7th Heaven

Womans Murder Club.

7th Heaven.

by James Patterson.

Prologue

THE CHRISTMAS SONG

One

TINY LIGHTS WINKED on the Douglas fir standing tall and full in front of the picture window. Swags of Christmas greenery and dozens of cards decked the well-appointed living room, and apple logs crackled in the fireplace, scenting the air as they burned.A digitized Bing Crosby crooned "The Christmas Song.""Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at your nose . . ."Henry Jablonsky couldn"t see the boys clearly. The one called Hawk had s.n.a.t.c.hed off his gla.s.ses and put them a mile away on the fireplace mantel, a good thing, Jablonsky had reasoned at the time.It meant that the boys didn"t want to be identified, that they were planning to let them go. Please, G.o.d, please let us live and I"ll serve you all the days of my life.Jablonsky watched the two shapes moving around the tree, knew that the gun was in Hawk"s waistband. He heard wrapping paper tear, saw the one called Pidge dangling a bow for the new kitten.They"d said they weren"t going to hurt them.They said this was only a robbery.Jablonsky had memorized their faces well enough to describe to a police sketch artist, which he would be doing as soon as they got the h.e.l.l out of his home.Both boys looked as though they"d stepped from the pages of a Ralph Lauren ad.Hawk. Clean-cut. Well-spoken. Blond, with side-parted hair. Pidge, bigger. Probably six two. Long brown hair. Strong as a horse. Meaty hands. Ivy League types. Both of them.Maybe there really was some goodness in them.As Jablonsky watched, the blond one, Hawk, walked over to the bookshelf, dragged his long fingers across the spines of the books, calling out t.i.tles, his voice warm, as though he were a friend of the family.He said to Henry Jablonsky, "Wow, Mr. J., you"ve got Fahrenheit 451. This is a cla.s.sic."Hawk pulled the book from the shelf, opened it to the first page. Then he stooped down to where Jablonsky was hog-tied on the floor with a sock in his mouth."You can"t beat Bradbury for an opening," Hawk said. And then he read aloud with a clear, dramatic voice." "It was a pleasure to burn. It was a special pleasure to see things eaten, to see things blackened and changed." "As Hawk read, Pidge hauled a large package out from under the tree. It was wrapped in gold foil, tied with gold ribbon. Something Peggy had always wanted and had waited for, for years."To Peggy, from Santa," Pidge read from the gift tag. He sliced through the wrappings with a knife.He had a knife!Pidge opened the box, peeled back the layers of tissue."A Birkin bag, Peggy. Santa brought you a nine-thousand-dollar purse! I"d call that a no, Peg. A definite no."Pidge reached for another wrapped gift, shook the box, while Hawk turned his attention to Peggy Jablonsky. Peggy pleaded with Hawk, her actual words m.u.f.fled by the wad of sock in her mouth. It broke Henry"s heavy heart to see how hard she tried to communicate with her eyes.Hawk reached out and stroked Peggy"s baby-blond hair, then patted her damp cheek. "We"re going to open all your presents now, Mrs. J. Yours too, Mr. J.," he said. "Then we"ll decide if we"re going to let you live."

Two

HENRY JABLONSKY"S STOMACH HEAVED. He gagged against the thick wool of the sock, pulled against his restraints, smelled the sour odor of urine. Heat puddled under his clothes. Christ. He"d wet himself. But it didn"t matter. The only thing that mattered was to get out alive.He couldn"t move. He couldn"t speak. But he could reason.What could he do?Jablonsky looked around from his place on the floor, took in the fire poker only yards away. He fixed his vision on that poker."Mrs. J.," Pidge called out to Peggy, shaking a small turquoise box. "This is from Henry. A Peretti necklace. Very nice. What? You have something to say?"Pidge went over to Peggy Jablonsky and took the sock out of her mouth."You don"t really know Dougie, do you?" she said."Dougie who?" Pidge laughed."Don"t hurt us -""No, no, Mrs. J.," Pidge said, stuffing the sock back into his captive"s mouth. "No don"ts. This is our game. Our rules."The kitten pounced into the heap of wrapping paper as the gifts were opened; the diamond earrings, the Hermes tie, and the Jensen salad tongs, Jablonsky praying that they would just take the stuff and leave. Then he heard Pidge speak to Hawk, his voice more subdued than before, so that Jablonsky had to strain to hear over the blood pounding in his ears."Well? Guilty or not guilty?" Pidge asked.Hawk"s voice was thoughtful. "The J."s are living well, and if that"s the best revenge . . .""You"re kidding me, dude. That"s totally bogus."Pidge stepped over the pillowcase filled with the contents of the Jablonskys" safe. He spread the Bradbury book open on the lamp table with the span of his hand, then picked up a pen and carefully printed on the t.i.tle page.Pidge read it back. "Sic erat in fatis, man. It is fated. Get the kit-cat and let"s go."Hawk bent over, said, "Sorry, dude. Mrs. Dude." He took the sock out of Jablonsky"s mouth. "Say good-bye to Peggy."Henry Jablonsky"s mind scrambled. What? What was happening? And then he realized. He could speak! He screamed "Pegg-yyyyy" as the Christmas tree bloomed with a bright yellow glare, then went up in a great exhalation of flame.VOOOOOOM.Heat rose and the skin on Henry Jablonsky"s cheeks dried like paper. Smoke unfurled in fat plumes and flattened against the ceiling before curling over and soaking up the light."Don"t leave us!"He saw the flames climbing the curtains, heard his dear love"s m.u.f.fled screams as the front door slammed shut.

Part One

BLUE MOON

Chapter 1.

