18th Abduction (Women's Murder Club) by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

in, looking stricken.
    He said, “Mr. Barry, I’ve got you a ride. Thanks for your help. Boxer, Conklin, I need to see you right away.”
    I handed Barry off to Officer Mahoney and headed back to Jacobi’s glass-walled office at the back of the squad room.
    He and Conklin were waiting for me.
    I pulled out a chair, saying, “Waste of time. We don’t have enough cause to get a warrant—”
    Jacobi cut me off.
    “We’ve got a body. Might be Carly Myers. Big Four Motel, room 212. Call me when you get there.”

CHAPTER 18
    Richie lost the coin flip, so I drove.
    We reached Ellis Street in record time, then closed in on the Big Four, slowing only for the aimless druggies wandering down and across Larkin.
    I pulled into the parking spot at the front of the seedy, rent-by-the-hour, no-tell motel, switched off the engine, and took a breath. We weren’t alone. A dozen homeless, impoverished, drug-dependent residents of the Tenderloin were camped out on the macadam between the parked cars.
    They were about to lose their campground.
    The parking lot was a secondary crime scene and would have to be vacated and taped off from the street.
    Conklin and I got out of the car. My mind was racing with questions, none of which would be answered until we got into room 212.
    Question one: Was the dead woman Carly Myers?
    Questions two and three: If the DB was Carly, what had killed her? And why here?
    A handful of the motel’s guests stood under the awning outside the manager’s office, complaining loudly that they needed to get into their goddamn rooms.
    The manager said just as loudly, “Cops said when they’re done, they’re done. Nothing I can do.”
    I interrupted the dispute to get the manager’s name, Jake Tuohy, and to tell him to stick around. We’d be back.
    Room 212 was at the rear of the motel. My partner and I rounded the corner of the three-story stucco building and saw a small fleet of first responders: two cruisers, an ambulance, and two CSI vans, all empty.
    We badged the uniform at the foot of the stairs, ducked under the crime-scene tape, and headed up to the second floor, where Nardone, another uniformed officer, was waiting for us. At that time, Officer Robert Nardone was a beat cop with ambition and promise. He told us that he was the first officer on the scene.
    “Tell me what you know,” I said.
    “Housekeeper, Nancy Koebel, went to clean 212 at twelve thirty or so and found the DB hanging by the neck from the shower head. She reported the body to the manager, Jake Tuohy, who took a look in the bathroom, closed the door, and called it in.”
    “Where is Koebel?”
    Nardone said, “By the time I got here, she’d taken off.”
    Conklin asked him, “You checked out the room?”
    “I was very careful not to contaminate anything. It was dark. I flipped on the light switch with my elbow and stepped into the bathroom. Saw the victim and went to check her vitals. She wasn’t breathing. I touched her leg. She was ice cold.”
    Nardone looked sad, maybe ill. I pictured him in that bathroom, hand against the wall as he reached out to touch the victim. His prints were likely on the wall and definitely on the doorknob. Doorknobs had also been handled by the housekeeper and the manager, probably smearing whatever the perp had left behind.
    “Keep going,” I said.
    “I looked into the main room from the hallway. The curtains were closed, but I could see a little bit by the bathroom light. No one was in the room, living or dead. I called the lieutenant.”
    “Okay,” I said. “Good job, Bobby.”
    We talked protocol for another few minutes.
    I directed Nardone to get plate numbers of every car in the lots front and back, clear and seal off the parking lots, and set up a media liaison post on Ellis.
    “No one but law enforcement goes in or out of here until I say okay. I’ll get you some help to collect the guests and sequester them in the reception area.”
    “They’re like crazy people,” he