Authors: James Patterson
Tags: #Fiction, #Thrillers, #General, #Suspense, #antique
The 5th Horseman (13 page)
“Come on, Dr. Engstrom. Just answer the question. You’re head of this department. You’re on the hospital board. Have the number of pharmaceutical-based fatalities more than tripled in the last three years?”
“Yes, but . . . Well, yes.”
“Do you dispute that my clients’ loved ones died because they received the wrong medication?”
“No, I can’t dispute that,” Engstrom said in a barely audible voice.
“So whether these fatalities are the fault of your bulletproof vending machine or human error is irrelevant, right? I mean, either way,” O’Mara pushed on, “isn’t it true that these deaths are the result of negligence on your part and the part of the hospital?”
“Objection! Argumentative.” Kramer was up on his feet.
Cindy felt the little hairs on her arms lift. Beside her, Whit Ewing whistled softly.
“Sustained,” Bevins said.
“Withdrawn,” said Maureen O’Mara. Her eyes went to the jury and stayed there. “Your Honor, the plaintiffs rest.”
Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman
Chapter 56
I’D BEEN TOLD that it was a beautiful fall day, but I sure couldn’t swear to it. I was having ham and Swiss on a roll in my office, with its dark-alley view, when Inspector Conklin knocked on the door.
“Come on in,” I told him.
Conklin was in his shirtsleeves, his brown eyes lit up with something. Whatever it was, I really wanted to know.
“Lou, we’ve got someone in the lunchroom you should meet. Like, right now if you can.”
“What’s going on?”
Conklin started out of my office, saying, “C’mon, Lieutenant,” taking long strides away from me and down the hall.
“Conklin?”
I tossed down the report I’d been editing and followed him to the small, cluttered room that was home to our microwave and yellowing Kenmore fridge.
Jacobi was sitting at the battered table across from a pretty young woman in her early twenties wearing a blue Polarfleece shirt and stretch pants. Her long dark hair was in a braid down her back. She looked up at me with reddened, mascara-smudged eyes.
Clearly, she’d been crying.
Jacobi had his “Uncle Warren” face on. It was short of a smile, but I could read happiness in his eyes.
“Lieutenant,” Jacobi said, “this is Barbara Jane Ross. She was throwing out newspapers when she found this.”
He pushed the newsprint picture of Jag Girl into the center of the table, the pretty blond girl we’d found displayed like a mannequin in the Jaguar convertible on Chestnut Street.
Innumerable dead-end tips had flooded our phone lines since Jag Girl’s picture had run in the Chronicle. From the look on Jacobi’s face, I knew this young woman had something valuable to say.
Barbara Jane Ross and I shook hands. Hers were cold as ice. “May I see that?” I asked of the photo she clutched in her left hand.
“Sure,” she said, handing me a snapshot of herself and Jag Girl on the beach. Both girls were wearing wide-brimmed hats and small bikinis; they had identical braids, and both were grinning broadly.
“She was my college roommate,” said Barbara Jane, her eyes scrunching up with tears. “I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe that Sandy is dead.”
Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman
Chapter 57
I HANDED BARBARA JANE a box of tissues, stared over her head, first at Jacobi then at Conklin, as she blew her nose. Holy shit. We’d finally gotten a break on Jag Girl.
“Barbara, what’s your friend’s last name?”
“It’s Wegner. But Sandy goes by other names. I don’t know them all.”
“She’s an actress?”
“No, an escort.”
I was stunned. Sandy Wegner had been a party girl. So how had she kept her prints out of the system?
“Are you an escort, too?” Conklin asked.
“No way. I teach. Special ed, right here in the city.”
Jacobi loaded up the Mr. Coffee as Barbara Jane Ross told us how she and Sandy had been roommates at the University of California, Santa Barbara.
“When we were in school, Sandy needed some extra cash, so she went on a few ‘dates’ for an escort service. A lot of girls do it,” Barbara said. “You never, ever have enough money in school.
“She didn’t do it often, but when she did, she thought it was exciting and fun,” Barbara continued. “Sandy loved having a secret life. She wasn’t the only coed doing it, either.”
“Did she ever mention that one of her dates was giving her a hard time?” I asked. “Maybe someone got possessive? Or violent?”