WE SAT IN A CIRCLE around the fire pit behind our rental cottage near the spectacular Point Reyes National Seash.o.r.e, an hour north of San Francisco."Lindsay, hold out your gla.s.s," Cindy said.I tasted the margarita - it was good. Yuki stirred the oysters on the grill. My border collie, Sweet Martha, sighed and crossed her paws in front of her, and firelight made flickering patterns on our faces as the sun set over the Pacific."It was one of my first cases in the ME"s office," Claire was saying. "And so I was "it." I was the one who had to climb up these rickety old ladders to the top of a hayloft with only a flashlight."Yuki coughed as the tequila went down her windpipe, gasping for breath as Cindy and I yelled at her in unison, "Sip it!"Claire thumped Yuki"s back and continued."It was horrible enough hauling my size-sixteen b.u.t.t up those ladders in the pitch-black with whispery things scurrying and flapping all around me - and then my beam hit the dead man."His feet were hovering above the hay, and when I lit him up, I swear to G.o.d he looked like he was levitating. Eyes and tongue bugged out, like a freakin" ghoul.""No way." Yuki laughed. She was wearing pajama bottoms and a Boalt Law sweatshirt, her hair in a ponytail, already drunk on her one margarita, looking more like a college kid than a woman nearing thirty."I yelled down into the dark well of that barn," Claire said, "got two big old boys to come up and cut the body down from the rafters and put Mr. Levitation into a body bag."Claire paused for dramatic effect - and right then my cell phone rang."Lind-say, no," Cindy begged me. "Don"t take that call."I glanced at the caller ID, expecting it to be my boyfriend, Joe, thinking he"d just gotten home and was checking in, but it was Lieutenant Warren Jacobi. My former partner and current boss."Jacobi?"Yuki shouted, "Don"t stop, Claire. She could be on the phone all night!""Lindsay? Okay, fine," Claire said, and then she went on. "I unzipped the body bag . . . and a bat flew out of the dead man"s clothes. I peed my pants," Claire squealed behind me. "I really did!""Boxer? You there?" said Jacobi, gruff in my ear."I"m on my own time," I growled into my cell phone. "It"s Sat.u.r.day, don"t you know that?""You"re going to want this. If not, tell me and I"ll give it to Cappy and Chi.""What is it?""The biggest deal in the world, Boxer. It"s about the Campion kid. Michael."

Chapter 2.

MY PULSE SHOT UP at the mention of Michael Campion"s name.Michael Campion wasn"t just a kid. He was to Californians what JFK Jr. had been to the nation. The only child of our former governor Connor Hume Campion and his wife, Valentina, Michael Campion had been born into incredible wealth. He"d also been born with an inoperable heart defect and had been living on borrowed time for the whole of his life.Through photos and newscasts, Michael"s life had been part of ours. He"d been a darling baby, a precocious and gifted child, and a handsome teenager, both funny and smart. His father had become a spokesman for the American Heart a.s.sociation, and Michael was their adored poster boy. And while the public rarely saw Michael, they cared, always hoping that one day there would be a medical breakthrough and that California"s "Boy with a Broken Heart" would be given what most people took for granted - a full and vigorous life.Then, back in January of this year, Michael had said good night to his parents, and in the morning his bedroom was empty. There was no ransom note. No sign of foul play. But a back door was unlocked and Michael was gone.His disappearance was treated as a kidnapping, and the FBI launched a nationwide search. The SFPD did its own investigation, interviewing family members and retainers, Michael"s teachers and school friends, and his virtual online friends as well.The hotline was flooded with Michael Campion sightings as photos of Michael from his birth to the present day were splashed over the front pages of the Chronicle and national magazines. TV networks and cable news ran doc.u.mentary specials on Michael Campion"s doom-shadowed life.The tips had led nowhere, and months later, when there"d been no calls from a kidnapper, and no trace of Michael had surfaced, terror attacks, wildfires, politics, and new violent crimes pushed the Michael Campion story off the front page.The case was still open, but everyone a.s.sumed the worst. That a kidnapping had gone terribly wrong. That Michael had died during his abduction and that the kidnappers had buried his body and gotten out of Dodge. The citizens of San Francisco mourned along with Michael"s famous and beloved family, and while the public would never forget him, they put the book of his life aside.Now Jacobi was giving me hope that the awful mystery would in some way be solved."Michael"s body has been found?" I asked him."Naw, but we"ve got a credible lead. Finally."I pressed the phone hard against my ear, ghost stories and the first annual getaway of the Women"s Murder Club forgotten.Jacobi was saying, "If you want in on this, Boxer, meet me at the Hall -""I can be there in an hour."

Chapter 3.

I MADE THE ONE-HOUR DRIVE back to the Hall of Justice in forty-five minutes, took the stairs from the lobby to the third floor, and strode into the squad room looking for Jacobi.The forty-by-forty-foot open s.p.a.ce was lit with flickering overhead fluorescent tubing, making the night crew hunched over their desks look like they"d just crawled out of their graves. A few old guys lifted their eyes, said, "Howsit goin", Sarge?" as I made my way to Jacobi"s gla.s.sed-in corner office, with its view of the on-ramp to the 280 freeway.My partner, Richard Conklin, was already there; thirty years old, six feet two inches of all-American hunk, one of his long legs resting on the edge of Jacobi"s junkyard of a desk.I pulled out the other chair, bashed my knee, swore loudly and emphatically as Jacobi sn.i.g.g.e.red, "Nice talk, Boxer." I sat down, thinking how this had been a functional works.p.a.ce when Jacobi"s office had been mine. I took off my baseball cap and shook out my hair, hoping to h.e.l.l that the guys wouldn"t smell tequila on my breath."What kind of lead?" I asked without preamble."It"s a tip kind of lead," Jacobi said. "Anonymous caller using a prepaid cell phone - untraceable, naturally. Caller said he"d seen the Campion kid entering a house on Russian Hill the night he disappeared. The house is home to a prost.i.tute."As Jacobi made room on his desk for the prost.i.tute"s rap sheet, I thought about Michael Campion"s life at the time he"d disappeared.There"d been no dates for Michael, no parties, no sports. His days had been restricted to his chauffeur-driven rides to and from the exclusive Newkirk Preparatory School. So it didn"t sound exactly crazy that he"d visited a prost.i.tute. He"d probably paid off his driver and escaped the plush-lined prison of his parents" love for an hour or two.But what had happened to him afterward?What had happened to Michael?"Why is this tip credible?" I asked Jacobi."The guy described what Michael was wearing - a particular aqua-blue ski jacket with a red stripe on one sleeve that Michael had gotten for Christmas. That jacket was never mentioned in the press.""So why did this tipster wait three months before calling it in?" I asked Jacobi."I can only tell you what he said. He said he was leaving the prost.i.tute"s house as Michael Campion was coming in. That he didn"t drop the dime until now because he has a wife and kids. Didn"t want to get caught up in the hullabaloo, but that his conscience had been needling him. Finally got to him, I guess.""Russian Hill is a nice neighborhood for a pross," Conklin said.And it was. Kind of like the French Quarter meets South Beach. And it was within walking distance of the Newkirk School. I took a notebook out of my handbag."What"s the prost.i.tute"s name?""Her given name is Myrtle Bays," Jacobi said, handing me her sheet. The attached mug shot was of a young woman with a girlish look, short blond hair, and huge eyes. Her date of birth made her twenty-two years old."A few years ago she legally changed her name," said Jacobi. "Now she calls herself Junie Moon.""So Michael Campion went to a hooker, Jacobi," I said, putting the rap sheet back down on his desk. "What"s your theory?""That the kid died in flagrante delicto, Boxer. In English that means "in the saddle." If this tip pans out, I"m thinking maybe Ms. Myrtle Bays, AKA Junie Moon, killed Michael with his first roll in the hay - and then she made his body disappear."

