The 8th Confession - James Patterson [3]
She paused near the recently rejuvenated Caltrain station that used to be a hell pit of homeless druggies, now much improved as the neighborhood gentrification took hold.
But behind the Caltrain station was a fenced-off and buckled stretch of sidewalk that ran along the train yard. Rusted junkers and vans from the Jimi Hendrix era parked on the street. The vehicles were crash pads for the homeless.
As Cindy mentally geared up for her power walk through that “ no-fly zone,” she noticed a clump of street people ahead — and some of them seemed to be crying.
Cindy hesitated.
Then she drew her laminated ID card out of her coat, held it in front of her like a badge, pushed her way into the crowd — and it parted for her.
The ailanthus trees shooting up through cracks in the pavement cast a netted shade on a pile of rags, old newspapers, and fast-food trash that was lying at the base of the chain-link fence.
Cindy felt a wave of nausea, sucked in her breath.
The pile of rags was, in fact, a dead man. His clothes were blood-soaked and his face so beaten to mush, Cindy couldn’t make out his features.
She asked a bystander, “What happened? Who is this man?”
The bystander was a heavyset woman, toothless, wearing many layers and textures of clothes. Her legs were bandaged to the knees and her nose was pink from crying.
She gave Cindy a sidelong look.
“It’s B-B-Bagman Jesus. Someone killed him!”
Cindy thumbed 911 on her Treo, reported what had clearly been a murder, and waited for the police to arrive.
As she waited, street people gathered around her.
These were the unwashed, the uncounted, the unnoticed, fringe people who slipped through the cracks, lived where the Census Bureau feared to tread.
They stank and they twitched, they stammered and scratched, and they jockeyed to get closer to Cindy. They reached out to touch her, talked over and corrected one another.
They wanted to be heard.
And although a half hour ago Cindy would have avoided all contact with them, she now wanted very much to hear them. As time passed and the police didn’t come, Cindy felt a story budding, getting ready to bloom.
She used her cell again, called her friend Lindsay at home.
The phone rang six times before a masculine voice rasped, “Hello?” Sounded to Cindy like maybe she’d interrupted Lindsay and Joe at an inopportune moment.
“Beautiful timing, Cindy,” Joe panted.
“Sorry, Joe, really,” said Cindy. “But I’ve got to speak to Lindsay.”
Chapter 2
“DON’T BE MAD,” I said, tucking the blanket under Joe’s chin, patting his stubbly cheeks, planting a PG-13-rated kiss on his mouth, careful not to get him going again because I just didn’t have enough time to get back in the mood.
“I’m not mad,” he said, eyes closed. “But I am going to be seeking retribution tonight, so prepare yourself.”
I laughed at my big, handsome guy, said, “Actually, I can’t wait.”
“Cindy’s a bad influence.”
I laughed some more.
Cindy is a pit bull in disguise. She’s all girlie-girl on the outside but tenacious through and through, which is how she pushed her way into my gory crime scene six years back and wouldn’t give up until she’d nailed her story and I’d solved my case. I wished all of my cops were like Cindy.
“Cindy’s a peach,” I said to my lover. “She grows on you.”
“Yeah? I’ll have to take your word for it.” Joe smirked.
“Honey, would you mind —?”
“Will I walk Martha? Yes. Because I work at home and you have a real job.”
“Thanks, Joe,” I said. “Will you do it soon? Because I think she’s got to go.”
Joe looked at me deadpan, his big blue eyes giving me the business. I blew him a kiss, then I made a run for the shower.
Several months had blown by since my cozy apartment on Potrero Hill had burned out to the walls — and I was still getting used to living with Joe in his new crib in the high-rent district.
Not that I didn’t enjoy his travertine shower stall