Free 2nd Chance by James Patterson Page B

nodded. “I will, but this guy’s totally legit, Lindsay. He acted like he was jerked out of his skin.”
    As the afternoon wound down, I had the shaky feeling we were nowhere on this case. I was sure it was a serial, but maybe our best chance was this guy with the chimera embroidered on his jacket.
    My phone rang, startling me. It was Jacobi. “Bad information, L.T. We’ve been outside this damned Blue Parrot place all day.
Nothing.
So we managed to find out from the bartender the dudes you’re looking for are history. They split, five, six months ago. Toughest guy we’ve seen was some weight lifter wearing a ‘ Rules’ T-shirt.”
    “What do you mean by split, Warren?”
    “Vamoose, moved on. Somewhere south. According to the dude, one or two guys who used to hang around with them still come in from time to time. Some big redheaded dude. But basically they hit the road.
Permanent-mente
.”
    “Keep on it. Find me the redheaded dude.” Now that the van led nowhere and I had no connection between the victims, that lion-and-snake symbol was all we had.
    “Keep on it?” Jacobi whined. “How long? We could be out here for days!”
    “I’ll send out a change of underwear,” I said, and hung up.
    For a while I just sat there, rocking back in my chair with a mounting feeling of dread. It had been three days since Tasha Catchings was killed, and three days before that, Estelle Chipman.
    I had nothing. No significant clues. Only what the killer had left us. This damned chimera.
    And the knowledge…
serials kill. Serials don’t stop until you catch them.

Chapter XXXI
    P ATROLMAN SERGEANT ART DAVIDSON responded to the 1-6-0 the minute he heard the call.
“Disturbance, domestic violence. Three oh three Seventh Street, upstairs. Available units respond
.”
    He and his partner, Gil Herrera, were only four blocks away on Bryant. It was almost eight; their shift was over in ten minutes.
    “You want to take it, Gil?” said Davidson, glancing at his watch.
    His partner shrugged. “Your call, Artie. You’re the one with the wild party to go to.”
    Some wild party.
It was his seven-year-old’s birthday. Audra. He had called in on break, and Carol had said if he got home by nine-thirty she’d keep her up for him so that he could give her the Britney Spears makeup mirror he had picked out. Davidson had five kids, and they were his life.
    “What the hell.” Davidson shrugged. “It’s what we get paid the big bucks for, right?”
    They hit the siren, and in less than a minute, Mobile 2-4 pulled up in front of the dismal and dilapidated entrance to 303 Seventh, the tilted sign of the defunct
Driscoll Hotel
hanging over the front door.
    “People still camping out in this dump?” Herrera sighed. “Who the hell would live here?”
    The two cops grabbed their nightsticks and a large flashlight, and stepped up to the front door. Davidson pulled it open. Inside, the place smelled of feces, urine, probably rats. “Hey, anybody here?” Davidson called out. “Police.”
    Suddenly, from above, they heard the sound of shouting. Some kind of argument.
    “On it,” Herrera said, bounding up the first flight.
    Davidson followed.
    On the second floor, Gil Herrera went down the hall, banging his flashlight on doors.
“Police, police.”
    In the stairwell, Davidson suddenly heard the sounds again – loud, frantic voices. A crash, as if something had broken. The noise came from over his head. He headed up two flights of stairs on his own.
    The noises grew even louder. He stopped in front of a shut door. Apartment 42. “_Bitch… _” someone yelled. The sound of a plate shattering. A woman seemed to beg, “Stop him, he’s going to kill me. Stop him, please… Somebody help me. Please.”
    “Police,” Art Davidson responded, and drew his gun. He yelled, “Herrera, up here.
Now!”
    He threw all his weight against the door. It opened. The inside was dimly lit, but from an interior room, more light and the arguing