Джеймс Паттерсон: Unsolved

I blink, give myself a moment to wake up.

“Would you care to comment on your investigation into Nora Connolley’s death? Is this another serial killer you’re chasing?”

“I…don’t talk to reporters,” I manage.

“Don’t hang up. I know you don’t talk to reporters. I get that. But just listen, okay? No harm in listening, is there?”

I can’t fault the logic in that.

“I know you’re here to investigate her death. I know you think this is the work of a serial killer. Let me help you get it out to the world. Shouldn’t the public know that another Graham is on the loose?”

I sit up in bed. Yes, of course, when the time is right, everybody should know about him. When the time is right, I will shout it from the mountaintops. But the time isn’t right. I have no profile of this guy. What can I tell people right now? If you live in a single-story house with easy access from a garage that’s close to public transportation, watch out? It’s too vague, too early. All that will do is tip him off that I’m investigating him. All that will do is risk the lives of other cops. I convinced Joe Halsted to open an investigation into Laura Berg’s death and suddenly he had a heart attack. I can’t let the same thing happen to Robert Crescenzo down here in New Orleans.

“Background only,” I say.

“Okay, background.”

“Hold your story,” I say. “Because there’s nothing to report right now.”

“I have twenty paragraphs already.”

“But no details, I’ll bet. You couldn’t. Because I don’t have any details. You’ll endanger lives.”

“How’s that? How could I possibly be endangering people by telling them there’s a serial killer on the loose?”

I can’t give her more. Not even on background.

“I’m running the story with or without you,” she says. “I’m giving you the chance to control it. Wouldn’t it be—”

“Hold it,” I say, “and I’ll give you an exclusive when there are details to report. When the moment comes, I’ll go to you and you only.”

A pause. She’s considering the hook I’ve thrown her.

“How long are we talking? Weeks? Months?”

“I wish I knew.”

Another pause.

“No chance you’ll tell me anything on the record right now?”

“No chance,” I say. “So do we have a deal?”

A loud exhale through the phone. “No promises,” she says.

14

THE FLIGHT back from New Orleans is nice, if nice includes being in the middle seat in the back row of a packed plane between an overweight lawyer who eats spicy peanuts and spreads colorful legal briefs across his tray and onto mine on one side and an elderly woman who is pleasant enough but begins snoring the moment the airplane takes off and who apparently ate a lot of garlic recently on the other.

I have notes and research in my lap, but my eyes glaze over and I think of Books, our short phone call last night. I lied about my reason for going to New Orleans, and then I lied again last night about the fun I was having with my unnamed college friends.

The guilt, I can handle. I can tell myself that I’m protecting Books by keeping him from worrying about me, that once I have enough to get the Bureau to officially investigate, I’ll explain what I did and why I chose not to tell him.

But it’s not the guilt that swims through my stomach. It’s the feeling that I’m screwing things up with Books, that by withholding anything from him for whatever reason, I’m laying the first bricks in a wall between us. I can justify my actions all I want, but the truth is I am keeping a secret from Books, and it doesn’t matter why.

Lord knows, he deserves better than this, better than me.

A memory: Walking along F Street after work, the air warm and breezy, the two of us side by side, our arms grazing, our conversation pleasant but stilted (Books is not exactly a smooth talker), and I’m wondering if this makes sense for me, if this by-the-book, no-frills agent is my type of guy. The broad shoulders, the kind eyes; yes, that definitely works, but the whole just-the-facts-ma’am routine, which for him is not a routine, doesn’t feel like my speed.

And he’s being polite, keeping the conversation on me, asking me about my family, about my twin sister, Marta, when we see it unfold right before our eyes: a young kid comes seemingly out of nowhere, swipes the handbag from an older woman walking toward us, and then starts to rocket off, angling between pedestrians, his snatch-and-grab complete.

Books turns as if to shield me, and I’m still in shock, watching this happen, the whole thing spanning two or three seconds, the woman so stunned and scared that she hasn’t made a sound, and then Books tackles the young thief, using some kind of takedown he probably learned at Quantico, his movements so quick and decisive and his voice so commanding that the kid doesn’t make a move after Books subdues him. He puts his hand lightly on the kid’s chest as he lies flat on the sidewalk, looks him square in the eye, and starts talking to him. What’s your name? Why did you do this? Don’t you know you could have hurt somebody?

They stay like that for a good ten minutes, Books and the boy. The woman recovers her purse, and the other pedestrians give them a wide berth. A street cop finally shows up, but by the time he gets there, the boy is on his feet, still engaged in conversation with Books. It turns out he has a story that isn’t all that surprising under the circumstances—no father, a mother in rehab, two younger siblings.

The cop goes without making an arrest. The boy shakes the woman’s hand and apologizes. Then he surprises Books with a hug before walking away.

Books turns to me. Rough start to our first date, he says.

But all I can think is I could love this man…

On the plane, I feel my head loll forward, and I jerk awake. This is when I’m sleepiest, when I can’t work, when I don’t have access to my research, which is why I have insomnia at home. It’s hard to sleep when you know somebody’s out there planning his next murder, and your laptop is right next to you, waiting for you to find that tiny morsel, that one detail that will break it all open. But the moment my research is unavailable, the overwhelming sleep deprivation takes hold. I go to a movie for relaxation and I’m asleep in five minutes. I wait in a doctor’s office and find myself quickly floating away.

So I don’t fight it. I close my eyes and lean back against the headrest, my arms tight to my sides on this small seat with the lawyer’s papers spilling around me. I let sleep take me and tell myself that Books will understand when I explain what I’ve been doing.

15

“SO SHE’S off on another one of her investigations .” FBI director William Moriarty plays with his gold-framed reading glasses as he sits at the head of the walnut table. He utters the last word like it’s dirty.

Books, sitting to Moriarty’s left, feels the need to come to Emmy’s defense. He isn’t happy about what she’s doing either, but for a different reason—because these investigations are slowly driving Emmy mad. Moriarty’s making it sound like Emmy’s doing something innocuous but silly or perhaps harmful. He must have forgotten that Emmy more or less single-handedly stopped a serial killer who would probably still be committing his atrocious acts if Emmy hadn’t discovered his crimes and then found him.

But this is not the time to pick a fight.

“So what in sweet Christ are we supposed to do about that? ” Moriarty asks.

“We don’t do anything,” Books says. “Is she violating protocol? We told her—the, uh, Bureau told her that she couldn’t do her own investigations in the name of the FBI. She can’t claim to be speaking on behalf of the Bureau. But as long as she isn’t doing that, she’s just doing personal stuff on her own time. Some people do yoga. Some climb mountains. Emmy hunts for serial killers.”