James Patterson - 7th Heavern

Womans Murder Club 7 - 7th Heaven One TINY LIGHTS WINKED on the Douglas fir standing tall and full in front of the picture window. Swags of Christmas greenery and dozens of cards decked the well-appointed living room, and apple logs crackled in the fireplace, scenting the air as they burned. A digitized Bing Crosby crooned “The Christmas Song.” “Chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Jack Frost nipping at your nose . . .” Henry Jablonsky couldn’t see the boys clearly. The one called Hawk had snatched off his glasses and put them a mile away on the fireplace mantel, a good thing, Jablonsky had reasoned at the time. It meant that the boys didn’t want to be identified, that they were planning to let them go. Please, God, please let us live and I’ll serve you all the days of my life. Jablonsky watched the two shapes moving around the tree, knew that the gun was in Hawk’s waistband. He heard wrapping paper tear, saw the one called Pidge dangling a bow for the new kitten. They’d said they weren’t going to hurt them. They said this was only a robbery. Jablonsky had memorized their faces well enough to describe to a police sketch artist, which he would be doing as soon as they got the hell out of his home. Both boys looked as though they’d stepped from the pages of a Ralph Lauren ad. Hawk. Clean-cut. Well-spoken. Blond, with side-parted hair. Pidge, bigger. Probably six two. Long brown hair. Strong as a horse. Meaty hands. Ivy League types. Both of them. Maybe there really was some goodness in them. As Jablonsky watched, the blond