As San Francisco's most glamorous millionaires mingle at the party of the year, someone is watching-waiting for a chance to take vengeance on Isa and Ethan Bailey, the city's most celebrated couple. Finally, the killer pinpoints the ideal moment, and it's the perfect murder. Not a trace of evidence is left behind in their glamorous home.
As Detective Lindsay Boxer investigates the high-profile murder, someone else is found brutally executed-a preacher with a message of hope for the homeless. When reporter Cindy Thomas hears about it, she knows the story could be huge. Probing deeper into the victim's history, she discovers he may not have been quite as saintly as everyone thought.
As the hunt for two criminals tests the limits of the Women's Murder Club, Lindsay sees sparks fly between Cindy and Lindsay's partner, Detective Rich Conklin. The Women's Murder Club now faces its toughest challenge: will love destroy all that four friends have built?
Release date:
April 7, 2009
Publisher:
Little, Brown and Company
Print pages:
368
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Two from the Heart (with Frank Constantini, Emily Raymond, and Brian Sitts)
The Black Book (with David Ellis)
Humans, Bow Down (with Emily Raymond)
Never Never (with Candice Fox)
Woman of God (with Maxine Paetro)
Filthy Rich (with John Connolly and Timothy Malloy)
The Murder House (with David Ellis)
Truth or Die (with Howard Roughan)
Miracle at Augusta (with Peter de Jonge)
Invisible (with David Ellis)
First Love (with Emily Raymond)
Mistress (with David Ellis)
Zoo (with Michael Ledwidge)
Guilty Wives (with David Ellis)
The Christmas Wedding (with Richard DiLallo)
Kill Me If You Can (with Marshall Karp)
Toys (with Neil McMahon)
Don’t Blink (with Howard Roughan)
The Postcard Killers (with Liza Marklund)
The Murder of King Tut (with Martin Dugard)
Against Medical Advice (with Hal Friedman)
Sundays at Tiffany’s (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)
You’ve Been Warned (with Howard Roughan)
The Quickie (with Michael Ledwidge)
Judge & Jury (with Andrew Gross)
Sam’s Letters to Jennifer
The Lake House
The Jester (with Andrew Gross)
Suzanne’s Diary for Nicholas
Cradle and All
When the Wind Blows
Miracle on the 17th Green (with Peter de Jonge)
Hide & Seek
The Midnight Club
Black Friday (originally published as Black Market)
See How They Run (originally published as The Jericho Commandment)
Season of the Machete
The Thomas Berryman Number
Maximum Ride Forever
Nevermore: The Final Maximum Ride Adventure
Angel: A Maximum Ride Novel
Fang: A Maximum Ride Novel
Max: A Maximum Ride Novel
The Final Warning: A Maximum Ride Novel
Saving the World and Other Extreme Sports: A Maximum Ride Novel
School’s Out—Forever: A Maximum Ride Novel
The Angel Experiment: A Maximum Ride Novel
Daniel X: Lights Out (with Chris Grabenstein)
Daniel X: Armageddon (with Chris Grabenstein)
Daniel X: Game Over (with Ned Rust)
Daniel X: Demons & Druids (with Adam Sadler)
Daniel X: Watch the Skies (with Ned Rust)
The Dangerous Days of Daniel X (with Michael Ledwidge)
Witch & Wizard: The Lost (with Emily Raymond)
Witch & Wizard: The Kiss (with Jill Dembowski)
Witch & Wizard: The Fire (with Jill Dembowski)
Witch & Wizard: The Gift (with Ned Rust)
Witch & Wizard (with Gabrielle Charbonnet)
Middle School: Dog’s Best Friend (with Chris Tebbetts, illustrated by Jomike Tejido)
Middle School: Just My Rotten Luck (with Chris Tebbetts, illustrated by Laura Park)
Middle School: Save Rafe (with Chris Tebbetts, illustrated by Laura Park)
Middle School: Ultimate Showdown (with Julia Bergen, illustrated by Alec Longstreth)
Middle School: How I Survived Bullies, Broccoli, and Snake Hill (with Chris Tebbetts, illustrated by Laura Park)
Middle School: Big Fat Liar (with Lisa Papademetriou, illustrated by Neil Swaab)
Middle School: Get Me Out of Here! (with Chris Tebbetts, illustrated by Laura Park)
Middle School, The Worst Years of My Life (with Chris Tebbetts, illustrated by Laura Park)
