Джеймс Паттерсон - Killer Instinct

Livingston tried his best to hide his surprise, but his smile was as fake as a street-corner Rolex. “Of course,” he said, and out he went.

“Was that for my benefit or yours?” asked Elizabeth once he was gone.

“More yours,” said the mayor. “Call it a goodwill gesture, proof that you earned your promotion and that every conversation with me doesn’t need a buffer.”

Elizabeth appreciated the sentiment but still hadn’t forgotten how she’d ended up in his office. “Why the cloak-and-dagger?” she asked. “Better yet, why not pass along any info you have directly to the FBI?”

“Because it’s not my info.”

“Whose is it?” But no sooner had she asked than she realized the answer. “You can’t tell me. You can’t tell anyone. ”

Deacon nodded. “Now you’ve got it.”

Yes, she did. The mayor had an intel source he could never reveal—not only to protect the source but to protect himself. Suffice it to say, whoever the guy was who’d approached her at Starbucks, he wasn’t a Boy Scout.

Still, “How do I know this is for real?” she asked, holding up the photo.

“The short answer is you don’t,” said Deacon. “That’s why you’ll check it out on your own first. Something tells me, though, it’s legit.”

Elizabeth stood. “I won’t be able to update you directly,” she said. “You realize that, right?”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Deacon leaned back in his chair, stretching his long frame. “You know, there’s a perverse irony to all this. When it comes to street crime and the murder rate, it’s always the mayor’s fault. But, God forbid, a terrorist attack? Not only is it not my fault, I become the great unifier.”

“That’s not perverse. It’s just human nature,” said Elizabeth.

“Believe me,” said Deacon. “There’s no difference.”

Chapter 37

A HALF hour out of Manhattan, Elizabeth pulled up slowly to the address in Pelham she’d been given for the young man named Gorgin. She was driving a Honda Pilot from the JTTF lot. Honda Pilots don’t say gun-toting special agent. They say soccer mom.

There were two possibilities when no one answered her knocking on the door. Either no one was home or someone was choosing not to answer. Before she could settle on the latter, she had to wait out the former. Parking a few houses down the street with an eye on Gorgin’s driveway, Elizabeth settled in.

As towns go, Pelham and the word ritzy were never going to be used in the same sentence unless that sentence happened to be that Pelham was far from ritzy. Compared to Jersey City, however, it was a major step up. Gorgin’s house, a small, vinyl-sided colonial, might as well have been a mansion compared to the shit shack she had descended upon with Pritchard and company. A good sign, thought Elizabeth.

Better still was the black BMW that pulled into the driveway less than an hour later. In terms of wait time, she’d hit the stakeout jackpot. Even from fifty yards away, there was no doubt that the guy who got out from behind the wheel and headed into the house was Gorgin. He was alone.

Not for long. Elizabeth sprinted as soon as the front door closed behind him. He barely had time to put down his car keys before she was knocking again.

“Who is it?” he asked from behind the door. There was no peephole.

“My name is Agent Needham from the JTTF,” said Elizabeth, standing off to the side with her back to the vinyl siding. “I’m looking for Gorgin.”

She had one hand alongside her holster. With the other she reached for her badge, the ink on her new ID barely dry.

She fully expected Gorgin to ask what the JTTF was. But, nope, he was apparently familiar with the Joint Terrorism Task Force. That may or may not have been a good sign.

He opened the door.

Elizabeth remained off to the side, waiting for him to poke his head out to look for her. Instead he came all the way out, stepping onto the small landing at the top of the steps. She could see both his hands as he turned to her. They were empty.

“Are you Gorgin?” she asked.

“Yes, that’s me,” he said.

Elizabeth flashed her badge even though he didn’t ask to see it. “Do you have a couple of minutes? I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Sure,” he answered. He didn’t hesitate. He also didn’t move. It was as if he were blocking the door.

“Can we talk inside your house?” she asked.

“Actually, do you mind if we do this outside?”

That was definitely not a good sign, thought Elizabeth. As red flags go, it was the equivalent of a Chinese military parade. What didn’t he want her to see?

“As a matter of fact, I do mind,” she said. “We need to talk inside.”

Chapter 38

THIS TIME, Gorgin hesitated.

Elizabeth could practically see the wheels churning in his head. He glanced back over his shoulder into his house not once but twice. Finally he broke into a smile. Or was that a grimace?

“Okay, come on in,” he said.

Elizabeth followed him inside. She was still watching his hands. Always watch the hands. But now there was everything else, an entire house he seemingly didn’t want her to see.

What are you hiding, Gorgin? Who are you? Tell me why I’m here…

He looked to be in his late twenties. He was clean-shaven. The English was near perfect, but there was a lingering hint of a Middle Eastern accent. He probably came to the States as a teenager. Best guess, from Turkey. Backup guess, Jordan.

The prayer mat facing east in the corner of the living room took any of the guesswork out of religion. Gorgin was a practicing Muslim. But he was also very Westernized. If the BMW didn’t give it away, the skinny jeans, zip-up hoodie, and gelled-back hair did.

“Do you own this house?” asked Elizabeth. She assumed he didn’t.

“No, this is a rental,” he said. “I wish I could afford it, though. One day.”

“What do you do for a living?”

Gorgin was still walking; Elizabeth was still following. He stopped suddenly, turning back to her at the entrance to the kitchen.

“I’ll answer all of your questions, Agent Needham, but first I have one for you,” he said. “Would you like some tea?”

Tea? “No, thank you,” said Elizabeth.

“Are you sure? I was just about to make some.”

“No, really, that’s—”

“It’s excellent tea. Very special. My uncle sends me boxes of it from overseas. You really should try some.”

There was no change in the tone of his voice. No punching of any particular word. The inflection was normal. That’s because the conversation wasn’t about what Elizabeth could hear. As Gorgin was talking he was also nodding. He was signaling her. Say yes to the tea, Agent Needham. Trust me.

“In that case,” said Elizabeth, “I’d love some tea.”

Gorgin turned and went to the stove, grabbing a kettle from one of the burners. As he filled it with water from the sink, Elizabeth took a seat at a small table in the corner.

“Sales,” said Gorgin.

“Excuse me?”

He returned the kettle to the stove, turning on the burner. “I sell commercial-grade cutlery to restaurants. That’s my job.”

Great. The guy handles knives for a living.

Gorgin opened a cabinet, removing two teacups. From another cabinet he removed a box of tea bags. Elizabeth eyed the label. It was Lipton.

Lipton? That’s the special tea your uncle sends you?

Of course it wasn’t. He’d obviously made that up on the fly. It was the only thing Elizabeth was sure about. Everything else was still unclear, including her next move. Should she start asking her questions or just make small talk and wait?