The 8th Confession by James Patterson, Maxine Paetro Page B
Authors: James Patterson, Maxine Paetro
Tags: Suspense & Thrillers
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it,
girl. My son could be
home
right now watching a ball game while you're out here scaring us to
death.
"
Lee-Ann Booker wailed, and Cindy's mind scrambled again. House? Bagman Jesus was homeless, wasn't he? How could he have a house? What if Rodney Booker was alive and well—and she was totally wrong?
Billy Booker snatched a pen and notepad from the coffee table, scratched his son's cell phone number and address on the top sheet, ripped it off and handed it to Cindy.
"I get his voice mail when I call. Maybe you'll do better. So what's your plan, Miss Thomas? Tell me
that.
Then I'll know what
I'm
going to do."
Cindy left the Bookers' house, sure that her well-intentioned pop-in visit had not only blown up but shown all the signs of becoming a
scandal.
Chapter 46
A S SHE DROVE BACK from Santa Rosa to San Francisco, Cindy obsessed. She'd promised the Bookers she'd let them know
tomorrow
whether or not Bagman Jesus was their son.
How was she going to do that? How? And yet she would have to do it or die trying.
She stirred the contents of her purse with her right hand, found her cell phone, and speed-dialed Lindsay's office number. A man's voice answered, "Conklin."
"
Rich,
it's Cindy. Is Lindsay there?"
"She's out, but I'll tell her—"
"Wait, Rich. I've got a solid lead on Bagman Jesus. I think his name is Rodney Booker."
"You doing police work now, Cindy?"
"
Someone
has to."
"Okay, okay. Take it easy."
"Take it
easy?
I just walked in on this unsuspecting old couple, told them their son was dead—"
"You did
what?
"
"I had his
name,
Rich, or thought I did, so I went to interview Bagman's parents, logical if you think about it—"
"Oh man. How'd that go over?"
"Like a
bomb,
like a freaking
bomb.
Billy Booker, the father? He's a Vietnam vet, former sergeant major in the marines. He's saying the police are
racist,
that's why they didn't work the case."
"Bagman Jesus was black?"
"Booker has Al Sharpton's home number and he's threatening to use it. What I'm saying is, I've got to get ahead of this story before I
become
the story. Before
we
become the story."
"We, huh?"
"Yeah. The SFPD and me. And I'm the one who feels the moral obligation. Rich, listen. Rodney Booker has a
house.
"
"You're losing me, Cindy. Wasn't Bagman
homeless?
"
"Look him up. Please."
"Entering 'Rodney Booker.' Here ya go. Huh. Cole Street. That's off Haight. Nice neighborhood."
It wasn't.
It was the badlands, the turf of small-time drug dealers.
And that made sense.
If Bagman Jesus wasn't lying when he told Flora Gold that his real name was Rodney Booker, and if Flora wasn't lying to
Cindy,
then the house on Cole could turn out to be where Rodney Booker, aka Bagman Jesus, had hung his bag.
Cindy said to Conklin, "Can you check it out, Rich? Because if you won't, I've got to."
"Stand down, Cindy. My shift is over in twenty minutes. I'll run over and take a look."
"I'll meet you there," said Cindy. "Wait for me."
"No, Cindy. I'm the cop.
You
wait for
me.
"
Chapter 47
T HE HOUSE ON COLE was painted roadkill gray, one in a block of distressed Victorian homes, this particular residence having boarded-up bay windows, trash-littered front steps, and an air of melancholy that had not lifted since the end of the '60s.
"It's condemned," Conklin said to Cindy, tilting his chin toward the notice nailed to the door.
"The lot alone is worth some dough. If this house belonged to Bagman, what made him homeless?"
"That's rhetorical, right?"
"Yeah," Cindy said. "I'm thinking out loud."
Cindy stood behind Conklin as he knocked on the door, touched the butt of his gun, then knocked again, this time louder and with meaning.
Cindy's hands were shaking as she cupped them and peered through a sidelight. Then, before Conklin could stop her, she pushed in the door.
A startled cry came from inside, and piles of rags rose up from the floor, ran toward the back of the house. A door slammed.
