James Patterson - The 9th Judgment

Copyright 2010 by James Patterson

All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

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First eBook Edition: April 2010

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The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the authors.

ISBN: 978-0-316-08817-6

The Womens Murder Club

The 9th Judgment (with Maxine Paetro)

The 8th Confession (with Maxine Paetro)

7th Heaven (with Maxine Paetro)

The 6th Target (with Maxine Paetro)

The 5th Horseman (with Maxine Paetro)

4th of July (with Maxine Paetro)

3rd Degree (with Andrew Gross)

2nd Chance (with Andrew Gross)

1st to Die

A complete list of books by

James Patterson is on pages 360361.

For previews of upcoming books by James Patterson

and more information about the author, visit

www.JamesPatterson.com.

To Suzy and John

and Jack and Brendan

A THIEF IN THE NIGHT

SARAH WELLS STOOD on the roof of the carport and snaked her gloved hand through the hole shed cut in the glass. Her pulse was thudding in her ears as she unlocked the double-hung window, opened the sash, and slid quietly into the darkened room. Once inside, she flattened herself against the wall and listened.

Voices rose from the floor below, and she heard the clanking of silverware against china. Good timing, Sarah thought. In fact, perfect.

But timing and execution were two different things entirely.

She switched on her miners headlamp and took a 180-degree illuminated tour of the bedroom. She noted the console table to her left, which was loaded with whatnots. She had to watch out for that table and the scatter rugs on the slick hardwood floors.

The lithe young woman quickly crossed the space, shut the door between the bedroom and hallway, and headed to the open closet, which smelled faintly of perfume. Leaving the door open just a crack, Sarah played her light over racks of clothing. She parted a curtain of long, beaded gowns, and there it was: a safe in the closet wall.

Sarah had bet on this. If Casey Dowling was like most socialites, she dressed for her dinner parties and wore her jewels. Chances were that shed left her safe unlocked so she could put her jewels away later without having to punch in the combination again. Sarah tugged lightly on the safes handleand the heavy door swung open.

It was a go.

But she had to work fast. Three minutes, no more.

Sarahs headlamp lit up the contents of the safe while leaving her hands free to frisk the jumble of satin envelopes and silk-covered boxes. Way in the back was a brocaded box the size of a small loaf of bread. She undid the latch and lifted the lid on the mother lode.

Sarah gasped.

Shed read stories about Casey Dowling for two months and seen dozens of photos of her at society events, glittering with jewels. But she hadnt expected the sheer weight of diamonds and precious stones, the gleaming mounds of baroque pearls.

It was cra-zzzy. Casey Dowling owned all of this.

Well, not for long.

Sarah plucked bracelets and earrings and rings out of the box and stowed them in one of her two small duffel bags, the straps of which crisscrossed her chest. She paused to study a particular ring in its own leather case, to marvel at the frickin wonder of itwhen lights flashed on in the bedroom only yards from where she stood in the closet.

Sarah snapped off her light and dropped to a crouch, her heart rate shooting into overdrive as she heard the living, booming voice of Marcus Dowling, superstar actor of theater and the silver screen, bickering with his wife as he came into the room.

Sarah tucked all five feet eight of herself into a ball behind gowns and garment bags.

God, she was stupid.

While shed been ogling the jewels, the Dowlings dinner party had ended, and now she was going to get caught and be imprisoned for grand larceny. Her. A high school English teacher. It would be a scandaland that was the least of it.

Sweat broke out under Sarahs knit cap. Drops of it rolled from her underarms down the sides of her black turtleneck as she waited for the Dowlings to switch on the closet light and find her squatting there, a thief in the night.

CASEY DOWLING WAS trying to squeeze an admission from her husband, but Marcus wasnt having it.

What the hell, Casey? he snapped. I wasnt staring at Sheilas boobs, for Christs sake. Every single time we get together with people, you complain that Im leering, and frankly, sweetheart, I find your paranoia very unattractive.

Ohhhh no, Marcus. You? Leer at another woman? Im soooo ashamed of myself for even having had the thought. Casey had a lovely laugh, even when it was colored with sarcasm.

Silly cow, Marcus Dowling muttered.

Sarah imagined his handsome face, the thick gray hair falling across his brow as he scowled. She imagined Casey, tooher willowy shape, her white-blond hair falling in a silvery sheet to her shoulder blades.

Casey cooed, There, there. Ive hurt your feelings.

Forget it, love. Im not in the mood now.

Oh. Sorry. My mistake.

Sarah felt the rebuff as if it had happened to her. Then Marcus said, Oh, for pitys sake. Dont cry. Come here.

The room went quiet for a few minutes, until Sarah heard a whoosh of bodies falling into plumped bedding, then murmuringwords she couldnt make out. Then the headboard began to tap against the wall, and Sarah thought, Oh dear God, theyre doing it.

Images came to her of Marcus Dowling in Susan and James with Jennifer Lowe and in Redboy with Kimberly Kerry. She thought of Casey in Marcuss arms, her long legs wrapped around him. The tapping became more rhythmic and the moaning became louder and then there was a long, groaning exhalation from Marcus, and thenmercifullyit was over.

Someone used the bathroom after that, and finally the room went black.

Sarah squatted quietly behind the curtain of gowns for at least twenty minutes, and when the breathing outside the closet settled into sputters and snores, she opened the door and crawled to the window.

She was almost home freebut not there yet.

Sarah was quick and quiet as she vaulted to the windowsill, but when one leg followed the other, she hit the side of the console tableand it all went wrong.

There was the tinkling of sliding whatnots as the table tipped and then crashed, sending its load of picture frames and perfume bottles to the floor.

Holy crap.

Sarah froze, mind and body, as Casey Dowling bolted into a sitting position and yelled, Whos there?

Sarahs stark fear propelled her out the window. She hung on to the roof of the carport with all the strength in her fingertips, then released her grip and made the ten-foot drop.

She landed on grass, knees bent, no pain. And as the Dowlings bedroom light came on overhead, Sarah ran. She ripped off her headlamp and stuffed it into one of the duffels as she sprinted through the upscale San Francisco neighborhood of Nob Hill.