The 8th Confession by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Page A

gave fifty to Flora.
    "You get the other fifty if this lead pans out."
    Cindy watched Flora count the bills, then roll them up and tuck them in the top of her boot.
    Cindy said, "Give me a couple of days and then find me, okay? Like you did today."
    Gold nodded, gave Cindy a tight smile, mouth open just enough for Cindy to see that her front teeth were gone. Then the reporter headed back to the Chronicle Building.
    Editorial meeting forgotten, Cindy went directly to her office and wheeled her chair up close to her desk. She called up Google and typed, "Rodney Booker."
    Less than a second later, information rolled up on the screen. Cindy sat back in her chair, watching her story crack wide open. It was a miracle. A miracle she'd
earned.
    Bagman Jesus had been decoded.
    He had a name. He had a past.
    And he had a family living in Santa Rosa.

Chapter 45
     
    C INDY SAT IN the comfortable sunroom of a million-dollar Craftsman-style house in Santa Rosa, feeling anything
but
comfortable. Had she been rash? Yes.
    Intrusive? Absolutely.
    Thoughtless? She ought to get an
award
for blinding insensitivity.
    What had she been thinking? Of course, that was the problem. She'd been thinking about her story, not about real people, so she'd launched herself into the Bookers' lives like a live hand grenade.
    And the moment Lee-Ann Booker opened her front door, her sweet, momsy face shining with anticipation, Cindy realized it was too late to unpull the pin.
    They were all in the sunroom now.
    Lee-Ann Booker, a fair Clairol blonde in her midsixties, clutched a charm necklace of crosses and semiprecious stones and Mexican good-luck charms. She sat beside Cindy on the rattan sofa, sobbing into tissues, hiccuping and sobbing again.
    Her husband, Billy Booker, brought Cindy a mug of coffee.
    "You sure you don't want something
stronger?
" he asked. It sounded like a threat.
    Booker was black, also in his sixties, with a military bearing and the lean body of a dedicated runner.
    "No thanks, I'm good," Cindy said.
    But she wasn't.
    She couldn't remember any time in her life when she'd caused anyone so much pain. And she was also very afraid.
    Booker took the chair opposite the sofa, leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and scowled at Cindy.
    "What makes you think that this 'Bagman Jesus' is our son?"
    "A woman saying she was his close friend gave me this," Cindy said. She dug in her purse, pulled out the tin ID tag stamped RODNEY BOOKER on one side, PEACE CORPS on the other. She handed it to Booker, saw a spasm of fear cross his face.
    "Is this supposed to
prove
something? Mother and I want to see his body."
    "No one claimed him, Mr. Booker. He's at the ME's office. Uh, they don't show bodies there, but I can make a call—"
    Booker sprang out of his chair and kicked a rattan footstool across the room, spun back around to face Cindy.
    "He's in a freezer like a dead fish, that's what you're saying? Who tried to find us? No one. If Rodney was
white,
we would have been notified."
    "To be fair, Mr. Booker, this man's face was beaten beyond recognition. He had no ID. I've been working hard to learn his identity."
    "Good for you, Miss Thomas. Good for you. His face was busted up and he had no ID, so I'm asking again, how do you know that dead man was our son?"
    Cindy said, "If I could have a good, clear photo of Rodney, I think I could clear this up fast. I'll call you tomorrow."
    Lee-Ann Booker eased a photo out from the clinging plastic leaves of an album and passed it to Cindy, saying, "This was taken about five years ago."
    In the picture, Rodney Booker was sitting on the same rattan love seat Cindy sat on now. He was handsome, light-skinned, broad-shouldered, had close-cropped hair and a beautiful smile.
    Cindy strained to find a resemblance to Bagman Jesus in Rodney's build and skin color, but when she'd seen Bagman's remains, he'd barely looked
human.
    "You've been to Rodney's house?" Billy Booker asked.
    "Rodney has a house?"
    "Well,
damn