The 9th Judgment - James Patterson [71]
I watched from behind a cordon of cops as a robot with X-ray plates in its “arms” rolled up the wheelchair ramp and through the front door of the Hall. Conklin and Chi came down to wait it out with me, and together we watched the bomb-squad tech, masked and swaddled in an antifrag, flame-retardant suit, walk behind the robot with his remote control.
I waited for the detonation I was sure would come. Then we waited some more. When I was at the screaming point, Conklin said, “We could be here all night.”
So we went to MacBain’s.
It was like an office party in there. Law enforcement personnel from all disciplines were whooping it up while waiting to hear if they had offices to go back to. I had my hand in the Beer Nuts when my phone rang.
It was Lieutenant Bill Berry from the bomb squad. “Your so-called bomb has been rendered safe.”
I walked with Conklin and Chi to the bomb truck, which was now parked in the lot behind the Hall. I knocked on the door of the van, and when it opened, I took the case from Lieutenant Berry’s hand.
“So, what’s in it?” I asked him.
“Christmas in September,” he said. “I think you’re going to like it.”
Chapter 102
“SOMETHING YOU’RE GONNA like,” echoed Chi. “What would that be?”
“I’m hoping for puppies,” I said.
Conklin held the door, and the three of us joined the throng of workers returning to their offices. We climbed to the third floor, turned right into Homicide, and crowded into Jacobi’s office as he took his swivel chair and sat down heavily.
Jacobi’s space was a pigpen as always, no offense to pigs. I moved a pile of folders from a side chair, Conklin took the chair beside me, knees bumping the desk, and Chi leaned against the doorjamb in his neat gray suit and string tie.
“Apparently this thing won’t blow up,” I said, putting the computer case on Jacobi’s desk.
“Are you going to open it, Boxer? Or are you waiting for an engraved invitation?”
“Okay, then.”
I took latex gloves out of my pocket and wriggled my hands into them, then slit the tape with a shank that Jacobi used as a letter opener and unzipped the bag all the way around.
At first, I didn’t understand what I was looking at. Little suede bags and small boxes and satin envelopes had been stuffed into the body of the case, and more of the same were tucked inside each of the pockets. Paper clipped to one of those pockets was a plain white envelope addressed to me.
I showed the envelope to my colleagues, then peeled up the flap and teased out a sheet of white copy paper that had been folded in thirds.
“Is it interesting?” Jacobi asked.
I cleared my throat and read the letter out loud.
“ ‘Hi, Sergeant Boxer. I did NOT kill Casey Dowling. All of her stuff is in here, and everyone else’s stuff is in here, too. Please tell everyone I’m sorry. I made some bad mistakes because I thought I had no choice, but I will never steal again. Marcus Dowling killed his wife. It had to be him.’
“It’s signed ‘Hello Kitty.’”
I turned the case so that Jacobi could see me open the small packets. Unbelievable jewelry spilled into my gloved hands. Diamonds and sapphires that I recognized as belonging to Casey Dowling, Victorian brooches and pearls that had been Dorian Morley’s, and other jewelry that had belonged to Kitty’s other victims.
I sifted through extraordinary jewels that I’d seen pictured in Stolen Property’s files, and then I noticed a two-inch-long leather box shaped like a pirate’s trunk. I opened the box and saw a lumpy square of tissue paper.
I unfolded the paper, and a loose yellow stone the size of a grape winked up at me from the hollow of my palm. I was staring at the Sun of Ceylon.
“Is that it?” Conklin asked. “Casey Dowling’s cursed diamond?”
Jacobi barely looked at it. He reached for his phone and hit number one on his speed dial—the chief’s number. “Is Tony there? It’s Jacobi. Tell him I’ve got news. Good kind.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Brady coming toward us in a hurry.