Justine, damn it. This is damned crazy, you know that? Let’s go. I’ll walk you to the gate.”

Justine ignored Bobby and said to Marissa, “Just bear with me, please. Did Bobby tell you he’s running for governor?”

“What do you mean? Of course he told me. You mean you’re seeing him now?”

Bobby stood between Marissa and Justine, his face so red that Justine thought he was going to try and punch her.

“I wouldn’t have told you this way,” he said. “You shouldn’t have come here without calling.”

“I loved you,” said Justine. “I trusted you.”

“I never promised you anything. I never lied to you.”

Justine slapped him and saw her handprint white against his cheek. “Everything was a lie,” she said. “Don’t you even understand that?”

Marissa Petino cinched her robe and faced her husband. “I get it now, Bobby. Running for governor with your wife plays better than running with your girlfriend.”

“Please, Marissa, please let’s talk about this later,” Bobby said.

“I don’t want a ‘later.’ And thanks, Justine. I appreciate the reminder of what a snake my soon-to-be-ex husband is.”

“My pleasure,” said Justine.

“Can you give me a lift?” Marissa asked Justine. “My car is at the Beverly Hilton. I can be dressed in two minutes. Bobby, I hope you freaking get leprosy and die.”

“My car is parked on the side of the road,” Justine said to Marissa. “Blue Jaguar. I’ll be waiting for you.” She turned back to Bobby. “Lots of luck in the gubernatorial race, Bob. Don’t ever call me again.”

A “DO NOT DISTURB” card hung from the doorknob of Andy’s third-floor suite at the famed, or perhaps infamous, Chateau Marmont off Sunset. It was almost eleven a.m. I pounded and pounded on the solid wood door.