Chapter 4.

A YOUNG MAN in his twenties with spiky blond hair and a black sport coat whistled through his teeth as he left Junie Moon"s front door. Conklin and I watched from our squad car, saw the john lope across Leavenworth, heard the tootle as he disarmed his late model BMW.As his taillights disappeared around the corner, Conklin and I walked up the path to the front door of what"s called a Painted Lady: a pastel-colored, gingerbread-decorated Victorian house, this one flaking and in need of repair. I pressed the doorbell, waited a minute, pressed it again.Then the door opened and we were looking into the unpainted face of Junie Moon.From the first moment, I saw that Junie was no ordinary hooker.There was a dewy freshness about her that I"d never seen before in a working girl. Her hair was damp from the shower, a cap of blond curls that trailed into a wisp of a braid that had been dyed blue. Her eyes were a deep, smoky gray, and a thin white scar cut through the top lip of her cupid"s-bow mouth.She was a beauty, but what grabbed me the most was Junie Moon"s disarming, childlike appearance. Junie pulled the sash of her gold silk dressing gown tightly around her narrow waist as my partner showed her his shield, said our names and "Homicide. Mind if we come in?""Homicide? You"re here to see me?" she asked. Her voice matched her appearance, not just young, but sweetened with innocence."We have some questions about a missing person," Rich said, launching his amazing, babe-catcher smile.Junie Moon invited us in.The room smelled sweet, floral, like lavender and jasmine, and the light was soft, coming from low-watt bulbs under silk-draped lampshades. Conklin and I sat on a velvet upholstered loveseat while Junie took a seat on an ottoman, clasped her hands around her knees. She was barefoot, her nail polish the pale coral color of the inside of seash.e.l.ls."Nice place," Conklin said."Thank you. I rent it. Furnished," she said."Have you ever seen this man?" I asked Junie Moon, showing her a photo of Michael Campion."You mean for real? That"s Michael Campion, isn"t it?""That"s right."Junie Moon"s gray eyes grew even more huge. "I"ve never seen Michael Campion in my entire life.""Okay, Ms. Moon," I said. "We have some questions we"d like to ask you at the police station."

Chapter 5.

JUNIE MOON SAT ACROSS FROM US in Interview Two, a twelve-by-twelve-foot gray-tiled room with a metal table, four matching chairs, and a video camera affixed to the ceiling.I"d checked twice to be sure. The camera was loaded and running.Junie was now wearing an open-weave pink cardigan over a lace-trimmed cami, jeans, and sneakers, no makeup, and - I"m not overstating this - she looked like she was in the tenth grade.Conklin had started the interview by reading Junie Moon her Miranda rights in a charming, "no big deal," respectful manner. She initialed the acknowledgment of rights form without complaint, but still, it irked the h.e.l.l out of me. Junie Moon wasn"t under arrest. We didn"t have to Mirandize her for a noncustodial interview, and Conklin"s warning might very well inhibit her from telling us something we urgently needed to know. I swallowed my pique. What was done was done.Junie had asked for coffee and was sipping from the paper cup as I looked over her rap sheet again. I mentioned her three arrests for prost.i.tution, and she told me that since she"d changed her name, she hadn"t been arrested for anything."I feel like a new person," she said.There were no track marks on her arms, no bruises that I could see, and that made it even less understandable. What was the draw? What was the hook?Why would a pretty girl like Junie turn pro?"I took my name from an old Liza Minnelli movie," she was telling Conklin. "It was called Tell Me That You Love Me, Junie Moon. A lot of my clients ask me to tell them that," she said with a wistful smile.Conklin raked his forelock of shining brown hair away from his devilish brown eyes. I was sure that Rich had never seen the movie or read the book. "Is that so?" he said. "That"s cool.""So, Junie," I said, "most of your clients are prep school kids?""Tell me the truth, Sergeant Boxer. Should I get a lawyer? Because I think you"re trying to say that I have s.e.x with underage boys, and that"s not true.""You ask for their driver"s licenses before you take off your pants?""We"re not interested in your, ah, social activities, Junie," Conklin said, breaking in. "We"re only interested in Michael Campion.""I told you," she said, her voice trembling just a bit. "I"ve never met him, and I think I would know.""Understand," I said, "we"re not blaming you for anything. We know Michael was sick. Maybe his heart gave out while he was with you -""He was never a client," Junie insisted. "I would have been honored, you know, but it just didn"t happen."Conklin turned off the dazzling smile, said, "Junie. Work with us and we"ll leave you and your business alone. Keep stonewalling us and vice is going to nail you to the wall."We played patty-cake with Junie for about two hours, using every legal technique in the book. We made her feel safe. We leaned on her, lied to her, rea.s.sured her, and threatened her. And after all that, Junie still denied any knowledge of Michael Campion. In the end, I played our only card, slamming my hand down on the table for emphasis."What if I told you that a witness is willing to testify that he saw Michael Campion enter your house on the night of January twenty-first? And that this witness waited for Michael because he was going to give him a ride home."But that never happened, Junie, because Michael never left your house.""A witness? But that"s impossible," said the young woman. "It has to be a mistake."I was desperate to crack open this one miserable lead, but we were getting no traction at all. I was starting to believe that Jacobi"s anonymous tipster was yet another crank caller - and I was seriously considering waking Jacobi and peppering him with a few choice words - when Junie looked down at the table. Her eyes were moist and her face seemed pinched, actually transformed by grief."You"re right, you"re right, and I can"t take this anymore. If you turn that thing off, I"ll tell you what happened."I exchanged startled looks with Conklin. Then I snapped out of it. I reached up to the video camera and switched it off. "You can"t go wrong if you tell us the truth," I said, my heart going ga-lump, ga-lump.I leaned forward, folded my hands on the table.And Junie began to tell us everything.