“Nothing like that,” Barbara said. “She would have told me. We talked about everything, even her work.”
“Did Sandy have a boyfriend? Maybe someone who could have found out that she was doing this kind of thing on the side?”
“There was no one special in her life or she would have quit her night job,” Barbara told us. “She wasn’t a slut. I know how that sounds, but honest to God, she wasn’t — oh, God! Her parents don’t know. They live in Portland.”
“Do you know their names? Maybe you have their phone number?”
Barbara Jane dug into her Coach bag; she pulled out her PDA.
“Listen,” she said, “I just remembered who she worked for. The escort service. I think it was called Top Hat.”
“Thanks. You’ve been a big help. Hang around, won’t you, Barbara Jane? Inspector Conklin has some more questions for you.”
As I walked out of the door, Conklin took my chair. I saw Barbara Jane Ross look into his face and smile.
Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman
Chapter 58
THE THREE-STORY beige-stucco apartment building was on California Street at the edge of the Financial District.
I badged the doorman, and he called up on the intercom.
“SFPD is here to see you, Ms. Selzer.”
A female voice crackled over the speaker. “I’m not home. I didn’t see anything, don’t know anyone. I’m a shut-in. And I mind my own business.”
“A comedienne,” Jacobi said to the doorman. “We’re going up.”
A tiny, small-boned woman was standing at her apartment door when we got there. She was definitely under five feet, glossy hair pinned up with a tortoiseshell comb, pale lipstick, wearing a black silk V-neck sweater and satin pants.
I put her at thirty-five, but the crow’s-feet told me she was either older than she appeared or she’d had a rough-and-tumble life. Probably both.
“Officers, I run an introduction service. My license is totally in order,” she said by way of a greeting.
“You mind inviting us in?” Jacobi said, flashing his shield. “There’s a nasty draft out here in the hallway.”
The small woman sighed her exasperation, but she stepped back and let us in. A mirrored foyer led to a living room painted and upholstered in every shade of gray. Helmut Newton’s black-and-white photos lined the walls.
We followed her to a red swivel chair and a black enameled worktable up against the front window.
“I’m Lieutenant Boxer. This is Inspector Jacobi. Homicide.”
I snapped the pictures of Sandy Wegner and Caddy Girl down on the table. Two pallid faces. Sheets drawn up to the ligature marks around their necks.
“Do you recognize these women?”
Selzer sucked in her breath, then put her finger on Wegner’s image.
“This is Sandra Wegner. Calls herself Tanya. I don’t know the other girl. You’re saying she’s dead?”
“What can you tell us about Sandy?”
“I only met her once. Talked to her on the phone after that. Great sense of humor, really nice body. I could’ve kept her busy every night, but she was strictly part-time. Look, you’re not thinking I had anything to do with this?” she said, directing her question to me.
“Was Sandy working on the night of September fifteenth?” I asked.
Selzer dropped into the swivel chair and worked the computer keys, resting her chin in her cupped hands as squiggles of data scrolled up.
“Her date that night was a Mr. Alex Logan. I remember now. He called from the Hotel Triton. Said he was in town for the evening and wanted a petite blonde to go with him to a show. Henry the Fifth. I don’t know why I remembered that.”
“Is Logan a regular?”
“Nuh-uh. A first-timer.”
“You sent this girl out on a date with someone you didn’t know?” Jacobi’s voice was hard, the way it should have been. Selzer instantly shrunk away from him.
“I ran his credit card. No problem. Checked his name and address on AnyWho.com. Called the hotel and he was registered. It was all kosher.”
“Have you heard from him since?” I asked.
“Nope. Nothing. But you don’t usually get feedback from out-of-towners.”
“How much did Mr. Logan pay for his date with Sandy?” I asked.
“Her usual. A thousand for the night. I took my cut, made a direct deposit into Sandy’s account. Any tips, she got to keep.”
“Was anyone hassling her? Stalking her? Did she mention having any trouble from anyone?” Jacobi asked. “Give us some help here.”
