3rd Degree - James Patterson [6]
One of them had caught his eye, a blond woman, obviously a cop with some clout. She seemed to have some guts, too. He watched her and wondered if she would become his adversary, and would she be worthy?
He inquired about her from a patrolman at the barricades. “The woman who went into the house, that’s Inspector Murphy, isn’t it? I think I know her.”
The cop didn’t even bother to make eye contact, typical police insolence. “No,” he said, “that’s Lieutenant Boxer. She’s Homicide. A real bitch on wheels, I hear.”
Chapter 10
THE CRAMPED THIRD-FLOOR OFFICE that housed the Homicide detail was buzzing, unlike any Sunday morning I could remember.
I got a clean bill of health at the hospital, then arrived at the office to find that the whole team had showed up. We had a couple of leads to follow, even before the results of the examination of the blast scene came back. Bombings usually don’t involve kidnappings. Find that baby, everything told me, and we’ll find whoever did this horrible thing.
A TV was on. Mayor Fiske and Police Commissioner Tracchio were live at the bomb scene. “This is a horrible, vindictive tragedy,” the mayor was saying, having come straight off the first tee at Olympic. “Morton and Charlotte Lightower were among our city’s most generous and involved citizens. They were also friends.”
“Don’t forget contributors,” Cappy Thomas, Jacobi’s partner, said.
“I want everyone to know that our police department is already vigorously pursuing concrete leads,” the mayor continued. “I want to assure the people of this city that this is an isolated event.”
“X/L…” Warren Jacobi scratched his head. “Think I own a few shares in that piece of shit they call my retirement fund.”
“Me too,” said Cappy. “Which fund you in?”
“I think it’s called Long-Term Growth, but whoever named it sure has a twisted sense of humor. Two years ago I had—”
“If you moguls have a moment,” I called. “It’s Sunday and the markets are closed. We have three dead, a missing baby, and an entire town house burned to the ground in a possible bombing.”
“Definite bombing,” Steve Fiori, the department’s press liaison, chimed in. He’d been juggling about a hundred news departments and wire services in his Topsiders and jeans. “Chief just got it confirmed from the Bomb Squad. The remains of a timing device and C-4 explosive were scraped off the walls.”
The news didn’t exactly surprise us. But the realization that a bomb had gone off in our city, that we had murderers out there with C-4, that a six-month-old baby was still missing, sent a numb quiet around the room.
“Shit,” Jacobi sighed theatrically, “there goes the afternoon.”
Chapter 11
“LIEUTENANT,” someone called from across the room, “Chief Tracchio on the phone.”
“Told ya,” Cappy said, grinning.
I picked up, waiting to be reamed out for leaving the crime scene early. Tracchio was a glorified bean counter. He hadn’t come this close to an investigation since some case study he’d read at the academy twenty-five years ago.
“Lindsay, it’s Cindy.” I’d been expecting to hear the Chief; her voice surprised me. “Don’t get cranky. It was the only way I could get through.”
“Not exactly a good time,” I said. “I thought you were that asshole Tracchio, about to nail me to the wall.”
“Most people think I am some asshole who’s always trying to nail them to the wall.”
“This one signs my checks,” I said, taking a semi-relaxed breath for the first time all day.
Cindy Thomas was part of my inner circle, along with Claire and Jill. She also happened to work for the Chronicle and was one of the top crime reporters in the city.
“Jesus, Linds, I just heard. I’m in an all-day yoga clinic. In the middle of a ‘downward dog’ when my phone rings. What, I sneak out for a couple of hours and you decide now’s the time to be a hero? You all right?”
“Other than