James Patterson - 12th of Never

There was a moment of relative silence into which Judge Nussbaum said, “I’m declaring a mistrial. Mr. Herman, you will be returned to your cell for now. Bailiff, please take the jury back to their room. Sheriff Calhoun, clear the court-room.

“Mr. Kinsela, Ms. Castellano, please stay where you are.”

Cops pushed and pulled a handcuffed Lynnette Lagrande toward the exit. Her pretty face was unrecognizable as she screamed, “I did nothing wrong. This is slander. I’m going to sue you, Mr. Kinsela. I’m going to sue—everyone. I’m innocent .”

Floyd Meserve called out to Kinsela, “I need representation, Mr. Kinsela. I need you right now.”

Kinsela said, “You can’t afford me, Mr. Meserve. But here’s some free advice. Shut the hell up.”

The golden-haired little girl who had been sitting in the courtroom beside Lynnette Lagrande darted through the crowd and ran to her father. She was bawling as she grabbed him around his waist and cried out, “Daddy, let’s go home.”

Nicky Gaines went to the little girl and peeled her away from Keith Herman. “Lily, you’ll see your dad again soon. You just have to stay with your grandma for another few days.”

Yuki stood in one place and stared inward.

What had just happened?

Had Lynnette Lagrande, the beautiful and prim school-teacher, just sprouted hair on her palms? Was Floyd Meserve, the good cop, a simpleminded dick who had in fact killed Jennifer Herman because he loved Lynnette Lagrande? Who had kidnapped the child—and why? And what did Keith Herman have to do with all of the above?

All that Yuki knew for sure was that if the judge hadn’t declared a mistrial, Keith Herman would have gotten off. Because reasonable doubt of this magnitude hadn’t been seen in San Francisco in the last fifty years.

Chapter 73

RICH CONKLIN WAS shaving in the men’s room when Brenda, the squad assistant, pushed open the door and stuck her face in.

“Hey. Could you knock, maybe?” Conklin said. He pulled paper towels out of the collar of his shirt, dried his face.

“Here you go,” Brenda said. She knocked on the open door.

Conklin laughed. “What is it, Brenda? What do you need?”

“There’s been a shooting at the aquarium.”

“You don’t mean the Aquarium of the Bay?”

“That’s the one.”

“Shit,” Richie said. “Tell Brady about this.”

“He’s the one called me, told me to find you and tell you to get down there.”

“Is Morales in?”

“She’ll be in later. Sergeant Boxer is taking the day off. It’s all on you and about a hundred uniformed cops until the day shift comes in.”

Conklin went to his desk, collected his weapon, and put on his jacket. Then he jogged downstairs and checked out an unmarked car from the lot outside the ME’s office.

He drove north through the morning rush on the Embarcadero. It was a twenty-minute drive to the Wharf even with the siren on and a clear lane. Which he didn’t have.

As he wove through traffic, Conklin thought about Professor Judd, how he’d come in yesterday morning wearing a cashmere overcoat on top of his pajamas, how he’d bulled his way into the squad room, then demanded that Conklin listen to his dream.

Conklin had said, “Let’s hear it, Professor. Did someone get whacked? Or should I say, is someone about to get whacked?”

Judd had dragged out the story, talking about the arc of light, the watery eclipse, the moving walkway, and the gradual realization that he was dreaming, until Conklin had shouted, “Will you get to the fucking point? ”

“There was a shooting,” Judd had said.

“Who got shot?” Conklin asked.

“I don’t know.”

“Don’t know? How is that? Weren’t you there?”

“I didn’t see a person go down, and I didn’t see the shooter.”

“So let me get this straight. You had a dream. You essentially left your body, materialized at the aquarium, and that’s where you heard a shot.”

“That’s right.”

The little professor had stuck out his jaw, daring Conklin to argue with him. He had crumbs on his chin and on the collar of his pin-striped pj’s.

Conklin said, “Nobody has called in a shooting. So you didn’t see a victim in your dream, and there’s no victim in real life, either. I can’t do anything with this, Professor.”

Judd had said, “I guess I’m going to have to be my own detective.” He patted his hip, as though he were packing a gun. “I’ve got a license to carry.”

Conklin had said, “Thanks for coming in, Professor.”

Now there had been a shooting at the aquarium. Had the professor’s dream been another fulfilled prophecy? Or had the professor gone and shot someone?

Conklin called Inspector Paul Chi.

“Chi, it’s Conklin. Do me a favor. You and Cappy go pick up Professor Judd and bring him to the Hall. Just hold him for questioning. You don’t have to tell him anything. Just nail him down. I’ll be back in a couple of hours.”

Chapter 74

CONKLIN PULLED HIS car up to the command post—three black-and-whites and a clump of cops standing in front of barricades blocking the entrance to Pier 39. Conklin leaned out of his window, signed the log, and asked the sergeant what was up.

The sergeant told him, “One victim, shot through the head. It’s a mess in there. Put your waders on.”

Conklin drove straight ahead to the turnaround in front of the Aquarium of the Bay, a tacky-looking white building with peaked roofs, awnings, flags, and a large blue cutout of a shark on the wall.

He parked his vehicle, then called Brenda to say that he had arrived at the scene. He sat behind the wheel for a moment, feeling that whatever had happened inside the aquarium was his fault. That he should have paid more attention to that twerpy professor. That instead of posting a team at the aquarium, which he could have done, he’d told Professor Judd that there was nothing he could do.

Now someone was dead, and Conklin was 99 percent sure that the professor had done the shooting and that he would have an alibi. Not just an alibi, but a rock-solid, airtight, unimpeachable alibi.

Conklin rummaged in the glove compartment and located half of a packaged brownie. He gobbled it down, then got out of the car and headed to the staircase outside the aquarium building. He climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time.

He entered the building on the second floor, badged the cop at the door, and took a left past some exhibits, including a cylindrical tank full of shiny, swirling fish. Another cop was guarding the elevator.

“You’ve got to take the fire stairs, Inspector. The elevator is out.”

Christ.

Conklin took the fire stairs down, opened the fire door, and stepped into eight inches of cold seawater. He passed the 725 gallons of illuminated moon jellies, then slogged along the dimly lit corridor, following signs to the three-hundred-foot-long moving walkway that had been tunneled under the bay.

Conklin stopped at the head of the walkway, which was no longer moving, and tried to get his bearings. The aquarium arced overhead. Sharks and other large fish, schools of anchovies, and various slimy creatures from the deep swam over and around him. It was like surround sound for the eyes—and it wasn’t comfortable.

Halfway down the tunnel, a stream of water poured onto the walkway through a hole about six feet up the wall. At best, the spray was destroying evidence. At worst, the entire exhibit was in danger of becoming like a submarine with a breached hull.

Feeling suddenly sick from the underwater effect, Conklin held on to the railing. He really didn’t want to puke in the crime scene. He steadied himself, took some deep breaths, then he pushed off and sloshed over to where the CSIU team was processing the scene.