July Novel Recording
Description
Vocal Characteristics
Language
EnglishVoice Age
Middle Aged (35-54)Accents
North American (General)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
Fourth of July By James Patterson and Vaccine Pietro Little Brown 2005 Part one. Nobody Cares Chapter one. It was just before 4 a.m. On a week day. My mind was racing even before Jacoby knows Dark are up in front of the Lorenzo, a grungy rent by the hour tourist hotel on a block in San Francisco's Tenderloin District that's so forbidding. Even the sun won't cross the street. Three black and whites were at the curb, and Conklin, the first officer at the scene, was taping off the area. So was another officer less a room? What have we got? I asked Khan, Clinton to root. White male lieutenant, late teens, bug eyed and done to a turn, Conklin told me, Room 21. No signs of forced entry. Vicks in the bathtub, just like the last one. The stink of **** and vomit washed over us is Jacoby and I entered the hotel. No bellhops in this place. No elevators or room service, either. Night, people faded back into the shadows except for one grey skinned young prostitute who pulled Jacoby a site. Give me $20. I heard her say, I got a license plate. Jacoby peeled off a 10 in exchange for a slip of paper, then turned to the desk clerk and asked him about the victim. Did he have a roommate? A credit card? I have it. I stepped around a junkie into stairwell, inclined to the second floor. The door to Room 21 was opened, and a rookie was standing guard at the doorway. Evening, Lieutenant Boxer. It's morning, Kirsty. Yes, ma'am, he said, logging me in, turning his clipboard to collect my signature. It was darker inside the 12 by 12 ft room than it was in the hallway. The fuse had blown and thin curtains hung like wraiths in front of the street lit windows. I was working the puzzle, trying to figure out what was evidence, what was not trying not to step on Anything. There was too damned much of everything and too little light. I flicked my flesh like being over the crack vials on the floor, the mattress stained with old blood, the rank piles of garbage and clothing Everywhere. There was a kitchen out of sorts in the corner, the hotplate still warm drug paraphernalia in the sink, the air of The bathroom was thick, almost soupy. I swept my light, long the extension cord that snaked from the socket by the sink, past the clogged toilet bowl to the bathtub. My guts clinched as I caught the dead boy in my being. He was naked, a skinny blonde with a hairless chest half sitting up in the tub, eyes bulging foam at his lips and nostrils. The electric court ended at an old fashioned two slice toaster that glinted up through the bathwater. ****, I said, his Jacoby entered the bathroom. Here we go again. He's toast, all right, said you Kobe, as commanding officer of the homicide detail. I wasn't supposed to do hands on detective work anymore, But at times like this, I just couldn't stay away. Another kid had been electrocuted. But why was he a random victim of violence? Or was it personal? In my mind's eye, I saw the boy flailing in pain. Is the Jew shot through him and shut his heart down? The standing water on the cracked tile floor was creeping up the legs of my trousers. I lifted a foot and toed the bathroom door closed, knowing full well what I was going to see the door wind with the nasal squeal of hinges that had probably never been oiled. Two words were spray painted on the door. For the second time in a couple of weeks, I wondered what the **** they meant.