Джеймс Паттерсон - The 13-Minute Murder

The fact was, when Mason Randolph sunk his teeth into a juicy case like this one, he was like a pit bull with a raw steak: he was never going to let go.

Until justice was served.

He was convinced the suspects were going to strike again. The moment he heard about Golden Acres, he knew they had.

With a sense of déjà vu on the Gulfstream plane ride to the nearest airstrip, Mason explained to his team his rationale for linking the two cases. Similar M.O. Similar five-person squad. Similar language (“Hands up and keep ’em high!”) said with a similar west Texas twang.

The bank and horse ranch were hundreds of miles apart. But with a new crime scene and new witnesses, there was hope the case might finally take a real step forward. They just might catch these guys— and recover the $1.2 million that had literally been wheeled away.

Mason, his colleagues, and the entire Bureau let these sons of bitches slip away once already. He was not going to let that happen a second time.

No matter what it took.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Reeves,” Mason says, flashing a cheeky smile as he approaches the ranch’s crusty, cigarillo-chomping security head. “Feels like it was just last week.”

Billy is being fingerprinted by an FBI tech at a mobile crime-scene lab in order to exclude his prints from the investigation. He growls, angry and humiliated.

In fact, Mason had seen him just last week. Near this very spot, too.

The agent had been in Amarillo on an unrelated homicide when a colleague in Narcotics passed along a tip. Rumor was, the Golden Acres’ annual private horse auction was going to be hit. Hard.

Mason disliked crime of any sort—especially the preventable kind. So he made the seventy-minute drive to the ranch personally, off duty, for a little sit-down with Billy.

But the grizzled, arrogant bastard couldn’t care less. Billy assured the agent that his team was the best in the business. And besides, even if somebody did try to pull something during the auction, most of the crowd would probably be packing more firepower than they were.

Lotta good that did.

“What do you want, Agent Randolph?” Billy snarls. “I already gave my statement three times. I screwed up. All right? You happy? How much I gotta say it? Y’all get off on hearing me talk shit about myself, is that it?”

“Actually, sir,” Mason says, calmingly, “I came to offer you an apology.”

Billy frowns. Cocks his head. Definitely not what he expected to hear.

“When we met last week,” Mason continues, “I failed to impress upon you the urgency of the threat to your auction. I’m sorry. If I had, I’m sure you and your boys would’ve increased the ranch’s security and prepared for it accordingly. Probably would’ve thwarted it, too.”

Billy eyes Mason. Warily, then appreciatively. “Damn right we would’ve. Thank you, agent. You’re a good man.”

And you’re a stupid one to believe me, Mason thinks. Billy didn’t listen to a damn word he’d said. Practically laughed in his face. If anything, this two-bit gun-toting cowboy owes him an apology.

But Mason keeps those thoughts to himself. He knows there’s no point in going to war with one of the best witnesses he’s got. So today, he’ll be the mature one. Besides, a big reason he got to be one of the region’s top agents in the first place is his finely honed instinct for when to use vinegar and when to use honey.

“If you think of anything else, Mr. Reeves, you’ve got my card, right?”

With a tug on the brim of his cowboy hat, Mason heads out the door.

Next, he walks all around the ranch’s grounds, silently taking everything in. He works best this way: soaking in the big picture, gradually narrowing in on the little stuff, and letting his brilliant mind wander and play and make connections.

Mason sees a team of white-suited techs exiting the stable holding in their gloved hands an old leather bag that resembles a violin case. Interesting.

Inside the building and across the lawn, techs are extracting bullets, collecting spent shell casings, and snapping pictures.

At the valet stand, still others are making a plaster mold of the tire tracks of what witnesses say was a mid-1990s F-150 the bad guys used to make their escape.

Mason surveys the complex crime scene solemnly.

Yep, this is one big old pile of shit. And he’s up to his knees in it.

Sweating like a pig in the July Texas heat, Mason dabs at his brow with a lacy handkerchief embroidered with his initials that he keeps tucked in his suit’s left breast pocket. It’s old and ratty, worn thin from years of use and washing. Mason knows it’s not the most attractive, or manly, accessory. He should probably spring for a new one.

But the handkerchief was a long-ago gift from someone very dear to him. And in his line of work—hell, in his entire life —he doesn’t have all that many people who fit that description. So it’s not going anywhere.

Suddenly, Mason’s cell phone rings, interrupting the quiet. He answers. He listens.

He can barely contain his excitement.

“Thank you, Detective. Sounds like this case just broke wide open.”

Mason hangs up and jogs back to his car.

He just might catch these bastards after all.

4 minutes, 45 seconds

I’m paralyzed. Frozen solid.

My spine has been severed clean in two.

My brain is screaming at my muscles to move, but they just won’t listen.

At least, that’s how it feels.

I’m standing in the farmhouse in the second-floor hallway…right outside Alex’s bedroom door. It’s shut. Which is how it’s been for almost five months now.

I’m finally going to open it. Start cleaning out his room.

At least, that’s my intention.

By all “official” measures, my son has been 100 percent erased from existence for some time now. Every last piece of paperwork has been signed and stamped and filed. His health-insurance policy has been canceled. His name as a beneficiary in my will has been removed. His meager savings account has been closed. His high-school enrollment has been withdrawn. His cell phone plan has been terminated. His Texas State death certificate has been issued. His obituary has been published.

In the eyes of the law, Alexander J. Rourke no longer exists.

But in the eyes of his mother, he’s more present than ever.

I know that feeling will never go away. And I don’t want it to. Alex is and always will be an enormous part of my life—maybe more so now than when he was alive. His memory has pushed me to do things recently I never thought I could.

Still, his bedroom’s a damn mess. (I can remember, sadly, scolding him for five minutes at breakfast the morning before he died.) It’s time to get started.

I take a deep breath. I’m ready.

I inch my hand toward the doorknob…closer, closer…then instantly recoil when I touch the chilly brass, as if it were a hot stove.

Come on, Molly. You can do this.

I force myself to calm down. The horse-auction heist was only yesterday and I’m still pretty jittery.

So maybe I’m not ready. Maybe I’m rushing this, trying to do too many big things at once. Maybe if the universe sent me some kind of sign…

No. Stop it.

Okay. I try again. I rest my hand on the doorknob…

And actually twist it a half turn! The latch sticks a bit, then releases. I’m about to push open the door—

Boom-boom-boom!

I gasp, startled. Someone’s on the porch, pounding on the front door.

“Sheriff’s Department! Open up!”

Shit! The police! Here? Now? But how? My plan was perfect!