Джеймс Паттерсон - Unsolved

That statement was true half an hour ago. Books is no longer on personal business. But I’m keeping Elizabeth on a short leash for the time being.

Dwight makes a face. “Why would an agent at the top of his game throw it all away to run a bookstore?”

He did it to have a better lifestyle. He did it so he could spend less time on the road and more time with his fiancée, yours truly, who then proceeded to break up with him.

“We can drive you,” says Elizabeth. “We’re going back to Hoover too. Just let me check in with the agents inside.”

While Elizabeth and Dwight head into the house, I call Books again. Voice mail again. Damn. I text him again: Just send me a quick note that ur okay.

A few minutes later, Elizabeth and Dwight walk out. “Let’s go. Nothing left for us to do here. The techies are on it.”

“Okay,” I say, walking with them to their SUV.

Call me, Books, I silently pray. Please call me.

I jump in the back of their SUV, and we drive off.

109

“SIR? SIR . Are you okay?”

Books hears himself moan as he opens his eyes and squints up at an older woman and a child, harsh sunlight behind them.

“Would you like me to call an ambulance?”

He quickly pats his side holster. He still has his weapon, thank God. The woman steps back as she sees it.

“I’m an FBI agent,” he says reassuringly. Though these days, it seems, people don’t always find that reassuring.

He sits up and regrets it immediately; his head feels like a bowling ball, and laser shots of pain fire back and forth inside his skull. He scans the asphalt around him for his phone. He finds it, thank God again. “I’m all right, ma’am.”

“Your face is…red.” She touches her left cheek. He touches his own and feels the abrasion he got when his face smacked the asphalt.

“Did you…see where he went, ma’am?”

“I just saw him leave in that blue car,” she says. “I saw him hit you too. My granddaughter and I just got back from the grocery store. He hit you with…something, a club or something, and then he saw us pull into the lot. He jumped into a blue car and drove away. I’m sorry I didn’t see more.”

“No need to apologize,” says Books. You probably saved my life.

Books tries to get to his feet, using a nearby SUV to brace himself, but an alarm goes off inside his head, and he sits back down. He landed on the left side of his face, and Petty struck him with the baton, or whatever it was, on the right side of the skull, cracking his head against the pavement a second time in the process. He touches the knot on his head, and his hand comes away from his hair sticky with blood.

“You should go to the ER,” says the woman.

“I’m okay.” The physical pain is nothing compared to the stupidity he feels. Petty jumped him. He puts it together now. Somehow, Petty made him; he knew Books was following him. He parked his car, doubled back, and hid behind something until Books passed him on his way to the blue sedan.

That stupid AC condenser, still chugging along with its loud hum, helping Petty sneak up behind him. But that’s no excuse. I screwed up. “Did you recognize him, ma’am?”

“I don’t think so, no. He was bald and wearing a camouflage shirt. I didn’t get a good look at his face, but it wasn’t someone I recognized.”

“What about the name Petty? ” Books asks. “Recognize that name? Maybe Sergeant Petty? Someone who might live in this apartment building?”

It’s doubtful, he realizes. If Petty was suckering Books into an ambush, he wouldn’t have driven him to the place where he lives.

“It doesn’t sound familiar,” she says. “And I think I know everyone in this building. Sir, you really should see a doctor.”

“I will, I will. Thank you again, ma’am.”

“I wish I could be more help.”

“You interrupted him,” he says. “Who knows what he might have done if you hadn’t come by when you did?”

That seems to make her feel a little bit better. “I could try to help you up,” she says.

“No, I think I’ll sit right here for a few minutes, let my head clear a bit.”

They say their goodbyes. The woman and her granddaughter retrieve their groceries and head into the building. Books calls Emmy.

“You want the good news first,” he says, “or the bad news?”

110

I PULL my car into the lot of the apartment house in Huntington. I had been halfway to the Hoover Building when Books called me from here.

Petty jumped him, Books told me, but when I see him coming out of the rear door of the building, it looks more like Petty ran over him with a truck. The left side of his face is bruised and scraped. The right side’s okay, but above his ear the hair is caked with blood and the area’s swollen, as if he’d grown a tumor since I last saw him.

“You shoulda seen the other guy,” he says when he gets in my car. “I feel like such an idiot.”

I put my hand up to his face, though it’s hard to touch it.

“I’m okay,” he says.

And suddenly I burst into tears. He brings me close while I release the nervous energy, the worry, the feelings I’ve suppressed.

“I didn’t…know…what happened to you,” I say after a few minutes, catching my breath, the sobbing finally passing. “I hadn’t heard from you…”

I look at him. He’s trying to smile. It’s not easy with all the bruising.

“I can’t lose you, Books. I don’t know what that means. I really don’t. But I can’t.” I take a deep breath. Where did all that emotion and confession come from?

“Okay, first of all, I’m fine,” he says. “Second of all, I suggest we tackle the task of finding our serial killer before we address the far more difficult and complex mystery of Emmy and Books.”

I wipe my face, laughing. He always makes me laugh. “Deal,” I say. “But how about before we do either of those things, we take you to the emergency room?”

“No, I’m okay. My pride is wounded, I have a massive headache, and I’m going to look like the Elephant Man for a few days, but otherwise I’m ready to dance a jig.”

No, he’s not. “Can you drive?”

“Yeah, I’m okay to drive.”

“Then follow me to the nearest ER. I’m not taking no for an answer.”

He sighs. “My head hurts too much to argue with you.”

“And then you’ll go home and rest.”

“No, I’m not going home to rest. I’m following Elizabeth tonight.”

“Elizabeth? Still?”

“What?” he says. “Nothing’s changed. I know someone’s funneling cash to her. I still think it’s Citizen David. But why can’t Petty be Citizen David? If he can be Darwin, he can be David too.”

“I don’t know…”

“If I’m wrong, I’m wrong,” he says. “But there’s only one way to find out. She’ll leave tonight the same time she always does, I bet. And I bet she goes to the Payton Club again for one of her little meetings.”

“Even tonight, after the day we’ve had?”

“ Especially tonight, Em. I don’t know who she’s been meeting with or what she’s been saying, but I know this much—she has a lot of new information to share after today.”

“Take backup, then,” I say. “Take me.”

“No and definitely no,” he says, “in that order. Nobody else at the Bureau knows I’m looking at Elizabeth Ashland. I can’t drag other agents into this and tell them we need to investigate someone who could ruin their careers if she ever found out. And even if I could, it’s too much of a risk that she’d sniff it out. And you? I’m not letting you anywhere near that place. Besides, you have plenty to keep you busy, don’t you?”