James Patterson - 11th hour

Then a call-waiting signal beeped in my ear. I checked the caller ID, and if I hadn’t been trying to get away from my sister, I never would have taken the call from Jason Blayney.

I told Cat I had an urgent call, said good-bye, and then put on a frosty voice for the crime reporter from the San Francisco Post.

“It’s late, Mr. Blayney. And listen, don’t call me again. The person you want to talk to is Bec Rollins in Media Relations. She’ll be happy to speak with you. Use my name.”

Blayney ignored me, pressed on. “We got off to a bad start, Sergeant, and I know it was my fault. I get a little carried away. Does that ever happen to you?”

“Does what ever happen to me?”

“Do you ever get a little carried away when you’re really into a case? In my situation, when I’m on a story, I want to live it, breathe it, dream it.”

Blayney was trying to bait me into saying Yes, I sometimes get carried away. Did he think I was stupid?

“I understand that sometimes reporters who are living, breathing, and dreaming their stories get carried away. They should take care that what they consider enthusiasm isn’t actually stalking or assault.”

Blayney laughed. “Okay, okay, you win, Sergeant. But I still have an offer for you.”

“Oh, really.”

I was tired. Unlike the dealers who’d died tonight, I had inhaled smoke. And unlike Chuck Hanni, I’d gotten soot all over me. I looked charred. I felt charred.

“Good night, Mr. Blayney.”

“Listen, I don’t think you’ll go to hell if you call me Jason. And here’s my offer.”

I sighed loudly.

“Have lunch with me. I want to tell you what I’m trying to do at the Post. I think you’ll see that I’m not a bad guy. I’m on your side. I could be even more on your side if we work together.”

I laughed at him. It was a genuine laugh. The guy was actually funny. I recognized a journalist’s trick of the trade: make friends with your subject and gain trust — then betray that trust.

“I want to give you my number,” he said. “I sleep with my phone next to my pillow.”

I said, “Who doesn’t?”

“I never miss a call.”

“Sweet dreams,” I said. I heard him calling my name as I moved the receiver toward the hook.

I said, “What is it?”

“Just take my number, okay? You may change your mind about talking to me.”

I said, “Uh-huh, uh-huh,” pretending to write down his number, then I hung up. I was dying for a Corona, but instead I had a big glass of full-fat milk, got into bed with Martha, and put my feet up on some pillows.

Martha put her head on my belly, about where I thought the baby’s little butt might be. I talked to them both for a few minutes, laughed at myself, and then turned on the news.

I fell asleep with all the lights on. I hadn’t set the alarm. I hadn’t even brushed my teeth. And then came the call from the crime lab, from Charlie Clapper, who was pulling a double, maybe a triple shift.

Clapper said, “We found a gun inside the car. Thought you’d want to be the first to know.”

“What kind of gun?”

“A twenty-two. The number had been filed off, but we recovered it with acid and traced it. We already know all about that gun.”

“It was one of the guns stolen from our evidence room.”

“Well, you took all the fun out of that,” said Clapper.

“Brady is going to want to know.”

“He’s next on my call list.”

I thanked Charlie, said good night.

I stared at the ceiling until six, then got dressed and took Martha for a run. The killer Jason Blayney had nicknamed Revenge had taken out seven people, one of them an undercover narc.

Revenge was on a spree, and he was stepping up his timeline, doing multiple homicides. He was growing into his job as an executioner and he was becoming fearless.

These days, I couldn’t walk through the Hall of Justice without looking at every cop and wondering, Did you do it? Are you the one who’s gone rogue? I had the sense that I knew Revenge, that he was a regular cop, hiding in plain sight.

At 8:00 A.M. we were in an unmarked Chevy Malibu, Conklin at the wheel.

“I slept on the couch again last night,” he told me. “If this keeps up, I’ve got to upgrade to a king-size couch. Or cut my feet off.”

“Cindy’s upset, you’re saying?”

“She said it was because I stunk and whatnot, but it wasn’t the smoke in my hair, Linds. She’s pissed.”

“I know. I know. What should we do? Tell her we’re looking for a cop who’s taking out drug dealers? Then she’ll get the scoop, and we’ll be whistling and wearing white gloves directing traffic.”

Conklin laughed. “That’s not funny.”

“She’ll get over this.”

“When?”

“Sorry I can’t do more to help your love life,” I said. “She’s mad at me too, you know.”

Conklin laughed again, said, “Yeah, but you’re sleeping in your bed, am I right?”

He made the turn onto the wide and beautiful stretch of Vallejo Street, now barricaded and three reporters deep on the sidewalks. I saw the local guys as well as some press displaying decals of various countries’ flags on their satellite vans.

There was nothing like severed heads at the home of a movie star who’d once been tried for murder to bring out inquiring minds from all nations.

I was recognized and a small mob stampeded toward our car even as a uniformed cop pivoted a sawhorse to let the car through.

“There’s your friend,” Conklin said to me, indicating the young guy at the front of the barricade who was taking pictures and looking very pleased with life. It seemed like Jason Blayney didn’t ever have bad days.

“Yeah. My friend.” I snorted. “Wants to have lunch with me.”

“You going to do it?”

“Be serious.”

We drove up to a space in front of the mansion, left the car under the protection of the men and women of the SFPD, then went through the gate.

Ricky Perez, Harry Chandler’s gardener, was sitting on the front steps of the Ellsworth house waiting for us. He was in his twenties, and his massive upper-body musculature showed under his sweatshirt and plaid flannel jacket.

He also had a great smile.

This kid was in charge of the trophy garden. He was too young to have been caretaking the Ellsworth garden when the heads were first buried there. But I hoped he could lead us to a killer with the sensibility of a department-store window dresser and the bloodlust of Jeffrey Dahmer.

I introduced myself and my partner to Ricardo “Ricky” Perez, then asked him what he knew about the heads that had been presented on the back patio of the house, garnished with chrysanthemums.

Perez said, “All I know is what I read and what Janet Worley told me. She grilled me, for God’s sake. You ought to consider hiring her for your rubber-hose-and-third-degree department.”

He looked for a laugh, didn’t get one. He appeared surprised. Big, good-looking kid, worked for a movie star. He was probably used to adoration and he seemed to like attention.

I asked Perez where he’d been over the last week, and he had no trouble remembering. He’d been out with three different girls over the weekend and had slept in with Miss Early Monday Morning in his flat.

He was awoken by a call from Janet Worley, who’d filled him in on the shocking events. According to Perez, the whole story was from “the planet Weird, man,” and he had no idea how these heads could have been buried right under his feet without him knowing it.

He was either genuinely perplexed or a pathological liar. I asked, “When was the last time you were in the back garden?”