James Patterson - 11th hour

At about two, I turned on the TV.

I watched infomercials — Jewelry TV, then the Coin Vault — learned a few things about numismatic proof coins in original packaging, just what to leave my grandchildren. I switched to the Zumba body, the Shark vacuum cleaner, and then the world’s best bra ever!

I turned off the box, but my eyes stayed wide open and I replayed Joe’s messages in my mind.

The first several times he’d called me, he’d been mad. He’d shouted, said that he’d told me the truth, that June had lied, and that my believing her showed I had a profound lack of faith in him. That it was insulting.

He said that he loved me and that I should pick up the phone. “Call me, Lindsay. I’m your husband.”

Next few messages, he said was sorry for yelling. He realized why I was angry and said he wasn’t mad anymore. He wanted to talk to me and he would tell me about every moment he’d spent with June in the last two years.

“There were not very many moments, Lindsay, and none of them were naked. None.”

The last time he called, he sounded empty. He left me the name of the hotel where he was staying, said to call him if I wanted to talk or if I wanted to listen.

I didn’t want to do either.

It was almost seven o’clock when I got up to make myself a cup of tea. When the phone rang, I picked it up, said, “Hello?”

But it wasn’t Joe.

It was Conklin.

“A body washed up in Big Sur an hour ago,” Conklin said. “A surfer, apparently.”

“Marilyn Varick was a surfer.”

“Yeah. This DB is a man. And he’s got a head.”

“So how does this have anything to do with our case?” I asked.

“The guy who called the police said there was a card lying in the sand next to the body. On it was the number six thirteen.”

I stood flat-footed in my kitchen then adjusted my thinking about the remains at the house of heads. I guess I’d thought the killings were over.

“Richie, about Chandler and his boat. We always thought that body dumps were a possibility.”

“Could he really be so dumb as to dump a body with all this attention on him?”

“Let’s ask him.”

Conklin and I were in Interview 2, the smaller of Homicide’s two no-frills interrogation rooms, sitting across the table from Harry Chandler and his lawyer, Donna Hewett.

Hewett was a good general counsel, known for her work on estates and trusts, and was reportedly a pretty good tax attorney too. But Hewett was not a criminal defense lawyer and that told me that Chandler didn’t expect to get charged.

Was he bluffing?

Was Harry Chandler so bold or so crazy that he would kill while under the laser focus of national news coverage?

Or was Chandler’s conscience clean?

Donna Hewett patted her hair, put her briefcase on the floor, and asked, “Is my client under arrest?”

“Not at all,” Conklin said. “Our investigation is ongoing and as new information surfaces, we follow up. We just have a couple of questions, Mr. Chandler. Where were you yesterday?”

Chandler smiled.

He was wearing a blue cashmere sweater, sleeves pushed up. I saw no cuts or bruises on his hands.

He said, “I’ve started taking notes so I can have seamless alibis in case you two pop up without warning.”

He took his phone out of his pants pocket and tapped the face, then started listing where he’d been and at what times.

“Kaye and I left the Cecily at around eight yesterday morning, went to breakfast at the Just for You Cafe in Dogpatch. I had waffles. She had eggs Benedict. Our waitress was Shirley Gurley.”

Pause for a movie-star smile.

“What were her parents thinking? After that, Kaye and I went shopping at the farmers’ market and loaded up on produce because we were about to take a little cruise.”

“And where did you go?” Conklin asked.

I thought about the dead surfer, seventeen years old, lying in the medical examiner’s lab fifty miles up the coast, time of death still undetermined.

Hewett said, “What are you fishing for, Inspector?”

I took out the morgue shots of the unidentified teen on the autopsy table. I said, “This boy washed up in Big Sur very early this morning. He was linked to the bodies at the Ellsworth compound.”

Chandler lifted his eyes, met my gaze. “I don’t know this boy. I have never seen him before, alive or dead.”

Against his lawyer’s advice, Chandler gave us the names of shops he and Kaye had visited. He produced time-stamped digital photos of them together, and just for good measure, he said there was surveillance video at the yacht club showing that he’d taken the boat out at four in the morning and returned at nine at night.

I asked him when he’d last seen his son, Todd.

“Years and years ago,” Chandler said. “And no, I don’t think he killed anyone. But you should ask him yourself.”

I said, “We’ve obtained a search warrant for your boat.”

“You’re kidding me.”

“The Crime Scene Unit is there right now.”

“They’re inside my boat?”

I guess we finally pissed off Harry Chandler. He stood abruptly and said to his attorney, “I don’t have to answer any more questions, do I?” And he stormed out of the interrogation room.

Charlie Clapper called me at the end of the day, said he’d found no incriminating evidence on the Cecily; no blood, no trace, no bleach, no nothing.

I had just hung up the phone with Clapper when it rang again. Claire calling to say, “That surfer boy who washed up on Big Sur?”

“Yes?”

“The ME in Monterey County said cause of death was blunt-force trauma to the head. The wound matched to his surfboard that also washed up. Witnesses saw him going out into the surf on that board.”

“It was an accident.”

“Right, Lindsay. Accidental death.”

That card with the number 613 on it that some insane tipster said he’d found — it was pure fiction.

I was in desperate need of a laugh or, even better, a boxcar full of them.

I called an impromptu meeting of the Women’s Murder Club, and because it was only two blocks from the Hall, I convinced everyone to meet at MacBain’s Beers o’ the World Saloon.

An hour after sending up the flare, I climbed the wooden back steps to the small room with two tables and one window where Captain MacBain used to count out the day’s cash. Cindy and Claire had already made good progress on the first pitcher of beer, and Yuki had only about an inch left of her margarita.

I could have put down a pitcher of beer all by myself, but the little bundle I was carrying under my jacket had the majority vote and that vote was no to booze.

Claire pulled out a chair and patted the seat and I dropped into it.

Yuki flashed me a grin, said, “I was telling everyone about Brian McInerny.”

“The comedian? Go ahead, Yuki.”

“Okay, so he’s suing a transit worker for taking a punch at him. He deserved the punch, but anyway, I’m deposing him,” Yuki said. “McInerny wants to give answers as both himself and his alter ego.”

“I’ve seen his act,” Cindy said. “He has an imaginary twin.”

“Right,” Yuki said. “And it’s easier to let him do it than stop him. I’m asking him questions and he’s answering as himself and as his character. So crazy. We have it all on tape.”

I gave my order to the waitress, and Yuki continued her story.

“And you know, during a deposition, when someone needs a break, the videographer says, ‘All right, it’s eleven twenty-three and we’re going off the record.’ And then when you’re coming back on, the videographer says, ‘It’s eleven thirty-five and now we are back on the record.’