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3rd Degree (Women's Murder Club)

James Patterson

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In James Patterson's shockingly suspenseful #1 New York Times bestseller, one member of the Women's Murder Club is hiding a secret so dangerous that it could destroy them all.
One of James Patterson's best loved heroines is about to die. Detective Lindsay Boxer is jogging along a beautiful San Francisco street when a fiery explosion rips through the neighborhood. When Lindsay plunges inside to search for survivors, she finds three people dead. A lost infant and a mysterious message at the scene leaves Lindsay and the San Francisco Police Department completely baffled.
Then a prominent businessman is found murdered under bizarre circumstances, with another mysterious message left behind by the killer. Lindsay asks her friends Claire Washburn of the medical examiner's office, Assistant D.A. Jill Bernhardt, and Chronicle reporter Cindy Thomas to help her figure out who is committing these murders-and why they are intent on killing someone every three days.
Even more terrifying, the killer has targeted one of the four friends who call themselves the Women's Murder Club.
Which one will it be?

Editorial Reviews

From Publishers Weekly

From the start, Patterson's Women's Murder Club series (1st to Die; Second Chance) has felt like high-concept TV with a smart edge, featuring an appealing and reliable cast of four female crime busters (a cop, a prosecutor, a medical examiner, a reporter) who race along byzantine plot lines humming with blood and sex, romance and heartbreak. But Patterson is an author who will detonate readers' presumptions for the sake of story, and in the series' third installment, the prolific author, working with frequent collaborator Gross (The Jester, etc.), defies expectations in a shocking way. Readers will love him for it. San Francisco Homicide lieutenant Lindsay Boxer, who narrates most of the action, is jogging with assistant DA Jill Barnhardt when Lindsay notices two things: first, bruises on Jill's shoulder; then the explosion of a nearby townhouse, into which Lindsay rushes to save a child. With the juxtaposition of these two plotlines, Patterson jumpstarts this enjoyably convoluted tale. The townhouse, home to a greedy CEO and his family, was destroyed by members of a terrorist group calling itself "August Spies"; Lindsay's chase after the group, which commits further killings, brings her into close proximity to what promises to be a new series regular, Joe Molinari, deputy director of the Office of Homeland Security. Love blooms for Lindsay but, meanwhile, love has curdled at Jill's house, where Jill's husband is abusing her. Then comes the big surprise, and the story's remainder plays out at high emotion and warp speed. There's a calculated feel to all that happens, but clever manipulation of an audience serves Patterson as well as it served Hitchcock: his fans will only clamor for more.

About the Author

James Patterson's most recent major international bestseller is The Jester. He is the author of 20 books and lives in Florida. -

xcerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.

3rd Degree

By James Patterson

Little Brown and Company

Chapter One

IT WAS A CLEAR, calm, lazy April morning, the day the worst week ofmy life began.

I was jogging down by the bay with my border collie, Martha. It's mything Sunday mornings - get up early and cram my meaningful otherinto the front seat of the Explorer. I try to huff out three miles,from Fort Mason down to the bridge and back. Just enough to convincemyself I'm bordering on something called in shape at thirty-six.

That morning, my buddy Jill came along. To give her baby Lab, Otis,a run, or so she claimed. More likely, to warm herself up for a bikesprint up Mount Tamalpais or whatever Jill would do for realexercise later in the day.

It was hard to believe that it had been only five months since Jilllost her baby. Now here she was, her body toned and lean again.

"So, how did it go last night?" she asked, shuffling sideways besideme. "Word on the street is, Lindsay had a date." "You could call ita date ...," I said, focusing on the heights of Fort Mason, whichweren't getting closer fast enough for me. "You could call Baghdad avacation spot, too." She winced. "Sorry I brought it up."

All run long, my head had been filled with the annoying recollectionof Franklin Fratelli, "asset remarketing" mogul (which was a fancyway of saying he sent goons after the dot-com busts who could nolonger make the payments on their Beemers and Franck Mullers). Fortwo months Fratelli had stuck his face in my office every time hewas in the Hall, until he wore me down enough to ask him up for ameal on Saturday night (the short ribs braised in port wine I had topack back into the fridge after he bailed on me at the last minute).

"I got stood up," I said, mid-stride. "Don't ask, I won't tell thedetails."

We pulled up at the end of Marina Green, a lung-clearing bray fromme while Mary Decker over there bobbed on her toes as if she couldgo another loop.

"I don't know how you do it," I said, hands on hips, trying to catchmy breath.

"My grandmother," she said, shrugging and stretching out ahamstring. "She started walking five miles a day when she was sixty.She's ninety now. We have no idea where she is."

We both started to laugh. It was good to see the old Jill trying topeek through. It was good to hear the laughter back in her voice.

"You up for a mochachino?" I asked. "Martha's buying." "Can't.Steve's flying in from Chicago. He wants to bike up to see the DeanFriedlich exhibit at the Legion of Honor as soon as he can get inand change. You know what the puppy's like when he doesn't get hisexercise."

I frowned. "Somehow it's hard for me to think of Steve as a puppy."

Jill nodded and pulled off her sweatshirt, lifting her arms. "Jill,"I gasped, "what the hell is that?"

Peeking out through the strap of her exercise bra were a couple ofsmall, dark bruises, like finger marks.

She tossed her sweatshirt over her shoulder, seemingly caught offguard. "Mashed myself getting out of the shower," she said. "Youshould get a load of how it looks." She winked. I nodded, butsomething about the bruise didn't sit well with me. "You sure youdon't want that coffee?" I asked.

"Sorry ... You know El Exigente, if I'm five minutes late, he startsto see it as a pattern." She whistled for Otis and began to jog backto her car. She waved. "See you at work."

"So how about you?" I knelt down to Martha. "You look like amochachino would do the trick." I snapped on her leash and startedto trot off toward the Starbucks on Chestnut. The Marina has alwaysbeen one of my favorite neighborhoods.

Curling streets of colorful, restored town houses. Families, thesound of gulls, the sea air off the bay.

I crossed Alhambra, my eye drifting to a beautiful three-story townhouse I always passed and admired. Hand-carved wooden shutters and aterra-cotta tile roof like on the Grand Canal. I held Martha as acar passed by.

That's what I remembered about the moment. The neighborhood justwaking up. A redheaded kid in a FUBU sweatshirt practicing tricks onhis Razor. A woman in overalls hurrying around the corner, carryinga bundle of clothes.

"C'mon, Martha." I tugged on her leash. "I can taste thatmochachino."

Then the town house with the terra-cotta roof exploded into flames.I mean, it was as if San Francisco were suddenly Beirut.