Free 15th Affair by James Patterson Page B

she searched for her shoes and straightened her clothes, she said, “Lindsay, the baby’s fine. Joe stopped by.”
    “Joe was here? When?”
    Mrs. Rose said, “He left an hour ago. He said that he got pulled into the crash investigation full-time and he doesn’t know when he’ll be home again.”
    Mrs. Rose took a breath, put on her shoes, then continued. “He said to tell you he’s sorry he hasn’t called.”
    “Was he okay?”
    “He looked tired. I gave him a beer and he sat with Julie for maybe ten minutes. Then he changed his clothes and left. He said he had to get back. He was in a big hurry, Lindsay.”
    “Did he say he was going to call later?”
    Mrs. Rose said, “I’m sure he will. Of course, he will.”
    I was still in stunned disbelief when Mrs. Rose said good night to me at the door.
    I hardly slept.
    My mind had writhed all night with all-too-realistic images of crash victims and other unsolved mysteries from both the job and personal fronts.
    I was at my desk in the squad room at eight and ready to ambush Brady when he came through the gate an hour later. He waved me into his office and gave me the welcome news that Homicide was off airliner crash duty—the Feds were in charge—and we were back to solving homicides.
    The Four Seasons murders in particular.
    He said, “Yesterday morning we were talking about Joe. Have you seen him?”
    “Yes. I mean, no. According to our nanny, he came home last night while I was still working. He changed his clothes, and he left me a phone message saying he’d been swept into the WW 888 investigation. That he was up to his eyebrows in it.”
    Brady threw me a skeptical look.
    “He’s an airport security consultant,” I said emphatically. “Formerly with Homeland Security.”
    “I know that.”
    “Listen, Brady, he’s not a fugitive. He will contact me again. And right now, we’ve got a new, very weird angle on the Michael Chan murder.”
    I had Brady’s attention on Michael Chan, version 2.0.
    I said, “Metropolitan’s head pathologist has misplaced this Michael Chan’s body. She could find him later today or sometime next week. She said she’d call when his body turns up. So I called Shirley Chan a little while ago. There was no answer at home or at her office, but I’ll try again. I want to talk to her again. Find out more about her marriage. Their financial situation. Anything odd about his behavior. She was in no condition to answer—”
    “Go,” Brady said. “Go now.”
    Thirty miles and forty minutes later, Conklin and I pulled up to the green house on Waverley. The old one-and-a-half story house was set squarely on its lot, everything neat except for the trike on the walk and a beagle-dachshund mix lying across the front steps. When the dog heard our car doors close, he got to his feet and set up a howl.
    “Dogs love me,” I said. “Watch.”
    I walked up to the dog, saying, “Hi, buddy,” and put out the flat of my hand. He wagged his tail, backed up, walked up to the door, and lifted his head toward the knob.
    Conklin joined us. He pressed the doorbell. I knocked and called out, “Shirley? Anyone home?”
    We were turning to go back down the walk when the lock clattered, the doorknob turned, and a little boy wearing pajama bottoms stood inside the doorway. I remembered the child’s name.
    “Brett? I’m Sergeant Boxer. I met you a couple of days ago. Do you remember me?”
    He looked up at us and burst into tears.
    I pushed the door open. The boy’s PJs were wet and his footprints on the wooden floor from the kitchen to the front door were red.
    His hands and feet, his chest, and the sides of his face were
red
.
    Brett Chan was covered with
blood
.

CHAPTER 32
     
    “ GIVE ME YOUR hand,” I said to the little boy. I remembered Shirley Chan telling me that Brett was seven. He was small for his age. Dark hair, his glasses askew, tears sheeting down his cheeks.
    He held out his hand, which looked rusty with dry blood.
    I