The 8th Confession - James Patterson [35]
Bagman Jesus had been decoded.
He had a name. He had a past.
And he had a family living in Santa Rosa.
Chapter 45
CINDY SAT IN the comfortable sunroom of a million-dollar Craftsman-style house in Santa Rosa, feeling anything but comfortable. Had she been rash? Yes.
Intrusive? Absolutely.
Thoughtless? She ought to get an award for blinding insensitivity.
What had she been thinking? Of course, that was the problem. She’d been thinking about her story, not about real people, so she’d launched herself into the Bookers’ lives like a live hand grenade.
And the moment Lee-Ann Booker opened her front door, her sweet, momsy face shining with anticipation, Cindy realized it was too late to unpull the pin.
They were all in the sunroom now.
Lee-Ann Booker, a fair Clairol blonde in her midsixties, clutched a charm necklace of crosses and semiprecious stones and Mexican good-luck charms. She sat beside Cindy on the rattan sofa, sobbing into tissues, hiccuping and sobbing again.
Her husband, Billy Booker, brought Cindy a mug of coffee.
“You sure you don’t want something stronger?” he asked. It sounded like a threat.
Booker was black, also in his sixties, with a military bearing and the lean body of a dedicated runner.
“No thanks, I’m good,” Cindy said.
But she wasn’t.
She couldn’t remember any time in her life when she’d caused anyone so much pain. And she was also very afraid.
Booker took the chair opposite the sofa, leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and scowled at Cindy.
“What makes you think that this ‘Bagman Jesus’ is our son?”
“A woman saying she was his close friend gave me this,” Cindy said. She dug in her purse, pulled out the tin ID tag stamped RODNEY BOOKER on one side, PEACE CORPS on the other. She handed it to Booker, saw a spasm of fear cross his face.
“Is this supposed to prove something? Mother and I want to see his body.”
“No one claimed him, Mr. Booker. He’s at the ME’s office. Uh, they don’t show bodies there, but I can make a call —”
Booker sprang out of his chair and kicked a rattan footstool across the room, spun back around to face Cindy.
“He’s in a freezer like a dead fish, that’s what you’re saying? Who tried to find us? No one. If Rodney was white, we would have been notified.”
“To be fair, Mr. Booker, this man’s face was beaten beyond recognition. He had no ID. I’ve been working hard to learn his identity.”
“Good for you, Miss Thomas. Good for you. His face was busted up and he had no ID, so I’m asking again, how do you know that dead man was our son?”
Cindy said, “If I could have a good, clear photo of Rodney, I think I could clear this up fast. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
Lee-Ann Booker eased a photo out from the clinging plastic leaves of an album and passed it to Cindy, saying, “This was taken about five years ago.”
In the picture, Rodney Booker was sitting on the same rattan love seat Cindy sat on now. He was handsome, light-skinned, broad-shouldered, had close-cropped hair and a beautiful smile.
Cindy strained to find a resemblance to Bagman Jesus in Rodney’s build and skin color, but when she’d seen Bagman’s remains, he’d barely looked human.
“You’ve been to Rodney’s house?” Billy Booker asked.
“Rodney has a house?”
“Well, damn it, girl. My son could be home right now watching a ball game while you’re out here scaring us to death.”
Lee-Ann Booker wailed, and Cindy’s mind scrambled again. House? Bagman Jesus was homeless, wasn’t he? How could he have a house? What if Rodney Booker was alive and well — and she was totally wrong?
Billy Booker snatched a pen and notepad from the coffee table, scratched his son’s cell phone number and address on the top sheet, ripped it off and handed it to Cindy.
“I get his voice mail when I call. Maybe you’ll do better. So what’s your plan, Miss Thomas? Tell me that. Then I’ll know what I’m going to do.”
Cindy left the Bookers’ house, sure that her well-intentioned pop-in visit had not only blown