Chapter 6.

"IT HAPPENED just like you said," Junie said, looking up at us with an anguished expression I read as fear and pain."Michael died?" I asked her. "He is, in fact, dead?""Can I start at the beginning?" Junie asked Conklin."Sure," Rich told her. "Take your time.""See, I didn"t know who he was at first," Junie said. "When Michael called to make the date, he gave me a fake name. So when I opened the door and there he was - oh, my G.o.d. The boy in the bubble. He"d come to see me!""What happened next?" I asked."He was really nervous," Junie said. "Shifting from one foot to the other. Looking at the window like someone could be watching him. I offered him a drink, but he said no, he didn"t want to forget anything. He said that he was a virgin."Junie bowed her head and tears spilled out of her eyes, dropped to the table. Conklin pa.s.sed her the box of tissues, and we looked at each other in shock as we waited her out."A lot of boys are virgins when they come to me," she said at last. "Sometimes they like to pretend that we"re having a date, and I make sure it"s the best date they ever had.""I"m sure," Conklin murmured. "So is that what happened with Michael? He pretended he was on a date?""Yeah," Junie said. "And as soon as we got into the bedroom, he told me his real name - and I told him mine!"He got a real kick out of that, and then he started telling me about his life. He was a champion chess player on the Internet, did you know that? And he didn"t act like a celebrity. He was super real. I started to think we were on a date, too.""You got around to having s.e.x with him, Junie?" I asked."Well, sure. He put the money on the night table, and I took off his clothes, and we had, you know, just started when - when he had to stop. He said he was in pain," Junie said, touching her chest with the flat of her palm. "And I knew about his heart, of course, but I hoped it would pa.s.s."And then she broke down, put her arms on the table, her head in her arms, and sobbed as though she"d really cared."He got worse," Junie choked out. "He was saying, "Call my dad," but I couldn"t move. I didn"t know how to call his father. And if I had, what would I say? That I was a prost.i.tute? His dad was Governor Campion. He would"ve put me in jail forever."So I held Michael in my arms and sang to him," Junie told us. "I hoped he"d start to feel better," she said, lifting her tearstained face. "But he got worse."

Chapter 7.

THE MUSCLE TWITCHING in Conklin"s jaw was the only outward sign that he was as stunned by Junie"s confession as I was."How long did it take for Michael to die?" he asked Junie Moon."I don"t know. Maybe a couple of minutes. Maybe a little more. It was awful, awful," Junie said, shaking her head at the memory. "About then, that"s when I called my boyfriend.""You called your boyfriend?" I shouted. "Is he a doctor?""No. But I needed him. And so Ricky came over, and Michael had pa.s.sed away by then, so we put him into the bathtub. And then Ricky and I talked for a long time about what to do."I wanted to scream, You moron! You might have saved him! Michael Campion might have lived. I wanted to shake her. Slap her bimbo face - so I got a grip on myself, sat back, and let Conklin keep the ball rolling."So what did you do with his body, Junie? Where is Michael now?""I don"t know.""What do you mean, you don"t know?" I said, getting up from my chair, making a racket with it, taking a couple of laps around the table.Junie started speaking quickly, as if by talking fast she"d get to the end of her story and it would all be over."After a few hours, Ricky decided to cut up his body with a knife. It was the most horrible thing I could ever imagine - and I grew up on a farm! I was throwing up and crying," Junie said, looking as though she might do it now.I pulled out my chair again, put my b.u.t.t in the seat, determined not to scare the little hooker even as she shocked me to the bone."But once we started cutting, there was no way back," Junie said, pleading to Conklin with her eyes. "I helped Ricky put Michael"s body into about eight garbage bags, and then we piled the bags into Ricky"s truck. It was like five in the morning. And no one was around."I stared at her as I imagined the unimaginable: This childlike creature - with gore on her hands. The body of Michael Campion in b.l.o.o.d.y chunks.I heard Conklin say, "Go on, Junie. We"re with you. Get it all off your chest.""We drove up the coast a few hours," Junie said, now telling the story as if she were recalling a dream. "I fell asleep, and when I woke up, Ricky was saying, "This is the end of the line." We were parked in the back of a McDonald"s, and there were some Dumpsters back there."That"s where we left the garbage bags.""What town? Do you know?" I asked."Not really.""Think," I snapped."I"ll try."Junie gave us her boyfriend"s name and address, and I wrote it all down. Rich pa.s.sed her a pad of paper and asked her if she"d like to make her statement official."Not really," she said, seeming empty and exhausted. "So . . . will you drive me home now?""Not really," I repeated back at her. "Stand up and put your hands behind your back.""You"re arresting me?""Yes. We are."Even on the tightest notch, the cuffs were loose around her wrists."But - I told you the truth!""And we appreciate it," I said. "Thank you very much. You"re under arrest for tampering with evidence and interfering with a police investigation. That should hold you for now."Junie was crying again, telling Conklin how sorry she was and that it wasn"t her fault. I was scanning the map in my mind, imagining the towns along the coast, the six hundred McDonald"s restaurants in Northern California.And I was wondering if there was a chance in the world that we"d ever recover Michael Campion"s remains.

