Free The Trial by James Patterson Page B

were my thoughts as I stood with Conklin and Parisi in the windswept and barren cemetery watching the lowering of the coffin, Elena throwing flowers into the grave, the first shovel of dirt, her children clinging to their mother’s skirt.
    The moment ended when a limo pulled around a circular drive and Elena Sierra’s family went to it and got inside.
    Rich said to me, “I’m going to hitch a ride back with Red Dog. Okay with you?”
    I said it was. We hugged good-bye.
    Another car, an aging Mercedes, swung around the circle of dead grass and stone. It stopped for me. I opened the back door and reached out to my baby girl in her car seat. She was wearing a pink sweater and matching hat knit for her by her lovely nanny. I gave Julie a big smooch and what we call a huggy-wuffle.
    Then I got into the front passenger seat.
    Joe was driving.
    “Zoo?” he said.
    “Zoooooooo,” came from behind.
    “It’s unanimous,” I said. “The zoos have it.”
    Joe put his hand behind my neck and pulled me toward him. I hadn’t kissed him in a long time. But I kissed him then.
    There’d be plenty of time to talk later.

Chapter 34
    The limo driver who was bringing Elena Sierra and the children back from a shopping trip couldn’t park at the entrance to her apartment building. A long-used family car was stopped right in front of the walkway, where an elderly man was helping his wife out of the car with her walker. The doorman ran outside to help the old couple with their cumbersome luggage.
    Elena told her driver, “Leave us right here, Harlan. Thanks. See you in the morning.”
    After opening the doors for herself and her children, Elena took the two shopping bags from her driver, saying, “I’ve got it. Thanks.”
    Doors closed with solid thunks, the limo pulled away, and the kids surrounded their mother, asking her for money to buy churros from the ice cream shop down the block at the corner.
    She said, “We don’t need churros. We have milk and granola cookies.” But she finally relented, set down the groceries, found a five-dollar bill in her purse, and gave it to Javier.
    “Please get me one, too,” she called after her little boy.
    Elena picked up her grocery bags, and as she stood up, she saw two men in bulky jackets—one with a black scarf covering the bottom of his face and the other with a knit cap—crossing the street toward her.
    She recognized them as Jorge’s men and knew without a doubt that they were coming to kill her. Mercifully, the children were running and were now far down the block.
    The one with the scarf, Alejandro, aimed his gun at the doorman and fired. The gun had a suppressor, and the sound of the discharge was so soft the old man hadn’t heard it, didn’t understand what had happened. He tried to attend to the fallen doorman, while Elena said to the soldier wearing the cap, “Not out here. Please.”
    Invoking what residual status she might have as the King’s widow, Elena turned and walked into the modern, beautifully appointed lobby, her back prickling with expectation of a bullet to her spine.
    She walked past the young couple sitting on a love seat, past the young man leashing his dog, and pressed the elevator button. The doors instantly slid open and the two men followed her inside.
    The doors closed.
    Elena stood at the rear with one armed man standing to her left and the other to her right. She looked straight ahead, thinking about the next few minutes as the elevator rose upward, then chimed as it opened directly into her living room.
    Esteban, the shooter with the knit cap, had the words Mala Sangre inked on the side of his neck. He stepped ahead of her into the room, looked around at the antiques, the books, the art on the walls. He went to the plate-glass window overlooking the Transamerica Pyramid and the great bay.
    “Nice view, Mrs. Sierra,” he said with a booming voice. “Maybe you’d like to be looking out the window now. That would be easiest.”
    “Don’t hurt my