James Patterson: 12th of Never

It was almost impossible to believe that such a bright, vivacious young woman was dead, her promising life just … over. Had someone taken her life? Or had she killed herself?

I kept reading.

The article went on to say that Faye Farmer lived with football great Jeffrey Kennedy, who was not a suspect and was cooperating fully with the police.

I’d watched Jeff Kennedy many times from the stands at Candlestick Park. At twenty-five, he was already the NFL’s best outside linebacker. His defensive skills and movie-star looks had made him an immediate fan favorite, and at a guaranteed thirteen million dollars a year, he was the league’s fifth-highest earner.

Faye Farmer had been photographed with Kennedy frequently over the last couple of years and had been quoted as saying she was going to be married—“to someone.” The way it sounded, she wanted to get married to Kennedy, but he wasn’t at the until-death-do-us-part stage.

I was dying for more information. This was what’s termed a suspicious death, and my mind just cannot rest until a puzzle is solved. Of course, from where I was sitting at the kitchen counter, I had no more information than anyone else who had read the Chronicle ’s front page this morning.

I was just going to have to tamp down my curiosity and get over it.

I put down the paper, then dressed quickly and quietly. I leashed Martha and went down the stairs, thinking I’d start off slowly, see if I could run a half mile, melt off a little of the twenty-five pounds of baby fat I’d added to my 5-foot-10-inch frame. I’d always been a bit hippy. Now I was a bit hippo.

Not a good thing for a cop.

The sun was still coming up over the skyline when I locked the front door behind me. But as I was about to set out, my attention was caught by a woman who was sitting behind the wheel of a rental car parked at the curb. She spotted me, too, got out of the driver’s seat, and called my name.

I had never met her, never wanted to.

And now she’d waylaid me.

There was no place to go. So I stood my ground.

Chapter 11

I DIDN’T KNOW June Freundorfer, but I knew who she was. My eyeballs got small and hard just looking at her in the flesh.

She wore a slim gray custom-tailored suit, had perfect wavy brown hair, and a smile as bright as if she soaked her teeth in Clorox. In brief, she was an attractive forty-five-year-old power babe and she had history with my husband.

Here’s the history.

Agent Freundorfer had been Joe’s partner at the FBI. She was promoted to the FBI’s Washington field office about the same time Joe was hired as deputy director of Homeland Security, also in Washington, DC.

June still lived in DC and until recently, Joe had been flying there regularly to see his government-agency client.

I hadn’t known about June, but a few months ago, while I was pregnant with Julie, a photo of Joe and June appeared in the Washington Post ’s society page. June was looking up at Joe with twinkling eyes, a flirty look, and they were both in evening wear.

Joe insisted that there was nothing to the photo, just a charity benefit he’d gone to under pressure. He’d caught a flight back to San Francisco that same evening.

Then June called Joe’s cell phone and I picked up. I announced myself, asked a couple of pointed questions, and June admitted that she was involved with Joe, but that Joe really did love me.

I went bug-nuts.

Joe said that June was lying, that she was trying to make trouble for us out of jealousy, and I can honestly say she wasn’t just trying, she succeeded.

I threw Joe out of the house and changed the locks. He slept in his car, which he parked outside the apartment, just about where June’s car was parked now.

It took a while for me to believe in Joe again, but I love him and I had to trust him. And I totally do.

But now, those old suspicions returned as the beautiful Ms. Freundorfer came toward me, carrying a little turquoise shopping bag from Tiffany.

Martha read my body language and stood at my feet with her head lowered and ears back, ready to spring.

“Lindsay? You are Lindsay, aren’t you?”

“Joe isn’t around, June. Did you call?”

“So I don’t have to introduce myself. Joe always said you were smart. Anyway, I brought a gift for the baby,” she said. “Did you have a boy or girl?”

“We have a daughter.”

June smiled graciously and handed me the bag. And I took it because to keep my hands at my sides would have been childish. I even thanked her for the gift, a thank-you that was less than sincere and wouldn’t fool anyone, especially an FBI agent.

June said, “What’s the baby’s name? I’d love to see her.”

“It’s not a good time, June.”

It would never be a good time.

She said, “Oh. Well. Best of everything, Lindsay. Best to all of you.”

She returned to her car and after she’d waved good-bye and her taillights had disappeared around the corner, I opened the turquoise bag and undid the white ribbon around the small box inside.

June had given Julie a sterling silver rattle.

Very nice.

I took the rattle, the wrappings, and the unopened card and dropped it all into the trash can on the corner. Then I went for a run with Martha.

I ran. I hurt everywhere, but still I ran. Three miles later, Martha and I were back at our front door. I was soaking wet, but I felt something like my old self. It was a beautiful morning. I was married to a wonderful man and I was the mother of a healthy baby girl.

June Freundorfer be damned.

Chapter 12

THE COURTROOM WAS so packed that members of the press were standing together like matchsticks at the back of the room. TruTV cameras rolled, and Yuki saw Cindy Thomas sitting four rows back on the aisle.

Cindy winked at Yuki, who smiled before turning to say, “Your Honor, the people call Mr. Graham Durden.”

A tall black man in his late fifties entered the courtroom from the rear, looking straight ahead as he walked purposefully up the aisle and through the wooden gate to the witness box. He was sworn in, then took his seat.

Yuki greeted her witness and began with questions that established his identity and his role in the case.

“Mr. Durden, what is your address?”

“Fifty-seven Lopez Avenue.”

“Is Mr. Keith Herman your neighbor?”

“Yes. He lives directly across the street from me.”

Yuki noticed that Durden’s hands were shaking. It was understandable. The man was a witness against a killer. If Keith Herman got off, Graham Durden would still be living directly across the street from him.

“Mr. Durden, did anything unusual happen on the morning of March first last year?”

“Yes. I’ll never forget it.”

“Please tell the court about that morning.”

“I had gone out to get the newspaper off the porch and I saw Mr. Herman carry his daughter’s dead body out to his car. I could tell that Lily was dead. He put her into the backseat and drove away.”

There was a gasp in the gallery, a satisfying intake of breath, and the jury appeared absolutely gripped by what they had heard.

“Did you call the police?”

“Yes, I did.”

“Did the police question the defendant because of your phone call?”

“Yes. The day after I called nine-one-one, I was asked to come into the station for a lineup. I positively identified the man who put the body of Lily Herman into his car.”

“Do you see that man here today?”

Durden said he did, and at Yuki’s request he pointed to the man sitting next to John Kinsela at the defense table.

“How well do you know Mr. Herman?” she asked.

“I’ve known him for about five years. I knew Lily since she was three. She likes my dog, Poppy. They used to play on my lawn. I know the man’s car, too. Lexus. A 2011 four-door sedan.”