James Patterson - 10th Anniversary

Conklin said, “Hold on,” and did a Web search while I tested the water temperature and pinned up my hair.

“I’m finding some stuff on these Girlz,” Conklin told me. “Drugs. Weapon trade. They aren’t Avon ladies, Linds. Watch your ass.”

“I’m walking on tippy-toes,” I said. “Rich. I saw evidence of a baby in the Burgess house. A baby car seat on the kitchen table. Blue one.”

“ No kidding . Yeah?”

“Yeah. Do me a favor and tell Brady.”

Joe picked up my call on the first ring. I stepped into the tub, lowered myself slowly, and sighed as the hot water covered my shoulders.

“What’s it like there?” Joe asked me.

“Sweet little town,” I told him. “Imagine Northern Exposure crossed with The Twilight Zone .”

“Be careful, Blondie.”

Second guy in under ten minutes telling me to be careful. Jeez, I’ve been a cop for a decade.

“I’ve got a badge and a gun,” I said to my husband.

“I don’t like the way you sound.”

“How do I sound?”

“Blasé. In a completely detached kind of way.”

“I’ve been driving all day.”

“Call for help if you need it. Promise me.”

“I promise. Now, give me a kiss.”

After I got out of the tub, I used the house phone and called the sheriff downstairs at the front desk.

“Sheriff Keene. Got a minute? I want to tell you about this case I’m working.”

AT JUST AFTER EIGHT in the morning, I turned the Explorer onto Clark Lane and headed south.

“Look at that,” Claire said.

A thick knot of bikers filled the street — headlights on, engines revving — forming a wall between us and the Burgess house. As we closed in, the knot tightened, and the bikers showed no sign of parting to let us pass.

My plan had been to knock on Toni Burgess’s door. Show her my badge. I imagined going inside that house and getting the baby out. I hadn’t counted on a rumble. Freakin’ Buck Keene must’ve given Toni Burgess a heads-up.

“What now, Kemo Sabe?” Claire said.

“We’re winging it, Tonto,” I said. “Going to rely on what I’ve been told is a lot of charm.”

I braked fifteen yards from the bikers, close enough to clearly see their mannish haircuts and grungy clothes, their chains looped over their shoulders and around their waists, and their tattoos down to their fingernails.

I told Claire to lock the doors after I got out and to keep her cell phone in hand.

The moment I stepped out of the Explorer, there was no turning back. I was committed to gaining entrance to the cedar-shingled house. I made a path in my mind, saw myself sidestep the leader of the pack, walk through the gate, and approach the front door.

The biker in the lead position gunned her engine, then shut off the motor and dismounted. She closed the distance between us and stood her ground.

She looked to be in her late forties and about my height, five foot ten, but she had fifty pounds on me. Her blond-gray hair was greased back, she had gaps in her phony grin, and her nose was angled toward the right side of her face.

The patch over the breast pocket of her jacket read “Toni.” This was Antoinette Burgess? Not your typical suburban mom.

“What do you want?” she asked me.

My hands were sweating. There were a dozen ways this could go wrong. Devil Girlz trafficked in guns. I pulled the front panels of my jacket aside, showed her the Glock on my hip and the gold badge on my belt.

“Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, SFPD. I’m here about the baby.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the biker said.

That’s when a baby’s piercing wail came from inside the house. I looked up and saw the backlit form of a woman standing at the front window with a bundle in her arms.

I turned around, went back to the Explorer and, when the lock thunked open, got inside and asked Claire for the phone.

I had Buck Keene’s number on my speed dial.

“Sheriff Keene, this is Sergeant Boxer. I need assistance on Clark Lane. If you’re not here in five minutes, I’m calling the FBI. They’ll take down anything or anybody who gets between them and that kidnapped baby.”

THREE GREEN-AND-WHITE PATROL CARS screamed up Clark Lane in the dim light of morning and braked on the verge. Sheriff Buck Keene got out of the first car, wearing a cowboy hat and a dun-colored jacket with fringe along the sleeve seams and a badge on the breast pocket. He had a rifle in his arms.

“Girls, break it up. Let’s keep things simple, okay?”

There was some hooting and wisecracking. “What did you say? ‘Keep it simple, stupid’? Who’re you calling stupid?” someone called out.

But the Devil Girlz moved their bikes out of the way and made a narrow pathway through their ranks for Sheriff Keene.

Toni Burgess, Claire, and I drafted behind the sheriff, through the weed garden, along the fieldstone path, and up the creaking steps to the deck and the front door.

Keene knocked and called out, “Sandy, open up. It’s Buck.”

The door cracked open.

A woman’s voice said, “Go away, Buck. We’re not hurting anyone.”

I said, “Sandy, I’m Sergeant Lindsay Boxer, and this is Dr. Claire Washburn, SFPD. We just want to talk to you.”

“Call me on the phone if you just want to talk to me.”

“We want to see the baby,” Claire said. “Make sure he’s okay.”

Sheriff Keene shouted at the door. “What is this, Sandy? What have you girls done?”

“We haven’t done anything wrong, Buck. Just back off. Unless someone has a warrant, get off our property.”

“You can’t send law enforcement away. You’re making a mistake, Sandy,” Keene said.

“Someone is. Go away. Don’t make me say this again. You’re trespassing.”

I’d had enough of this. I took a half step back, then put my shoulder to the door and rammed it wide open. Claire and the sheriff barreled into the house after me.

“Subtle,” Claire muttered.

“As a jackhammer,” I reminded Claire, and that’s when I saw the woman who had been standing behind the door. She was wearing coveralls and a long-sleeved pink T-shirt. Her face was pretty and her hair was long and brushed to a shine. She looked to be in her late twenties or early thirties.

She had a baby under a blue blanket over her left shoulder. It was a wriggling newborn.

Was this Avis Richardson’s baby?

All I knew for sure was that he was alive .

And then I noticed that Sandy had a 9-millimeter handgun pointed right at my head. And from the look on her face, I knew she wouldn’t hesitate to use it.

“BUCK, GET THE HELL OUT of here!” Sandy shouted.

“I’m not leaving,” he said, “until you put down that gun and tell me what the hell is going on. That is your baby, right, Sandy? You were pregnant. I saw you —”

“Aw, geez, Buck. Don’t ask, don’t tell. You ever heard of that?” said the girl with the baby over her shoulder.

“What are you saying? You were lying to everyone? You were faking your pregnancy? Toni? Jesus Christ. How could you two do that?”

Sandy put the barrel of the gun underneath her chin. “I don’t want to talk about this anymore. All of you. Get out. I’m not kidding,” she said. “And I’m not lying either.”

The blood left my face. Coffee climbed into my throat.

“Sandy,” Keene said. “We’ll help you. This isn’t the way.”

“It’s my way. Now, get out, get out, get out! ” she shouted.

The baby was crying now, real hearty wails.

My mouth went dry. So many ways for this to go wrong and I never even imagined it this way. I said, “You’re not in trouble, Sandy. We just want to talk about the situation. Buck, let us have some privacy. Please.”