Джеймс Паттерсон - Unsolved

“So this might be a murder scene now,” he says. “Well, there isn’t any blood, I can tell you that. But we’re doing a full work-up.”

“And there’s some prints I need you to pull,” I say to Rich, reaching into my pocketbook for the brown evidence bag. “A rush job. It’s probably nothing, but…”

“Probably nothing,” he says, “is sometimes something.”

107

BOOKS HITS the brakes, managing not to rear-end the car in front of him, which has stopped for a red light. Up ahead, Petty’s navy-blue sedan is driving on. Books keeps his eyes trained on it.

His phone is in his left hand—he’s hoping that, if nothing else, he can get a photo of the license plate of Petty’s vehicle.

Petty’s car eases into a left-turn lane at the next intersection, a red light. The light controlling Books turns green. He’s stuck behind a car moving much slower than he’d like. At the next intersection, Petty executes the left turn and disappears from Books’s view, heading north. The left-turn signal changes to a solid green.

Even if Books can reach that intersection before the light turns red, he’ll have to wait through a glut of traffic before he can turn. It will be too late.

Books makes a quick left turn into the parking lot of a hardware store, drawing objecting horns from oncoming cars but not caring. If his attempt at a shortcut doesn’t work, Petty will be gone.

He drives through the parking lot to the back of the store and takes an alley toward the road onto which Petty turned left. He looks ahead and spots Petty’s sedan. Good.

Books noses his car out onto the street against traffic, drawing more horns, but the cars he’s obstructing, however annoyed their drivers may be, stop and let him pass. He completes the left turn, speeds up, and finds Petty’s sedan in the right lane. Then Petty’s right-turn signal starts blinking. His sedan turns into the drive of some building.

Books slows his vehicle as he nears the spot where Petty turned. It’s a high-rise apartment building, faded yellow brick, something like twelve stories. Books takes the turn, which probably leads to a parking lot in the back. This must be where Petty lives.

He can’t believe he’s thinking those words— where Petty lives . Where Petty lives. Where Petty parks his car. What, does he have a wife and three kids too?

He stops halfway along the side of the apartment building. If he comes roaring into that parking area in the rear, Petty will almost surely see him. But if he doesn’t, he’ll lose Petty, who will presumably walk into the building and disappear.

Well, not disappear. He’ll be in a building. Books won’t know which apartment, but one step at a time.

Books kills the engine. Gets out of the car. There’s a door right by him and a sign on the wall saying ABSOLUTELY NO PARKING. He stays close to the wall as he approaches the rear of the building.

He listens. All he can hear is a humming noise, the low buzz of an outdoor air-conditioning condenser unit. He peeks around the corner and retreats. Peeks out again.

He sees the blue sedan Petty was driving, parked down the way. No brake lights. Nothing coming from the exhaust pipe. Seems like the car’s turned off. Petty must have hustled into the building through the back door.

The lot is filled with vehicles, all parked nose in. Petty’s is more than halfway down, not far from the back entry to the building, covered by a blue awning.

He walks slowly toward the car, looking to his right and seeing the rear door to the apartment building and the AC condenser that’s making all that noise while it transports cool air into the high-rise. The residents will need that AC; it’s growing more suffocatingly hot by the minute.

Well, at least he’ll get a make and model and license plate. The car probably won’t be registered to Petty, at least not in that name. But the circle is closing. With any luck—

Over the din of the condenser unit, he hears footfalls, urgent, close—

Books is shoved from behind, hit low so his upper body bends back and his arms flail out. He stumbles forward and his face smacks the asphalt, sending stars and bright colors through his eyelids. Stunned, the wind knocked out of him, lying on his stomach, he reaches for his side holster. A foot is planted on the weapon and his hand.

He looks up to see Petty, the searing sunlight behind him.

“How many more are coming?” Petty snarls.

He turns his head back to the pavement. “Petty—”

“How many more?” he demands.

“It’s…over, Petty. You can’t…get away—”

“It’s not over. It’ll never be over.”

Books turns toward Petty again and lifts his head a little, just in time to see something dark come crashing down on his skull.

108

“THANKS, RICH,” I say to Agent Rudney, the fingerprint guy, at Wagner’s house. “You’ll let me know as soon as you can?”

“No problem. You and Bonita Sexton,” he says, holding up the card I gave him—one of mine, but I wrote in Rabbit’s name and number too.

I dial Books. The call goes to voice mail. He’s concentrating on the tail, I assume, trying to stay far enough away that he won’t be noticed while also staying close enough to keep tabs. I send him a text: Check in when u can.

With all the people here, it almost feels like a party inside Wagner’s small apartment; there are about a dozen FBI agents and techies working it over, bumping into each other, calling out to one another. Someone even made a pot of coffee. I’m too jittery for coffee right now. Call me, Books .

Outside, a crowd has gathered. We’ve taken over Morningside Lane for the better part of a day now. Neighbors are gathering, then losing interest, then returning, then losing interest again. Agents are going door to door asking questions about Lieutenant Martin Wagner. Traffic along Lathrop has backed up due to rubberneckers. Some reporters are out talking to someone from our office. I imagine their questions are getting a whole lot of variations on No comment at this time .

An SUV pulls up around the barricade. Elizabeth Ashland and Dwight Ross emerge from the vehicle.

Elizabeth. Elizabeth, who insists that I’m Citizen David’s mole. Who seems to have an inordinate amount of cash on hand all the time. But who green-lighted my investigation when nobody else would. People have more than one face.

Is Books’s suspicion correct—are Darwin and Citizen David one and the same? It’s possible, I concede. I can’t put it all together, but I may lack some of the pieces of that puzzle. And is Elizabeth connected?

“Nothing else of note from the storage shed,” Elizabeth says to me. “We’re processing it. But Wagner’s gone. That much is clear.”

That much isn’t clear. But I will keep that opinion to myself for the time being. If I don’t trust her, I don’t trust her.

“The question is how,” says Dwight, always the master of the obvious. “In what vehicle. We can’t send out an alert if we don’t know the vehicle.”

“Can one of you drive me to my apartment?” I ask. “I’m not far from here. I need my car. I’m going to go back to our offices and start pulling data from the tollway cameras and the license-plate readers in the area and cross-match them against Dodge Caravans and other disabled-plate vehicles. If we work backward, we might be able to identify the vehicle.”

It’s not a lie. I’ll do that. I don’t think it will produce any helpful information. I don’t think Wagner’s our guy. But I’m not sure. I’m not sure of anything.

“Where’s Books?” asks Elizabeth.

“Personal business,” I say. “The bookstore in Alexandria.”