Chapter 8.

AT JUST AFTER MIDNIGHT, I was sitting on a kitchen stool watching Joe put pasta on to boil. Joe is a big, gorgeous guy, over six feet, dark hair, bright blue eyes, and now he was standing at the stove in his blue boxers, his hair rumpled and his dear face creased with sleep. He looked husband-y and he loved me.I loved him, too.That"s why Joe had just moved to San Francisco from DC, ending our tumultuous long-distance relationship in favor of starting something new and maybe permanent. And although Joe had rented a fantastic apartment on Lake Street, a month after his move he"d brought over his copper-bottomed cookware and started sleeping in my bed five nights a week. Luckily, I"d been able to move up to the third floor of my building to give us a little more room.Our relationship had gotten richer and more loving, exactly what I"d hoped for.So I had to ask myself - why was the engagement ring Joe had given me still in its black velvet box, diamonds blazing in the dark?Why couldn"t I just say yes?"What did Cindy tell you?" I asked him."Verbatim? She said, "Here"s Martha. Lindsay got a break in the Campion case and she"s on it. Tell. Her. She wrecked our weekend, and I"m calling her in the morning for a quote. And she"d better give me a good one." "I laughed at Joe"s imitation of Cindy, who is not only my friend, but also the top reporter on the Chronicle"s crime desk."It"s either tell her everything," I said, "or tell her nothing. And for now, it"s nothing.""So, fill me in, Blondie. Since I"m wide-awake."I took a deep breath and told Joe all about Junie Moon; how she"d denied everything for two hours before telling us to turn off the camera, then talking about her "date" with Michael and his apparent heart attack; and how instead of calling 911, Junie had sung Michael Campion a lullaby as his heart bucked to a halt and killed him."Oh, for G.o.d"s sake."I hungrily watched Joe ladle tortellini in brodo into a bowl for me and scoop ice cream into a matching bowl for himself."Where"s the body?" Joe asked me, pulling out a stool and sitting beside me."That"s the sixty-million-dollar question," I said, referring to the reported size of the Campion fortune. I told Joe the rest of it: Junie"s dazed speech about Michael Campion"s dismemberment, the subsequent run up the coast with her boyfriend, and the eventual body dump behind a fast food restaurant - somewhere."You know, Conklin read Junie her rights when we brought her in for questioning," I mused. "And it p.i.s.sed me off."Junie wasn"t in custody, and I was sure if she was Mirandized, she wouldn"t talk. And frankly, I believed what she said at first, that everything she knew about Michael Campion she"d read in People magazine. I was ready to give her a pa.s.s - then Conklin pushed the right b.u.t.ton and she spilled her guts. It was a good thing that he"d read her her rights."I shook my head thinking about it. "Rich has such confidence for a young cop, not to mention an astonishing way with women," I said, warming to the subject. "And it"s not just that he"s great-looking, it"s that he"s very respectful. And he"s very smart. And women just want to tell him everything . . ."Joe reached for my empty bowl and stood up, abruptly."Honey?""It"s getting so I feel like I know this guy," Joe said over the sound of water running in the sink. "I"d like to meet him sometime.""Sure -""What do you say we go to bed, Lindsay?" he said, cutting me off. "It"s been a long night."

Chapter 9.

AT AROUND EIGHT the next morning, we found Ricky Malcolm jiggling his key into the front door of a shabby apartment house on Mission Street. He made us as cops and tried to take off, so we scuffled with him on the sidewalk and convinced him to come to the Hall."You"re not under arrest," I"d said, escorting him to our car. "We just want to hear your side of the story."Ricky was in "the box" now, glaring at me with his weird, wide-s.p.a.ced green eyes, tattooed arms crossed over his chest, his face blanched with the nocturnal pallor of a man who hadn"t seen broad daylight in years.Within the forest of tattoos on Malcolm"s right arm was a red heart with the initials R.M. The heart was impaled on the hook of a crescent moon. Malcolm looked predatory and violent, and now I was wondering if Junie"s story of Michael Campion"s death was true.Had Campion really died of natural causes?Or had this freak walked in on Michael and Junie - and killed him?Malcolm"s sheet showed three arrests, one conviction, all for possession. I slapped the folder closed."What can you tell us about Michael Campion?" I asked him."What I read in the papers," he said.The interview went on in this vein for a couple of hours, and since Conklin"s charms had no effect on Ricky Malcolm, I took the lead. I was trying to get him to say anything, even lies that we could use to trip him up later, but Ricky was stubborn or cagey or both. He denied any knowledge of Michael Campion, alive or dead.I blinked first."I think I understand what happened, Ricky," I said. "Your girlfriend was in big trouble, and so you had to help her out. Pretty understandable, I guess.""What are you talking about?""The body, Ricky. You remember. When Michael Campion died in Junie"s bed."Malcolm snorted. "Is she saying that actually happened? And that I had something to do with it?""Junie confessed, you understand," Conklin said. "We know what happened. The kid was dead when you got there. That wasn"t your fault, and we"re not putting that on you.""This is a joke, right?" Malcolm said. "Because I don"t know what the h.e.l.l you"re talking about.""If you"re innocent, help us," I said. "Where were you on January twenty-first from midnight until eight that morning?""Where were you?" he shot back. "You think I remember where I was three months ago? I can tell you this. I wasn"t helping Junie out of a jam with a dead john. You guys really crack me up." Malcolm sneered. "Don"t you know that Junie"s playing you?""Is that right?" I said."Yeah! She"s romantic, you know? Like a girl in the "I Can"t Believe It"s Not b.u.t.ter" commercial. Junie wants to believe that she did Michael Campion before he croaked -"I heard the tap on the gla.s.s I"d been waiting for.Malcolm was saying to Conklin, "I don"t care what she told you. I didn"t cut anyone. I never dumped any freaking body parts anywhere. Junie just likes the attention, man. You should know by now when a wh.o.r.e is lying to you. Charge me, dude, or I"m outta here."I opened the door, took the papers from Yuki"s hand. We exchanged grins before I closed the door and said, "Mr. Malcolm, you"re under arrest for tampering with evidence and interfering with a police investigation."I fanned the search warrants out on the table. "By this time tomorrow, dude, you won"t have a secret in the world."

