James Patterson - Tick Tock

He was well aware that he was breaking every rule of table etiquette. No doubt about it, he had a soft spot for food. When it came to meals, he literally became overwhelmed, almost drugged, with all the smells and tastes and, lately, even textures. He was so unabashedly gluttonous, he didn't even use silverware anymore but went at it with his bare hands like a savage in order to heighten his obsessive pleasure. The consumption of food had become something shameless, almost horrifying, and yet in a very real sense, somehow divine.

Like the famous killers Berger so admired, he possessed an intensity of desire for certain things that other people either couldn't understand or were afraid to even consider.

The maitre d' cleared his throat.

"More wine, sir?" he whispered beside his ear.

Berger nodded as he ripped into the duck with his bare hands, fingernails tearing deliciously at the crispy, greasy skin.

More, Berger thought, filling his mouth until his cheeks bulged. My favorite word.

It was two in the afternoon when Berger got out of a taxi in Brooklyn's Grand Army Plaza. Dapper as can be in a chalk-pinstripe Alexander McQueen power suit, he carried a brown paper bag in his right hand, and in his left his lucky cane. The razor-sharp saber inside it had a grinning pewter skull for a handle that he kept hidden under his palm as he strolled.

He arrived at Sixth Avenue and made a right. A block up the leafy, brownstone-lined street, he paused by the steps of a church. He made the sign of the cross as he glanced at himself in the window of a parked Prius. He unbuttoned his jacket to show off his Hermes tie and handmade single-stitched Turnbull amp; Asser shirt. Now was not the time for Christian modesty.

He counted the addresses until he came to 485. He stepped up the stoop and rang the doorbell with the cane.

The forty-something redheaded man who opened the door was wearing a Fordham T-shirt and shiny black basketball shorts, both speckled with primer.

"Mr. Howard?" the man said, patting at his carrot-colored hair as he opened the door. "What brings you here?"

"I was in the neighborhood, Kenneth," Berger said, smiling. "I remembered you lived around here and thought I'd give you a buzz."

The man's name was Kenneth Cavuto. He'd been a real-estate financial analyst working for Lehman Brothers until the investment bank went belly-up in the financial meltdown. Berger had interviewed the man two weeks ago after contacting him from the Classifieds section of Craigs-list. On the Monday following, at $200,000 to start plus bonuses, Kenneth was supposed to begin running the capital market team of Berger's fictitious new investment start-up, Red Lion Investments.

"Here, I brought you a gift," Berger said, handing him the paper sack. "My mother always said when you go for a visit, ring the bell with your elbow."

"Hey, wow, thanks. You didn't have to do that," Cavuto said as he accepted the bag. "What is it?"

"Fresh strawberries and pot cheese," Berger said.

"What kind of cheese?" Cavuto said, looking into the bag.

"Pot. Though it's not the kind you're thinking of, you rascal. It's the latest thing at Whole Foods."

"Is that right?" Cavuto said with a shrug. "Please come in. Let me wash up, and I'll put on some coffee."

"Don't bother yourself," Berger said with a wave. "I just wanted to make sure we were buttoned down on your position. No one else has come in with a higher bid, I hope. You'll be there on Monday?"

"Of course, Mr. Howard. Nine a.m. sharp," the redhead assured him with a pathetic earnestness.

Berger smiled immediately as a three- or four-year-old blond girl appeared in the hall behind Cavuto.

"Hey, who's that?" Berger called to her. "Angela? Am I right?"

"That's right. You remembered," Cavuto said with happy surprise. "Angela, come here, baby."

Berger got down on one knee as she arrived next to her father. He looked at the funny-looking doll she was holding. It was Boots the Monkey from Dora the Explorer.

"Knock, knock," Berger said to her.

"Who's there?" Angela said, peering suspiciously at him.

"Nunya."

"Nunya who?" Angela said, smiling a little.

"Nunya business," Berger said, standing.

The little girl laughed. He always had a way with kids.

"Won't you come in?" Kenneth offered again.

"No, no. I'm off," Berger said. "I have to head over to the zoo in the park now, where my ex is waiting to get my little angel Bethany's fourth-birthday party started and-"

Berger snapped his finger.

"Where are my manners? Why don't you come? A couple of vice presidents from the firm will be there as well. It'll give you a chance to get acquainted before Monday."

"Really?" Cavuto said. "Sounds great. Give me five minutes to get ready."

Berger checked his flashy white-gold Rolex and made a face.

"Ah, but I'm already late, and it starts off with a guided tour for the kids. The ex-wife will lay into me if I'm not right there video-recording every millisecond of it."

Berger fished into his pocket and handed Cavuto his Red Lion Investments business card.

"How's this?" Berger said. "You and Angela can skip the animals and meet us for cake."

"But, Daddy! Animals! The monkeys! I want to see the monkeys," Angela said, tugging at her father's shirt and on the verge of tears.

"There I go again. Me and my big mouth," Berger said sheepishly as the girl actually started crying.

Berger snapped his fingers.

"I feel terrible, Ken. If you want, Angela and I can start ahead so she doesn't miss the tour. Then when you're ready, call us and we'll tell you what animal we're up to."

This was the do-or-die moment, Berger knew. Hang with the boss versus parental paranoia. Berger was banking on the fact that the unemployed analyst wasn't that used to being a stay-at-home dad, was still unsure of himself, still unsure of his instincts. And of course, if he said no, Berger would quickly switch to Plan B. Stun-gun the father, chloroform the girl, and get out of there.

"Yeah?" Cavuto finally said.

Berger held his breath. The fish was on the hook. Time to reel it in slowly.

"You know, on second thought," Berger said, checking his watch as he retreated a step down the stairs. The girl, sensing his departure, broke into full-fledged sobs.

"It's not too much of a pain?" Cavuto said.

"Of course not," Berger said, reaching out for the little girl's hand with a smile. "Bethany will be so happy to make yet another brand-new best friend."

"I won't be long," Cavuto called, fingering the fake business card as they started down the sidewalk.

Oh, yes, you will, Daddy, Berger thought as he waved good-bye. Longer than you'll ever know.

He turned around when they got to the corner. Cavuto had already gone inside. Instead of heading straight for the park and the zoo, he made a left, searching for a taxi.

"Hey, Angela. You thirsty? Want a juice box?" Berger said, taking out the Elmo apple juice that he'd laced with liquid Valium.

"Is it 'ganic?" the white-blond-haired tot wanted to know. "Mom only likes when I drink 'ganic."

"Oh, it's 'ganic, all right, Angela," Berger said as a taxi pulled to the curb. "It's as 'ganic as 'ganic can be."

That afternoon back in the city, I glued my butt to my squad room office chair and did nothing but go through Berkowitz's fan mail.

It was unbelievable. There were curiosity seekers, people who wanted autographs, softhearted and softheaded religious people wanting to save the serial killer's soul. Some old cat lady from England had sent him a feline family picture along with a check for $300 to buy himself "some gaspers," whatever they were. I'd have to run it by the Geico lizard next chance I got.