James Patterson - WMC - First to Die

It was risky and rash, precisely the opposite of whatever had gotten me as far as I was. Maybe I just wanted to say screw it in the face of authority. To Roth, Mercer. To play things my own way. Maybe the case was widening, and I just wanted to keep the illusion that it was in my control. Or maybe all I wanted to do was let someone else in. "Before we go anywhere," I said, grasping Cindy's wrist as she started up the car, "I need to know something. How did you find out about what was going on down here?" She took a deep breath. "So far, all that's happened is you've pushed me away from the story of my career. Now I have to give up my sources, too?" "Anything we do from here on is dependent on it." "I'd kind of prefer it if I can keep you guessing," Cindy said. "If this is gonna work, it's gotta be based on trust." "Then trust goes two ways, doesn't it, Inspector?" We sat there, baking in the hot Mazda littered with empty fast-food drink cups, sort of squaring off. "Okay," I finally relented. I gave her what little we knew about why we were in Napa that afternoon. The De Georges missing in action. That they had been married Friday night. The possibility that they were couple number two. "None of this goes to print," I insisted, "until we have confirmation. I give you the okay." Her eyes beamed with her suppositions suddenly confirmed. "Now it's your turn. There was no press here. Even local. How did you get onto this?" Cindy put the Mazda in gear. "I told you I was from Metro," she said, as the car putted out onto the main road, "and I've been fighting to stay on this story. My boss gave me the weekend to come up with something solid on this biggie. You had already brushed me off, so I parked myself down your street since yesterday and waited for something to turn up." "You followed me?" "Pretty desperate, huh? But effective." I scrolled back over the past two days. "To the movies? To the marina this morning?" She blushed slightly. "I was about to call it quits when your partner came by. I just tagged along for the ride." I pressed myself back in my seat and started to laugh. "Not so desperate," I muttered. "Bad guys've been falling for it for years." I was both embarrassed and relieved. On the drive back to town, I fleshed out the rules of our agreement. I had done this before when a reporter got too close on a story and threatened an investigation. She couldn't go out with this story until we had confirmation. When we did, I'd make sure she had it first. I'd keep her ahead of the story, but just slightly ahead. "There's a catch," I said firmly. "What we have now is what you call a prioritized relationship. It goes past anything you already have- with your boyfriend or someone at work. Even your boss. Anything I give you is totally between us, and it stays with us, until I give you the okay to run with it." Cindy nodded, but I wanted to make sure she understood. "Your boss asks you where any of this comes from, you just shrug. Some big shot in the department- I don't care if it's Chief Mercer himself- parks his limo outside your door and calls you in about some leak, you say, Thanks for the ride. The district attorney's office calls you down to a grand jury, asks you to give up your sources, and a judge slaps you into a cell- you just make sure you bring enough reading material to fill the time." "I understand," Cindy said. I could see in her eyes that she did. The rest of the trip we talked about ourselves, our jobs and hobbies, and an unexpected development began to take shape. I started to like Cindy. She asked me how long I'd been a cop, and I took her through more of the story than I had planned to. How my father was one, and how he'd left when I was thirteen. How I was sociology at S-F State. How I wanted to prove I could make a difference in a man's world. How a lot of who I was and what I did was simply trying to prove I belonged. She came back that she was sociology, too, at Michigan. And before we even hit Marin, we had discovered a few other startling things we had in common. Her younger brother was born on my birthday, October 5. She was also into yoga, and the woman who had first taught me, years before in South San Francisco, was now instructing her in Corte Madera. We both liked to read travel books and mysteries- Sue Grafton, Patricia Cornwell, Elizabeth George. We loved Gordon's House of Fine Eats. Cindy's father had died early- some seventeen years ago- eerily, when she was only thirteen, too. But the most chilling coincidence- the one that gave me an eerie feeling- was that he died of leukemia, cousin of the same degenerative disease that was coursing through me. I thought of telling her my secret, but I stopped short. That was Claire's to hear. But as we drew close to the Golden Gate, I had a premonition that I was riding with someone I was meant to be with, and definitely someone I liked to be with. Approaching the city, I called Claire. It was hours after we were supposed to meet, but she still seemed eager to get together -and I had a lot to share. We arranged to keep our date at Susie's, this time for an early dinner instead of a brunch. She pressed me for what I had found during the day. "I'll fill you in when I get there," I told her. Then I did the second thing that surprised me that day. I asked, "Do you mind if I bring a friend?"

