James Patterson - The 9th Judgment

Next into the buzz saw was me.

I briefed the squad on the whole nine yards of the nothing we had on the death of Casey Dowling, saying that we were looking at five recent burglaries with the same MO.

“In all six incidents, the homeowners were home, and no one ever saw the burglar. This time there’s a fatality,” I said, “and maybe a witness. A ten-year-old neighbor saw someone in black running from the scene. Right now, it looks like the victim surprised the burglar, and he shot her.”

Jacobi nodded, and then he dropped the bomb.

“The chief called me in this morning and said it would be more efficient to combine our unit with the Northern Division Homicide Section.”

“What does that mean, ‘combine’?” I asked, dumbfounded at the idea of doubling up in our twenty-by-thirty-foot work space.

“The thinking upstairs is to have more bodies working the cases, more collaborative problem solving, and, hell, probably a new chain of command.”

So that’s why Jacobi looked like he’d been dragged behind a truck. His job was in danger, and that would affect us all.

“It’s not a done deal,” Jacobi said. “Let’s close these cases. I can’t fight if we’re losing.”

The meeting ended with a collective sigh, after which Jacobi invited me and Conklin to join him in what we jokingly call his corner office: a small, glass-walled cell with a window overlooking the freeway.

Conklin took the side chair and I leaned against the door frame, assessing the horizontal grooves that had appeared overnight on Jacobi’s forehead.

“Dowling didn’t have a heart attack,” Jacobi told us. “Chest pains. Rapid breathing. It’s being called a stress attack. Could be. It fits. Or maybe he was acting. Maybe this time he’ll get that Oscar. Meanwhile, he’s just been released from the hospital.”

I told Jacobi that the ME’s report said Casey Dowling had had sex before she died. “We’re on our way to see Dowling.”

“I’ll be waiting by the phone,” Jacobi said.

MARCUS DOWLING OPENED his door and showed us to a sitting room decorated to the hilt with English-style roll-arm sofas, Flow Blue platters on the walls, and Foo dogs on the mantel. Mayfair meets the City on the Bay.

A woman in a black dress, not introduced, offered beverages and quietly left the room, returning with bottled water for Conklin and me, Chivas for our host.

I said, “Mr. Dowling, tell us again what happened last night.”

He said, “Jesus Christ, I told you everything, didn’t I? I thought you were coming here to tell me something.”

Conklin, who is a sensational good cop to my badass bitch, said, “We apologize, sir. The thing is, your telling us what happened again might trigger a memory or a new thought about who did this.”

Dowling nodded, leaned back in his leather chair, and put down a healthy swig of scotch. “The Devereaus had gone,” he said. “As I told the other officer, I was putting things into the sink-”

“The lady who brought the beverages,” I interrupted. “She wasn’t here to help?”

“Vangy only works days. She has a child.”

Dowling repeated how his wife had gone upstairs before him, how he heard shots, how he found his wife on the floor, not breathing, and how he’d called the police.

I said, “Mr. Dowling, I noticed last night that your hair was wet. You took a shower before the police came?”

He grunted and gripped his glass. I was watching for a tell-a guilty look-and I thought I saw it. “I was devastated. I stood weeping in the shower because I didn’t know what else to do.”

“And your clothes, sir?” Conklin asked.

“My clothes?”

“Mr. Dowling, let me be honest with you,” Conklin said. “We know you’re a victim here, but there are certain protocols. We take your clothes to the lab, and it puts down any questions that might come up later.”

Dowling gave Conklin a furious look and called out, “Van-gy! Take Inspector Conklin upstairs and give him whatever he wants.”

When Conklin and the housekeeper left the room, I asked, “Mr. Dowling, when was the last time you had intimate relations with your wife?”

“My God. What are you getting at?”

“Someone had sex with your wife,” I said, pressing on. “If it was her killer, he left evidence that could help us-”

“Casey had sex with me! ” Dowling shouted. “We made love before dinner. Now what exactly does that tell you?”

Fifteen minutes later, Conklin and I left Dowling’s house with a printout of his phone contact list, a cheek swab, and all the unlaundered clothing he owned. Presumably that included what he was wearing when his wife was shot.

“I took everything in the clothes hamper and whatever was on the hook behind the bathroom door,” Conklin said as we walked out to the car. “If he shot her, we’ll have gunpowder. We’ll have blood spatter. We’ll have him. ”

IT WAS THE end of a very long day when Claire and I came in from the dark street into Susie’s, with its splashy sponge-painted walls, spicy aromas, and the plinking drumbeat of the steel band.

Cindy and Yuki were holding down our favorite table in the back room, Yuki in her best go-to-court suit while Cindy had swapped out her denims for something flirty in baby-blue chiffon under a short, cream-colored jacket. They were putting away plantain chips and beer and were in deep conversation about the Dowling case.

Claire and I slid into the booth as Cindy said, “Casey Dowling owned a twenty-karat canary diamond ring worth a million bucks. Known as the Sun of Ceylon. Maybe she fought to keep it. What do you think, Linds? Possible motive for Hello Kitty to go ballistic?”

“Casey didn’t have any defensive wounds,” said Claire.

“And she didn’t scream for her husband,” I added.

I poured beer from the pitcher for Claire and myself, then asked Cindy, “Where’d you get that info about the diamond?”

“I’ve got my sources. But I wouldn’t get too excited, Linds. That rock will have been chopped into pebbles by now.”

“Maybe,” I said to Cindy. “Listen, I have a thought. Since you know who’s who, maybe you could run your fingers through the social register, flag anyone young and athletic enough to do second-story jobs.”

Yuki asked, “You’re thinking Hello Kitty is high-society?”

“Rich does,” Cindy and I said in unison.

Yuki tucked her hair behind her ears. “If Kitty travels with that crowd, he’d know Casey had this huge yellow diamond, and if she recognized him-”

“Yeah, I admit, it makes sense,” I said. “There was a forced-window entry into the Dowling bedroom, identical to the other five break-ins. There’s a witness who saw someone making a getaway on foot. Clapper says there’s no gunpowder or blood spatter on Dowling’s clothing. So if Casey knew Kitty-”

And then Claire thumped the table with her fist. Chips jumped. Beer sloshed. She got everyone’s complete attention.

“I’m sorry, but the Benton killings give me the creeps. WCF. What’s that? It’s crazy. Sinister crazy. Mystery gunpowder stippling. Mystery motive. Dead baby, shot execution-style.

“So let me be clear: I don’t care whose case it is, and I know it’s not right to care more about one murder victim over another. I said I’m sorry, and I am, but this dead baby hurts me. Deeply. And now I’m going home to my man and my little girl.”

YUKI PAID THE tab and told Lorraine to keep the change. She realized suddenly that she’d never given the others her news. Usually girls’ night out at Susie’s was laughing and venting and dinner. But tonight everyone got intense and then-they were gone.