Detective Lindsay Boxer, Assistant D.A. Jill Bernhardt, and the other members of the Women's Murder Club race against time to find out who is responsible for a series of violent incidents, all with links to political terrorism and the sinister "August Spies," before the start of an upcoming economic summit of the world's most powerful nations in San Francisco. Simultaneous.
3rd Degree
By James PattersonLittle Brown and Company
Copyright © 2004 James Patterson
All right reserved.ISBN: 9781586215996Chapter One
IT WAS A CLEAR, calm, lazy April morning, the day the worst week ofmy life began.
I was jogging down by the bay with my border collie, Martha. It's mything Sunday mornings - get up early and cram my meaningful otherinto the front seat of the Explorer. I try to huff out three miles,from Fort Mason down to the bridge and back. Just enough to convincemyself I'm bordering on something called in shape at thirty-six.
That morning, my buddy Jill came along. To give her baby Lab, Otis,a run, or so she claimed. More likely, to warm herself up for a bikesprint up Mount Tamalpais or whatever Jill would do for realexercise later in the day.
It was hard to believe that it had been only five months since Jilllost her baby. Now here she was, her body toned and lean again.
"So, how did it go last night?" she asked, shuffling sideways besideme. "Word on the street is, Lindsay had a date." "You could call ita date ...," I said, focusing on the heights of Fort Mason, whichweren't getting closer fast enough for me. "You could call Baghdad avacation spot, too." She winced. "Sorry I brought it up."
All run long, my head had been filled with the annoying recollectionof Franklin Fratelli, "asset remarketing" mogul (which was a fancyway of saying he sent goons after the dot-com busts who could nolonger make the payments on their Beemers and Franck Mullers). Fortwo months Fratelli had stuck his face in my office every time hewas in the Hall, until he wore me down enough to ask him up for ameal on Saturday night (the short ribs braised in port wine I had topack back into the fridge after he bailed on me at the last minute).
"I got stood up," I said, mid-stride. "Don't ask, I won't tell thedetails."
We pulled up at the end of Marina Green, a lung-clearing bray fromme while Mary Decker over there bobbed on her toes as if she couldgo another loop.
"I don't know how you do it," I said, hands on hips, trying to catchmy breath.
"My grandmother," she said, shrugging and stretching out ahamstring. "She started walking five miles a day when she was sixty.She's ninety now. We have no idea where she is."
We both started to laugh. It was good to see the old Jill trying topeek through. It was good to hear the laughter back in her voice.
"You up for a mochachino?" I asked. "Martha's buying." "Can't.Steve's flying in from Chicago. He wants to bike up to see the DeanFriedlich exhibit at the Legion of Honor as soon as he can get inand change. You know what the puppy's like when he doesn't get hisexercise."
I frowned. "Somehow it's hard for me to think of Steve as a puppy."
Jill nodded and pulled off her sweatshirt, lifting her arms. "Jill,"I gasped, "what the hell is that?"
Peeking out through the strap of her exercise bra were a couple ofsmall, dark bruises, like finger marks.
She tossed her sweatshirt over her shoulder, seemingly caught offguard. "Mashed myself getting out of the shower," she said. "Youshould get a load of how it looks." She winked. I nodded, butsomething about the bruise didn't sit well with me. "You sure youdon't want that coffee?" I asked.
"Sorry ... You know El Exigente, if I'm five minutes late, he startsto see it as a pattern." She whistled for Otis and began to jog backto her car. She waved. "See you at work."
"So how about you?" I knelt down to Martha. "You look like amochachino would do the trick." I snapped on her leash and startedto trot off toward the Starbucks on Chestnut. The Marina has alwaysbeen one of my favorite neighborhoods.
Curling streets of colorful, restored town houses. Families, thesound of gulls, the sea air off the bay.
I crossed Alhambra, my eye drifting to a beautiful three-story townhouse I always passed and admired. Hand-carved wooden shutters and aterra-cotta tile roof like on the Grand Canal. I held Martha as acar passed by.
That's what I remembered about the moment. The neighborhood justwaking up. A redheaded kid in a FUBU sweatshirt practicing tricks onhis Razor. A woman in overalls hurrying around the corner, carryinga bundle of clothes.
"C'mon, Martha." I tugged on her leash. "I can taste thatmochachino."
Then the town house with the terra-cotta roof exploded into flames.I mean, it was as if San Francisco were suddenly Beirut.
Continues...
Excerpted from 3rd Degreeby James Patterson Copyright © 2004 by James Patterson. Excerpted by permission.
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