James Patterson - The 8th Confession

“Exactly,” I said. “How’m I supposed to feel, my partner having sex with one of my best friends?”

“It’s kind of a good match, though,” Yuki was saying, taking a left, the car speeding downhill, causing my stomach contents to slosh.

“She’s always liked him,” Yuki said, “but who doesn’t? Wait a minute, Linds. Have I missed the obvious here?”

I rolled down the window, and the wind hit my face. Yuki was asking me, “Do you want me to pull over? Are you sick?”

“I’m fine,” I belched.

“Okay, so what’s this about? Your partner’s dating your friend. Why is that a problem?”

I rolled up the window, just left it cracked about an inch. “Rich and I. We’ve had a couple of moments,” I heard myself say.

Yuki’s mouth dropped open as she headed the car across a straightaway, stopping at a light, then swiveling her head so she could look at me.

“Define ‘moments.’ ”

Suddenly I was telling Yuki everything: about the near miss Conklin and I’d had when a case took us to Los Angeles. I told her how we’d stopped before things went too far, and how the chemistry just wouldn’t let up. That it had been sparking even when my apartment burned down, when I’d moved in with Joe. Even a week ago when Conklin had planted a steamy kiss on my lips by the car.

I was still talking when we pulled into the underground garage beneath Yuki’s apartment building. She shut off the engine and turned to face me.

“Are you in love with him?”

“In love? I don’t know what to call it, but we have something special…”

“So this isn’t about Cindy. This is about Conklin.”

I shrugged.

“You have something pretty special with Conklin that you have turned down repeatedly and have no intention of acting on, isn’t that right?”

I was drunk and I was being interrogated by my friend the prosecutor. I had no defense.

“We’ve talked about it,” I said. “It was my choice, and I’m glad that we’ve never done anything that would destroy Joe.”

“So how do you feel about Joe? Tell me the truth.”

“I love him.”

“Prove it to me, because right now, I don’t get it.”

I excused myself, got out of the car, walked over to the huge trash can by the elevator, and threw my guts up. Yuki was there with a Wet-Nap, an arm around my waist, a packet of gum.

But she didn’t let me off the hook.

We went back to the car and resumed our places, and she said, “Tell me the whole truth and nothing but.”

I told her that when I’d met Joe it had been that thunderbolt right between the eyes, and it had been mutual. And since that day, Joe had never let me down. That he’d changed his whole life to be with me. That he was not only my lover but my best friend, too, the person I could be real with. That the only fear I ever had about my love for Joe was taking the next step with him, because it would be for good.

“If we get married, I can never leave him,” I said.

“And that’s a bad thing?” Yuki asked me.

“It’s a scary thing.”

“I’m no expert, but isn’t ‘scary’ appropriate when you’ve been traumatized? When someone you love has died?”

I nodded. She was talking about Chris, my former partner and boyfriend who’d been gunned down on the job.

Yuki reached out, took my hand.

“Lindsay, it’s okay to have chemistry with Rich. You can’t help that. It’s fun, maybe, and cool to have someone with you all the time who has a big crush on you. You’ve already decided he’s not for you, but he’s your back door, your escape hatch, because you’re afraid to get married. Do I have that right?”

Tears were coming now. Yuki tightened her grip on my hand.

“Let him go,” she said. “Let yourself go.”

Yuki held out her arms and folded me in. She’s a tiny thing and I’m an Amazon, but somehow that awkward hug was just what I needed. I was crying in earnest and Yuki was stroking my hair.

“You know what I want with Doc?” she said. “Exactly what you have with Joe.”

CINDY WAS AT her desk in the bull pen the next morning, scrolling through her notes in order to double-check her memory. Then she found it, the note she’d made of her impromptu interview with the girl who called herself Sammy, the strung out teen who’d mentioned that “people” had killed Rodney Booker, not one person but at least two.

Cindy had felt haunted by that word – “ people” – sorry that Sammy had bolted before she’d followed up on what might have been a significant lead to finding out who killed Rodney Booker.

Cindy called Lindsay again, this time leaving her a message thanking her for the sweetheart roses. Then she grabbed her handbag and left the Chronicle Building, taking the short walk to From the Heart.

A homeless guy about her age, name of Angel, flashed his gold-capped smile and opened the door to the soup kitchen while giving Cindy a sweeping bow.

“Hey there, Ms. Cindy Thomas. We named you the sweetheart of From the Heart. By popular vote.”

Cindy grinned, asked Angel if he knew a girl named Sammy, and Angel said, “Sure, I know Sammy. She’s inside now.”

Cindy searched the large room, finally seeing Sammy working behind the steam table, serving up lunch to the long line of street people. Sammy was wearing nice slacks, expensive layered tops in bright colors, her pale yellow hair neatly braided down her back.

And although Sammy’s pupils were large enough to see from across the room, the teenager was clearly a volunteer, not a client.

Cindy crossed to the steam table, said, “Hi, Sammy. Do you have any time for me?”

Sammy looked not just nervous but jumpy. “No,” she said. “I just can’t.”

“Please.”

“I can’t talk to you in here,” Sammy sputtered. “I’ll meet you at Moe’s in a half hour if you’ll leave now.”

Cindy waited for Sammy at Moe’s, and after an hour went by, she ordered a grilled cheese on rye. As soon as it came, Sammy dropped into the seat across from her.

“You’re too much, Cindy,” the girl said, shaking her head. “I warned you to watch out, but you just can’t leave things alone.”

“I can keep a secret,” Cindy said, “but I can’t just drop this story.”

“No? Well, my father has me under house arrest. He doesn’t want me talking to anyone, especially you.” The girl crunched Life Savers, ordered a Coke. “Classic,” she said to the waitress.

“Why not me?”

“Because you are looking to get yourself killed.”

Cindy stirred her coffee, said, “See, this has me confused, Sammy. Why am I in danger? What’s so special about Rodney Booker that makes writing about him life-threatening?”

“Because his killers aren’t street people, Cindy. His killers don’t want to be exposed, arrested, charged with murder.”

Cindy said, “I need your help.”

Sammy sat back in her seat, her eyes wide with fear. She said, “I need your help, too. I want to get away from here. Move out of town. But I have no money. I’ll make you a deal. Can you get me some kind of advance on that reward? Like ten grand?”

“No way,” Cindy said. “That money is there until Bagman’s killers are convicted. I can get you a couple hundred bucks if that’ll help.”

“Forget it. Thanks, but no thanks. I said I needed help, and by the way, screw you,” said Sammy.

As soon as Sammy left the diner, Cindy paid the check and walked back to work. Sammy had finally gotten to her. The teenager’s fear could be druggie paranoia to the max, but Cindy was getting a different feeling – that Rodney Booker’s murder was tied to something bigger, something organized.