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

  Copyright © 2024 by James Patterson

  Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like permission to use material from the book (other than for review purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for your support of the author’s rights.

  Little, Brown and Company

  Hachette Book Group

  1290 Avenue of the Americas,

  New York, NY 10104

  littlebrown.com

  First Edition: May 2024

  Little, Brown and Company is a division of Hachette Book Group, Inc. The Little, Brown name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  WOMEN’S MURDER CLUB is a trademark of JBP Business, LLC.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  The Hachette Speakers Bureau provides a wide range of authors for speaking events. To find out more, go to hachettespeakersbureau.com or email hachettespeakers@hbgusa.com.

  Little, Brown and Company books may be purchased in bulk for business, educational, or promotional use. For information, please contact your local bookseller or the Hachette Book Group Special Markets Department at special.markets@hbgusa.com.

  ISBN 9780316403085 (hc) / 9780316577830 (large print) / 9780316403283 (ebook)

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2023952642

  E3-20240313-JV-NF-ORI

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  PROLOGUE: SIX MONTHS EARLIER One

  Two

  Three

  PRESENT DAY: MONDAY Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  TUESDAY Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  WEDNESDAY Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  THURSDAY Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  FRIDAY Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  SATURDAY Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  MONDAY Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  TUESDAY Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  EPILOGUE Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Acknowledgments

  Discover More

  About the Authors

  Also by James Patterson Featuring the Women’s Murder Club

  In memory of Laurie Catherine Birney

  Explore book giveaways, sneak peeks, deals, and more.

  Tap here to learn more.

  PROLOGUE

  SIX MONTHS EARLIER

  One

  I WAS LATE getting back from the men’s jail in San Bruno. I braked the squad car in front of the Hall of Justice, where my good friend Assistant District Attorney Yuki Castellano was waiting at the curb.

  She got into the car and asked, “How’d it go?”

  Yuki is a prosecutor. Interrogation is her thing.

  I said, “An inmate called Brandt got word to me that he knew who shot Holly Fricke and wanted to make a deal. It should have been one-stop shopping, but I had to sign six forms, wait for a free room, wait some more for Brandt to be brought down…”

  “And then?” Yuki asked.

  “He’s a pathetic liar. I heard him out, laughed, and left. Anyway, sorry, Yuki. You called ahead?”

  “Yep, yep, yep. Claire said don’t worry. She and Cindy are having fun. Said something about caviar.”

  Yuki grinned into my sour expression.

  “Did she tell you?” she asked.

  I smiled for real. “Cindy? No. But I have confidential informants.”

  Yuki laughed her high-pitched musical chortle.

  “It’s going to be great,” she said.

  “What part?”

  “Allllll of it.”

  I agreed. Cindy and my longtime friend and partner, Rich Conklin, had finally both committed at the same time to getting married. It was a bell ringer. The two of them had been living together, playing house, for several years, both in love, but still stuck on an obstacle. Cindy was building her dangerous, satisfying career and didn’t want to have children—yet. Richie was from a big family, and to him children had to happen. The obstacle had somehow been sidelined. But Cindy was keeping the details to herself. Besides, today’s celebration was for Claire.

  Cindy, Yuki, and I had saved up for Claire’s birthday, and today was the day.

  Yuki was perfectly dressed in a pencil skirt and a blazer over a silk blouse just right for Xe Sogni, the hottest and most expensive place to eat in the entire Bay Area.

  I hadn’t had time to change out of my everyday Homicide detective gear: blue pants, button-down shirt, blue blazer, badge on a chain around my neck. I freed my lapel from the shoulder belt and tipped the rearview mirror toward me.

  “You look fine,” Yuki said.

  I said, “Well, hair and makeup didn’t show up this morning.”

  “It’s just lunch. Okay?” she said.

  “This time with a cake and candles.”

  We both laughed and I turned my mind to Claire. I wanted her to have a birthday she would remember for years. If we got there this year.

  As I sweated the noontime rush, traffic slowed even more. Horns blew. I was tempted to hit my lights and sirens, but instead, I pounded the wheel with my palms. “Come onnn.”

  Yuki looked at me like, Chill, Lindsay. And just then the traffic moved.

  “And we’re off,” she said.

