Page 72 of The 24th Hour
“Go for it, Joe. With my full support. Tell him yes.”
We held hands under the table, kissed, spooned up criminally delicious chocolate mousse with our coffee, and kissed again. We made it home before Julie was in the sack. Mrs. Rose wanted to hang out for Julie’s review ofSuper Mario Bros.
“Four rotten tomatoes,” Julie said. “No. Four and a half!”
We thanked our good friend Mrs. Rose, tucked our little girl into her big girl’s bed with my old friend Martha. Then Joe and I went to the room next door. We dressed in pajamas and crawled under the covers in the dark and snuggled in for a long night’s love. It was Joe who screamed into the pillow. As for me, I held him tight and I prayed to God that we had made the right decision. That all of us would be safe.
I fell asleep remembering nights when Joe hadn’t come home. But we were together now. Amen.
MONDAY
CHAPTER 96
I SAT AT the head of the scarred oak conference table, Jackson Brady to my left, Claire Washburn to my right, eight Homicide inspectors filling the remaining chairs. The Frickes’ autopsy photos were taped to the far wall. There was also a list of suspects tacked to the adjacent corkboard.
Although our persons of interest list had dropped in number, the energy in our shabby war room was high. By process of elimination, we might be getting closer to Jamie’s killer. And maybe Holly’s.
Brady said, “Claire, why don’t you start us off.”
Dr. Washburn was ready. She opened the folder in front of her, then told the group about the Fricke DNA/knuckle connection.
“So far, it’s just a good idea,” she said. “Which it will be if we have a viable suspect with Fricke DNA. The samples I took from Jamie’s hand are now at Quantico. The FBI’s database might spit out a name.”
It looked to me like Claire’s explanation hit Sergeant Paul Chi like a shot of adrenaline, straight to his brain.
“I want to be in on this, Doctor,” he said. “Let me know how I can help.”
Then Cappy, wearing his undercover leather jacket, denim cap, and jeans, reported that Holly’s Bentley had been discovered, sold to a dealer in Acapulco; Jamie’s Jag had also been found, demolished. He took off his cap, placed it over his heart, and said: “Every window was broken, the upholstery slashed with a carpet knife. The electronics were gutted, the VIN numbers had been burned off, but one was legible enough to identify it as Jamie Fricke’s vehicle. The hundred-thousand-dollar sports car was deliberately run into a brick wall and totaled. Looked personal to me. I’d call it a hit. By proxy. Or to make sure it was really dead.”
Chi added, “The perp was wearing gloves. There were no, none, zero prints in the remains of the car.”
Conklin then spoke for a couple of colorful minutes about Fricke’s funeral, and when he paused for a sip of coffee, I stood, apologized, and said that I had to dash off for what might become an important interview.
I said, “I’m having lunch with Christophe Picard. Like Arthur Bevaqua, he’s been entwined with the Fricke family for over twenty years—through his former marriage to Rae Bergen, their son, and his friendship with the Fricke clan. Plus. He wants to talk.”
“Free food, Sarge?”
That was Cappy, being a wise guy.
I said, “I hope. I skipped breakfast this morning. I get thesense that Christophe likes to talk. So, he’s either going to give me a lot of bull or steak frites.”
Folks laughed, wished me luck, and soon I was in my car headed northwest on Seventh Street toward Christophe Picard’s trendy, four-star-rated Chez Bonhomie.
At a stoplight, I opened a text from Claire: “FYI. Three new homicides came in this week. Unrelated to Fricke, but still murders.”
Feeling time slipping away, I burned some rubber when the light turned green. Inevitably new homicides would drag us away from Jamie Fricke just as had happened with Holly. New cases had come in with an urgency that had turned Holly’s case cold. A week in, Jamie’s case was still fresh. But every day that passed would lower the odds of finding his killer.
That much was clear.
CHAPTER 97
CINDY WAS IN her protected seat inside the doorway of Courtroom 8G. The placement of furniture and people, the time court was due to go into session was all normal, but at the same time it didn’t seem normal at all.
The room was packed and the tension in the air gave Cindy goose bumps. Something was about to happen.
Yuki was at the prosecution table just beyond the bar with Gaines and Mary Elena Hayes in the seat between them. Red Dog entered the room, and a split second later, Bailiff Riley Boone called court to order.
The door behind the bench opened and Judge St. John entered his court as Boone called out, “All rise.” The hundred-plus people in the gallery and the lawyers came noisily to their feet. The judge took his place at the bench, looked across the oak-paneled room, and asked the gallery to be seated. The bailiff ushered in the jury, all twelve of whom looked somewhat dazed, as if they’d been sleeping in a closet or under their beds.