Day 98, Chapter 98
NPR has just completed a poll for the Top 100 Killer Thriller novels of all-time and I’m pleased to announce that JPatt – despite the strong Facebook campaign – did not earn the top spot. In fact, his douchebag fans pushed so hard for Kiss the Girls to win the whole deal, that that was the only book of his that made the final 100. True, it came in at number 3, so perhaps a pyrrhic victory, but one I shall take. The list actually turned out to be quite spectacular once you look past Thomas Harris as the champ, 12 month-old novels by Lee Child and Kathy Reichs, and flavor of the month, Stieg Larsson earning 3 spots in the top 30. Highlights: #5 In Cold Blood, #10 The Hound of the Baskervilles, #11 Dracula, #26 The Alienist by Caleb Carr, #29 The Maltese Falcon, #31 No Country For Old Men, #79 Cryptonomicon by Neal Stephenson, #84 The Last of the Mohicans, #91 Bangkok 8, and #94 The Club Dumas by Arturo Perez-Reverte.
Back to work. Let’s see what the author of the third-most thrilling book EVER written can dish out for Chapter 98.
I leaned back in the passenger seat as Joe drove us home. Jacobi had told me to take a few days off and to call in on Monday to see if he was letting me work next week.
Joe said, “You’re taking the sleeping cure, you hear me, Blondie? Once you’re home, you’re under house arrest.”
“Stop arguing with me.”
I laughed and turned my head so I could look at his strong profile in silhouette against the cobalt-blue dusk.
Hmm, quite thrilling. Wait a second – a day off? What the F? How has Lindsay earned extra time off? If I have to be here every day, then goddamn it, so does she. She has done absolutely nothing in this story except parade across the Golden Gate Bridge without a shirt on and get her ass blown up by a cooler filled with blasting caps. Worst cop ever. And what would “the sleeping cure” be, exactly? A punch in the face?
But wait, vacation hasn’t started quite yet! When they pull up in front of their house, Lindsay sees Pete Gordon’s beat-up blue Honda station wagon parked across the street. Oh shit.
Fear shot through me as if Pete Gordon had lit a fuse under the soles of my shoes.
How did he know where I lived?
Why had he driven his car to my door?
Inside the car, on the back seat, is Stevie “Stink Bomb” Gordon, Pete’s son. Pete has drawn a red dot in lipstick on Stevie’s head, which scares Lindsay sufficiently enough to convince her that Pete has shot Stevie. “I screamed, ‘No!’” Psyche! He’s not dead, dummy.
He was alive. I gibbered, Stevie, are you okay, are you okay? Everything’s going to be alright.”
“I want my mom-my.”
So do I, Stevie. Pete has also written a new message on the windshield in his favorite shade of lipstick: “Now I want five million. Don’t screw it up again.”
He’s desperate,” Joe said. “He’s a terrorist. Don’t let him get to you, Linds. It’s all bull.”
Yeah, or he’s just going to kill more people, idiot.
I’m going to have to stop this synopsis-deal right there – I was looking on jamespatterson.com to see what Joe does for a living (don’t ask me how my mind works) when I came across this incredible mini-biography of Lindsay Boxer. Enjoy & I will see you on the other side:
Meet Lindsay Boxer, a homicide detective for the San Francisco Police Department. Lindsay is five foot ten. She was a sociology major and graduated from San Francisco State (to which she transferred from Berkeley when she found out that her mother had breast cancer). She loves beer and butterscotch praline ice cream. She has a border collie named Martha. She enjoys running, loves to read travel books and mysteries and her secret hobby is tai chi.
Lindsay is divorced, has a younger sister named Cat and a father named Marty, who was also a member of the SFPD. Marty left Lindsay’s mother when Lindsay was 13.
One thing that very few people know about Lindsay is that she has a tattoo of a one-inch gecko on her left buttock.
Go to Day 99