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Overview
A young girl is killed in crossfire after a routine arrest goes terribly wrong, and Lt. Lindsay Boxer has to defend herself against a charge of police brutality. In a landmark trial that transfixes the nation, Lindsay fights to save her career and her sanity.
While awaiting trial, Lindsay escapes to the beautiful town of Half Moon Bay, but the peaceful community there is reeling from a string of unspeakable murders. Working with her friends in the Women’s Murder Club, Lindsay finds a link between these killings and a case she worked on years before--an unsolved murder that has haunted her ever since.
As summer comes into full swing, Lindsay battles for her life on two fronts: before a judge and jury as her trial comes to a climax, and facing unknown adversaries who will do anything to keep her from the truth about the killings--including killing again. It all comes to a head before the big annual 4th of July celebration on the waterfront at Half Moon Bay.
Patterson fine-tunes the tension like never before in this heart-racing new novel in the bestselling detective series to debut in years.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780316058858 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Little, Brown and Company |
| Publication date: | 05/02/2005 |
| Series: | Women's Murder Club Series |
| Edition description: | Large Print |
| Pages: | 480 |
| Sales rank: | 357,898 |
| Product dimensions: | 6.00(w) x 9.25(h) x (d) |
About the Author
Hometown:
Palm Beach, FloridaDate of Birth:
March 22, 1947Place of Birth:
Newburgh, New YorkEducation:
B.A., Manhattan College, 1969; M.A., Vanderbilt University, 1971Website:
http://www.jamespatterson.comRead an Excerpt
4th of July
By James Patterson Maxine Paetro
Little, Brown
Copyright © 2005 James PattersonAll right reserved.
ISBN: 0-316-71060-1
Chapter One
IT WAS JUST BEFORE 4:00 a.m. on a weekday. My mind was racing even before Jacobi nosed our car up in front of the Lorenzo, a grungy rent-by-the-hour "tourist hotel" on a block in San Francisco's Tenderloin District that's so forbidding even the sun won't cross the street.Three black-and-whites were at the curb, and Conklin, the first officer at the scene, was taping off the area. So was another officer, Les Arou.
"What have we got?" I asked Conklin and Arou.
"White male, Lieutenant. Late teens, bug-eyed and done to a turn," Conklin told me. "Room twenty-one. No signs of forced entry. Vic's in the bathtub, just like the last one."
The stink of piss and vomit washed over us as Jacobi and I entered the hotel. No bellhops in this place. No elevators or room service, either. Night people faded back into the shadows, except for one gray-skinned young prostitute who pulled Jacobi aside.
"Give me twenty dollars," I heard her say. "I got a license plate."
Jacobi peeled off a ten in exchange for a slip of paper, then turned to the desk clerk and asked him about the victim: Did he have a roommate, a credit card, a habit?
I stepped around a junkie in the stairwell and climbed to the second floor. The door to room 21 was open, and a rookie was standing guard at the doorway.
"Evening, Lieutenant Boxer."
"It's morning, Keresty."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, logging me in, turning his clipboard to collect my signature.
It was darker inside the twelve-by-twelve-foot room than it was in the hallway. The fuse had blown, and thin curtains hung like wraiths in front of the streetlit windows. I was working the puzzle, trying to figure out what was evidence, what was not, trying not to step on anything. There was too damned much of everything and too little light.
I flicked my flashlight beam over the crack vials on the floor, the mattress stained with old blood, the rank piles of garbage and clothing everywhere. There was a kitchenette of sorts in the corner, the hot plate still warm, drug paraphernalia in the sink.
The air in the bathroom was thick, almost soupy. I swept my light along the extension cord that snaked from the socket by the sink, past the clogged toilet bowl to the bathtub.
My guts clenched as I caught the dead boy in my beam. He was naked, a skinny blond with a hairless chest, half sitting up in the tub, eyes bulging, foam at his lips and nostrils. The electric cord ended at an old-fashioned two-slice toaster that glinted up through the bathwater.
"Shit," I said as Jacobi entered the bathroom. "Here we go again."
"He's toast, all right," said Jacobi.
As commanding officer of the Homicide detail, I wasn't supposed to do hands-on detective work anymore. But at times like this, I just couldn't stay away.
Another kid had been electrocuted, but why? Was he a random victim of violence or was it personal? In my mind's eye, I saw the boy flailing in pain as the juice shot through him and shut his heart down.
The standing water on the cracked tile floor was creeping up the legs of my trousers. I lifted a foot and toed the bathroom door closed, knowing full well what I was going to see. The door whined with the nasal squeal of hinges that had probably never been oiled.
Two words were spray-painted on the door. For the second time in a couple of weeks, I wondered what the hell they meant.
"NOBODY CARES."
(Continues...)
Excerpted from 4th of July by James Patterson Maxine Paetro Copyright © 2005 by James Patterson. Excerpted by permission.
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