Violets Are Blue by James Patterson Read Free Book Online

What drove her? Something buried in her past? Something more obvious in the present? The fact that she was one of two female homicide inspectors in the San Francisco Police Department? Maybe all of the above? Jamilla had already told me that she hadn’t taken a day of comp time in almost two years. That sounded kind of familiar.
    A couple of times during the next day at the Hall of Justice, I mentioned her incredible work ethic, but she shrugged it off. She was well respected by the other homicide inspectors. She was a regular person. No false airs. No bullshit about her. I found out that she had a nickname. It fit her —
Jam
.
    I spent a couple of hours in the afternoon finding out what I could about tigers. Area zoos and shelters were being canvassed in an attempt to locate every single tiger in California. The murderous cat was our best lead so far.
    I was keeping my own list of facts, different things that struck me.
    Someone was able to command and control the tiger before and after it attacked and bit Davis O’Hara in Golden Gate Park. An animal trainer? A vet?
    The jaw of a tiger is so strong that it can crush bone and then pulverize it. And yet someone was able to call the tiger off its prey.
    All tiger species are considered endangered. Their existence is being challenged by both loss of habitat and poaching. Could the killers also be environmentalists?
    Tigers are being poached for their suspected healing powers. Almost every part of the cat is considered valuable and, in some cases, sacred.
    Tigers have magical significance in some cultures, especially in parts of Africa and Asia. Could that be important to the case?
    I had lost track of the time, and when I looked up from my note-taking it was already getting dark outside. Jamilla was striding down the corridor in my direction.
    She had on her long black leather jacket and looked ready to leave. She’d put on lipstick. Maybe she had a date. She looked terrific. “‘Tyger! Tyger! burning bright,’” she recited a line from Blake’s poem.
    I answered with the only other line I could remember: “‘Did he who made the Lamb make thee?’”
    She looked pensive, then she smiled. “What a team. The poet-detectives. Let’s get a beer.”
    “I’m pretty beat and I have a few more files to check. I think I’m still jet-lagged.” Even as I was saying the words, I wasn’t sure why the hell I was saying them.
    She put up her hand. “All right already. You could have just said, No, you’re not my type. Jeez, man. I’ll see you in the morning. But thanks for all your help. I mean that.” I saw her smile as she turned, then walked away down the long hall to the elevators. But then I saw her shake her head.
    After she was gone, I sat at the desk overlooking the streets of San Francisco. I sighed and then I shook
my
head. I could feel a familiar weariness settling in. I was alone again and I had no one to blame. Why had I turned Jamilla down for a couple of beers? I liked her company. I didn’t have any other plans, and I wasn’t
that
jet-lagged.
    But I thought I knew the reason. It wasn’t too complicated. I had gotten close to my last two partners on homicide cases. Both were women I liked. Both had died.
    The Mastermind was still out there.
    Could he be in San Francisco right now?
    Was Jamilla Hughes safe in her own city?

Chapter 20

    THE RINGING of the telephone in my hotel room woke me early the next morning. I was groggy, still half asleep when I picked up.
    It was Jamilla, and she sounded a little breathless. “I got a call late last night from my friend Tim at the
Examiner
,” she told me. “He’s got a lead for us. This could be good stuff.” She quickly filled me in on the sketchy details of an attempted murder, an old case. We had a witness this time. She and I were going on the road again. She didn’t ask if I wanted to go — it was apparently a done deal.
    “I’ll pick you up in half an hour — forty minutes at the latest. We’re