James Patterson: 12th of Never

Morales was laughing with tears in her eyes. “Richie, no, please.”

“Yeah, and we get the imam out of the backseat and calm the cop down and we get the info and turn it over to the FBI. And they tell us that the intel involved New York City, and we never hear another word about it.

“And that, since you asked, is the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job.”

“Good story.” Morales dried her eyes, looked at him, and said, “This is nice, Rich. I’m getting a little bit crazy about you.”

He couldn’t stop looking at her. Was he available? He wasn’t sure. It was too soon after his breakup with Cindy to get involved and yet he really, really liked Morales.

He said, “Let me see a picture of Benjamin.”

She went for her purse, which was looped onto the back of her chair, opened her wallet, and pushed the photo toward him.

“Oh, man. He is a good-looking boy.”

“Thank you.”

“Where is his father?”

“So you want me to tell you about the funniest thing that ever happened to me on the job?”

She grinned.

He said, “Come here.”

He pulled her into a hug, her hair tickling his nose, her arm going around him, both of them still sitting at the table. He kissed the top of her head and said, “We’ve got time to get into the deep stuff.”

“Yes,” she said. “I want this to take a lot of time.”

Richie held her, thought how good this felt, and that he couldn’t wait for more.

Chapter 92

IT WAS THE end of another torturous night in the Saint Francis pediatric oncology wing. As light slashed through the windows, Joe and I were still waiting for something good to happen. Dr. Sebetic and his colleagues had stuck pins and needles into our daughter, ran her small body through imaging machines, sent her fluids out to labs, but nothing had yet been concluded. I’m a good interrogator, but I got nothing from the medical staff.

And so two days after we checked Julie into Saint Francis, the death sentence that would not quit still hung over her precious head.

Right then, Joe was sleeping beside me in our private hospital room and Julie was dozing fitfully in her incubator, within arm’s reach of the bed.

Neither of them stirred when my phone rang.

Brady said, “How’re you all doing, Boxer?”

He actually said “ya’ll,” his voice sugared with a trace of drawl from his years in Florida.

I told him there was still no news and then asked, “You need something, Lieutenant?”

“Someone wants to talk to you. Here’s a hint. He’s with the FBI. A very big cheese. I’ve been told he’s got a private line to Washington in his pocket.”

Brady patched me through to Parker’s phone, after which Parker and I went a few rounds. As before, Parker told me that if I didn’t help him with this world-class dirtbag, Randy Fish, the case would always be half closed, half solved, and the remains of the dead girls would never be buried in their family plots.

That would be a crime, to be sure, and that’s the part that always got to me.

“I ran the new names he gave me through Missing Persons and they’re all Fish’s type. Every one of them is a dark-haired young female going to college on the West Coast. We’ve got another girl from San Francisco, Debra Andie Lane, eighteen. We had never connected her to Fish until he told me he’d killed her.”

“How exactly am I going to help you, Ron? You’ve got the FBI at your disposal. I’m a midlevel homicide cop. On leave. And all he’s done is mess with me.”

“The fish man asks for you. All the time. He has conversations with you when you’re nowhere around. You can help with the force of your personality. By withholding and giving praise. Dial it up, cut it off; that’ll work with him.”

“You believe that?”

“Yes, if there’s any chance in the world.”

“Well, thanks for your faith in me, but I’m done with the fish man. Please. Cross me off your call list until further notice.”

I told Parker that yes, I was sure, said good-bye, and flung myself back onto the bed.

Joe opened his eyes, ran his hand over his stubble. “Done with what?”

I told him.

He rolled toward me, put his arm over my waist. “Give it some thought.”

“No.”

What was there to think about? I had to stay near Julie. I had to be right here if a life-or-death decision had to be made.

“Julie is getting the best of care, Lindsay. I’ll be here all day and we’ll both be here all night. I’ll call you, I promise, the second I know anything. You don’t function well when you can’t take action. You’re driving yourself crazy and I hope you’ll understand that I love you and I say this in the kindest possible way. You’re driving me a little crazy, too.”

“Really.”

“Randy Fish is a very big deal, and whatever you can do to clear the case, that’s what you should do.”

We argued in whispers for several minutes, but when Joe talked about giving peace of mind to those lost girls’ families, he pushed my buttons, as Ron Parker had done.

“You’re going to nail him this time,” Joe said. “I just know it.”

“You know me, Joe. I’m sure as hell going to try.”

Chapter 93

I MET CONKLIN up on Bryant, in front of the Hall. He had the keys to a squad car and also an extra coffee and a chocolate brownie, which I gladly accepted.

“Where to?” he asked, folding his lanky frame behind the steering wheel.

It was about noon when we got on the freeway. A cold front was forming, and the marine layer filled the roadbed from shoulder to shoulder. I knew every twist, turn, and lane change by heart, and so the slow drivers and the fog didn’t worry me.

I just wanted to get there, let Randy Fish do his thing, and get back to my family.

Two hours later, under a dull afternoon sun, we parked in the Atwater penitentiary’s north lot. Conklin and I met Ron Parker at the front gate, then a group of us trudged down cement steps, through echoing corridors, through a gauntlet of profanity-spewing prisoners, and at last confronted Randolph Fish, who was seated behind a triple layer of Plexiglas.

Fish looked bad—bruised, small, and broken. If you didn’t know better, you’d think that he was as dangerous as a sparrow.

“Tell me about Debra Lane,” I said.

Fish didn’t look at Parker or Conklin or the menacing, muscle-bound guards.

“Debby Lane,” he said to me, “was a cute girl, but she had no fight in her, Lindsay. She wouldn’t talk to me. She didn’t bargain. She just screamed until I couldn’t take it.”

I stared at him. I’m pretty sure my face was frozen in horror as Fish complained about his teenage victim.

“She just screamed and screamed,” Fish said again. “I hardly touched her. I wanted to, but I just ended up cutting off her air. She was a bad choice, I have to admit.”

Conklin was also looking at Fish, but without expression. However, out of the killer’s sight, my partner was clenching his fists, punching his thighs. I knew he was flashing on the remains of Fish’s victims, wanting to do something illegal to get Fish’s head on straight. Knock out a few teeth. Shatter a few bones.

Well, that’s what I was thinking, anyway.

Fish told me, “I locked up Debby’s body in a self-storage facility out by Pier 96. I was going to dispose of her later, but you changed my plans for me, Lindsay. You remember. You caught me outside the movie theater. Where you and I met for the first time.”

“Why should we believe you?” I said. “You’re a good liar, Randy. First class. In fact, when have you ever told the truth?”

“It’s in my best interest to help you, Lindsay. Because I want something—and telling you the truth is how I’m going to get it.”