James Patterson - 12th of Never

Herman apologized for the interruption, told Brady to go ahead with his questions.

Brady knew that Herman had been a practicing down-and-dirty lawyer for twenty years and had a foundation of twenty years of street smarts before that. He opened his coat so that his shoulder holster was exposed and said, “Mr. Herman, I came here alone because I want to have a private chat with you, see if we can get somewhere, just the two of us.”

Herman’s eyes narrowed. Brady saw from the lawyer’s expression that he suddenly understood that this meeting wasn’t going to be quick or easy. Maybe he suspected a shakedown.

Brady continued, “You remember ADA Yuki Castellano? She and I went to Bolinas last night.”

“Is that right?” Herman shot a glance toward the kitchen. Lily was singing to herself.

“We went to Marcia and Alan Kohl’s house with a search warrant. We found the dungeon where they kept Lily, and they’ve explained that you hired them to take care of her. We have them both in custody now.”

“What are you charging them with?”

“Kidnapping. Endangering a minor. A few other charges as we work through their statements.”

“I see,” Herman said. He looked at Brady. Dropped his eyes to Brady’s gun. Raised them again to Brady’s steady blue eyes. Then he looked at Lily as she came back into the study.

“Daddy, I forgot to tell you. I used the electric toothbrush this morning. It was fun.”

“Good girl, Lily,” Herman said. “I need to talk to Mr. Brady in private, okay? Daddy will be right with you.”

Chapter 90

THE CHILD TOUCHED her father’s cheek, then went back to the kitchen.

Herman said, “I’ll testify that the Kohls didn’t abduct Lily, if that’s what you want me to say.”

“So you brought the child to them?”

“Well, yes. I did that. It’s not a crime. It was only supposed to be an overnight stay. I was going back in the morning, but I got picked up—”

“I’m not arresting you for kidnapping.”

“ Arresting me?”

“I am arresting you for the murder of Jennifer Herman. Anything you say can be used against you. You can call your lawyer, but as I said, I want to let you know where we stand so that you can make it easy on yourself and your daughter. I’m giving you a chance to come in with me and make a statement.”

“A statement about what? You have nothing on me for anything. Don’t buy anything Alan Kohl says about me. He’s a loser, a … a … desperado. He’ll say anything—”

“Let me stop you there. We’ve got your car at our forensics lab. Your wife’s blood and hair are in the trunk. The Beretta you bought last year was also in the trunk. It’s been tested against the bullet extracted from your deceased wife’s head. Alan Kohl will testify that he drove you back to this house the night you left Lily with him and Marcia.

“So you’re going down, Mr. Herman. You make a full statement, including how and where you murdered your wife, you save the people the time and expense of a trial, it will count in your favor. You see that, don’t you?”

“I’m not saying a word. You can talk to my lawyer, John Kinsela. See you in court.”

Something fell to the floor in the kitchen. Lily said, “Uh-oh.”

“If that’s the way you want it, Mr. Herman. Your face will be all over the media again, every single day you’re in court. Just curious. Don’t you think you owe your daughter something? Don’t you think that if you spent the next two hundred years in jail, you still couldn’t pay her back for what you’ve taken from her?”

Herman looked at Brady, kept a steady gaze.

Brady stood up, took his cuffs in hand, and said to Herman, “Stand up and put your hands behind you, right now, or I’ll have a half dozen cops in here in ten seconds to drag you out.”

“And if I make a statement?”

“I’ll make sure you’re incarcerated at Folsom. There’s a nice little suburb around there. Your mother could move there with Lily.”

Herman stared out the window, his face expressionless, unreadable. Brady readied himself for whatever was going to happen in the next few seconds. He was watching for furtive movements. If Herman bolted for the kitchen, Brady had to get to him before he grabbed the little girl. If Herman rushed him, he’d have to take the man down.

Keith Herman stood up, turned around, and put his arms behind his back.

“Done,” he said.

Chapter 91

MACKIE MORALES ASKED Richie, “Have you ever thought about getting married?”

He said, “Instead of that, why don’t I tell you the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job?”

She laughed. “I see. Okay. Tell me your funny story.”

It was their first actual date, Sunday lunch in Sausalito. They were at Scoma’s, a terrific old restaurant right on a pier with a first-class view of the bay, Angel Island, and, of course, the city skyline.

Mackie had pulled her thick hair into what she said was a “side pony,” and her gold cross glinted in the V of her blue pullover. Rich couldn’t decide where to put his eyes. She was just entirely adorable.

He said, “So four new mosques had opened in town and we were supposed to go around, get on a first-name basis with the imams, you know, facilitate community relations.”

The waiter came over with their order—a chilled shellfish platter, iced tea, and freshly baked bread. Rich passed Morales the basket of rolls and she took one.

“Go on with your story,” she said. He could tell that she wanted the story to be good.

“Okay. So we’re at a mosque and one of the imams comes up to me and my partner and says he’s got some information on a possible terrorist threat. And he wants to give us the info, but not there. He says he has to be really careful.”

“Oh, my God,” Morales said, eyes fixed on his.

“So we arrange to meet him at a little park after morning prayers and whatnot, and I check out a car from impound, looks nothing like a cop car.”

“Like a sports car?”

“Exactly. A BMW. Red. And so me and my partner drive to the park, and there’s the imam sitting on a bench, wearing his robe and his cap and reading the Koran. And my partner waves to him like to signal him, the plan being we’ll park the car in the shadows and talk. But the imam doesn’t see us. And so we go around the block three times, trying to signal him, and he looks right past us.”

“Humph,” said Morales. “That must’ve been frustrating.”

“Now, at the same time we’re going around and around, this almost retired cop drives to the park in his black-and-white, parks at the far corner under the trees. He’s just running out his time before getting his pension. And so he’s sitting in the car reading his fishing magazines—and I see this whole thing unfolding.”

They were cracking crab legs with their hands, putting shells in a bowl.

“Hang on a sec,” Morales said. She reached over, knocked a bit of crab off his chin.

Rich grabbed her wrist, kissed her palm, released her hand, and went on with his story. Mackie colored, smiled up at him, and he smiled back at her.

“So the old-timer is reading Outdoor Life ,” Richie said, “and the imam sees him and jumps off the bench and starts running toward the cruiser. Now, understand, this sergeant knows nothing about this. He hears the door open behind him, jerks his head around, sees this guy in Middle Eastern clothes dive into the backseat.”

Morales was shaking her head and laughing into her napkin.

Rich said, “And we can see all this going down and there’s nothing we can do. The old-timer goes flying out of the car, screaming that there’s a suicide bomber in his car, and ‘ Everyone run .’”