  I floored it and five minutes later we saw the restaurant just up ahead, a plain brick building disguising a culinary gem. I pulled up to the curb and valets opened doors and whisked the squad car away.

  The restaurant’s main room was dimly lit, banked on our right with an open kitchen, lined to our left with mahogany dining tables and large contemporary artwork. The air smelled indescribably delicious.

  Yuki said, “The Women’s Murder Club is in the house.”

  I followed her finger and saw Cindy and Claire sitting at a table for four near a spiral staircase. They were both grinning. Claire, dressed in navy-blue silk, had never looked happier. Yuki and I pulled out chairs and joined them. Waiters fussed. As Yuki predicted, we were in time for the caviar course presented with a curl of salmon in a scallop-shell dish.

  God, this was good.

  We were joking and roasting the birthday girl as the next course was served—then a woman screamed, loud enough to lift the roof.

  “Nooooooo!”

  Our waiter dropped a water glass. I grabbed his sleeve and show
ed him my badge.

  “What’s up there?”

  “Staff ch-ch-changing room.”

  I got to my feet, knocking over my chair, and started up the corkscrew staircase. I took two steps at a time, and when I was halfway up, I heard a man shout, “You crazy bitch!”

  I pulled my gun and, with my left hand on the railing, I raced to the top of the stairs.

  Two

  AS OUR WAITER had said, the second floor was a changing room. It was carpeted, about thirty feet square, densely packed with rows of lockers and benches between the rows. The lockers formed barricades and I couldn’t see between them from where I stood in the doorway. Even though I was armed, it was dangerous as hell to be here without my partner.

  I listened as I scanned the maze of a room. I heard nothing, saw no movement, and then a shadow shifted in a far corner to my left. The shadow was a woman, lying on her side with her back pressed against the wall twenty feet away. I saw that, except for her pink bra that had been pushed up above her breasts, the woman was naked. The dim overhead lighting flickered. The rheostat was to my left and so I dialed up the lights. I reached the woman in seconds and identified myself. She didn’t seem to notice.

  But I was taking mental notes of her. She was in her twenties; her eyes were puffy and partially closed and she was wheezing out little cries. I spoke to her again, asked her name, but she didn’t respond. That’s when I saw the fresh bruises encircling her neck and wrists.

  She’d been choked and beaten, but she was alive.

  I whipped my head around, scanned the area. Where was the damned attacker? Invisible.

  I pulled my radio from my blazer pocket, connected to dispatch, and barked out a request for backup and an ambulance. If the attacker was still in the room, he’d heard me and would know that the cops were on the way.

  Where was he?

  I scoped out the room again from this new angle. There had to be an exit that led down to the kitchen, but I couldn’t leave the victim alone to look for it.

  Taking a chance, I stood up and shouted, “SFPD! Step out with your hands in the air.”

  That didn’t happen. Restaurant sounds had resumed on the floor below. China clanked, diners laughed. Where was the man who’d cursed loud enough to be heard downstairs over the music and chatter?

  And then I saw movement at the far end of a row of lockers. A man was half hidden behind an open locker door. Was this the attacker, or a waiter changing into his work clothes—or one and the same?

  With just a sliver view, I made him as a white male, mid-twenties, average height and weight, dirty-blond hair, and he was half naked. The tails of his white dress shirt hung down to mid-thigh, front and back. His underwear and trousers were coiled around his feet.

  It was him.

  We made eye contact and he panicked, hopping, stumbling, bouncing off lockers as he tried to pull up his pants.

  I shouted, “Stay where you are. Show me your hands.”

  He stopped and, leaning against a locker, held out his palms. He didn’t have a gun. I let out a breath and said, “Turn around, close that locker, and put your hands on the door.”

  “I’m going to get dressed, okay?”

  “What’d I just say?”

  The subject shut the locker door with a bang, then hesitated. He tried to pull up his pants and I could see him thinking of making a run. I guess I’m psychic. He pushed off from the bank of lockers and, heading away from me, took one step and immediately tripped and fell hard to the floor with a yowl of pain. He was where I wanted him. I holstered my gun and, kneeling alongside him, pulled his arms around to his back and cuffed him.

