The 8th Confession - James Patterson [37]
“I think Bagman Jesus lived here until he died.”
“Really. Based on what?”
Cindy pointed to the mural behind the bed. It was crudely drawn in black and white on plaster, images of writhing people, their hands reaching upward, fire and smoke swirling around them.
“Read that,” Cindy said.
Here was the proof Cindy had been looking for, that Rodney Booker and Bagman Jesus were one and the same.
Written within the hellish scene were two words in the same primitive lettering Cindy recognized from Flora Gold’s tattoo.
The letters spelled out JESUS SAVES.
Chapter 48
CONKLIN AND I were working the phones at half past six p.m. when Jacobi stopped by our desks, took a twenty out of his wallet, put it on my desk with a stack of take-out menus, and said, “I’ll check in with you later.”
“Thanks, Boss.”
It was discouraging work.
We still didn’t know if the Baileys’ deaths were an accident, a homicide-suicide, or a double homicide — only that Claire’s consultants had come up with nothing and the public was having a collective heart attack.
So Conklin and I did all we could do. We worked our way down the Baileys’ endless list of friends and associates and asked the questions: When did you last see the Baileys? How were their moods? How did they get along? Do you know of anyone who would have wanted to harm Isa or Ethan Bailey?
Do you know of anyone who would have wanted them dead?
I was dialing a number when I heard my name, looked up to see Cindy breeze through the wooden gate in front of our assistant, Brenda Fregosi, Brenda calling out, “No,” stabbing the intercom button, her voice blatting over the speaker on my desk.
“Cindy’s here.”
Waving a newspaper, Cindy floated around the day crew, who were putting on their coats as the night crew punched in. She plopped down in the side chair next to my desk, angling it so she could look at Conklin, too.
Hate to admit it, but she brought light into the gloom.
“Want to see what tomorrow’s paper will look like?” she asked me.
“No.”
“I’m a rock star, Richie. Look,” she said, slapping the paper down on my desk. Conklin tried to stifle a laugh and failed.
I said to Cindy, “You’ve heard the expression ‘misery loves company’?”
“You’re miserable and I’m company. What’s your point?”
“Misery loves miserable company.”
Conklin snorted and Cindy har-de-har-harred and I couldn’t keep stone-faced for another second.
Cindy gloated, “Don’t you just hate it when I’m right?”
She lovingly smoothed out the newspaper so I could see the picture on the front page of the Metro section, the photo of Rodney Booker, aka Bagman Jesus, under the headline $25,000 REWARD. DO YOU KNOW WHO KILLED THIS MAN?
So there it was: Rodney Booker was Bagman Jesus.
Rodney Booker had been identified by his father from the morgue photos, which showed three raised lines on Rodney’s shoulder, a crude slash-and-rub-with-ashes tattoo he’d gotten while in Africa.
Rodney Booker’s death was a homicide. And my name was associated with his case file. All I needed to do was find out who killed him, and while I didn’t have the time to do that, Cindy Thomas was both high on success and hot on the trail.
“I’ve been thinking,” Cindy said. “I can just keep working the case, turn over anything I find out to you. What, Lindsay?”
“Cindy, you can’t work a homicide, okay? Rich, tell her.”
“I don’t need your permission at all,” Cindy said. Then, eyes brightening, “Here’s an idea. Let’s go to Susie’s and map out a plan we can all live with —”
I rolled my eyes, but Conklin was shaking his head and grinning at Cindy. He liked her!
I was ready to call Jacobi, let him straighten her out, when Claire blew through the gate, stomped toward us with a bad look in her eyes.
“Dr. Washburn is on her way back,” Brenda’s electronic voice cawed from my intercom.
Claire was busy. She didn’t like to pay house calls to Homicide. Cindy, oblivious, called out, “Claire! We’re off to Susie’s. Come with us.”
Claire fixed her eyes on me.
“I can’t go to Susie’s,” she said, “and neither can you.