James Patterson - 11th hour

Connie Kerr seemed sane to me. Cracked, yes; loony enough to dig up skulls in a garden while thinking she was creating fiction. But I wasn’t picking up stark raving cuckoo. And I wasn’t feeling her as a murderer.

“What happened after you dug up that skull, Connie?”

“Well. I dug up another one.”

Connie dabbed at her eyes with a wad of tissues and continued her story.

“The second head was bad,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting it to be — to have — hell. I didn’t expect it to be so disgusting. I was coming up with my plan, though, and I just told myself to have courage. I thought of it as forensic archaeology.”

“Appropriate term,” I said.

“You think so?”

I said, “Yes,” not adding that in this situation, the correct term for her activity was evidence tampering.

Connie went on to say that she’d placed the “horrid remains” on the patio, returned to get the first skull, and then the idea took full form.

“I went back to my place and got a pair of index cards. I had a cool idea, very dramatic, but I was scared going back to the garden,” she said.

“I was thinking that I was now wandering into the area of premeditation. But I couldn’t stop. I was on a roll. The chrysanthemums were so white. So I plucked some and I made a wreath. I laid it around the heads,” Connie Kerr said, making a wide circle with her arms. “It looked very good. After I finished the wreath, I started to feel better. In fact, I felt elated.”

“You were excited.”

“Yes, that’s it. I was excited and my wheels were turning. I wanted to draw attention to the victims, you see. I wrote numbers on the index cards. I knew the numbers would make these heads into a big story. And I did a clever thing.”

“Those numbers are a code.”

“You’re warm.” Coy smile from Connie.

“Numerology,” I said. “The number six.”

“Aren’t you smart!” she said. She clapped her hands together, and for a moment the woman who had pirouetted around her small apartment was back.

“So you wanted the police to find you?”

“Yes! I wanted the police to find the killer and I wanted to be the heroine who helped solve the case. I wanted good realistic details for my book. I’m calling it Eleventh Hour, because the crime is solved at the last moment. But I never expected to be charged.”

“So that’s your story, Connie? You did forensic archaeology, left some false clues for the police that led to your door.”

“I’ve committed crimes, haven’t I?”

I nodded. I wanted her to be afraid, but truthfully she wasn’t guilty of much. Trespassing. Falsifying evidence. It wasn’t illegal not to call the police to report a crime.

“See, I am cooperating,” she said. “I didn’t even get a lawyer. Can’t you help me, please?”

“Who was the so-called night gardener?” Conklin asked.

“I don’t know. I was peeking through a curtain sixty feet above the ground. It was always dark. I would tell you if I could.”

“How do you get your food?” I asked.

“Nicole leaves it for me on the back steps. She’s that lovely girl who lives next door.”

“I’ll look into getting you released,” Conklin said. “But if we can do it, you can’t leave your house.”

“Don’t worry. I’m quite the homebody,” Constance Kerr said, “and, you know, I’ve got a lot of writing to do.”

Will Randall sat on the side of his bed and sent a text message to Jimmy Lesko. He used a disposable phone and identified himself as Buck Barry, one of Lesko’s private customers, a cautious man with an impressive drug habit.

The confirmation from Lesko came rocketing back, and the meeting was set for eleven that night; a transfer of cash for coke on a dodgy street in the Lower Haight.

It wouldn’t be the transfer Jimmy Lesko was expecting.

Will closed the phone, leaned over, and kissed Becky. He whispered that he loved her, left an envelope on the night table describing Chaz Smith’s double-dealing drug operation and how Smith had profited from being a cop. Then Will turned off the light.

He went to Link’s room and stood over the bed watching his son’s jerking, restless sleep.

His sweet boy.

Link should have been at Notre Dame now, on a scholarship. Should have been going out with girls. Should have been a lot of things he wasn’t and would never be, in a world of things he would never do.

Will kissed Link’s forehead, then went downstairs to the main floor and opened the door to the girls’ room. There were handmade quilts on the beds and a mural of a pastoral countryside painted on the cream-colored walls.

He picked stuffed animals off the floor, tucked them into Mandy’s bed, kissed her, then kissed her twin, Sara. Sara stirred and opened her eyes.

“I was flying, Daddy.”

“Like a bird? Or like a plane?”

“Like a rock-et.”

“Was it fun?”

“So fun. I’m going to go back now…”

Will covered Sara’s shoulders with her quilt, said, “Have a safe flight, sweetheart,” then went to the boys’ room across the hall.

The hamster was running on the endless track of his wheel. The two goldfish stared at him, almost motionless in the stream of bubbles coming up from the little ceramic diver at the bottom of the bowl.

Willie was asleep on his stomach, but Sam was awake and he grabbed Will’s hand and wouldn’t let go.

Will smiled at his boy, sat down on the bed beside him. “What, son? What can I do for you?”

“Are you going out?”

“Yeah, the car’s gas tank is empty and I don’t want to stop tomorrow when I’m on the way to work. Rush hour, you know?”

“Will you get me something?”

“If I can.”

“A motorcycle. A Harley. Black one.”

“No problem.”

“Really?”

“What about a peanut butter granola bar instead?”

“Sure,” said Sam. “That’ll be okay.”

The kid was a born negotiator.

“Go to sleep now,” Will said to his boy. “It’s late.”

Will kissed his youngest son, went down the hallway, and stopped to speak with Charlie, who was in his La-Z-Boy watching the news.

“Is that you, Hiram?”

“It’s Will, Charlie. Becky’s husband. I want to give you something.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“You need a good shake.”

“Ahhh-hah-hah.” Charlie laughed as Will leaned in and grabbed his father-in-law by both shoulders and shook him gently. Will said, “You’re a good man, Charlie Bean. I’ll see you later.”

“That’s fine, Hiram. I’ll wait up for you.”

Taking the stairs down to the garage, Will thought about what was coming that night. He took his jacket off the hook, put it on, then got the gun out of a toolbox near the pyramid of paint cans. He wrapped the gun in a plastic bag, stuck it inside his jacket pocket. Then he grabbed a flashlight and left the house by the back door.

Will knew cops would be watching Becky’s car on Golden Gate Avenue so he stayed on the deeply shadowed side of the street. There was an unmarked car at the corner of Scott, two guys in the front seat.

Will kept his head down and walked past it, kept going south another couple of blocks until he saw the silver Chevy Impala, probably a 2006 model.

The door was unlocked and Will got in, shutting off the dome light. It took him about five minutes by flashlight to remove the ignition plate and hot-wire the car, but the engine started right up and there was fuel in the tank.

The risk was building. But Will had already passed the point of no return.

Tonight was the night he’d been working toward for the last three months, the night when he would take his most personal revenge. He pulled the Impala out onto the street and headed for the Lower Haight.