The 9th Judgment by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Read Free Book Online Page B

decorated to the hilt with English-style roll-arm sofas, Flow
     Blue platters on the walls, and Foo dogs on the mantel. Mayfair meets the City on the Bay.
    A woman in a black dress, not introduced, offered beverages and quietly left the room, returning with bottled water for Conklin
     and me, Chivas for our host.
    I said, “Mr. Dowling, tell us again what happened last night.”
    He said, “Jesus Christ, I told you everything, didn’t I? I thought you were coming here to tell
me
something.”
    Conklin, who is a sensational good cop to my badass bitch, said, “We apologize, sir. The thing is, your telling us what happened
     again might trigger a memory or a new thought about who did this.”
    Dowling nodded, leaned back in his leather chair, and put down a healthy swig of scotch. “The Devereaus had gone,” he said.
     “As I told the other officer, I was putting things into the sink—”
    “The lady who brought the beverages,” I interrupted. “She wasn’t here to help?”
    “Vangy only works days. She has a child.”
    Dowling repeated how his wife had gone upstairs before him, how he heard shots, how he found his wife on the floor, not breathing,
     and how he’d called the police.
    I said, “Mr. Dowling, I noticed last night that your hair was wet. You took a shower before the police came?”
    He grunted and gripped his glass. I was watching for a tell—a guilty look—and I thought I saw it. “I was devastated. I stood
     weeping in the shower because I didn’t know what else to do.”
    “And your clothes, sir?” Conklin asked.
    “My clothes?”
    “Mr. Dowling, let me be honest with you,” Conklin said. “We know you’re a victim here, but there are certain protocols. We
     take your clothes to the lab, and it puts down any questions that might come up later.”
    Dowling gave Conklin a furious look and called out, “Van-gy! Take Inspector Conklin upstairs and give him whatever he wants.”
    When Conklin and the housekeeper left the room, I asked, “Mr. Dowling, when was the last time you had intimate relations with
     your wife?”
    “My God. What are you getting at?”
    “Someone had sex with your wife,” I said, pressing on. “If it was her killer, he left evidence that could help us—”
    “Casey had sex with
me!
” Dowling shouted. “We made love before dinner. Now what exactly does that tell you?”
    Fifteen minutes later, Conklin and I left Dowling’s house with a printout of his phone contact list, a cheek swab, and all
     the unlaundered clothing he owned. Presumably that included what he was wearing when his wife was shot.
    “I took everything in the clothes hamper and whatever was on the hook behind the bathroom door,” Conklin said as we walked
     out to the car. “If he shot her, we’ll have gunpowder. We’ll have blood spatter. We’ll have
him.
”

Chapter 22
    IT WAS THE end of a very long day when Claire and I came in from the dark street into Susie’s, with its splashy sponge-painted
     walls, spicy aromas, and the plinking drumbeat of the steel band.
    Cindy and Yuki were holding down our favorite table in the back room, Yuki in her best go-to-court suit while Cindy had swapped
     out her denims for something flirty in baby-blue chiffon under a short, cream-colored jacket. They were putting away plantain
     chips and beer and were in deep conversation about the Dowling case.
    Claire and I slid into the booth as Cindy said, “Casey Dowling owned a twenty-karat canary diamond ring worth a million bucks.
     Known as the Sun of Ceylon. Maybe she fought to keep it. What do you think, Linds? Possible motive for Hello Kitty to go ballistic?”
    “Casey didn’t have any defensive wounds,” said Claire.
    “And she didn’t scream for her husband,” I added.
    I poured beer from the pitcher for Claire and myself, then asked Cindy, “Where’d you get that info about the diamond?”
    “I’ve got my sources. But I wouldn’t get too excited, Linds. That rock will have been chopped