The 8th Confession - James Patterson [8]
But apart from the way it looks, what makes Foreign Cinema a real treat are the picnic tables in the back garden, where old films are projected on the blank wall of a neighboring building.
The sky was clear that early May night, the evening made even cozier by the heat lamps all around the yard. Sean Penn was at one of the tables with some of his pals, but the big draw for me was having a dinner date with Joe without either of us having to book a flight to do it.
After so many gut-wrenching speed bumps, the roller-coaster ride of our formerly long-distance relationship had smoothed out when Joe moved to San Francisco to be with me. Now we were finally living together.
Finally giving ourselves a real chance.
As The Umbrellas of Cherbourg, an old French film, flickered without sound against the wall, Joe listened intently as I told him about my astounding day: how Conklin and I had walked our feet off trying to find out who had murdered Bagman Jesus.
“Claire took five slugs out of his head, four of them just under the scalp,” I told Joe. “The fifth shot was to the temple and was likely the money shot. Then Bagman took another slug to the back of the neck, postmortem. Kind of a personal act of violence, don’t you think?”
“Those slugs. They were twenty-fives or twenty-twos?”
“ Twenty-twos,” I said.
“Figures. They had to be soft or they all would have gone through his skull. Were there any shell casings at the scene?”
“Not a one. Shooter probably used a revolver.”
“Or he used a semiautomatic, picked up those casings. That kind of guy was evidence-conscious. Thinking ahead.”
“So, okay, that’s a good point.” I turned Joe’s thought around in my mind. “So maybe it was premeditated, you’re saying?”
“It’s not hopeless, Linds. That soft lead could have striations. See what the lab says. Too bad you won’t be getting prints off the casings.”
“There might be some prints on that plastic baby.”
Joe nodded, but I could tell he didn’t agree.
“No?” I asked him.
“If the shooter picked up the casings, maybe he was a pro. A contract killer or a military guy. Or a cop. Or a con. If he was a pro —”
“Then there won’t be any prints on the crucifix either,” I said. “But why would a pro kill a street dweller so viciously?”
“It’s only day one, Linds. Give yourself some time.”
I told him, “Sure,” but Jacobi had already pulled the plug on this case. I put my head in my hands as Joe called the waiter over and ordered wine. Then he turned a big, unreadable smile on me.
I sat back and analyzed that smile, getting only that Joe looked like a kid with a secret.
I asked him what was going on, waited for him to sample the wine. Then, when he’d made me wait plenty long enough, he leaned across the table and took my hands in his.
“Well, Blondie, guess who got a call from the Pentagon today?”
Chapter 9
“OH MY GOD,” I blurted. “Don’t tell me.”
I couldn’t help myself. My first thought was that Joe was being recruited back to Washington — and I just couldn’t stand even the idea of that.
“Lindsay, take it easy. The call was about an assignment. Could be the beginning of other assignments, all lucrative, a great boost for my consulting business.”
When I met Joe while working a case, his business card read, DEPUTY DIRECTOR, HOMELAND SECURITY. He was the best antiterrorism guy in Washington. And that was the job he’d given up when he’d moved out to the left coast to be with me.
His credentials and his reputation were first-rate, but the opportunities hadn’t come to him in San Francisco as quickly as we’d expected.
I blamed that on the current administration being PO’ed that super-well- liked Joseph Molinari had walked off the job in an election year. Apparently they were getting over their pique.
That was good.
I relaxed. I smiled. I said, “Whew. Scared me, Joe.” And I started to get excited for him.
“So tell me about the assignment,” I said.
“Sure, but let’s order first.”
I don’t remember what I picked from the menu because when the food came, Joe told me that he was leaving for a conference in the Middle East — in