Chapter 10.

WHILE RICKY MALCOLM SLEPT in a holding cell on the tenth floor at 850 Bryant, I opened the door to his second-floor, one-bedroom apartment over the Shanghai China restaurant on Mission. Then Conklin, McNeil, Chi, and I stepped inside. A faint stink of decomposing flesh hit me as soon as I crossed the threshold."Smell that?" I said to Cappy McNeil. Cappy had been on the force for twenty-five years and had seen more than his share of dead.He nodded. "Think he left one of those bags of body parts behind?""Or maybe he just kept a souvenir. A finger. Or an ear."McNeil and his partner, the lean and resourceful Paul Chi, headed for the kitchen while Conklin and I took the bedroom.There was a pull-shade in the one window. I gave it a yank and it rolled up with a bang, throwing Ricky Malcolm"s boudoir into a dim morning light. The room was a study in filth. The sheets were bunched to one side of the stained mattress, and cigarette b.u.t.ts floated inside a coffee mug on the nightstand. Dinner plates balanced on the dresser and the television set, forks congealed in the remains of whatever Malcolm had eaten in the last week or two.I opened the drawer in the nightstand, found a couple of joints, a.s.sorted pharmaceuticals, a strip of Rough Riders. McNeil came into the room, looked around, said, "I like what he"s done with the place.""Find anything?""No. And unless Ricky dismembered Campion with a four-inch paring knife, the blade"s not in the kitchen. By the way, the smell is stronger in here."Conklin opened the closet, searched pockets and shoes, then went to the dresser. He tossed out T-shirts and p.o.r.n magazines, but I was the one who found the dead mouse under a steel-toed work boot behind the door."Whoaaa. I think I found it.""Nice door prize," McNeil cracked.Four hours went by, and after turning over every stinking thing in Malcolm"s apartment, Conklin sighed his disappointment."There"s no weapon here.""Okay, then," I said. "I guess we"re done."We stepped out into the street as the flatbed truck pulled up to the curb. CSIs hooked up Malcolm"s "97 Ford pickup, and we stood by as the truck rattled noisily up the hill on the way to the crime lab. McNeil and Chi took off in their squad car, and Conklin and I got into ours.Conklin said, "I"ll bet you a hundred bucks, or dinner - your choice, Lindsay -"I laughed at his girl-magnet smile."I"ll bet you Michael Campion"s DNA is somewhere inside the bed of that truck.""I don"t want to bet," I said. "I want you to be right."

Chapter 11.

JUNIE MOON"S PAINTED LADY looked tired and dull that afternoon as the sky darkened and a fine rain swept the city. Conklin lifted up the crime scene tape that was strung across Junie"s front door and I ducked under it, signed the log, and entered the same room where Conklin and I had interviewed the fetching young prost.i.tute late the night before.This time we had a search warrant.The sound of hammers slamming into ceramic tile led us to the bathroom on the second floor, where CSIs were tearing up the floors and walls in order to get to the bathtub plumbing. Charlie Clapper, head of our CSU, was standing in the hallway outside the bathroom door. He was wearing one of his two dozen nearly identical herringbone jackets, his salt-and-pepper hair was neatly combed, and his lined face was somber."Curb your expectations, Lindsay. There"s enough splooge in this wh.o.r.ehouse to tie up the lab for a year.""We just need one hair," I said. "One drop of Michael Campion"s blood.""And I"d like to see Venice before it sinks into the sea. And as long as we"re wishing on stars here, I"m still pining for a Rolls Silver Cloud."There was a leaden sound as the CSI working behind and under the tub dismantled the trap. As the tech bagged the plumbing, Conklin and I went back to Junie"s bedroom.It wasn"t the pigpen Ricky Malcolm slept in, but Junie wasn"t a tidy homemaker either. There were dust b.a.l.l.s under the furniture, the mirrored walls were smudged, and the dense gray carpet had the oily look of a floor mat in a single dad"s minivan.A CSI asked if we were ready, then closed the curtains and shut off the overhead light. She waved the wand end of the Omnichrome 1000 in a side-to-side pattern across the bedspread, carpet, and walls, each pa.s.s of her wand showing up pale blue splotches indicating s.e.m.e.n stains everywhere. She shot me a look and said, "If the johns saw this, they"d never take off their clothes in this girl"s house, guaranteed."Conklin and I walked downstairs toward the sound of the vacuum cleaner, watched the CSIs work, Conklin shouting to me over the vacuum"s motor, "Three months after the fact, what do we expect? A sign saying, "Michael Campion died here"?"That"s when we heard the clank of metal against the vacuum cleaner nozzle. The CSI turned off the motor, stooped, pulled a steak knife from under the skirt of a velvet-covered sofa - just where Conklin and I had been sitting last night.The investigator held out the steak knife with his gloved hand so that I could see the rust-colored stain on the sharp, serrated blade.

Chapter 12.