Confessions: The Murder of an Angel (with Maxine Paetro)
Confessions: The Paris Mysteries (with Maxine Paetro)
Confessions: The Private School Murders (with Maxine Paetro)
Confessions of a Murder Suspect (with Maxine Paetro)
I Funny TV (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Laura Park)
I Totally Funniest (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Laura Park)
I Even Funnier (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Laura Park)
I Funny: A Middle School Story (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Laura Park)
Treasure Hunters: Peril at the Top of the World (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Juliana Neufeld)
Treasure Hunters: Secret of the Forbidden City (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Juliana Neufeld)
Treasure Hunters: Danger Down the Nile (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Juliana Neufeld)
Treasure Hunters (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Juliana Neufeld)
House of Robots: Robots Revolution (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Juliana Neufeld)
House of Robots: Robots Go Wild! (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Juliana Neufeld)
House of Robots (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Juliana Neufeld)
Word of Mouse (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Joe Sutphin)
Give Please a Chance (with Bill O’Reilly)
Cradle and All (teen edition)
Jacky Ha-Ha (with Chris Grabenstein, illustrated by Kerascoët)
Public School Superhero (with Chris Tebbetts, illustrated by Cory Thomas)
Homeroom Diaries (with Lisa Papademetriou, illustrated by Keino)
Med Head (with Hal Friedman)
santaKid (illustrated by Michael Garland)
For previews and information about the author, visit JamesPatterson.com or find him on Facebook or at your app store.
THE OLD CHROME-YELLOW school bus crawled south on Market Street at half past seven that May morning. Its side and back windows
were blacked out, and a hip-hop hit throbbed into the low-lying mist that floated like a silk veil between the sun and San
Francisco.
Got my ice
Got my smoke
Got my ride
Ain’t got no hope
Hold ya heads up high
Don’t know when
Ya gonna die….
The traffic light changed to yellow at the intersection of Fourth and Market. The stop-sign arm at the driver’s side of the
school bus swung out, the four-way hazard lights burned amber, and the vehicle came to a halt.
To the right of the bus was a shopping mall, a huge one: Bloomingdale’s, Nordstrom, the windows papered with large Abercrombie
posters of provocative half-naked teens in black and white.
To the left of the bus was a blue Ford van and then one of two islands splitting the road—a staging area for bus passengers
and tourists.
Two cars behind the school bus, Louise Lindenmeyer, office manager, late for work, braked her old gray Volvo. She buzzed down
her window and glared at that goddamned school bus.
She’d been stuck on its tailpipe since Buena Vista Park, then watched it pull away from her at the light at Fifth and Market
as a stream of traffic took the turn and pulled in front of her.
And now that bus had stuck her at a light… again.
Louise heard a shout. “Hey, asshole!”
A man in his shirtsleeves, tie flapping, face bunched up, dried shaving cream under his left ear, walked past her car to give
the bus driver hell.
A horn honked, and another, and then a cacophony of horns.
The light was green.
Louise took her foot off the brake and at that instant felt a concussive shock, her ears ringing as she saw the roof of the
school bus explode violently upward.
Chunks of burning metal, steel-and-glass shrapnel, shot out in all directions faster than gunfire. A mushroom cloud like that
of a small A-bomb formed above the bus, and the box-shaped vehicle became a fireball. Oily smoke colored the air.
Louise saw the blue van in the lane to the left of the bus bloom with flame, then blacken in front of her eyes.