  “Hey,” he said with his cheek pressed to the floor. “Listen to me. She set me up. I want to tell you what happened…”

  “You have the right to remain silent. You have the right to an attorney…”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Yes, you are. What’s your name?”

  “Tyler. I work here.”

  “Tyler what?”

  “I’m done talking.”

  “Fine. Tyler Doe, you’re under arrest for aggravated assault, other charges pending.”

  He spat, “Jesus Christ, what is this? She set me up, goddamnit. I’m telling the truth, okay?”

  I finished reading him his rights and he acknowledged none of them. I needed help to get him out of here and the victim needed medical attention.

  Where was my backup?

  Three

  THE VICTIM LOOKED to be in her late twenties. Her body was marked with fresh contusions and lacerations and the bruises around her neck were livid.

  I stooped down and again tried to get a response from her.

  “I’m Sergeant Boxer. SFPD. Can you tell me your name?”

  She groaned and wheezed. If she’d heard me, she was unable to answer or even look up. I pulled my phone from my pocket and speed-dialed Claire, who was still at our lunch table on the main floor.

  When Claire picked up, I said, “There’s an injured woman up here. Yeah, I called it in. Can you come up and take a look? And tell the manager that the locker room is off-limits to everyone but cops and EMTs. Yes, Yuki can come up.”

  The victim’s backpack was half buried in a pile of her clothes. I unzipped the bag, saw makeup and pens and an assortment of small office supplies. I rooted around for a moment looking for her wallet and phone, then dumped the whole lot of stuff onto the floor. I opened her wallet and, after finding her driver’s license, compared her DMV photo to her face. The woman on the floor was named Mary Elena Hayes, age twenty-eight.

  “Mary Elena,” I said. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  Her voice was raspy, but I could make out what she said.

  “He raped us.”

  What?

  “There’s another victim? Where is she?”

  Mary Elena struggled to sit up.

  “Lie still,” I said. “Help is coming.”

  She croaked, “I’m Loretta. My name is Loretta.” She rolled onto her stomach and sobbed onto the carpet.

  Tyler was looking at me from the floor. He said, “Let me talk.”

  I said, “Hey! We’ll take your statement at the station.”

  Claire and Yuki stepped through the locker room doorway and went directly to the victim. Claire spoke first.

  “I’m Dr. Washburn. Can you show me where you hurt?”

  Yuki grabbed a towel from a stack on a nearby bench and covered the young woman’s body as I asked Ms. Hayes, “How do you know this man?”

  Finally, she looked at me. “I just wanted to use the b-b-bathroom.”

  “Tyler” had said he was done talking, but he was still trying to get his story out. “Listen. Sergeant. I work here. She saw me, and she followed me. She wanted this. Understand? This was her idea.”

  “I hear sirens,” Yuki said. “And Cindy’s heading up.”

  I sighed. Cindy is an investigative crime reporter, and although I love her to pieces, she’s dogged, and once she saw this scene she’d call it news and would be working. It was the wrong time to talk to the press.

  Tyler Doe spoke. “She said her name was Olivia and that I was hot.”

  “No. Did not,” the woman mumbled.

  “She did,” said our only suspect. “She said she wanted it hard and fast, and right now. I’m just human, Sergeant. She begged me. And another thing—”

  Footsteps pounded up the stairs and two uniforms appeared; Nardone and Einhorn, both good cops I’d known for years.

  “Another thing,” Tyler shouted as the two cops pulled him to his feet. “She’s nuts. First, she tells me her name is Olivia. Then, it’s Loretta. Or is it Mary Elena? She lies.”

  Nardone got a grip on the suspect’s shoulders while Einhorn hoisted and zipped up the man’s trousers, leaving the belt dangling.

  I began opening unlocked locker doors. A jacket hanging from a hook in one of them looked like it could be Tyler’s.

  I showed it to him. “Is this yours?”

  He looked away from me and Nardone slapped the back of his head.

  “Answer the sergeant.”

  “Yes. It’s mine,” he said.

  Tyler’s wallet was inside his jacket pocket. His ID told me that his full name was Tyler Richard Cates, showed him at five ten, 160, with green eyes and a Gough Street address. I said to Nardone, “Voucher this and take him to booking. I’ve charged him with aggravated assault.”