I WAS STILL SAVORING the discovery of the knife when my cell phone rang. It was Chief Anthony Tracchio, and his voice was unusually loud."What is it, Tony?""I need the two of you in my office, p.r.o.nto."After a short volley of useless quibble, he hung up.Fifteen minutes later, Conklin and I walked into Tracchio"s wood-paneled corner suite and saw two well-known people seated in the leather armchairs. Former governor Connor Hume Campion"s face looked swollen with rage, and his much younger wife, Valentina, appeared heavily sedated.The front page of the Sunday Chronicle was on Tracchio"s desk. I could read the headline upside down and from ten feet away: SUSPECT QUESTIONED IN CAMPION DISAPPEARANCE.Cindy hadn"t waited for my quote, d.a.m.n it.What the h.e.l.l had she written?Tracchio patted his Vitalis comb-over and introduced us to the parents of the missing boy as Conklin and I dragged chairs up to his ma.s.sive desk. Connor Campion acknowledged us with a hard stare. "I had to read this in the newspaper?" he said to me. "That my son died in a wh.o.r.ehouse?"I flushed, then said, "If we"d had anything solid, Mr. Campion, we would have made sure you knew first. But all we have is an anonymous tip that your son visited a prost.i.tute. We get crank tips constantly. It could have meant nothing.""Could have meant? So what"s in this paper is true?""I haven"t read that article, Mr. Campion, but I can give you an update."Tracchio lit up a cigar as I filled the former governor in on our last eighteen hours: the interviews, our futile searches for evidence, and that we had Junie Moon in custody based on her uncorroborated admission that Michael had died in her arms. When I stopped talking, Campion shot out of his seat, and I realized that while we had a.s.sumed Michael was dead, the Campions hadn"t given up hope. My sketchy report had given the Campions more of a reality check than they"d expected.It wasn"t what they wanted to hear.Campion turned his red-faced glare on Tracchio, a man who"d become chief of police by way of an undistinguished career in administration."I want my son"s body returned to us if every dump in the state has to be picked through by hand.""Consider it done," Tracchio said.Campion turned to me, and I saw his anger collapse. Tears filled his eyes. I touched his arm and said, "We"re on this, sir. Full-time. We won"t sleep until we find Michael."

Chapter 13.

JUNIE MOON SLIPPED into the interview room at the women"s jail wearing an orange jumpsuit and new worry lines in her youthful face.She was followed by her attorney, Melody Chado, a public defender who would make a reputation for herself with this case, no matter how the jury decided. Chado wore black - tunic, pants, jet-black beads - and was all business. She settled her client in a chair, opened her black leather briefcase, and looked at her watch several times as we waited. There were only four chairs in the small room, so when my good friend a.s.sistant District Attorney Yuki Castellano entered a moment later, there was standing room only.Yuki put down her briefcase and leaned against the wall.Ms. Chado appeared to be just out of law school. She was probably only a couple of years older than her client, who looked so vulnerable I felt a little sorry for her - and that p.i.s.sed me off."I"ve advised my client not to make any statements," Ms. Chado said, setting her young face with a hard-a.s.s expression that I found hard to take seriously. "This is your meeting, Ms. Castellano.""I"ve talked with the DA," Yuki said. "We"re charging your client with murder two.""What happened to "illegal disposal of a body"?" Chado asked."That"s just not good enough," Yuki snapped. "Your client was the last person to see Michael Campion alive. Ms. Moon never called medical emergency or the police - and why not? Because she didn"t care about Campion"s life or death. She only cared about herself.""You"ll never get an indictment for murder," Chado said. "There"s enough reasonable doubt in your theory to fill the ocean.""Listen to me, Junie," Yuki said. "Help us locate Michael"s remains. If it can be determined in autopsy that his heart attack would have killed him no matter what you did, we"ll drop the murder charge and pretty much get out of your life.""No deal," Chado interjected. "What if she helps you find his body and it is so decomposed that his heart is just rotted meat? Then you"ll have a demonstrable connection to my client and she"ll be screwed."I reevaluated Melody Chado as she fought with Yuki. Chado had either had a great education, grown up in a family of lawyers - or both. Junie fell back in her chair, turned a shocked face toward her breathless attorney. I guessed that Chado"s description had blown off whatever romance was left of Junie"s memory of Michael Campion."I want to hear about the knife, Junie," Rich said, steering the interview to our only piece of evidence."The knife?" Junie asked."We found a knife under your sofa. Looks like bloodstains on the blade. It"ll take a few days to get the DNA results, but if you help us, Ms. Castellano will take that as another sign of your cooperation.""Don"t answer," said Melody Chado. "We"re done."Junie was looking at Rich, and she was talking over her attorney. "I thought the knife went into one of the garbage bags," she said to my partner. "So I don"t know what knife you found. But listen, I remember the name of the town.""Junie, that"s enough. That"s all!""I think it was Johnson," Junie said to Rich. "I saw a sign when we got off the highway.""Jackson?" I asked. "Was it Jackson?""Yes. That"s right.""You"re sure about that? I thought you said you drove up the coast.""I"m pretty sure. It was late, I got confused. I wasn"t trying to remember," she told me, her eyes downcast. "I was trying to forget."

Chapter 14.

THE TOWN OF JACKSON was known for its cowboy cookouts and craft fairs. It also had a sizable dump. It was just after noon, and the smell of rot was rising as the sun cooked the refuse. Gulls and buzzards circled the trash dunes that filled our view out to the foothills.Sheriff Oren Braun pointed out the square acre of landfill he"d had cordoned off - the approximate section where waste had been unloaded at the end of January."Soon as I got the call from the governor I had my boys on it," Braun told me and Conklin. " "Pull out the stops," that"s what he said."We were looking for eight black plastic garbage bags in a sea of black plastic garbage bags. A hundred yards uphill, a dozen members of the sheriff"s department were picking very slowly through the three thousand tons of refuse piled twenty feet high, and the dump foreman was a.s.sisting the dog handler, who followed behind his two cadaver dogs as they trotted over the site.I was trying to maintain some optimism, but that was tough to do in this grim landscape. I mumbled to Rich, "After three months out here, all that"ll be left of Michael"s corpse will be ligaments and bones."And then, as if I"d telepathically cued them, the dogs alerted.Conklin and I joined the sheriff in stepping cautiously toward the frenzied, singing hounds."There"s something in this bag," their handler said.The hounds had located a plastic shopping bag, the thin supermarket kind. I stooped down, saw that the plastic had been ripped, that the contents were wrapped in newspaper. I parted the newspaper wrapper. Saw the decomposing remains of a newborn child. The baby"s skin was loose and greenish, the soft tissues eaten by rats, so that it was no longer possible to tell if it was a boy or a girl. The date on the newspaper was only a week old.Someone hadn"t wanted this child. Had it been smothered? Was it stillborn? At this stage of decomposition, the ME might never know. Rich was crossing himself and saying a few words over the baby"s remains when my Nextel rang.I walked downhill as I answered the call, glad to turn my eyes from the terrible sight of that dead child."Tell me something good, Yuki," I begged her. "Please.""Sorry, Lindsay. Junie Moon has recanted her confession.""No. Come on! Michael didn"t die in her arms?" My roiling innards sank. Right now, all we had was Junie"s confession.How could she take that back?"Yeah. Now she says that she had nothing to do with Michael Campion"s death and disappearance. She"s saying that her confession was coerced.""Coerced? By whom?" I asked, still not getting it."By you and Conklin. The mean ol" cops made her confess to something that never, ever happened."

