Джеймс Паттерсон - Killer Instinct

Hello, one percent.

My father neatly placed his flask and pocket Constitution on his chair. By the time he turned back around, he was already lunging for me. I had just enough time to stand up so he could knock me down.

The secret to a fake fight? Real punches. As I rose to my feet, my father landed the first one as required, a haymaker that would’ve caught my chin were it not for a quick turn of my shoulder. Everyone began to scramble, scream, or gasp. Not Sadira, though. She’d barely budged in her chair. From the corner of my eye, I saw her simply staring at the spectacle, taking it all in.

Duly noted: the woman has seen her fair share of violence.

From the corner of my other eye, I could see the guards rushing toward us. Elizabeth had released them like hounds. I had only a few seconds before they would break up the fight, just enough time to seal the deal.

Sympathy is a powerful emotion, but it makes a lousy aphrodisiac. I couldn’t merely be the victim in Sadira’s eyes. Nor was it enough to be the guy who came to her defense. I had to be able to take a punch and, more importantly, be able to land one. A really good one at that.

Brace yourself, Pops…

It was no haymaker or roundhouse. In the trade, it’s called a stunner: a quick, sharp jab to the xiphoid process, otherwise known as the small extension of the sternum.

Suddenly, the drunk old man with a lot to say was rendered silent as he bent forward, the wind knocked clean out of him. It was the last thing Sadira saw before the guards swooped in and grabbed us. Before anyone even had a chance to say the old man started it, they were dragging the two of us out of the room.

All the while, I didn’t risk sneaking a peek at Sadira. I didn’t have to. I could feel her gaze. Would it be enough, though? Had she bought in?

Chapter 66

APPROXIMATELY A half hour later, a court clerk read off a list of twenty names in the jury-pool waiting room. The pool was being pared down for the day, the clerk explained, the twenty names having been chosen randomly. Of course, Sadira was one of them.

I was pacing outside the courthouse, pretending to be looking at my phone. I had my back to the doors, waiting for the signal from Elizabeth, who was watching from the side about twenty yards away. She was pretending to eat a hot dog. It would’ve been more convincing if she’d actually taken a bite of the thing.

Never mind. She gave me the nod.

I turned around, my eyes still glued to my phone. The rest of me, however, was clearly visible to Sadira. I continued pacing, a human lure.

She took the bait. I could hear the clicking of her heels heading my way. “Excuse me,” she said. I looked up. “I just wanted to thank you for what you did in there earlier. Coming to my defense the way you did.”

“You’re welcome,” I said. “It was nothing.”

“It certainly wasn’t nothing to that old man. He didn’t like you very much.”

“He wasn’t a big fan of yours either.”

She smiled. “Please tell me they arrested him.”

I smiled back. A sheepish grin. “And it’s not even Christmas,” I said.

She rolled her eyes while running a hand through her long brown hair. Sadira Yavari was truly even more stunning up close. “You didn’t press charges, did you?” she asked.

“What can I say? I’m a sucker for drunk old bigots. The only thing I insisted on was that he drink some coffee.” I motioned inside the courthouse. “He’s doing that right now in their holding area.”

“That’s good,” she said. “Although I’ve read that’s a myth.”

“What is?”

“Coffee doesn’t sober you up any faster.”

“You’re right. I’ve read the same thing,” I said. “Although that’s only in a medical sense.”

“As opposed to?”

“Psychological. The human brain can be tricked into sobriety if it buys into the myth.”

Her eyes lit up with a flash of recognition. “I knew you looked familiar,” she said. “You’re the psychology professor who tracked down that serial killer last year.”

“That’s me, all right.”

“No wonder you let the old man off the hook,” she said. “Compared to a serial killer, everyone else is merely having an off day.”

“Dylan Reinhart,” I said, extending my hand.

“Sadira Yavari.”

I could tell she was still sizing me up as we shook hands. “I remember reading about you after you saved the mayor’s life,” she said. “I actually spent a fair amount of class time talking about the Dealer’s motivations after he took his own life.”

“Class time?” I asked.

“It turns out we have more in common than jury duty,” she said. “I’m a professor as well. NYU.”

“No kidding. What do you teach?”

“Philosophy. Epistemology, to be exact.”

“From the Greek epistēmē, meaning knowledge,” I said. “Ironic, don’t you think?”

“What’s that?”

“The word for the study of knowledge—epistemology—is a word that most people don’t know.”

“And to think I’ve dedicated my life to it.”

“You know what Kierkegaard said, right?”

“Well, I am a professor of philosophy, so I probably do.”

“Truth always—”

“Rests with the minority,” she said, finishing the quote. She raised a hand to her chin, giving me a quick up and down. “You’re an interesting man, Professor Reinhart.”

“Flattery will get you everywhere.”

“How about dinner tomorrow night? Will it get me that?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “I’ll have to ask my wife.”

Sadira blinked. She literally took a step back. “I’m sorry. I didn’t see a wedding ring, and the way we were talking I sort of assumed that—”

“I’m just kidding. There’s no wife,” I said. “And I’d love to have dinner with you.”

Book Four The Enemy of My Enemy

Chapter 67

“I CAN think of a dozen foreign governments that would give their collective left nut to blow up this table,” said my father.

Julian chuckled. “Maybe we should move tables.”

“Maybe I should call Foxx again,” I said. “Where is he?”

“He’ll be here,” said Julian. “And don’t ask me what you’re about to ask me for the hundredth time.”

For the hundredth time, I asked him anyway. “Julian, why are you here?”

“Because Foxx wanted me here,” he said. “Last I checked, he was still the New York section chief.”

As usual, Julian had a point. There were only a few people on the planet who could force him to leave his proverbial bat cave against his will. Landon Foxx was one of them.

Now, if only Foxx would show up.

No sooner had I booked my dinner date with Sadira than Foxx called and asked me to meet him at O’Sullivan’s Bar on the Lower East Side, the back booth. Word had already gotten to him that my father was in town. Foxx wanted him there, too. “Tell Eagle I look forward to seeing him,” he said.

Lo and behold, there was Julian in the booth with a glass of whiskey when my father and I arrived. I’d spoken to him only an hour before to ask a favor. He hadn’t mentioned the meeting. Why not, I wondered. Once again, Julian wasn’t saying.

I let it lie and focused on the favor.

“So how many pages did you have to scrub?” I asked while we waited for Foxx.

O’Sullivan’s had been around since Prohibition and smelled like it, too. It was the perfect Irish dive bar where everyone had their own problems.

“Not as many pages as you might have thought,” answered Julian. “There was that story in New York magazine and a piece in the Provincetown Banner that referred to you as being rumored to be gay. All other mentions were in blogs.”