James Patterson - The 9th Judgment

“I’m right here, sugar,” Claire said.

“Tell everyone to go home. Please,” I said.

She didn’t answer me. The door closed, and I took Joe’s pillow in my arms and rocked myself into a sleep that was more falling down a bottomless hole than floating in a dream.

I woke up not knowing why I was drowning in dread.

“What time is it?” I asked into the pillow.

“It’s almost five,” Claire said.

“In the afternoon?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve only been out for an hour?”

“I’m going to get you something to put you out,” she said. “I called in a prescription.”

I pulled the blanket over my head.

I came up from the deep again, this time into a roar of voices, cheers- What the hell? Was I still dreaming? The bedroom door opened, and lights blazed. Joe was standing over me.

I screamed his name.

Was it really him? Was it? Or had I gone insane?

Joe opened his arms, and I threw myself against him, feeling the wool of his jacket scrape my cheek, hearing his voice saying my name.

I pulled away and looked again to be sure, and now the room was filling with my friends, standing-room only.

“I’m okay, I’m okay, sweetheart. I’m here.”

I was crying again, and I was asking Joe to tell me what had happened.

“I was at the airport,” Joe said. “Ours-SFO-when I got a call from my contacts in Washington saying that the passengers on that plane had overpowered Waleed. It was all over. I could go back home.

“I was arranging a car. I didn’t know about that jet going down, Lindsay, until my driver turned on the radio and told me the news.”

I was helped out of the bedroom and brought to the table. Joe sat beside me. The food was rubbery and cold, and it was the best damned meal I’d eaten in my life-in my whole entire life.

Wine was poured. Toasts were made. I looked around the table, and it finally sank in-Jacobi wasn’t there.

“Rich, did you hear from Jacobi?”

“He hasn’t called,” Rich said.

We raised a glass to Jacobi’s new girlfriend. We ate Joe’s apple cobbler with gusto and, by the way, the 49ers won. I was weak from emotion and didn’t even try to stop people from clearing the table.

By eight o’clock, I was in bed for the night with my arms wrapped around Joe.

THE TELEPHONE RANG several times that night and the next morning, too. I told Joe that if he picked up a phone, he was a dead man, and then I pulled out the cord to the landline, put both our cell phones in the wall safe, and changed the combination.

Joe and I took Martha for a run, and when we got back, Joe made ham-and-cheese omelets with leftovers. It was after noon, so we opened the wine Miles had brought, Joe sipping, looking at the bottle, and saying, “Wow.”

We had bought, but never had had the time to watch, the complete season-one set of Lost, so we pulled up armchairs to the TV and went through six episodes, broke for pizza and beer, and watched the news. We learned that the downed plane hadn’t been sabotaged. The cause was pilot error, terrible enough because four people had died but a relief in that it hadn’t been a failed attempt on Joe’s life.

We soaked up another five hours of Lost, and I suppose some would say it was a waste of a day, but Joe, beer, and fantasy TV, in that order, were what I needed. I fell asleep in Joe’s arms watching a recording of Bill Maher on the Late, Late Show with Craig Ferguson . I turned off the television and shook Joe awake.

“Huh?”

“I love you,” I said.

“Of course you do. I love you, too. I wish there was a better, more expressive way to say it. Too bad you can’t slip into my skin and feel how much I love you.”

I laughed.

Boy, did it feel good to laugh.

“I believe you, sweetheart,” I said.

When I woke up again, it was morning. I took Martha for a walk, and when we returned, I watched Joe sleep as I dressed. I plugged the phones back into their sockets and slugged down a glass of orange juice.

I strapped on my gun, opened the safe in the closet, and took out our cell phones. I put Joe’s on the night table and gave him a kiss.

He opened his blue eyes.

“How’re you feeling, Blondie?”

“Never better,” I said. “Call me later.”

Martha got into bed with Joe, and I went out to my car, remembering as I got into the front seat to check my phone messages.

I’d missed four calls, all of them from Jacobi. I was alarmed and swamped with guilt. I love Jacobi. Love him like the father I wished I’d had. What happened to him? How badly had I let him down?

I pressed the buttons and listened to Jacobi’s first message.

“Boxer,” he said, “I’m sorry not to be at your dinner party, but I’ve been in lockdown at the Hall with Tracchio and the mayor. This is the bottom line: Tracchio has had enough. He’s resigning and I’m moving up to captain.”

I was openmouthed and peeved when the beep cut him off. So I dialed up the next message.

“As I was saying, Boxer, you can have your old job back,” Jacobi said, in a message he’d left several hours before.

“You’ll be lieutenant again, with all the perks, ha-ha. But for damned sure you can call the shots in Homicide. I’ll get you more manpower, I promise you that. If you don’t want the job, I’ll give it to Jackson Brady. You have first call, but you have to let me know right away. The chief is making the announcement first thing Tuesday morning.”

The next two calls from Jacobi were brief: “Boxer, call me back.” The final one was last night. I’d missed a deadline I didn’t know I had.

What had Jacobi decided to do? Replace himself with me? Or with Jackson Brady? Clearly I’d lost my chance to vote. I tried Jacobi’s phone and got a busy signal. It happened when I called him the next time, too.

I started up my car and headed toward the Hall of Justice, but where was I really heading? I had no idea.

Our great thanks to these top professionals who shared with us their valuable time and expertise during the writing of this book: Philip R. Hoffman, Dr. Humphrey Germaniuk, Captain Richard Conklin, Mickey Sherman, Clint Van Zandt, Dr. Maria Paige, Dr. Mike Sciarra, Darcy Hammerman Dalton, Michael Burke, and Stephen Donini.

Our special thanks to our stupendous researchers: Lynn Colomello, Lauren Sheftell, Ellie Shurtleff, and, of course, Mary Jordan, the woman with twelve pairs of hands.

JAMES PATTERSON has had more New York Times bestsellers than any other writer, ever, according to Guinness World Records . Since his first novel won the Edgar Award in 1976, James Patterson’s books have sold more than 180 million copies. He is the author of the Alex Cross novels, the most popular detective series of the past twenty-five years, including Kiss the Girls and Along Came a Spider . Mr. Patterson also writes the bestselling Women’s Murder Club novels, set in San Francisco, and the top-selling New York detective series of all time, featuring Detective Michael Bennett.

James Patterson also writes books for young readers, including the award-winning Maximum Ride, Daniel X, and Witch and Wizard series. In total, these books have spent more than 200 weeks on national bestseller lists, and all three series are in Hollywood development.

His lifelong passion for books and reading led James Patterson to launch a new website, [http://www.ReadKiddoRead.com] ReadKiddoRead.com, to give adults an easy way to locate the very best books for kids. He writes full-time and lives in Florida with his family.