Chapter 15.

SUSIE"S CAFe IS KIND OF a cross between Cheers and a tiki hut bar on a beach in St. Lucia. The food is spicy, the steel drums are live, the margaritas are world-cla.s.s, and not only do the waitresses know our names, they know enough to leave us alone when we"re into something - as Cindy and I were now.We were in our booth in the back room, and I was glaring at Cindy over my beer."You understand? Talking to you off the record is "leaking." Just saying to you that I was working a new lead on the Campion case could jam me up!""I swear, Lindsay, I didn"t use what you said. I didn"t need a quote from you because I got the story from upstairs.""How is that possible?""Management has a source and I did an interview and I am not telling you with whom," she said, setting down her beer mug hard on the table. "But the point is, you can hold your head up, Linds, because you told me nothing. Okay? That"s the truth."I"m several years older than Cindy, and we"ve had a big sister, little sister thing since she crashed my crime scene a few years back and then helped me close the case.It"s hard to be friends with reporters when you"re a cop. Their rationalized "public"s need to know" gives bad guys the heads-up and messes up jury pools.You can"t truly trust reporters.On the other hand, I love Cindy, and I trusted her 99 percent of the time. She sat across from me in her snow-white silk sweater, blond curls bouncing like mattress springs, her two overlapping front teeth making her pretty features look even prettier. She looked totally innocent of my accusation, and she was holding her ground."Okay," I said through clenched teeth."Okay and I"m sorry?""Okay. I"m sorry.""Good. You"re forgiven. So, can you tell me what"s happening on this case?""You"re a funny girl, Cindy," I said, laughing and waving my hand so that Yuki and Claire could see us from the doorway.Claire was so far along in her pregnancy she couldn"t fit in the booth anymore. I got up, moved a chair to the head of the table for Claire, as Yuki slipped in beside Cindy. Lorraine took our orders, and as soon as she"d left us, Yuki said to Cindy, "Whatever I say, even if it"s in the public domain, it"s off the record."Claire and I cracked up."What a pain. See, people think it"s actually an advantage that I know you guys," Cindy said, sighing dramatically."The hearing to suppress Junie Moon"s confession? It went great," Yuki told us. "Since Junie had been Mirandized when she confessed, the judge says it"s admissible.""Excellent," I said, letting out my breath. "A break for the good guys.""Yuki, you"re trying her for a murder and you don"t have a body?" Claire asked."It"s a circ.u.mstantial case, but circ.u.mstantial cases are won all the time," Yuki said. "Look, I"d be happier with physical evidence. I"d be happier if Ricky Malcolm made any kind of a corroborating statement."But the powers that be are piling on the pressure. Plus, we can win."Yuki stopped to gulp down some beer, then carried on."The jury is going to believe Junie"s confession. They"re going to believe her, and they"re going to hold her responsible for Michael Campion"s death."

Chapter 16.

I WAS AT MY DESK in the squad room the next day when Rich came in after lunch smelling of garbage."Tough morning in Jackson?""Yeah, but I think the sheriff"s digging for his fifteen minutes of fame before the Feds take over the search. He"s got it under control."I pinched my nose as Rich pulled out his chair, folded his long legs under his side of the desk, and opened his container of coffee."Phone records show that yes, Junie did call Malcolm at 11:21 on the night Michael went missing. And she called him every night at about that time.""Girl stays in touch with her boyfriend.""And Clapper called," I told my partner. "The prints on the knife are Malcolm"s.""Yeah? That"s excellent!""But the blood is bovine," I said."It"s a steak knife. He ate a steak.""Yep. It gets worse.""Hang on." Rich dumped a couple of sugars into his coffee, stirred, slugged it down. "Okay. Hit me.""There"s no blood or tissue in the bathtub, and the hair we sent out came back with no match. Furthermore, there"s no sign that anyone tried to cover up the blood. No bleach.""Great," my partner said, scowling. "What is this? The perfect crime?""There"s more and worse. There"s no trace of blood in or on Malcolm"s vehicle, no hairs consistent with Michael"s.""So I was wrong about the truck. You should have bet me, Lindsay. We"d be having dinner tonight - on me."I grinned and said, "You would have showered first, I suppose."But my mood could hardly be lower. I was going to have to call the Campions and tell them that we still had no physical evidence, and that Junie Moon had recanted her confession and we"d had to kick Ricky Malcolm."You want to call Malcolm and tell him he can have his truck back?"Rich picked up his phone, called Malcolm, got no answer.We took a drive out to the crime lab at Hunter"s Point Naval Yard, opened all the car windows on the way, and let the wind air out my partner"s clothes. At the lab, I signed a release for the truck, and after three more unanswered calls to Ricky Malcolm, we drove to his apartment.Rich yelled, "Police," and knocked loudly on Malcolm"s door until a small Chinese man came out from the restaurant downstairs.He shouted up to us, "Mr. Malcolm gone. He paid his rent and leave on motorcycle. You want to see mess upstairs?""We"ve seen it, thanks.""He"s gone, all right," I muttered to Conklin as we got into the squad car. "Ricky Malcolm. Sleaze. Slob. Easy rider. Criminal freakin" mastermind. Coming soon to a town near you."