James Patterson: 11th hour

There was a scuffle inside, two alarmed voices, and then the sound of something crashing.

Fried turned the knob, saw the chain, and applied the force of his foot to break in the door. He stepped in and said, “Hands up, Blayney. Everyone, freeze.”

I headed into the room and saw Jason Blayney raise his hands, dropping the stained sheet he’d been holding in front of his privates. Jewel Bling, a low-rent call girl, was still in the bed. She drew a ratty blanket up to her chest. A lamp had been shattered during Blayney’s overheated rush to get dressed and lay on the carpet of this beyond horrific maroon-and-gray-appointed room.

“I’m researching a story on prostitution,” Blayney yelled. A bulb hanging from a cord above him swayed, casting a harsh, unflattering light on his blanched face and naked body.

“Research?” The hooker hooted. “What kind of research? How many times you can get your pipes cleaned for thirty dollars?”

Cindy stepped forward with her camera and shot a lot of pictures of Blayney trying to cover himself with his hands.

“I want to make a deal,” said Jewel Bling. “Shut up!” Blayney bellowed.

He grabbed the sheet off the floor and turned a pitiful face to Cindy. His eyes were squinched up, and he cried out, “Cindy, please. Let this go and I promise I’ll make it up to you.”

I was stunned.

This was the bastard who wrote lies and leaked information for the pure glory of getting his name on the front page. Now he was begging for mercy.

“My wife will leave me if she sees those pictures,” he said.

“She’ll take the kids. They’re all still young. I won’t be able to explain this to them.”

I couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re a hypocrite, Blayney. This is part of the SFPD’s crackdown on crime. He’s your collar, Billy.”

Billy Fried walked to Blayney, dragged the reporter’s hands behind his back, and cuffed him.

“You’re under arrest for pandering, buddy. Don’t worry. The penalty is just going to be a fine.”

Cindy fired off a few more shots with her Nikon, then said, “I think I’ve got your best angle, Jason. And don’t worry. I will spell your name right. You don’t have to worry about that.”

Rich Conklin was dragged away from a deep place of no pain.

He’d been sleeping when Cindy squeezed his good shoulder, called his name. He opened his eyes and saw the tops of her breasts showing in the neckline of her loose pink top.

“If you don’t get up, you won’t be able to sleep tonight,” she said.

He loved looking at her sweet face. Her rhinestone clip sparkled in her blond curls. Rhinestones looked like diamonds on Cindy. Still, he wanted to get her actual diamonds someday.

“Come to bed,” he said. He took her hand, tugged on it. She frowned, said, “No. You have to get up. Come on.” She left the room.

“What’s wrong, Cin?”

“You said you wanted to talk,” she called.

“I said that? Oh, last week? When you were steaming toward a deadline and said you couldn’t be disturbed?”

Rich heard her choking on a laugh in the next room.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, looked at the clock on the nightstand. It was almost six. Jeez. He’d been sleeping all day.

He shuffled into the living room in his T-shirt, sling, boxers.

The table was set and champagne was open, standing in a flowerpot full of ice. Cindy bent over the table and lit some candles.

“Sit here, honey,” she said, patting the back of the chair. He did what she told him to do, then watched her pour champagne into the two flutes they had gotten at a flea market six months ago.

“What’s the occasion?” he asked.

“It’s a new tradition,” Cindy told him.

Now he smelled the aroma of herbs and spices coming from the kitchen. He hadn’t eaten anything in twelve hours.

“What are we calling this tradition?” he asked. “It’s the first-day-of-the-month dinner, Richie. And I propose that we do this every month, no matter what. No matter what case. No matter what deadline. We need to shut everything off for an hour and just be together.”

“Sure, Cindy. It’s a good idea. Why do you look so sad?”

“I have to apologize.”

“For?”

“I’ve been straying in my mind.”

“Some other guy?”

“No, not that.”

Cindy explained to him that she’d been in a panic about committing to marriage and motherhood, had worried about losing her place as a journalist, being marginalized as a part-time writer.

“I’ve been keeping part of myself out of our relationship.”

“Okay, stop beating yourself up now.”

He got up from his seat and hugged Cindy with his good arm. “I want you to be happy, Cindy. I know you’re ambitious and I love that about you. Plus, I’m a boring guy without you.”

“I was so scared when you got shot.”

“I know.”

“It got me focused on the right stuff.”

“Did you make beef stew?”

“For instance, that you’re just the best man in the world.”

“Do you love me?”

“Yes, Richie. I do.”

“Did you make your deadline today?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you pregnant?”

“Nope.”

“We won’t have babies until you say so. If you say so.”

“You still want to marry me?”

“Feed me our new traditional first-day-of-the-month dinner, Cindy. Please?”

“You betcha. I might have burned it though.”

“Kiss me.”

“Okay. Here. Here. And here.”

“After we eat, let’s go to bed.”

Jacobi and I were having dinner at Aziza, a Moroccan restaurant; aromatic, homey, decorated in deep, earthy tones, and fragrant with all the spices of Arabia.

Jacobi’s color was good and he was wearing a blue sweater that made him look years younger than his age. Better than he’d looked in a long time.

“William Randall died without gaining consciousness,” Jacobi told me. “Good side of that is that he wasn’t convicted of anything. His widow will still get his pension.”

“You think Randall knew that Chaz Smith was a dirty cop?” Jacobi shrugged. “He could have known. It’s very possible. Ah. I got back the ballistics, Lindsay.”

“Are you going to tell me something bad, Jacobi? Because I just want to catch up and have dinner.”

“The shot to Randall’s kidney came from Brady’s gun.

That was the kill shot, and since Brady’s going to be on leave for a while, it won’t matter if he has to be without his gun and badge while we prove he fired on Randall in self-defense.”

“Don’t tell me I have to keep running the squad, Jacobi. I really don’t want to do it.”

“I’m going to be running the squad. Me.”

“Yeah?” I grinned. I liked what Jacobi was saying. A lot. “Until Brady returns and I can move back upstairs to my nice office with its beautiful view of Bryant Street.”

I slapped his hand above the plate of couscous, lifted my virgin mojito, and said, “Here’s to having you back in the corner office.”

Jacobi grinned and clinked his glass against mine, and then he laughed.

“I’m not going to let you cowboy around while I’m running the squad.”

“Oh, like you can change me. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“You’ve got a baby in the oven, Boxer — ”

“I think that’s ‘bun in the oven’ — ”

“And I’m part of your family. Don’t forget that I walked you down the aisle on the happiest day of your life.”

“I haven’t forgotten.”

I hadn’t forgotten a minute of that day. Me on Jacobi’s arm. Walking on rose petals. Seeing my husband-to-be waiting for me in the gazebo overlooking the sea.