Private Vegas by James Patterson Read Free Book Online Page A

when they said good-bye. After that, while Mr. Del Rio was watching TV in his own house, someone went into Ms. Carmody’s house and attempted to kill her. Someone else did that. Not Mr. Del Rio.
    “In the old days, there were colorful terms for the unfortunate sap who took the blame. He was called the dupe. The fall guy. The patsy.”
    Rick didn’t like being characterized as a fool, but he thought Caine was doing a great job telling what had happened. Over at the prosecutor’s table, Dexter Lewis played with his pen like it was a drumstick:
tat-tat-tat
on the tabletop, just enough sound to draw the jury’s attention and, maybe, break Caine’s rhythm.
    But Caine didn’t acknowledge the sound, didn’t look at Lewis at all. He walked to the jury box, all six foot three of Harvard-educated success story.
    Caine said, “So now we have the whole short and not-so-sweet story. Someone beat Ms. Carmody. She had a subdural hematoma and an intracranial hemorrhage. She had brain damage, ladies and gentlemen, and during a semilucid moment as she was being taken by ambulance to the hospital, she named my client.
    “But Mr. Del Rio didn’t lift a hand to Ms. Carmody.
    “He’s the scapegoat, the designated fall guy. He didn’t beat up his friend Vicky. Someone set Rick up. Or Rick was at the wrong place at the worst possible time. We don’t know who attacked Vicky Carmody or why it happened.
    “But this we know for sure: Rick Del Rio didn’t do it.”

PART TWO

     

SEPARATED AT BIRTH
     

Chapter 16

     
    BY 11:20 A.M., two of Private’s top investigators, Emilio Cruz and Christian Scott, had rung fifteen doorbells on both sides of PCH, had talked to as many housekeepers and homeowners, had collected surveillance footage from security cameras, and were now reviewing the footage on their fleet-car computer.
    Scotty was blond, lithe, had been a ballet dancer until he ruined his knees. He became a motorcycle cop with CHiPs and was eventually promoted to deputy sheriff. He was bright and motivated, and a very agile athlete.
    Jack had brought him in as an investigator last year and was still floating him, pairing him with other investigators until he found him a partner.
    Cruz was senior to Scotty.
    First thing most people noticed about Cruz was his good looks: the black hair he wore pulled back in a ponytail, and his muscular build. Cruz was a former light-middleweight professional boxer, born and raised in the ’hood, and had highly developed street smarts. At age twenty-eight, after he retired from the ring with his brains intact, Cruz went to work as an investigator for LA’s district attorney, Bobby Petino.
    Petino and Cruz were second cousins, and Petino had told Jack about this smart young investigator, saying that he thought Cruz had a dynamite future. Jack thought so too. He hired Cruz and teamed him up with Del Rio.
    The partnership had stuck.
    Cruz had wanted to be in court for his partner this morning, but he had to get a handle on who had firebombed Jack’s car.
    Scotty downloaded the video to their hard drive, opened the file, said, “This is from the house across PCH. Camera one. Faces the road.”
    “Roll it,” Cruz said to Scotty.
    Scotty pressed Play. The camera was pointed across the highway, right at Jack’s house, and the angle took in the wall and the Lamborghini that Jack had parked outside his gate.
    As they watched, cars flashed past on the road. Then, on the screen, a sedan with its high beams on came toward Jack’s house. And stopped.
    Scotty reversed the clip, then forwarded it in slow motion.
    “Whoa,” said Cruz. “Freeze that.”
    It was too dark to see anything about the color or make of the car beyond the fact that it was a dark sedan, probably a Chevy. The time stamp read 4:27 a.m.
    “I can’t read the plates at all,” Cruz said. “Not a single number.”
    “Going to forward it now,” Scotty said.
    The car in the center of the frame didn’t move, but a few other cars passed