Private - James Patterson [65]
“Don’t worry about that, Christine. Your word alone can’t hurt anyone. We’ll still need proof. It’s not that easy to convict somebody of murder.”
“The van stopped in the middle of the road,” Christine said, pointing to the cross street. “I looked away, and when I turned back? These two guys were swinging the blond girl into the van.”
“Would you like to look at some pictures for me?”
“Sure. If it will help.”
Justine got the three heavy yearbooks out of her briefcase, then pushed the short stack across the table to the girl.
Justine sipped her coffee and watched Christine scan the pages. The girl paused to examine not just the portraits, but the group and candid photos too. For a few long moments, she stared at a black-and-white group shot under a heading “The Staff of The Wolverine.”
“What do you see?” Justine finally asked.
Christine stabbed the photo with a finger, pointing out a boy in a line with nine or ten other kids.
Then Christine exclaimed, “It’s him.”
Justine turned the book around and pulled it toward her.
The caption identified the yearbook staff and their graduating classes. She checked the caption against the students’ faces, then flipped to the portraits of the class of 2006.
The boy Christine had stabbed with her chewed-up fingernail had dark hair, a nose that could be called pointy, and ears that might be described as sticking out.
Suddenly Justine was so wired, she felt as if she could run electricity for all of East Los Angeles off her mood.
Was Christine’s memory this good? Or was she just trying to please Justine like her mother had said she would?
Justine said, “Christine? It was nighttime, right? The van stopped for a minute, and the kids were moving. Are you sure this is the boy you saw?”
Christine was a bright girl, and she understood the potential problem instantly.
“I worried that I wouldn’t be able to recognize him? But I do. Like I said the first time, Dr. Smith, I’ll never forget his face.”
“Okay, Christine. Great job. And now that face has a name. This is Rudolph Crocker.”
Chapter 91
IN THE BEGINNING, Justine had fought Sci’s suggestion to install a high-tech dashboard computer in her Jaguar. It would mess up the look of the car, and also guaranteed that she’d never have a moment away from work.
Sci had won the battle using undeniable logic, and now Justine silently thanked him. The little box, with its seven-inch touch screen, connected up with Private’s international network and forensic databases. It also did engine diagnostics, had a rear-obstacle-detection system, and played CDs.
Ingenious little box.
Justine punched Rudolph Crocker’s name into a search engine. As the compact computer brain searched the Internet, the screen filled with a list of men named Rudolph Crocker. There were Rudolph Crockers in many states and in diverse professions: doctors, lawyers, firemen, a handyman, a pool boy, and an underwear model in Chicago.
There were no Rudolph Crockers with a criminal record, but there were three men with that name in greater Los Angeles.
The first had been born in Sun Valley in 1956 and worked as a schoolteacher in Santa Cruz until his early retirement in ’07.
The second Crocker on the list was an equities analyst at a brokerage firm called Wilshire Pacific Partners.
Justine tapped the keyboard, and the firm’s website came up on her screen.
There was a tab, “Who We Are,” and Justine clicked on it and scrolled down the list of personnel, which displayed bios and thumbnail portraits.
Rudolph Crocker was the seventh party down.
Justine stared at the small picture. She had to be sure that this slick business-style portrait matched the one in an old yearbook—but it was undeniable. Indisputable. This Crocker was the same one who had graduated from Gateway Prep in ’06.
Justine called the office. Her calls to Jack, Sci, and Mo-bot went straight to voice mail. She knew everyone was working flat-out. Sci and Mo were immersed in the computer angle of the Schoolgirl case. Jack, Cruz, and Del Rio were