The 8th Confession - James Patterson [84]
I don’t condone street justice.
If we could nail Booker’s killer, we would. But maybe this time, law enforcement would bow to a different kind of law. Bagman Jesus, the street saint who wasn’t, had been taken out faster and smarter than we could have done it — and without giving him the possibility of parole.
It was indisputable that our city was better off now that he was gone.
“Whatcha thinking, Lindsay?” Conklin asked me.
I turned to look at him, saw that he, too, was feeling fine. I said, “I was thinking that in a funny way, this is a good day to be a cop.”
Epilogue
HAPPY AT LAST
Chapter 111
AS JOE PILOTED his nice black Mercedes S-Class, I relaxed in the seat beside him. It was great to look to my left and see his gorgeous face, his strong hands on the wheel. Every time he caught me looking at him, he turned to look at me.
We grinned at each other like high-school kids with a first crush. “Keep your eyes on the road, buster,” I said to him.
“I want to take that dress off you,” he said.
“I just put it on!”
“I remember,” he said, leering. “Now what was it you were telling me?”
“Yuki.”
“Right. Yuki’s going away for a few weeks.”
“She was going away for a few weeks, then Parisi called her into his office and said, ‘I’ve got a case for you, Ms. Castellano. I think there could be a promotion in it. And a raise.’ ”
Joe turned the wheel, and we swept into the drive leading to the Convent of the Sacred Heart in Pacific Heights, an insanely beautiful and kind of creepy old mansion where Joe’s friend the mayor was holding a big fund-raiser for inner-city children.
It was an A-list event, and Joe was high on that list because he was a government contractor, the former deputy director of Homeland Security, and a specialist in Middle Eastern affairs.
Valet parkers in Flying Dutchman outfits stepped out of the shadows, and spotlights out front transformed the school into an elegant nightspot. Guests wearing Prada-everything emerged from their expensive cars, and Joe got out of ours.
He handed the keys to a valet, then came around and opened the door for me. I took his arm.
“I want to hear the rest of the story,” he said.
We headed toward the arched stone entrance. I was conscious of being dressed up for a change: wearing high-heeled shoes, putting my hair up, zipping into a long, tight red dress, and it felt good knowing that if ever a gown was made for a five-foot-ten-inch blonde, I was wearing it. And if ever there was a good-looking man in a tuxedo, I was on his arm.
“Oh. So Parisi says to Yuki, ‘I’m giving you the Rodney Booker case. Congratulations.’ He handed her a bomb, Joe. Eight defendants, no witnesses, an unmatchable possible murder weapon, and an unsympathetic victim. She’s going to work on this for a year, and then she’s going to get killed in court.”
“Poor frickin’ Yuki.”
“One day she’s going to catch a break. Maybe. I hope.”
We stepped over the threshold into a cocktail party in high gear. Beautiful people were engaged in avid conversation, laughing, their voices echoing in the magnificent Reception Room with its high, coffered ceilings designed to look like the Vatican — sixteenth-century Italian High Renaissance.
A waiter came by with a tray of champagne flutes, and Joe and I each took one.
After a sip, Joe set his glass down on a nearby table, reached inside his pocket, and took out a black velvet box I’d seen many times before. He had presented it to me twice, and although I’d never fully accepted it, I’d kept it safe through fire and through moving to Joe’s, and every once in a while I’d opened the box, just to see where I stood in my own mind.
And now Joe was opening that black clamshell case again and holding it so that the five diamonds in the platinum setting twinkled like a crystal chandelier.
I looked up at him, thinking he didn’t need the trappings. I would love him in a spangled spandex bodysuit. I smiled.
“I have this sense of