C1NDY AND I were already into our second margarita by the time Claire walked in. From ten feet away, her smile seemed to brighten the entire room. I stood up and gave her a big hug. "Couldn't wait for the old mom?" she said, eyeing the array of empty glasses. "It's been a long day," I explained. "Say hey to Cindy." "Pleasure," said Claire brightly, grasping Cindy's hand. Though the date had been planned for just her and me, Claire was one of those people who rolled easily with whatever came up. "Lindsay's been telling me all about you," Cindy said over the din. "Most of it's true, unless she's been saying I'm some kind of crackerjack forensic pathologist," Claire said, grinning. "Actually, all she's been saying is that you're a real good friend." Susie's was a bright, festive cafe with faux-painted walls and pretty good Caribbean food. They played a little reggae, a little jazz. It was a place where you could kick back, talk, shout, even shoot a rack of pool. Our regular waitress, Loretta, came up, and we swayed Claire into a margarita for herself and ordered another round of spicy jerked wings. "Tell me about Reggie's graduation," I said. Claire stole a wing from our bowl and wistfully shook her head. "It's nice to know after all those years of school, they can actually say a few words that aren't 'phat' or 'it's the bomb." They looked like a bunch of street-struttin' kids auditioning for the Grammys, but the principal swears they'll come out of it eventually." "If they don't, there's always the Academy." I grinned, feeling light-headed. Claire smiled. "I'm glad to see you looking up. When we spoke the other day, it sounded like Cheery was pressing those big, ugly shoes of his all over your toes." "Cheery?" asked Cindy. "My boss. We call him Cheery 'cause he inspires us with his humanistic concern for those entrusted to his command." "Oh, I thought you were talking about my city editor." Cindy snickered. "The guy's only truly happy when he can threaten someone with their benefits. He has no due how demeaning and condescending he is." "Cindy's with the Chronicle," I said to Claire, seeing her react with surprise. There was an undeclared no-fly zone between the force and the press. To cross it, as a reporter, you had to earn your place. "Writing your memoirs, child?" Claire asked me with a guarded smile. . "Maybe." The short version. But with lots to tell. Claire's margarita arrived, and we raised our glasses. "To the powers that be," I toasted. Cindy laughed. "Powers that be full of shit, powers that be pompous jerks, powers that be trying to keep you down." Claire yelped in approval, and we all clinked glasses as if we were old friends. "Y'know, when I first came to the paper," Cindy said, nibbling a wing, "one of the senior guys told me it was this particular editor's birthday. So I e-mail him this happy birthday message. I figure, him being my boss and all, it's a way to break the ice, maybe get a smile out of him. Later that day, the jerk calls me in. He's all polite and smiley. He's got bushy eyebrows as big as squirrels' tails. He nods me into the seat across from him. I'm thinking, Hey… the guy's human like everybody else." Claire smiled. Enthusiastically, I drained the last of my second drink. "So then the bastard narrows his eyes and says, Thomas, in the next hour and a half, I have sixty reporters trying to take everything that doesn't make sense in this fucking world and somehow cram it into forty pages. But it's reassuring to know that while everyone else is madly rushing against the clock, you've got the time to paste a happy little smiley face on my day." He ended up assigning me a week of picking a winner from a fifth-grade "Why I Want to Be an Editor for a Day' contest." I laughed and coughed up a little of my drink. "Goes under the heading of "No Good Deed Goes Unpunished." What did you do?" Cindy had a great smile. "E-mail it was the boss's birthday to every guy in the department. Jerks were slumping out of his office with their faces white all day." Loretta came around again, and we ordered meals: chicken in a hot sauce, fajitas, and a large salad to share. Three Dos Equis to go with them. We poured this lethal Jamaican hot sauce, Toasty Lady, on our wings and watched Cindy's eyes glaze over from the first fiery blast. "Rite of initiation." I grinned. "Now you're one of the girls." "It's either the hot sauce or a tattoo," Claire announced, straight-faced. Cindy scrunched up her eyes in an evaluating sort of way, then turned around and rolled up a sleeve of her T-shirt. She exposed two small G clefs etched on the back of her shoulder. "The downside of a classical education," she said with a crooked smile. My eyes met Claire's -and both of us hooted with approval. Then Claire yanked up her own shirt with a blush. Just below her ample brown waist, she revealed the outline of a tiny butterfly. "Lindsay dared me one day," she admitted. "After you broke up with that prosecutor from San Jose. We went down to Big Sur overnight. Just the girls. To let off some steam. Ended up coming back with these." "So where's yours?" Cindy turned to me and asked. "Can't show you." I shook my head. "C'mon," she pressed. "Let's see it." With a sigh, I rolled onto my left buttock and patted my right. "It's a one-inch gecko. With this really cute little tail. When some suspect's giving me a hard time, I push him up