Private: #1 Suspect by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Page A

her chair and yelled at the TV, “Links to organized crime? Paid off his brother’s gambling debt, you mean.”
    “Take it easy,” Sci said. “All this means is that the press is reaching. If they had something on Jack, they wouldn’t need to refer to his father. They wouldn’t have to imply anything.”
    Turner spoke from the high-def screen on the wall above Mo’s desk. “Sources close to the police tell Channel 9 that physical evidence found on the victim implicates Jack Morgan, but the nature of that evidence is being withheld from the press.”
    “Damn you. Die, bitch!”
    Sci grabbed the remote from Mo’s hand and shut the TV off.
    Mo said, “I could cut off her head, slice her below the knees, and leave her standing in sections. She wouldn’t even know she was dead.”
    “Maureen, emotion is counterproductive.”
    “Jack could never have killed Colleen.”
    “No, he couldn’t, he didn’t, and he won’t get charged. This is just the free press at work, churning the news.”
    “Oh, and you’re saying no innocent person has ever gone to prison? That never happens?”
    “What do you say? What if you put all this energy into working the case?”
    “Sure, I will. But you and I both know,” Mo-bot said, “the only thing that can save Jack is a confession from the killer. A confession that includes an explanation of how he got Jack’s semen into Colleen’s body.”

CHAPTER 46
     
    I WENT THROUGH my voicemail as I drove.
    I listened to a message from an edgy Carmine Noccia, heard from Del Rio and Scotty, then got an update from Cruz about the murder at the Beverly Hills Sun. I talked at length to our Rome office, during which time Justine returned my call. I called her back and got her voicemail.
    “I’m on the road,” I said. “I’ll try you again later.”
    At just after eight p.m., I pulled into my driveway. I was undoing my seat belt when a police cruiser drove up behind me and parked on the shoulder of the highway. The cruiser’s grill lights sent bursts of color across the gates and the stucco wall.
    The lights came on in my mind too. I’d been driving on autopilot for the past forty minutes, had driven myself home, although I hadn’t meant to come here at all.
    The squad car door slammed behind me. I buzzed down my window, and a flashlight beam blinded me so that I could only see the patrolman’s silhouette.
    “License and registration, please.”
    I couldn’t swear to it, but I was pretty sure I hadn’t been speeding. I got my license out of my wallet, handed it out the window, reached across the seat to the glove box, and located my registration. Handed that out too.
    “I’ll be back in a minute,” said the cop.
    I waited. Stared at the yellow tape and the notice on my front door. I listened to the crackling and chirping of the cop’s radio, remembering how two nights ago, right about this time, I’d gotten out of the car right in this spot.
    I’d signed the voucher, said good night to Aldo, passed my fob across the gate card reader, entered the house, and stripped down as I made for the shower.
    A couple hours after that, I was being grilled by two hardened LA cops who’d determined I was guilty of killing Colleen before I’d said a word.
    As I waited for the cop to come back to the car, I thought about being interrogated that night. Detective Tandy’s theory, part of it, anyway, seemed plausible.
    Had Colleen come to my house to surprise me?
    I could see her doing that. She would have known it was risky, but it was in her character to take a chance that after all we’d had together she could change my mind.
    I pictured Colleen curled up in a chair in my living room, waiting for me to arrive. Maybe she’d heard a car stop outside the gate.
    I could see her going to the window, peering out into the dark, hearing the whirr of the gates rolling back. Maybe she’d opened the door, called out, “Jack?”
    Had someone said, “Hey, Colleen.”
    Had he looked just like