No one got out of the van!
And now the blaze rushed at the silver Camry directly in front of her. The gas tank blew, and fire danced over the car, consuming
it in vivid, leaping flames.
The bunch-faced man pulled himself up off the pavement to the hole where her passenger-side window had been. His shirt was
gone. His hair was black frizz. The skin of his face was draped over his collarbone like tissue paper.
Louise recoiled in horror, grappled with her door handle as fire lapped at the hood of her Volvo. The car door opened and
the heat rushed in.
That’s when she saw the skin of her own arm still on the steering wheel, as if it were a glove turned inside out. Louise couldn’t hear the businessman’s horrified screams or her own. It was as though her ears had been
plugged with wax. Her vision was all dancing spots and blurry shapes.
And then she was sucked down into a well of black.
MY PARTNER, RICH CONKLIN, was at the wheel of our unmarked car and I was sugaring my coffee when I felt the concussion.
The dashboard shook. Hot coffee slopped over my hand. I shouted, “What the hell?” A few moments later the radio sputtered, the dispatcher calling out, “Reports of an explosion at Market and Fourth. Nearby units identify and respond.”
I dumped my coffee out the window, grabbed the mic, and told Dispatch we were two blocks away as Conklin accelerated up the
hill, then braked so that our car slewed across Fourth Street, blocking traffic.
We bolted from the car, Conklin yelling, “Lindsay, watch out. There could be secondary explosions!”
The air was opaque with roiling smoke, rank with burning rubber, plastic, and human flesh. I stopped running, wiped my sleeve
across my stinging eyes, and fought against my gag reflex. I took in the hellish scene—and my hair literally lifted away
from the back of my neck.
Market Street is a major artery. It should have been pulsing with commuter traffic, but instead it looked like Baghdad after
a suicide bomb. People were screaming, running in circles, blinded by panic and a screen of smoky haze.
I called Chief Tracchio, reported that I was the first officer on the scene.
“What’s happening, Sergeant?”
I told him what I saw: five dead on the street, two more at the bus stop. “Unknown number of victims alive or dead, still
in their cars,” I coughed into the phone.
“You okay, Boxer?”
“Yes, sir.”
I signed off as cruisers, fire rigs, and EMS units, their sirens whooping, streamed onto Market and formed a perimeter at
Third and at Fifth, blocking off oncoming traffic. Moments later, the command vehicle rolled up, and the bomb squad, covered
top to toe in gray protective suits, poured onto the debris field.
A bloodied woman of indeterminate age and race staggered toward me. I caught her as her knees buckled, and Conklin and I helped
her to a gurney.
“I saw it,” the victim whispered. She pointed to a blackened hulk at the intersection. “That school bus was a bomb.”
“A school bus? Please, God, not kids!”
I looked everywhere but saw no children.
Had they all been burned alive?
WATER STREAMED from fire hoses, dousing flame. Metal sizzled and the air turned rancid.
I found Chuck Hanni, arson investigator and explosion expert, stooping outside the school bus’s side door. He had his hair
slicked back, and he wore khakis and a denim shirt, sleeves rolled up, showing the old burn scar that ran from the base of
his right thumb to his elbow.
He walked me through what he called a “catastrophic explosion,” showed me the two adult-size “crispy critters” curled between
the double row of seats near the driver’s side. Pointed out that the bus’s front tires were full of air, the back tires, flat.
“The explosion started in the rear, not the engine compartment. And I found this.”
Hanni indicated rounded pieces of glass, conduction tubes, and blue plastic shards melted into a mass behind the bus door.
“Imagine the explosive force,” he said, pointing to a metal projectile embedded in the wall. “That’s a triple beam balance,”
he said, “and I’m guessing the blue plastic is from a cooler. Only took a few gallons of ether and a spark to do all this…”
A wave of his hand to indicate the three blocks of utter destruction.
