3rd Degree - James Patterson [14]
I nodded. “I want her dusted, Charlie. The kid, blanket, bassinet, anything you can find.”
“Been thirty years since I changed a diaper.” Clapper let out a breath, looking a little squeamish. “Hey, I almost forgot….” He pulled out a coded evidence bag from underneath a pile of papers on the desk. “There was a room down the hall from the nursery. Someone spent the night there. Someone who isn’t accounted for now.”
The au pair, I was thinking.
“Don’t get excited,” Charlie said, shrugging. “Everything was cinders. But we picked up this by the bed.”
He tossed me the plastic bag. Inside was a small, twisted canister about three inches long.
I held it up. Didn’t have the slightest idea what it was.
“Everything must’ve melted.” Clapper shrugged. He fumbled behind him through his jacket draped over the chair. He came out with something that looked similar.
“Proventil, Lindsay.” He took the cap off his own device and fit it neatly onto the one from the evidence bag. He pressed the mouthpiece twice. Two puffs shot out into the air.
“Whoever slept in that bed had asthma.”
Chapter 23
JILL BERNHARDT SAT in her darkened office long after everyone else had left.
A law brief was open in front of her, and she suddenly realized she’d been staring at the same page for ten minutes now. On nights when Steve wasn’t traveling or working late, she had taken to staying at the office. Doing anything she could to avoid him. Even when she wasn’t preparing for trial.
Jill Meyer Bernhardt. Superlawyer. Everybody’s alpha dog.
She was afraid to go home.
Slowly, she massaged the bruise on her backbone. The newest bruise. How could this be happening? She was used to representing women who felt like this, not hiding a secret in the dark herself.
A tear wound its way down her cheek. It was when I lost the baby, she thought. That’s when it all started.
But, no, the trouble with Steve had started long before that, she knew. When she was just out of law school and he was finishing up his MBA. It started with what she would wear. Outfits that weren’t his taste or showed her scars. Dinner parties where his opinion—politics, her job, anything—seemed so much stronger, more important than hers. Pretending it was his earnings that had paid for the down payment on the town house, the Beemer.
You can’t do it, Jill. She had heard that since she met him. Jesus Christ, she dabbed her eyes with the heel of her hands. She was the top assistant D.A. in the city. What else did she have to prove?
The phone rang. The sudden ring made her jump. Was it Steve? Just the sound of his voice made her sick. That creepy, oh-so-concerned, oh-so-solicitous tone: “Hey, honey, watchya doin’? Come on home. Let’s take a run.”
To her relief, the caller ID said it was an assistant D.A. from Sacramento. He was calling back on getting a witness cleared out of a state pen. She let it go to her voice mail.
She closed the heavy brief. This was the last time, she vowed. She would start by telling Lindsay. It hurt her not to be honest with her. Lindsay thought Steve was a prick anyway. She was no fool.
As she was stuffing her briefcase, the phone rang again. This time it had that special ring, cutting right through her.
Don’t answer, Jill. She was already halfway out the door. But something made her look at the digital screen. The familiar number lit up. Jill felt her mouth go dry. Slowly, she picked up the receiver. “Bernhardt,” she whispered, closing her eyes.
“Working late again, hon?” Steve’s voice cut through her. “If I didn’t know better,” he said, sounding almost hurt, “I’d think you were afraid to come home.”
Chapter 24
THAT NIGHT, George Bengosian got lucky.
Short and balding, with a large flattened nose, Bengosian had realized early in his residency that he had no flair for urology and found his true calling stringing together failing regional insurers into giant HMOs. He also realized he wasn’t the type who could charm a beautiful woman with his profit projections and silly industry jokes—certainly