James PATTERSON - The Big Bad Wolf

I nodded. ‘Are you aware of any local men, or even women, who might have taken an inappropriate interest in your wife? A longstanding crush, a potential obsession? That’s the one private area I’d like to go into. Then, any little things that strike you as out of the ordinary. Did you notice anyone watching your wife? Are there any faces you’ve seen around more than normal lately? Delivery men? Federal Express or other services? Neighbors who are suspicious in any way? Work associates? Even friends who might have fantasized about Mrs Connelly?’

Brendan Connelly nodded. ‘I see what you’re getting at.’

I looked him in the eye. ‘Have you and your wife had any fights lately?’ I asked. ‘I need to know if you have. Then we can move on.’

The corners of Brendan Connelly’s eyes suddenly moistened. ‘I met Lizzie in Washington when she was with the Post and I was an associate at Tate Schilling, a law firm there. It was love at first sight. We almost never fought, hardly ever raised our voices. That’s still true. Agent Cross, I love my wife. So do her daughters. Please help us bring her home. You have to find Lizzie.’

T he modern-day godfather . A forty-seven-year-old Russian now living in America, and known as the Wolf. Rumored to be fearless, hands-on, into everything from weapon sales, extortion and drugs to legitimate businesses such as banking and venture capital. No one seemed to know his true identity, or his American name, or where he lived. Clever. Invisible . Safe from the FBI. And anybody else who might be looking for him.

He had gotten the nickname Wolf in his twenties, when he made the switch from the KGB to become one of the most ruthless cell leaders in Russian organized crime, the Red Mafiya. His namesake, the Siberian wolf, was a skillful hunter, but also relentlessly hunted. The Siberian was a fast runner and could overpower much heavier animals – but it was also hunted for its blood and bones. The human Wolf was also a hunter who was hunted – except that the police had no idea where to hunt.

Invisible. By design . Actually, he was hiding in plain sight. On a balmy night in late September, the man called Wolf was throwing a huge party at his 20,000-square-foot house on the waterfront in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The non-occasion was the opening of the Monday Night Football season. The party was a three-year-old tradition among his friends and business associates. Tonight was also special because he was launching a new men’s magazine called Instinct , which would compete with Maxim and Stun .

In Lauderdale, the Wolf was known as Ari Manning, a wealthy businessman originally from Tel Aviv. He had other names in other cities. Many names, many cities.

He was passing through the den now, where about twenty of his guests were watching the game on several TVs, including a sixty-one-inch Rumco. A couple of football fanatics were bent over a computer with a statistics database. On a nearby table was a bottle of Stolichnaya encased in a block of ice. The vodka in ice was the only real Russian touch that he allowed.

At six foot two, this Wolf could carry 240 pounds and still move like a big and very powerful animal. He circulated among his guests, always smiling and joking, knowing that no one in the room knew why he smiled, not one of these so-called friends or business partners or social acquaintances had any idea who he was.

They knew him as Ari, not as Pasha Sorokin, and definitely not as the Wolf . They had no clue about the pounds of illegal diamonds he bought from Sierra Leone, the tons of heroin from Asia, and weapons and even jets sold to the Colombians, or white women purchased by the Saudis and Japanese. In south Florida, he had a reputation for being a maverick both socially and in business. There were more than 150 guests tonight, but he’d ordered food and drink for twice that number. He had imported the chef from Le Cirque 2000 in New York, and also a sushi cook from San Francisco. His servers were dressed as cheerleaders and were topless, which he thought a cheeky joke, guaranteed to offend. The famous surprise dessert for the party was Sacher tortes flown in from Vienna. No wonder everybody loved Ari. Or hated him.

He gave a playful hug to a former pro running back for the Miami Dolphins, talked to a lawyer who’d made tens of millions from the Florida tobacco settlement – exchanged a story about Governor Jeb Bush. Then he moved on through the crowd. There were so many ass-kissing social climbers and opportunists who came to his house to be seen among the right – and wrong – people: self-important, spoiled, selfish, and, worst of all, boring as tepid dishwater.

He walked along the edge of an indoor swimming pool that led to an outdoor pool more than twice the size. He chatted with his guests, and made a generous pledge to a private-school charity. Not surprisingly, he was hit on by somebody’s wife. He had serious conversations with the owner of the most important hotel in the state, a Mercedes-dealing mogul, and the head of a conglomerate, who was a hunting ‘buddy’ of his.

He despised all of these pretenders, especially the older used-to-bes. None of them had ever taken a real risk in their lives. Still, they had made millions, even billions, and they thought they were such hot shit.

And then – he thought about Elizabeth Connelly for the first time in an hour or so. His sweet, very sexy Lizzie. She looked like Claudia Schiffer and he fondly remembered the days when the image of the American supermodel was on hundreds of billboards all over Moscow. He had lusted for Claudia – all Russian men did – and now he had her likeness in his possession.

Why? Because he could . It was the philosophy that drove him and everything else in his life.

For that very reason, he was keeping her right here in his big house in Fort Lauderdale.

Lizzie Connelly couldn’t believe any of this awfulness was happening to her. It still didn’t seem possible. It wasn’t possible. And yet, here she was. A hostage!

The house where she was being kept was full of people. Full! It sounded like a party was going on. A party? How dare he?

Was her insane captor that sure of himself? Was he so arrogant? So brazen? Was it possible? Of course it was. He’d boasted to her that he was a gangster, the king of gangsters, perhaps the greatest who ever lived. He had repulsive tattoos – on the back of his right hand, his shoulders, his back, around his right index finger, and also on his private parts, on his testicles and penis.

Lizzie could definitely hear a party going on in the house. She could even make out conversations: small talk about an upcoming trip to Aspen; a rumored affair between a nanny and a local mother; the death of a child in a pool, a poor six-year-old, like her Gwynnie; football stories; a joke about two altar boys and a Siamese cat that she had already heard in Atlanta.

Who the hell were these people? Where was she being held? Where am I, damn it?

Lizzie was trying so hard not to go crazy, but it was almost impossible. All of these people, their inane talk.

They were so close to where she was bound and tied and gagged and being held hostage by a madman, probably a killer .

As Lizzie listened, tears finally began to run down her cheeks. Their voices, their closeness, their laughing, all just a few feet away from her.

I’m here! I’m right here! Damn it, help me. Please help me. I’m right here!

She was in darkness. Couldn’t see a thing.

The people, the party, were on the other side of a thick, wooden door. She was locked in a small room that was part closet; she’d been kept in here for days. Permitted bathroom breaks, but not much else.