James Patterson - 10th Anniversary

YUKI’S DATE WAS SITTING next to her in a booth at Renegade, an elegant waterfront restaurant in SoMa with a full view of the Bay Bridge. A floor-to-ceiling waterfall sheeted down a copper wall behind him. His thigh was touching hers, his sun-bleached hair, combed back and cut straight, was falling loose around his collar, and he was telling her about the last case he’d worked in Miami.

Yuki was mesmerized by the sound of his voice.

“Guy runs out of a bank with dynamite strapped to his chest, duffel bag over his shoulder. He gets into his car, guns the engine and — plows into the car right in front of him.”

“On, no. Come onnn,” Yuki said.

“Yeah, he did,” Jackson Brady said. “Rams his Chevy into the trunk of this Honda. Then he backs up and peels out, and the guy in the Honda calls the cops. Honda got a good look at Mr. Dynamite and he’s got a partial plate on the Chevy.”

“Whoa. Way to go.”

“Meanwhile, the teller has pulled the alarm, and now a caravan of cops takes off after the Chevy and finds it abandoned in a canal off the side of the road. The so-called dynamite is in the front seat, made out of painted dowels and wire. But anyway, the guy stole four grand, and they have his plate number, his address, and so on. His name is Timberland Carson and there’s an outstanding warrant on him, armed robbery of a convenience store.”

Brady stopped and took a swig of his beer.

“Don’t stop now,” Yuki said. She sipped her drink. Just sipped it. It was delicious, but she did not want to get drunk on her second date in one week with Jackson Brady.

“So now I catch the case because the convenience store robbery was mine,” Jackson continued. “We go to Carson’s apartment, pound on the door,” Jackson said, punching the air to demonstrate. “‘Miami PD. Open up, Mr. Carson.’

“Carson opens the door. ‘Oh, you found my car already? I was just going to report it stolen.’”

Brady laughed and Yuki laughed along with him. Brady had great timing and he could mimic voices. What a howl.

Brady said, “Meanwhile, I can see the car keys with the little Chevy fob on it hanging from the hook next to the door. I say, ‘Anyone else here, Mr. Carson?’

“‘No,’ he says, and so now we’re in the house. He’s got to let us in because he’s the victim. Someone boosted his car, right? So my partner puts Carson up against the wall, says, ‘You’re under arrest for that convenience store.’ While he cuffs Carson, I’m looking around for the bank bag full of cash. There’s nothing in plain sight, but I can see that the lock on the bedroom door is busted,” Brady told her.

“I push it open with my shoulder, and Carson’s roommate — who isn’t supposed to be there — flies off the bed into the crack between the mattress and the wall.”

“Hel-lo.”

“Yeah. Hello, roommate — and on the bed is a suitcase full of weapons — guns and knives, like a booth at a flea market.”

“You’ve got your gun out?” Yuki asked.

“Yeah, and I’m aiming at the bed, yelling, ‘Come outta there, hands in the air.’ You know. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ And the guy pops up with a semiautomatic, says, ‘I can kill you. Maybe both of you. Or you can let me leave.’

“I’m yelling, ‘Put down your weapon, put down your weapon.’ But the idiot fires, bullets go through the doorway, and in the second before I return fire, he’s put a shot into Carson’s ear.”

“Holy crap. So you shot the roommate?” Yuki asked.

Brady said, “Yeah. Damn right. I had to do it.”

“So, two guys dead.”

“Ah, look at me telling you war stories.”

“I like hearing your war stories,” Yuki said.

“Uh-oh,” Brady said. “Because they say what you like about a person when you meet them is what drives you crazy about them later on.”

Yuki laughed. “I’m not worried,” she said. Then she added, “You wanted me to know you killed someone. Why?”

Brady nodded, his hands clasped together on the table. “By the time IAB was done with me, I wanted to leave Miami. I wanted you to know that. I’m here to stay.”

The waiter came over and said, “Your table is ready.”

Yuki followed the waiter upstairs to the mezzanine, with its view of the lights on the bridge, the promenade below, and Cupid’s Span , a huge piece of public art, an arrow piercing the ground.

She was aware of Brady walking behind her and liked the feeling of having him at her back.

But, she was also worried. Not because Brady had killed a man, but because she was going to have to tell Lindsay that she was going out with her boss.

CINDY LOOKED THROUGH the window facing Kirkham Street and saw a smart-looking black Town Car coming up the block. It pulled up to the modest three-story apartment building where she lived with Richie.

There were no celebrities or wealthy people living in this building, so she made a mental note that this might turn out to be an interesting development. The driver got out of the car and headed up the front steps.

The buzzer rang in her foyer.

Cindy thought, Wrong number, and walked to the intercom.

“Hello?”

“Ms. Thomas. Your car is here.”

“ My car?”

“Are you Cindy Thomas?”

“I’ll be right down,” she said.

Cindy threw on her best coat, a black cashmere blend with antique buttons. She locked up, ran down the three flights and the front steps to the sidewalk. Richie was standing next to the car, a big bunch of pink sweetheart roses in his hand.

He was wearing a suit.

It was a blue one, Rich’s only color, and he also wore a starched white shirt and a striped silver-and-blue tie. It took Cindy a second to fully get that yes, this was Richard Conklin wearing a suit, and he had a look of triumph in his eyes.

It wasn’t her birthday. It wasn’t his either. Who on earth was this someone he’d said he wanted her to meet?

“God, you’re gorgeous,” Rich said when Cindy was close enough to see the shaving nick on his jaw.

“You stole my line,” she said.

She flung herself into his arms and they kissed a few times before Rich broke away, laughing, and said, “May I show you to our private room?”

“Where are we going?” she asked once they were settled into the back of the car, her legs across his lap. “Who’s the mystery person? Tell me right now.”

“I’m not saying.”

Cindy gave him a soft sock to the arm as the car traveled from Golden Gate Park to Oak Street, along the panhandle, a wide tree-covered median, and then from Van Ness past City Hall to California. “Every now and then I like to try to keep something from you,” Rich said.

Cindy laughed and said, “Well, you got me, Inspector. I am clueless.” And she was still clueless when the car pulled up in front of Grace Cathedral and stopped.

Grace Cathedral was a stupendous Gothic structure with a long history going back to before the earthquake and fire of 1906 and through its reconstruction to the present day.

The cathedral was such a short distance from where she and Richie lived that she’d passed by it many times, always gripped by the awesome sight of the exaggerated arches and spires and the Ghiberti Doors of Paradise, Old Testament — inspired replicas of the gilded originals in Florence.

You saw this cathedral and you had to think of God.

Cindy didn’t even know for sure where she came out on the God question, but a cathedral was meaningful, even for the nonreligious. Not only was it a place of worship, but it embodied the history of the times and the course of generations, the birth through death of entire families.