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

said.
    “They’re going to object. Be nice but firm. This is a police investigation into a possible homicide, okay?”
    “Got it, Sergeant.”
    I called Jacobi.
    “I need uniforms and investigators, boss. We have to question guests who are not going to volunteer.”
    Jacobi said he was on it.
    Then Conklin and I headed to room 212 and the scene that was waiting for us.

CHAPTER 19
    I was very glad to see Charles Clapper standing outside room 212, thumbing his phone.
    A former homicide lieutenant with the LAPD, Clapper was a hands-on criminalist, ran a great shop, and was neither a showboater nor a politician. He was rock solid and I called him a friend.
    We exchanged greetings, and then Conklin asked Clapper if there was security footage.
    “Wouldn’t that be a treat,” said Clapper.
    “I take it that’s a no,” said Conklin.
    “It’s a maybe. The customers here don’t like cameras, but I’ve got two guys checking the ATM across the street. I’m curbing my enthusiasm.”
    The door to room 212 was open, and LED lights blazed in the small room beyond the doorway. Clapper talked as we gloved up and fitted booties over our shoes.
    He said, “I could teach a university course in forensics on this scene. But then, don’t take that to mean I’ve got a handle on it.”
    We followed him over the threshold and got our first look at the room. In many ways 212 was typical, about eighteen feet long from the door to the window at the far end, nine feet wide, the width largely taken up by the bed. The bathroom was to our immediate left, right off the entrance.
    The Big Four Motel had been a fixture in the Tenderloin for thirty years and, during that time, had aged disgracefully. The carpet was dirt gray, original color indeterminate. The curtains were threadbare, and the spread was all that plus stained and soiled. The double bed was still made, but the pillows were disturbed.
    Conklin and I stood inside the doorway, watching the CSIs taking photos of everything, sketching the layout, and dusting for prints, the last being a fairly futile activity given the three decades of accumulated splooge. But it had to be done. Maybe one clear print or even a partial would find a match in AFIS.
    The CSIs had put markers down next to folded items of female apparel on the floor: a dark garment, either pants or a skirt; a lacy top with long sleeves; an underwire bra. High-heeled shoes stood next to the bed, a light coat hung over a chair back, and at the foot of the chair was a large handbag of the tote bag variety. It was unzipped and looked plenty big enough to hold electronics, books, and the kitchen sink.
    As crime scenes went, this one was tidy. But we hadn’t seen the body yet; the two techs in the bathroom were blocking our view.
    I asked Clapper, “Did you find a note?”
    “Not yet. I opened her bag to check her ID. Her license says Carly Myers, and her face matches the photo. We’ll take the bag back to the lab and let you know what we find.”
    If the bag contained a phone and a computer, he’d also check her incoming and outgoing calls, get her text messages and emails, too. A phone could crack open everything from before she went missing. Pray to God it would lead to Susan Jones and Adele Saran.
    Noting that, Clapper said, “We’ve only been in here for twenty minutes, so this is still a prelim. What I can tell you is that the victim is a Caucasian female found hanging by her neck by an electric cord noose. The other end of the cord was wrapped a number of times around the stem of the shower head and the curtain rod for added support. The cord was cut from a standing lamp in the other room. Scissors are on the floor.”
    Clapper went on.
    “She’s wearing an extra-large men’s shirt. Looks new.”
    “What do you make of that?” I asked.
    “Nothing yet. We’ll test it. I saw no defensive wounds on the victim’s arms, but I haven’t checked her hands. Her wrists were bound in front with a pair of panties. The