"This is a crash pad," Conklin said. "Those
girl. My son could be
home
right now watching a ball game while you're out here scaring us to
death.
"
Lee-Ann Booker wailed, and Cindy's mind scrambled again. House? Bagman Jesus was homeless, wasn't he? How could he have a house? What if Rodney Booker was alive and well—and she was totally wrong?
Billy Booker snatched a pen and notepad from the coffee table, scratched his son's cell phone number and address on the top sheet, ripped it off and handed it to Cindy.
"I get his voice mail when I call. Maybe you'll do better. So what's your plan, Miss Thomas? Tell me
that.
Then I'll know what
I'm
going to do."
Cindy left the Bookers' house, sure that her well-intentioned pop-in visit had not only blown up but shown all the signs of becoming a
scandal.
Chapter 46
A S SHE DROVE BACK from Santa Rosa to San Francisco, Cindy obsessed. She'd promised the Bookers she'd let them know
tomorrow
whether or not Bagman Jesus was their son.
How was she going to do that? How? And yet she would have to do it or die trying.
She stirred the contents of her purse with her right hand, found her cell phone, and speed-dialed Lindsay's office number. A man's voice answered, "Conklin."
"
Rich,
it's Cindy. Is Lindsay there?"
"She's out, but I'll tell her—"
"Wait, Rich. I've got a solid lead on Bagman Jesus. I think his name is Rodney Booker."
"You doing police work now, Cindy?"
"
Someone
has to."
"Okay, okay. Take it easy."
"Take it
easy?
I just walked in on this unsuspecting old couple, told them their son was dead—"
"You did
what?
"
"I had his
name,
Rich, or thought I did, so I went to interview Bagman's parents, logical if you think about it—"
"Oh man. How'd that go over?"
"Like a
bomb,
like a freaking
bomb.
Billy Booker, the father? He's a Vietnam vet, former sergeant major in the marines. He's saying the police are
racist,
that's why they didn't work the case."
"Bagman Jesus was black?"
"Booker has Al Sharpton's home number and he's threatening to use it. What I'm saying is, I've got to get ahead of this story before I
become
the story. Before
we
become the story."
"We, huh?"
"Yeah. The SFPD and me. And I'm the one who feels the moral obligation. Rich, listen. Rodney Booker has a
house.
"
"You're losing me, Cindy. Wasn't Bagman
homeless?
"
"Look him up. Please."
"Entering 'Rodney Booker.' Here ya go. Huh. Cole Street. That's off Haight. Nice neighborhood."
It wasn't.
It was the badlands, the turf of small-time drug dealers.
And that made sense.
If Bagman Jesus wasn't lying when he told Flora Gold that his real name was Rodney Booker, and if Flora wasn't lying to
Cindy,
then the house on Cole could turn out to be where Rodney Booker, aka Bagman Jesus, had hung his bag.
Cindy said to Conklin, "Can you check it out, Rich? Because if you won't, I've got to."
"Stand down, Cindy. My shift is over in twenty minutes. I'll run over and take a look."
"I'll meet you there," said Cindy. "Wait for me."
"No, Cindy. I'm the cop.
You
wait for
me.
"
Chapter 47
T HE HOUSE ON COLE was painted roadkill gray, one in a block of distressed Victorian homes, this particular residence having boarded-up bay windows, trash-littered front steps, and an air of melancholy that had not lifted since the end of the '60s.
"It's condemned," Conklin said to Cindy, tilting his chin toward the notice nailed to the door.
"The lot alone is worth some dough. If this house belonged to Bagman, what made him homeless?"
"That's rhetorical, right?"
"Yeah," Cindy said. "I'm thinking out loud."
Cindy stood behind Conklin as he knocked on the door, touched the butt of his gun, then knocked again, this time louder and with meaning.
Cindy's hands were shaking as she cupped them and peered through a sidelight. Then, before Conklin could stop her, she pushed in the door.
A startled cry came from inside, and piles of rags rose up from the floor, ran toward the back of the house. A door slammed.
"This is a crash pad," Conklin said. "Those
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