“No, and Sandy wasn’t shy. She would’ve told me. What?” she said defensively. “I called her the next day, and when I didn’t hear back, I figured she quit. Ticked me off, believe me. I had to cancel her bookings. Look, I’m not a den mother for Christ’s sake! She was a free agent.”
Jacobi gave Selzer a scathing look. Her indignant expression crumpled. “Selzer, you’re pissing me off,” he said.
“Oh, man, I feel bad. I really do. You think I screwed up? I don’t know what I could’ve done differently.”
The woman pulled the comb from her hair, shook her head so that her gleaming hair sprayed around her face, playing the sex card in an unconscious defense of her worried conscience.
The move didn’t distract Jacobi, not even a little bit.
“You didn’t just screw up,” he said. “You sent this girl on a date with a killer.”
Selzer clapped her hands to her face.
“Give me the john’s particulars,” said Jacobi.
Selzer wrote numbers on a Post-it note. Jacobi snatched it up and put his card in its place.
“If he calls you again, fix him up with a girl who doesn’t exist and call me immediately. You got that? Any time, day or night. My cell phone’s on the back of the card.”
Selzer called out as we reached her front door.
“Officers. I’m sorry about Sandy. You should know that. I hope you get whoever killed her.”
“Yeah,” Jacobi called back, “we want to ease your guilt if we possibly can.”
Womans Murder Club 5 - The 5th Horseman
Chapter 59
CONKLIN OPENED THE DOOR for us when we arrived at Sandy Wegner’s apartment. I said hey to Charlie Clapper, who was coming out of the bathroom, bagging the victim’s hairbrush and toothbrush, plus some medications.
“Doesn’t look like a crime scene, Lieutenant,” Conklin told me. “The door was double-locked. No signs of a struggle.”
“What else?”
“She had yogurt for dinner. She left some clothes on the bed, like maybe she’d tried on a few things before she went out. Towel rumpled on the towel bar. Her clothes are okay, but not superexpensive, by the way.
“The message light on her answering machine was blinking. Two calls. Her mother and the library saying she had a book overdue. I took the tape. Pressed redial. Her last call was to ‘time and weather.’ Probably called just before she went out that night.”
“Good work,” I said to Conklin. I asked a CSU tech, “How’s it coming?”
“We’ve got our pictures, Lieutenant.”
I looked around Sandy Wegner’s place. It was dark, like my office, a view of the alley from every room.
Her style was Pottery Barn right down to the swirly iron wall-hanging over the couch. A vase of dead flowers was on the windowsill, and contemporary novels and historical biographies, along with textbooks — math, physics, art history — lined the bookshelves.
Sandy’s bedroom was small, about eleven feet square, painted a pretty lilac-blue with white trim. Primitive watercolors of birds hung over her bed, her name signed in the corner of each one. The personal touches always kill me.
I opened her bifold closet doors, saw that Sandy took care of her clothes. Her Agnès B. T-shirts were on padded hangers; dresses, suits, and jeans in dry-cleaner’s bags. Shoes lined up, polished, heels in good condition.
She had a tasteful wardrobe, but it was definitely off the rack. Nothing like the quality of what she was wearing when we found her body. Jacobi was going through the dresser drawers, shutting them noisily as he went.
He stopped, called me over when he found the drawer with her underthings. I took a look. Lace demi-bras, thongs, and transparent panties in Jell-O colors, a vibrator.
Could be tools of the trade.
Could be a girl with a sassy love life.
We searched all four of her rooms, not finding anything really, not even an address book or a diary or a drug more powerful than Tylenol PM.
Looked to me like Sandy Wegner’s night job was a small part of how she lived.
I asked Conklin to go back to the Hall to run Alex Logan’s name through every database. Then Jacobi and I sealed the apartment and went down to the street.
The sky was the color of dull steel at 6:45 p.m. The sun was going down early now, and it left a pall over the city. Or maybe I was just projecting.
“Our guys are pattern killers,” I said to Jacobi as he started the car. “If Sandy’s an escort, Caddy Girl is probably an escort, too. That means the DNA we got from her rape kit—”
“You’re reading my mind,” said Jacobi, pulling out into the traffic on Columbus. “Sperm lives inside the body for about seventy-two hours. It could have come from her killer, or a john, or a boyfriend.”
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