Free 15th Affair by James Patterson

my own daughter when the world is like this?”
    There was a long silence as we pondered the imponderable. Then Claire asked me, “Any word from Joe?”
    I shook my head.
    “What the fuck has happened to him? How could he not call me? He has to have a good reason, right, Claire? I have to trust that he would call me if he could. But what if he’s hurt? Or dead? No one is going to look for my missing husband in the thick of all this.”
    Claire murmured comforting words. “He’s OK. He has a reason, sure. He’ll call soon.”
    I looked up at my friend through the tears in my eyes. “I have to get home,” I said. “You haven’t said why you called.”
    Claire said, “Right.” She opened a file drawer, took out a small sheaf of paper, and put it down on the desk facing me.
    “This is the passenger manifest,” she said. “I’m looking, you know, to see if I can find the name of that little boy and maybe three people I’ve got here who still had wallets in their pockets. And I see this name, Michael Chan. I’m thinking, there’s probably a lot of people named Michael Chan.”
    I stared at Claire, and I really didn’t understand what she was saying. Michael Chan had been chilling in this morgue since he was murdered in the Four Seasons Hotel three days ago.
    But Claire was saying something different. She was tapping the passenger list where a name had been highlighted in yellow.
    “Look at this, Linds,” she said. “Chan. Michael. Professorville, Palo Alto. This is your victim from the hotel shooting, am I right? He
couldn’t
have been on that plane. He’s
here
—in a drawer with his name and number on a toe tag. I double- and triple-checked. It’s him.”
    My mouth was open. I tried to clear the smoke from my head and absorb the highlighted name on the passenger list. Who was
this
Michael Chan? Our dead man had been identified by his widow. Even with two shots in his face, he was a match for his DMV picture.
    Claire’s incredulity mirrored mine.
    “Where is this Michael Chan right now?” I asked, stabbing the highlighted name.
    “Metropolitan Hospital,” she said. “He was sent to Metro’s morgue.”

CHAPTER 29
     
    METROPOLITAN HOSPITAL IS a huge general hospital with a lab and morgue that occupies the entire basement level.
    At 6:30 p.m., Metropolitan’s parking lot was nearly impassable. Claire carefully maneuvered her car up and down the aisles of hastily parked vehicles. There were no open spots, not for cops or doctors or patients. Meanwhile, Metro’s overextended director of pathology was waiting for us inside.
    Claire said, “I’ll call Dr. Marshall, let her know what’s happened to us.”
    She took out her phone and I used the moment to call Mrs. Rose—only to find that my phone battery was dead and that I’d left my charger in the squad car.
    Claire was saying, “Fine. We’ll park on Valencia. Blue Chevy Tahoe.”
    We left the hospital lot, parked on Valencia in the no parking zone in front of an auto repair shop. We didn’t have to wait long. A fantastically fit glossy-haired woman wearing a green leather coat over bloody blue scrubs knocked on Claire’s window.
    We got out and I was introduced to Dr. Pamela Marshall. Right after that, we had an ad hoc meeting across the hood of Claire’s car.
    “Busy night,” Marshall said, “following the most hellacious day ever.”
    “I’ll second that,” Claire said. “Look. We just want to walk back to the morgue with you, get a quick look at Mr. Chan, and get out of your way.”
    “Here’s the thing, Dr. Washburn,” said Marshall. “We’ve got sixty bodies and counting. I’ve got Jane and John Does in double digits. You’re lucky Mr. Chan had ID. I gotta be honest with you, I wish I had known and saved you the trip. I couldn’t show you Chan’s body right now if you offered me a million bucks and a house in Cannes.”
    “Wish you’d known what?” asked Claire.
    “Chan was in line to be autopsied,” Marshall said,