Patterson, James - Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree

“I promise,” she finally said, blushing behind a smile.

“This is for real,” Cindy pressed her.

Jill raised her palm. “The Highland Park Brownies, swear on your sister and never betray; otherwise, your face will break out with huge zits, oath.”

“That sounds sufficient,” Claire said.

Jill took our hands in the middle of the table. “I love you guys,” she said.

“We love you, Jill.”

“Now, can we goddamn order,” she said. “I feel like I just took the law boards again. I'm starved.”

Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree

Chapter 36

MAYBE IT WAS BECAUSE I didn't sleep, tossing the whole night because this SOB - who was always the first to dash away when one of his buddies had the urge to go golfing, and pretended to be this fawning, adoring husband in public - was hurting one of the sharpest girls in the city, someone I loved.

Whatever it was, the thought of Steve gnawed at me for most of the next morning, until I could no longer sit there, fielding calls, pretending to keep my mind on the case.

I grabbed my purse. “If Tracchio's looking for me, tell him I'll be back in an hour.”

Ten minutes later I pulled my car in front of 160 Beale, one of those glass skyscrapers off of lower Market filled with accountants and law partners, where Steve's office was.

All the way up to the thirty-second floor I was steaming, nearly hyperventilating. I pushed through the doors of Northstar Partnerships; a pretty receptionist behind a desk

smiled at me.

“Steve Bernhardt,” I said, dropping my shield in her face.

I didn't wait for her to call, but headed straight into the corner office I'd once visited with Jill. Steve was rocking back in his chair, in a lime green Lacoste shirt and khakis, on the phone. Without so much as breaking his tone, he winked and pointed me into a chair. I got your wink, pal.

I waited through the remainder of some business conver-sation, my anger growing as he peppered his call with over-used tech clich‚s like “Sounds like you're trying to boil the ocean on that one, buddy.”

Finally he signed off and spun around in his chair. “Lind-say,” he said, eyeing me, as though he wasn't sure what was going on.

“Cut the crap, Steve, you know why I'm here.”

“No, I don't.” He shook his head, then sort of shifted his expression. “Is everything all right with Jill?”

“You know, I'm doing my best not to lunge across this desk and cram that phone right down your throat. Jill told us, Steve. We know.”

He shrugged, innocently, crossing a pair of Bass Weejuns in front of my face. “Know what?”

“I saw the bruises. Jill told us what's been going on.”

“Oh” - he rocked back and arched his eyebrows - “Jill did say she was going out with the gang last night.” He glanced at his watch. “Hey, I'd love to sit and take you through some of our personal shit, but I've got a twelve-thirty down the hall....”

I leaned my face across the desk. “Listen to me. Listen closely. I'm here to tell you it stops. Today. You lay another hand on her... she breaks a nail that she doesn't want to discuss... she even comes into the office with a frown on her face, I'll get your name on an assault charge. You under-stand me, Steve?”

His expression never changed. He twirled the end of his short curly hair and chuckled, “Gee, Lindsay, everyone always said you were a ball buster, I just had no idea.... Jill has no right to bring you into this. I know this doesn't hold much weight with you full-time career types, with a dog and all... but we're in a marriage. Whatever goes on, it's between us.”

“No longer.” I glared at him. “Battery's a felony, Steve. I bust people like you.”

“Jill would never testify against me,” he said, then frowned. “Jeez, look at the time.... If you don't mind, Lindsay, they're expecting me down the hall.”

I got up. I didn't know how he could act this way. We were talking about Jill. “I want to put this in a way you'll under-stand,” I said. “You put one more mark on her, and the last thing you'll have to worry about will be Jill testifying. You go out for a run, you're in the garage late after work, you hear a noise that makes you jump...You'd better jump, Steve.”

I went to the door, barely taking my eyes off of him. Steve sat there, rocking, somewhere between speechless and inflamed. “Now, how's that for boiling the ocean, Steve?”

Womans Murder Club 3 - 3rd Degree

Chapter 37

CINDY THOMAS SAT at her desk at the Chronicle, not quite feeling herself. She twisted the cap on her Fruitopia organic apricot juice and took a sip. Then Cindy opened the paper and scanned the front page. One of her bylines was in the right-hand column. Bold headlines: SECOND CEO MURDER HAS POLICE RE-EXAMINING THE FIRST.

She flipped on her computer to check her e-mail. The hunk in the bulging tank top and construction belt who acted as her screen saver came to life. Cindy clicked Internet Explorer and her e-mail came up.

Twelve new.

She noticed one from Aaron, whom she had split with four months ago. Having Pumpkinseed Smith at a recital at the church, 8:00 P.M., May 22. Can you make it? Pumpkinseed Smith was one of the best horn players around! You bet I'll

make it, Cindy typed back. Even if it means I have to hear a sermon from you.

She scrolled down the rest quickly. A response from a researcher who was doing background on Lightower and Bengosian. That bastard had been in court, fighting forty-six class actions from policyholders who were dumped in the past two years. What a sleaze!

She was about to delete the last message from an address she didn't know when the headline caught her eye. SLAM@ hotmail.com. It was titled, WHAT HAPPENS NEXT.

Cindy clicked on the message and prepared to send it to the ether grave of all spam. She took a swig of juice.

Don't ask how we got your name or why we're contacting you. If you want to do some good, you will do the right thing now.

Cindy rolled her chair closer to the screen.

The “tragic” incidents of the past week are only the tip of things to come.

The finance ministers of the world are meet-ing next week to carve up the last marginal remains of the “free” world economy left after Breton Woods-that which they have not already savagely consumed.

Cindy's heart was thumping as she read on.

We are prepared to kill one prominent blood-sucking pig every three days unless they come to their senses and denounce the global virus that is the system of free enterprise, that has imprisoned helpless nations in the Great Lie that trade will make them free; that has enslaved our fellow sisters into the sweatshop bondage of the multinationals, that has stolen the savings of the American worker in a stock market that is no more than a corrupt, insider scheme.

We are no longer isolated voices.

We are an army, just as lethal and far-reaching as the vampire superpowers.

Cindy blinked disbelievingly, almost unable to move. Was this some kind of Internet hoax? Somebody's idea of a joke?

She hit the PRINT key, clearing off her desk and cradling the phone in her neck as she read on.

The reason we have chosen you is that the normal channels of the media are as corrupt and self-serving as the global multinationals that own them. Are you part of the corruption? We'll soon see.

We ask the important people who will meet in San Francisco next week, the G-8, to do some-thing historic. Unlock the chains. Forgive the debt. Stand up for freedom, not profit. Set back the machines of colonization. Open the economies of the world.

Until we hear that voice, you will hear ours. Every three days, another deserving pig will die.