The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [31]
A steaming mug was cradled in the lap of Sarah’s bright yellow sundress. She looked different again. Prettier, but also more carefree.
“Good morning, Lieutenant.” Sarah rose and came walking toward his car. Her bare, bony feet balanced on the driveway’s shiny white gravel and broken shells. The yellow sundress ballooned slightly with the sea breeze. He caught every detail.
“Morning, ma’am.” Stefanovitch smiled like a local Johnny Law. “Which way to the servants’ entrance?”
“Don’t be a wise guy, Lieutenant. After the book hit, I had a few choices—investing in shopping centers in places like Bloomington, Indiana. Or maybe something like this house. I thought the house might be a little more fun than the Stop and Shops.”
Stefanovitch nodded. His eyes continued to survey the beachfront house and property.
“I’ll show you where we’re going to work. C’mon.”
He followed her along a bleached slat walkway that led toward the oceanfront.
It was a luminous day. The air was clear, thick with salt, and the sky was the brightest blue. Gray and off-white seagulls were flapping overhead, as if someone had thrown them handfuls of bread crumbs. Somewhere down the beach, a halyard rang softly against a sailboat mast.
Sarah had set up a long wooden worktable on the first extension of the front porch. It was covered with papers, shaded by a navy blue awning.
Stefanovitch could imagine her sitting out there, writing her books.
“Where would you like to set up shop?” She spoke over the hiss of the wind. “I thought maybe that porch over there.”
“The porch looks great to me. It beats Police Plaza on a day like today. All kidding aside, this is very special.”
“All kidding aside, thank you.”
30
HE HAD READ somewhere, in one of the magazine interviews, that Sarah McGinniss was an extremely hard worker. She was supposed to be dedicated to her small son and to her writing, and she wouldn’t let anything get in the way of either.
By two o’clock on Sunday afternoon, Stefanovitch absolutely believed what he had read about her. His eyes were burning and he had a throbbing headache. His shoulders ached from too much sitting in one place.
She showed no signs of tiring, though. She had mentioned lunch once, and he feigned indifference. She had then plunged on for another hour and a half of note taking, reading lengthy court transcripts, searching through as much original background material as Stefanovitch had seen in all his past homicide investigations put together.
The street law… the crushing reality of organized crime around the world in the middle 1980s… Sarah McGinniss had done exhaustive research on all of it.
Alexandre St.-Germain was mentioned everywhere in the files:
In his early years, but as recently as the previous spring, the Grave Dancer had proven to be the most violent and vengeful of the crime lords. Behind the veneer of his good looks, his charm, St.-Germain had been a psychopath. Was that why he had been murdered? Had his methods been too extreme? Had he embarrassed or worried someone? But who? Who was calling the shots in the Midnight Club? Who had gotten more powerful than St.-Germain?
The Grave Dancer had enjoyed “wet work,” performing many of the nasty murders himself. He had taught his horrifying “lessons” all over the world.
A drug dealer, but also his two girlfriends, beheaded in Morocco. Their faces ruined. Their genitals slashed with razor blades.
Five young policemen blown to bits during their weekly card game in Los Angeles.
The two daughters of a judge in Rome kidnapped from private school, then raped and murdered. A twelve- and a fourteen-year-old.
A West German hospital bombed to get to a trial lawyer.
A nightclub bombed in London, fourteen dead, eleven of them young