James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

Somebody had leaked the story to the Post ; somebody had also connected the dots for them. Other than maybe Bob Woodward, nobody at the newspaper could find it out by themselves. They weren’t that smart.

Who had leaked information to the Post ?

Why?

It didn’t make sense. Was somebody trying to sabotage the murder investigation? Who?

I didn’t walk Jannie and Damon to school that morning. I sat out on the sunporch with the cat and played the piano – Mozart, Brahms. I had the guilty thought that I should have gotten up earlier and helped out at St Anthony’s soup kitchen. I usually pitch in a couple of mornings a week, often on Sundays. My church .

Traffic was terrible that morning and the frustrating ride down to Quantico took me a little over an hour and twenty minutes. I imagined Senior Agent Nooney standing at the front gates, waiting impatiently for me to arrive. At least the ride gave me time to think over my current situation. I decided the best course of action, for now anyway, was to go to my classes. Keep my head down. If Director Burns wanted me on White Girl, he’d get word to me. If not, then fine.

That morning the class centered on what the Bureau called a ‘practical application exercise’. We had to investigate a ‘fictitious’ bank robbery, including interviews with victims and tellers. The instructor was another very competent SSA named Marilyn May.

About half an hour into the exercise, Agent May notified the class of a fictitious automobile accident about a mile from the bank. We proceeded as a group to Hogans Alley to investigate the accident, and to see if it had any connection to the bank robbery. I was being conscientious, but I’d been involved in actual investigations like this for the past dozen years, and it was hard for me to take it too seriously, especially since some of my classmates conducted interviews according to the instructional manual. I thought maybe they’d watched cop shows on television too often. Agent May seemed amused at times herself.

As I stood around the accident scene with a new buddy who had been a captain in the army before going into the Bureau, I heard my name spoken. I turned to see Nooney’s administrative assistant. ‘Senior Agent Nooney wants to see you in his office,’ he said.

Oh Christ, what now? This guy is nuts! I was thinking as I walked quickly to Administration. I hurried upstairs to where Nooney was waiting.

‘Shut the door, please,’ he said. He was seated behind a scarred oak desk, looking as if someone close to him had died.

I was getting hot under the collar. ‘I’m in the middle of an exercise.’

‘I know what you’re doing. I wrote the program and the schedule,’ he said. ‘I want to talk to you about the front page of today’s Washington Post ,’ he went on. ‘You see it?’

‘I saw it.’

‘I spoke to your former chief of detectives this morning. He told me that you’ve used the Post before. He said you have friends there.’

I tried hard not to roll my eyes. ‘I used to have a good friend at the Post . He was murdered. I don’t have friends there anymore. Why would I leak information about the abductions? What would I gain?’

Nooney pointed a rigid finger my way. He raised his voice. ‘I know how you work. And I know what you’re after – you don’t want to be part of a team. Or to be controlled or influenced in any way. Well, it’s not going to happen that way. We don’t believe in golden boys, or special situations. We don’t think that you’re more imaginative or creative than anyone else in your class. So get back to your exercise, Dr Cross. And wise up.’

Without saying another word I left the office fuming. I returned to the fake accident scene which Agent Marilyn May soon neatly connected to the fake robbery that had been staged in Hogans Alley. Some program that Nooney had written. I could have done a better one in my sleep. And yeah, now I was mad. I just didn’t know whom I was supposed to be mad at. I didn’t know how to play this game.

But I wanted to win.

Another purchase had been made – a large one.

That night, the Couple entered a bar called The Halyard, on the water in Newport, Rhode Island. The Halyard was different from most of the gay clubs in Newport’s so-called Pink District. There was the occasional glimpse of a bad-ass boot or spike-studded wristband, but most of the men who frequented the place sported tousled hairdos and boating dress, and the ever-popular Croakie-attached sunglasses.

The DJ had just selected a Strokes tune and several couples were dancing the night away. The Couple fit in, which is to say that they didn’t stand out. Slava wore a baby blue T-shirt and Dockers, and had gelled his longish black hair. Zoya had on a raffish sailing cap and made herself up to look like a pretty young male. She had succeeded beyond her own expectations for she had already been hit on.

She and Slava were looking for a certain physical ‘type’, and they had found a promising prospect soon after they arrived. His name, they would learn later, was Benjamin Coffey, and he was a senior at Providence College. Benjamin had first become aware that he was gay while serving as an altar boy at St Thomas in Barrington, Rhode Island. No priest ever touched or abused him while he was there, or even came on to him, but he discovered a like-minded altar server, and they became lovers when they were both fourteen. The two had continued to meet through high school, but then Benjamin moved on.

He was still keeping his sex life a secret at Providence College, but he could be himself in the Pink District. The Couple watched the very handsome boy as he chatted up a thirtysomething bartender, whose toned muscles were set off by the track lighting over his head.

‘The boy could be on the cover of GQ ,’ said Slava. ‘He’s the one.’

A strapping man in his fifties approached the bar. Close behind him were four younger males and a woman. Everyone in the group was wearing white ducks and blue Lacoste shirts. The bartender turned away from Benjamin and shook hands with the older man, who then turned to introduce his companions. ‘David Skalah. Crew. Henry Galperin. Crew. Bill Lattanzi. Crew. Sam Hughes. Cook. Nora Hamerman. Crew.’

‘And this’, the bartender said, ‘is Ben.’

‘It’s Benjamin,’ the boy corrected, and smiled brilliantly.

Zoya snuck a look at Slava and the two of them couldn’t help grinning. ‘The boy is just what we want,’ she said. ‘He’s like a cleaned-up version of Brad Pitt.’

He was definitely the physical ‘type’ that the client had specified: slender, blond, boyish, still probably a teenager, luscious red lips, intelligent-looking. That was a must – intelligence . And the buyer wanted no part of ‘chicken hawks’, young boys who sold themselves on the street.

Ten minutes or so passed, then the Couple followed Benjamin to the bathroom, which was white on white and sparkling clean. Illustrations of nautical knots had been drawn on the walls. There was a table elaborately set with colognes, mouthwashes, a teak box filled with amyl nitrite poppers.

Benjamin headed into one of the stalls and the Couple pushed in after him. It was a tight squeeze.

He turned when he felt a hard shove. ‘Taken,’ he said. ‘I’m in here. Jesus, are you two stoned? Give me a break.’

‘Arm or leg?’ said Slava, and laughed at his own joke.

They forced him to his knees. ‘Hey, hey,’ he called out in alarm. ‘Somebody help me. Somebody!’

A gauzy cloth was pressed tightly against his nose and mouth, and he became unconscious. Then the Couple lifted Benjamin up and supported him on either side, carrying him from the bathroom as if they were buddies helping someone who’d passed out.