I heard hacking coughs and boots crunching on glass. Conklin, his six-foot-two frame materializing out of the haze. “There’s
something you guys should see before the bomb squad throws us outta here.”
Hanni and I followed Conklin across the intersection to where a man’s body lay folded up against a lamppost.
Conklin said, “A witness saw this guy fly out of the bus’s windshield when it blew.”
The dead man was Hispanic, his face sliced up, his hair in dyed-red twists matted with blood, his body barely covered in the
remnants of an electric-blue sweatshirt and jeans, his skull bashed in from his collision with the lamppost. From the age
lines in his face, I guessed this man had lived a hard forty years. I dug his wallet out of his hip pocket, opened it to his
driver’s license.
“His name is Juan Gomez. According to this, he’s only twenty-three.”
Hanni bent down, peeled back the dead man’s lips. I saw two broken rows of decayed stubs where his teeth had once been.
“A tweaker,” Hanni said. “He was probably the cook. Lindsay, this case belongs to Narcotics, maybe the DEA.”
Hanni punched buttons on his cell phone as I stared down at Juan Gomez’s body. First visible sign of methamphetamine use is
rotten teeth. It takes a couple of years of food- and sleep-deprivation to age a meth head twenty years. By then, the drug
would have eaten away big hunks of his brain.
Gomez was on his way out before the explosion.
“So the bus was a mobile meth lab?” said Conklin.
Hanni was on hold for Narcotics.
“Yep,” he said. “Until it blew all to hell.”
CINDY THOMAS BUTTONED her lightweight Burberry trench coat, said, “Morning, Pinky,” as the doorman held open the front doors
of the Blakely Arms. He touched his hat brim and searched Cindy’s eyes, saying, “Have a good day, Ms. Thomas. You take care.”
Cindy couldn’t say that she never looked for trouble. She worked the crime desk at the Chronicle and liked to say, “Bad news is good news to me.”
But a year and a half ago a psycho with an illegal sublet and an anger-management problem, living two floors above her, had sneaked into apartments and gone on a brutal killing spree.
The killer had been caught and convicted, and was currently quarantined on death row at the “Q.”
But still, there were aftershocks at the Blakely Arms. The residents triple-locked their doors every night, flinched at sudden
noises, felt the loss of common, everyday security.
Cindy was determined not to live with this kind of fear.
She smiled at the doorman, said, “I’m a badass, Pinky. Thugs had better watch out for me.”
Then she breezed outside into the early May morning.
Striding down Townsend from Third to Fifth—two very long blocks—Cindy traveled between the old and new San Francisco.
She passed the liquor store next to her building, the drive-through McDonald’s across the street, the Starbucks and the Borders
on the ground floor of a new residential high-rise, using the time to return calls, book appointments, set up her day.
She paused near the recently rejuvenated Caltrain station that used to be a hell pit of homeless druggies, now much improved as the neighborhood gentrification took hold.
But behind the Caltrain station was a fenced-off and buckled stretch of sidewalk that ran along the train yard. Rusted junkers
and vans from the Jimi Hendrix era parked on the street. The vehicles were crash pads for the homeless.
As Cindy mentally geared up for her power walk through that “ no-fly zone,” she noticed a clump of street people ahead—and
some of them seemed to be crying.
Cindy hesitated.
Then she drew her laminated ID card out of her coat, held it in front of her like a badge, pushed her way into the crowd—and it parted for her.
The ailanthus trees shooting up through cracks in the pavement cast a netted shade on a pile of rags, old newspapers, and
fast-food trash that was lying at the base of the chain-link fence.
Cindy felt a wave of nausea, sucked in her breath.
The pile of rags was, in fact, a dead man. His clothes were blood-soaked and his face so beaten to mush, Cindy couldn’t make
out his features.
She asked a bystander, “What happened? Who is this man?”
The bystander was a heavyset woman, toothless, wearing many layers and textures of clothes.. . .
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