Джеймс Паттерсон: Unsolved

Moriarty.

William Moriarty, the director of the FBI.

Not a social call. Bill never makes social calls.

Books considers returning the call right away. No customers in the store now, after all. And he can’t deny that tiny surge of adrenaline. You can take the boy out of the FBI, but you can’t take the FBI out of the boy.

The door chimes behind him. A customer. That makes the decision for Books. The FBI will have to wait.

He turns and sees two people enter the store, men in dark suits, each of them removing sunglasses. Jesus, they really have to stop reinforcing that stereotype.

One of them he doesn’t know, but the other, the taller one, is familiar. Desmond, part of the director’s advance team.

“Hey, Books,” Desmond says, glancing around.

“Hey, Dez…” Books gives him a confused look.

“The director needs a moment. He called.”

Yeah, he called two minutes ago. It’s not like he made an appointment last week or anything.

“Somewhere private you could talk for a moment?”

Books lets out a breath. “Sure. The stockroom. There’s a service entrance out back where—”

“He’s already parked there.” Dez nods.

Of course he is. “Okay,” says Books. “Let’s do it.”

5

BOOKS LEADS the advance team into the back room. There are piles of inventory, books ready to be placed on shelves, books ready to be sent back to the publishers, a stand-up display for the children’s author who did an appearance last week. Dez arranges two chairs at a table while his partner pushes open the back door.

“There he is, the bookseller.” Director William Moriarty has aged, and not so gracefully, in this job. He has been a public servant all his life, first as a special agent, then as a federal prosecutor, later as a congressman, and after that as a federal judge. The stress of all of those, he said, paled in comparison to running the FBI. He has lost most of his hair, and his face and torso have widened, but he still has that same no-nonsense stare.

Bill had made no secret of his profound disappointment in Books when he resigned. He’d tried everything to keep Books in the fold. He offered him a promotion, a raise, a better office. He even threatened to take him into federal custody, though Books was reasonably sure that was a joke.

“Hi, Bill.”

“You married yet?”

They take seats across from each other at the table Books uses when he’s balancing his ledgers.

“No.” That answer, Books thinks to himself, is accurate but tells Bill nothing. Not yet would be more informative. So would No, the wedding’s this September . No could mean a lot of things, including No, we’re not married yet, and I’m not sure we ever will be.

It’s been nearly a year and a half since he proposed to Emmy (for the second time) and she said yes (for the first time). And yet no date has been set, no china patterns picked out.

“But you two are still…together?”

It’s not like Bill to make small talk. Not like him at all. What does he care about whether Books and Emmy are heading down the aisle or toward separate lives?

“Yeah,” Books says. Two loaded questions from the director, two single-word responses from Books. The director’s a smart guy. He’s read between closer lines than these.

“I need you, Books. An assignment. A special assignment.”

“The Bureau is filled with talented and dedicated agents.”

“I need someone from outside the Bureau.”

“From outside,” says Books. “A double-I?”

Internal investigations are typically handled in-house, just like all other investigations. The Bureau rarely wants to admit that it needs outside help. If the director is asking, this is not the typical double-I. This is not about a boss chasing a subordinate around a desk. This is not about an agent using a Bureau computer to sell beauty products or surf porn. It means something far bigger than that.

It means the director doesn’t know whom to trust within his own agency.

“You have a mole.”

The director nods, some color to his face. “We do. You’d run the investigation. You’d report directly to me. Nobody else.”

“I pick my team,” says Books, realizing how quickly he jumped so many hurdles in his mind, how easily and almost naturally he said yes. Like there was never a doubt. “Starting with Emmy,” Books says, “and not because she’s my fiancée. Because she’s the best analyst the Bureau’s ever had. I know she hasn’t been the same since—”

“She is the best.” The director makes a face. “No question. But I have to say no. You can pick anyone else, Books, but not Emmy. Not this time.”

Books stares at the director, reading him, noting the averted eyes, the discomfort. This is also not like him. Not like him to beat around the bush. Not like him to ask about Books’s personal life either, especially his relationship with Emmy.

Books feels something sink inside him. “No,” he says, as if he can will it away.

“Gives me no pleasure to say it.” The director shrugs. “But Emmy is the target of the investigation. We think your girlfriend is the mole.”

6

I PUT it all together, everything I’ve been able to collect on Nora Connolley, on a biography sheet, the same kind I’ve compiled for each of the victims on my wall. It’s missing some pieces, but it’s enough for the time being.

Now if only the New Orleans PD would call me back. I e-mailed them yesterday. I usually get a phone call, at least, even if the person’s voice is laced with skepticism.

Speaking of which, why hasn’t Detective Halsted called me back about Laura Berg?

The clock says 11:45. I should probably eat lunch. No, I should sleep. I did put my head down on a pillow last night for a few hours. I didn’t sleep, but I rested. My mother used to say that to me when I was kid, when I tossed and turned, that at least I was resting. I never really understood that. Either you sleep or you don’t.

I don’t.

My laptop—my main one—pings with an e-mail. An invitation from some prosecutors’ association to speak at their annual event. I type a quick no-thank-you.

Another e-mail. A Google search alert, not my normal one that produces hundreds of stories a day, my needle-in-a-haystack search. No, this one is more specific.

When I see the headline, I suck in my breath.

Vienna PD Detective Found Dead in Home

“No,” I whisper. “No!”

Vienna Police Department detective Joseph Halsted, 48, a nineteen-year veteran of the force, was found dead this morning in his condominium. He was unresponsive when paramedics arrived. A spokesman for the department said that the cause of death was a heart attack.

I drop my head into my hands. “Oh no. No, no, no! ” My phone buzzes on my desk. “I did this…I did this…”

I told him to look into Laura Berg’s death. He never would have given a second thought to it if it weren’t for me. I led Joe Halsted to the slaughter.

It means something else, I realize, though it’s hard to focus on it right now. It means I was right about Laura Berg.

My phone is lighting up, grunting at me. I reach for it. The caller ID shows a New Orleans area code. Oh, right, New Orleans—

“Hello?” I manage.

“Agent Dockery?” A New York accent. “This is Sergeant Crescenzo with the New Orleans PD. You e-mailed us about Nora Connolley?”

“Yes…um…uh…thanks for getting back to me.”

“Bad time to talk?”

I have to get a grip. This is my chance. I clear my throat. “No, sorry—I’m fine. Thank you for the call.”

“Ms. Connolley fell in her shower, Agent Dockery.”