James Patterson - 12th of Never

“So maybe your original memory was wrong. Or maybe your original memory was correct?”

“Huh?”

“Your Honor, I’m done with this witness. I reserve the right to charge him with perjury once I determine if he has even the most basic grasp of the truth.”

Kinsela snorted from across the room.

The judge said to Yuki, “Duly noted,” and told Gary Good-friend that he could step down.

Nussbaum looked at the big white-faced clock over the exit door, then said, “Seems like an appropriate place to adjourn for the weekend.”

Chapter 61

IT WAS 7:40 on Monday morning when Claire saw Rich Conklin’s truck parked off by itself in the open lot on Harriet Street. When she got closer, she saw that Richie’s head was tipped back and his mouth was open. Looked like he’d passed out.

She called out to him a couple of times and when he didn’t come to, she rapped on the window, said, “ Richie . Yoo-hoo. Wakey-wakey.”

He sat up, said, “Huh?” and then, “Oh, hi, Claire. Am I late?” He ran his hands through his hair, tucked his shirt into his pants.

Claire went around to the passenger side and climbed up into the truck. The cab smelled of beer. There was a crumpled hamburger bag in the foot well, dirty laundry lying loose on the backseat. Richie hadn’t shaved.

She said, “Actually, you’re early, my friend. How long you been sleeping here?”

Rich leaned across her, opened the glove compartment, and took out his cell phone. He checked it for messages, then put it in his shirt pocket.

Since he hadn’t answered her question, Claire had a few more for him.

“What’s up, Richie? I suppose you’ve got a good reason to be camping out in the parking lot. When was the last time you took a shower?”

He laughed, then said, “Hold on, Claire. That was a good idea. May I use your shower?”

Claire had a private shower at the morgue. Problem was, it wasn’t exactly hers at the moment. Her stand-in, Dr. Herbert Morse, would be arriving in a few minutes, if he wasn’t already there in her office, boning up on how to be a medical examiner.

“Honestly, if it was mine to give you, I’d tell you to shave, shower, and take your time on the potty. But I’m on the sidelines, as you know. Working out of a cubicle.”

“Ah, I’m sorry, Claire. Well. I’ll think of something.”

“Cindy kicked you out?”

“We broke up after I crashed your dinner at Susie’s.”

“So that’s what happened. I haven’t spoken with Cindy since then.”

Rich sighed. “I don’t know what I’m doing. Should I rent a place? Should I live in my truck for a while until I know what to do with myself?”

Claire said, “I didn’t see this coming, Richie. Cindy’s always been crazy in love with you—and I thought vice versa.”

He sighed again. “She’s changed.”

“Uh-huh. You seeing that girl with the curly black hair?”

“Morales?”

“That’s the one.”

“What makes you think I’m seeing her?”

“She looks at you like you poop rainbows.”

“Yeah. Well, it’s complicated.”

“Oh. How’s that?”

“She’s got a little boy. And she’s still in school. I don’t know. There was a spark that took hold and you know, it just feels good to have someone look at me like I’m special. Especially when Cindy is always in her own world, by herself.”

“You sleeping with Morales?”

No answer from Richie.

“Look at me,” Claire said.

Rich did what she asked. His eyes were bleary. He didn’t even look happy.

“People go through stages. It’s hard to find someone like Cindy, someone you love and trust. No one gets to have a relationship all their way all the time.”

“I like kids,” Richie said. “I like kids a lot . It’s not a phase I’m going through.”

There was a tap on Richie’s window. Lindsay was right there and Claire could see she was feeling crabby. Rich buzzed down the window.

“Let’s go, okay?” Lindsay said. “I want to get back to the hospital as soon as possible.”

Chapter 62

THE COOLER WAS packed, what with everyone in there. Conklin, Claire, her two investigators, and I were grouped around a stainless steel table between stacks of drawers full of dead people. No coffee allowed. I needed coffee.

The investigators were used to the walls of dead people, and to having no caffeine. They were eager to prove themselves.

Jessica Kain was young and trim, and wore black tights, a baby-doll dress under a thin cotton jacket, and sunglasses pushed up in her streaked blond hair. Jay Dedrick was dark-haired, wiry, and had a tattoo of his wife’s name on his wrist—Jackie.

The two were friends, but definitely competitive.

Dedrick took the lead.

“We went through every inch of Kennedy’s house. Faye Farmer lived there, too, but it was his house and most of the stuff was his. We went through his closets, his garage, the crawl spaces.

“He left his computer on and we went through that. He said he didn’t care what we looked at; he had nothing to do with Faye’s death and didn’t know who did. We selected some of his DVDs at random. All of them were football games.

“Bottom line on the search of Kennedy’s house: we found nothing indicating that he was planning to kill his girlfriend.”

Kain pushed up the sleeves of her jacket, even though it was about forty-six degrees Fahrenheit in the cold storage. She said, “We dumped their phones. There was a call from Kennedy to Farmer at two forty-five on the morning of the shooting. She answered the call. Took fourteen seconds.”

I said, “Long enough for him to say, ‘Don’t be a bitch’ and for her to say, ‘Screw you.’”

Kain said, “That was the last call either one of them made or received that night. Kennedy got a call at seven sixteen a.m. from his sister in Seattle. Then he got calls from everyone in the world. Same for Faye, but she wasn’t taking calls by then. She was here.”

Dedrick looked at notes on his tablet and read out names of the male partygoers they had interviewed, some of whom I knew from watching them play ball. Dedrick said he spent a few hours with Niners’ quarterback Calvin Sandler. Whenever Kennedy was spotted in a club or a restaurant, he was either with his fiancée or Cal Sandler or both.

Dedrick told us, “Sandler said, and I quote, ‘This whole effing thing is effed up. Jeff was at his effing party the whole effing day and night and he never effing left.’

“Sandler corroborates Kennedy’s story and says that he was with Kennedy when Faye Farmer stomped off,” Dedrick said.

Kain listed the women guests, including Linda Banks, the “extra woman” whose flirting had detonated the Faye Farmer explosion. Banks, too, corroborated that Farmer had left in a huff.

“Did Faye have any enemies?” I asked. “Did anyone want to kill her?”

“Both Farmer and Kennedy had haters,” said Kain. “They each had thousands of followers on Facebook and Twitter. Also, there was a rumor that Faye might have been seeing some guy in the movie business. He’s a mystery man, if he even exists. I couldn’t find out his name.”

I said, “So maybe Faye had an unknown admirer and she and Kennedy had at least a billion virtual fans. This just keeps getting better.”

Claire spoke up. “What about Tracey Pendleton? Find out anything on my former security guard?”

Dedrick said, “Pendleton has vanished. She has not used her credit card. She has not taken out any of the hundred and forty-five dollars she has in her checking account, and she has not used her phone. There’s no sign of her car, either.”

Claire said, “Is she afraid to call in because she let the body snatcher into the morgue? Or is she drinking off a big paycheck for letting someone steal Faye Farmer’s body?”