Джеймс Паттерсон - Killer Instinct

“Would you like another, sir?” asked the waiter.

I was staring down at the only thing remaining on my table, every dish and plate having long since been cleared. It was a Macallan 18. My third. Or was it my fourth?

“Sure,” I said. “Why the hell not?”

“My sentiments exactly,” came Elizabeth’s voice over my shoulder. “Make it two, and make ’em doubles.”

I looked up to see her loop around the waiter and sit down across from me. There was no need to ask how she knew where I was. Tracy had surely told her when she arrived at our apartment.

“Is he really packing?” I asked.

“I’m afraid so. He was actually just about to leave when I got there,” she said. We both knew my next question, but I couldn’t even get the words out. She answered me anyway. “Yes. He had Annabelle with him.”

I reached for the Macallan and downed whatever was left in the glass, every last drop. “Did I make a mistake?” I asked. “Should I have not told him?”

“Not telling him in the first place was the mistake, Dylan. That’s why he’s so upset. Tonight, though, you did the right thing.”

“ Really? Because it sure doesn’t seem that way.”

“I know,” she said. “But I also know Tracy. He’ll eventually understand.”

I wanted to believe her. I needed to believe her. The alternative was too hard to imagine. Still, even if she was right… “What am I supposed to do in the meantime?” I asked.

I would’ve bet a gazillion dollars on Elizabeth’s answer as the waiter returned with our double Macallans. She was going to tell me two words. Be patient.

Thankfully, I didn’t have a gazillion dollars on me.

“The first thing you’re going to do is enjoy your drink,” said Elizabeth. “Because I fully intend to enjoy mine.”

“Is there a second thing?” I asked. It definitely felt like it.

“As a matter of fact there is,” she said. “But first, cheers.”

The overall lighting in the Palm could best be described as an indoor solar eclipse, but as Elizabeth leaned forward out of the shadows to clink my glass I got a much better look at her face. “What are those from?” I asked, pointing.

There were two butterfly bandages along her hairline. As opposed to the other bandages from her heroics in Times Square, these were new.

“Oh, this,” she said, pointing up at her forehead. “I think it was from one of the shingles.”

“Shingles?”

“Yeah, from when the house blew up.”

“What house?”

“The one where a bearded guy with an AK-47 tried to kill me this afternoon.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Elizabeth stopped deadpanning and started to explain, beginning with the man who approached her in Starbucks, which ultimately led her out to Pelham to meet a young Muslim named Gorgin, who was going to help her until the bearded man with the AK-47 showed up. Now Gorgin was dead and the house was leveled, blown to smithereens by a one-two punch of C-4 and piped-in gas, which she managed to escape with only seconds to spare.

“And I thought I was having a bad day,” I said.

“Oh, and I almost forgot. That mystery man in Starbucks? He’s a friend of the mayor.”

“How do you know?”

“I made a stop at City Hall before heading out to Pelham,” she said. “Deacon admitted the guy was an informant for him.”

“Did he give you a name?”

“Of course not,” she said. “Which brings me to the second thing you’re going to do after we enjoy our drinks. You’re coming with me tonight to find Deacon.”

“To do what?”

“Hold him steady while I punch him in the face.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“His informant nearly got me blown up today,” she said. “You should’ve seen the flames.”

Hell hath no fury like a woman scorched. Still, “Deacon’s never going to tell you who the guy is,” I said.

Elizabeth let out a defeated sigh. “You’re right.”

Whoever said Misery loves company never saw anything like the look on her face. As bad as I was feeling, I felt even worse for her.

“C’mon,” I said, signaling for the check. “Let’s get out of here.”

“And go where?”

“You’ll see,” I said.

Chapter 49

ELIZABETH KEPT asking me where I was taking her, and I kept answering that she’d find out soon enough. It was hardly helping her mood, but I knew what I was doing. Had I actually told her where we were going, she would’ve turned right around.

“For the last time, who lives here?” she asked.

We were standing outside a townhouse on East 84th Street, off Third Avenue. It was a decent building but nothing out of the ordinary. At least from the outside.

“Just do me a favor, will you? Stand right over here,” I said, pulling her arm.

I’d positioned her in front of the door and directly in line with the overhead security camera.

“Wait,” she said. “Why are you hiding?”

I’d peeled off to the side, directly out of line with the security camera. Again, I knew what I was doing.

“Just look up so he can see you,” I said, pointing.

“Who?”

I didn’t have to answer. By then, the snapping sound of multiple locks had Elizabeth spinning back around. He’d opened the door.

“Jesus Christ, Needham, what the hell are you doing here?” asked Evan Pritchard. “If this is about your fiasco up in Pelham this afternoon, I don’t want to hear it, not tonight. How’d you even know where I live? ”

“Trick or treat,” I said, stepping forward.

“Oh, shit,” said Pritchard. “You’ve got to be kidding me, Reinhart.”

Elizabeth’s head whipped back and forth between me and her new boss. “You guys know each other?”

“We’ve crossed paths once or twice,” I said.

It was an obvious understatement. Elizabeth rolled her eyes at me. “Is there anyone you don’t have history with?” she asked.

I shrugged. “What can I say? I tend to make an impression on people.”

“Actually, I should’ve known,” said Elizabeth. “You both knew about Halo.”

Pritchard glared so hard at me I thought his eyes might pop out. “What the fuck did you tell her, Reinhart?”

“It’s more like what you told her,” I said. “Apparently, you flinched or something when she showed you that hotel surveillance footage. You really ought to work on that.”

Never mind that Elizabeth caught me doing the same thing when I saw the footage. I conveniently left that part out. But Elizabeth already knew about my past. Now she was learning about Pritchard’s.

He shook his head. “If I’d known it was you, Reinhart, I would’ve—”

“I know, I know. You would’ve never opened the door,” I said. “Now that you have, are you going to invite us in or what?”

“That depends. What do you want?” he asked.

“Peace on earth and a brand-new Ferrari. What do you think I want? I need your help.”

“You’re still as charming as ever, Reinhart,” he said.

“Yeah, and you still owe me,” I shot back.

Pritchard mumbled something about my being the male offspring of a female dog. He then turned and walked back into his townhouse, leaving the door open for us. It wasn’t the warmest invite, but the result was the same. We were heading inside. Though not before I quickly whispered in Elizabeth’s ear.

“Brace yourself,” I said.

“For what?” she whispered back.

I didn’t have to answer. With only one foot inside Pritchard’s door she saw what I was talking about.

Chapter 50

IMAGINE IF Mike Tyson, Norman Schwarzkopf, and T. E. Lawrence from Lawrence of Arabia had all been interior designers. Now imagine Pritchard having hired all three at the same time.