The 5th Horseman - James Patterson [18]
I grabbed my Nextel out of its clip on my belt and called Jacobi before more time passed. He answered on the first ring, and I filled him in on what Claire had told me.
“So I’m guessing she found herself in a room with a couple of guys who had sex on their mind,” I said, braking for a light at the next street corner. “They got pushy—and Caddy Girl resists, rebuffs them. So one of the guys puts roofies into her Chardonnay.”
“Yeah,” Jacobi agreed. “Now she’s so stoned she can’t move. Maybe she even blacks out. They take her clothes off, spray her with perfume, take turns having sex on her.”
“Maybe they’re afraid she might remember the assault,” I said, my thoughts neatly in sync with those of my former partner. “They’re not totally stupid. Maybe they’re very smart, actually. They want to kill her without leaving a lot of evidence. One guy burks her; the other makes sure she’s dead by suffocating her with a plastic bag. A nice clean kill.”
“Yup, sounds right, Boxer. Maybe after she’s dead, they reload and do her again,” Jacobi said. “Figure a little necrophilia never hurt anyone. Then what? They dress her in five thousand bucks’ worth of clothes and take her for a ride? Drop her off in Guttman’s Seville?”
“That’s the craziest part of it all,” I said. “I don’t get it about the clothes. The clothes thing throws everything off for me.”
“Claire didn’t have the results on the DNA?”
“Not yet. You know, if Caddy Girl was the mayor’s wife, we’d know something by now. But since nobody’s even reported her missing . . .”
“Good-looking girl like that,” said Jacobi. I could hear a tinge of sadness in his voice. Some small revelation of loneliness. “Someone should be missing her.”
Chapter 26
I OPENED THE FRONT DOOR to my apartment and exchanged sloppy hellos with Martha.
“Hey, Boo. Howzmygirl?”
I hugged her squirming body as she yapped her enthusiastic approval of my return from the wars.
As exhausted as I was, jogging with my girl was the greatest encouragement I had to keep fit.
I leashed her, and soon after, we were running across Missouri in the dark, around the rec center, down and back up the hill, endorphins lifting my mood and giving me a slightly more positive outlook on Caddy Girl’s murder investigation.
The perp’s DNA was cooking in the lab right at this moment.
Cops were canvassing with her picture in hand.
There was hope after all.
Someone had to be missing her by now and would make a call soon. Or a witness would step forward who’d seen her likeness in the Chronicle or on our Web site.
Once we had a name, we’d have a chance to solve her murder. We could all stop thinking of her as Caddy Girl.
A half hour later I was back at home. I slugged down a cold beer and ate a Swiss and Hellmann’s on sourdough in front of the TV while catching up on the news of the world on CNN, CNBC, and FOX. Then I stripped down, turned on the shower, and waggled my hand in the water to test the temperature.
That’s when the phone rang.
Figures. Now what—another murder? Better yet, a break in the case?
The caller ID flashed his name.
“Hey,” I said, feigning nonchalance, heart going boom, da-boom, da-boom.
“God, you’re gorgeous.”
“I don’t have a picture phone, Joe.”
“I know what you look like, Lindsay.”
I laughed.
“That’s a very naked laugh,” said my fella. He wasn’t clairvoyant. He could hear the shower running. I turned off the water, put my robe on.
“You’re amazingly perceptive,” I said. By now, I was picturing him naked, too.
“Listen, naked lady, rumor has it I’m going to be in your town this weekend. The whole weekend.”
“Good, ’cause I miss you,” I said, my voice dropping down a few notches, getting a little throaty. “We’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
We flirted until my skin was damp and my breath was short. When we hung up a few minutes later, we had a plan for our upcoming good time.
I dropped my robe, stepped into the shower, and, as the hot spray beat on my skin, began to belt out a pretty good rendition of “My Guy,” loving the vibrato in my voice coming