James Patterson - Kill Me If You Can

“Long time ago, I had one like this,” he said, eyeing my medical bag.

“Were you a doctor back in Athens?” I asked.

He shrugged. “You have a doctor bag. Are you a doctor?” he said, avoiding my question and adding to the mystery of his past. “Is the pretty lady coming today?”

“The lady is here,” Katherine said as she breezed in and plopped down on the other side of the booth. “She’s not feeling pretty, but she’s definitely thirsty.”

Gus brought Katherine her usual: a large glass of water, no ice, slice of lemon, and a straw. We ordered sandwiches — one turkey and tomato, one tuna melt — to be split in the kitchen so we could share.

“So, what’s the occasion?” she said. “What did I do to deserve a surprise?”

“It’s just my little way of thanking you for giving me an A for the semester.”

“I haven’t posted the grades yet, so your surprise sounds more like a bribe,” she said. “And Katherine Sanborne does not accept bribes.”

She took a long sip of her water. “But in your case, I’ll make an exception. Don’t keep me in suspense any longer. Where is it?”

I put the medical bag on top of the table.

“That’s it?” she said.

“You look disappointed,” I said.

“You said the surprise sparkles, so I was expecting one of those little robin’s-egg-blue boxes from Tiffany’s,” she said.

“Who knows?” I said. “Maybe Tiffany’s changed their packaging.”

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” she said.

She unclasped the brass latch and opened the bag.

I held my breath.

KATHERINE REACHED IN and pulled out a bundle of postcards that I had tied with a red ribbon.

“The Louvre, the Eiffel Tower, the Arc de Triomphe, Notre Dame Cathedral,” she said as she thumbed through the cards. “I’m beginning to sense a theme here.”

“There’s more,” I said. “Keep going.”

She took out a bottle of wine.

“Georges Duboeuf Beaujolais Nouveau,” she said. “Is this what sparkles?”

“No. It’s flat and cheap. On sale for seven bucks,” I said. “I spared no expense.”

“This is fun,” she said. “Like a treasure hunt.”

She reached in and took out two baguettes and a wedge of Brie. “Are we going on a picnic?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Where?”

“Keep digging,” I said.

She reached in and pulled out two e-tickets that I had printed from my computer an hour before.

And then she shrieked. “Paris? We’re going to Paris?”

She looked around and realized that half the people in the diner were watching us. “We’re going to Paris,” she said, in case any of them hadn’t heard her the first time.

Several people applauded.

“I don’t know what to pack,” she said. “When are we going?”

I pointed at the e-ticket.

She looked at it and shrieked again. “Tonight? Are you crazy?”

“Yes,” I said. “About you.”

“I can’t go tonight.”

“Sure you can,” I said. “We’ll travel light and buy what we need along the way. People who buy cheap last-minute tickets on the Internet are usually poor and flexible. I figure we qualify as both.”

She was dumbfounded and over the moon at the same time. “I only have eight hours to get ready. I don’t know what to do,” she said.

Two middle-aged women were sitting at a table across from us. One of them leaned over and said, “Honey, if you don’t go to Paris with this gorgeous guy, I will.”

“I’m going, I’m going,” Katherine said. “This is the most fantastic, most romantic, most extravagant gift I’ve ever gotten.”

Gus arrived with our lunch and took a look at the wine, the cheese, and the French bread. “That looks better than a tuna melt,” he said. “You want I should wrap up these sandwiches to go? You can have them for lunch tomorrow.”

“No can do, Gus,” I said. “Tomorrow the two of us are having lunch in the City of Light. I hear it really sparkles.”

RICE AND BENZETTI tracked down the cabbie who picked up Bagboy, their code name for the young guy with the bag full of diamonds.

“You remember this guy?” Rice asked, showing the driver the surveillance photo.

“No. Should I?”

“You had him in your cab the night of the bomb blast at Grand Central.”

He took a second look at the picture. “Oh, yeah, I remember. Crazy night. I picked up a fare who wanted to go to Jersey. This dude tagged along for the ride.”

“Where in Jersey did you take him?” Benzetti asked.

“He didn’t go the whole way. He’s a doc. I dropped him at St. Vincent’s Hospital downtown. And it was a free ride. No charge. Them kind of nights bring out the Good Samaritan in me.”

“Yeah, you got philanthropist written all over your face,” Benzetti said.

The two cops spent the next few hours hitting the shops, restaurants, and ticket windows at Grand Central, hoping to find someone who could ID Bagboy.

Whoever he was, he wasn’t a regular. Nobody recognized him.

“Let’s talk to the uniform who pulled the gun on him,” Benzetti said.

“His name’s Ruben Kendall,” Rice said. “He’s over at the Seventeenth.”

“I don’t want to make a house call,” Benzetti said. “Too many people know us there and will ask why we’re nosing around. See if you can get him to meet us on the outside.”

Rice called the Seventeenth Precinct and got Kendall on the phone.

“Officer Kendall, this is Detective John Rice. Nice job the other night at Grand Central.”

“Um, thanks. What can I do for you?”

“I’m trying to wrap up some paperwork on that whole bomb thing,” Rice said. “Got time for a few quick questions?”

“Sure. Come on over to the precinct.”

“If my partner and I set foot inside the Seventeenth, we’ll run into at least a dozen guys who will want to catch up and schmooze about the old days,” Rice said, faking a chuckle. “Would you mind popping outside? We’re in a black Chevy Tahoe around the corner at Fiftieth and Third.”

“No problem. I’ll be right there.”

At six four, two hundred and forty pounds, Officer Ruben Kendall was an intimidating presence. But his baby face and warm brown eyes transformed the tiger into a pussycat.

The two detectives got out of their car and introduced themselves. Rice handed him the surveillance photo. “You recognize this guy?”

The cop took a quick look. “That’s the doc from the other night at Grand Central.”

Benzetti jumped in. “How’d you know he was a doc?”

Kendall hesitated. He knew a loaded question when he heard one.

“He…he told me,” Kendall said.

“He told you?” Benzetti said.

Kendall put a hand across his eyes and slid it down his face. “I never got around to checking his ID. It was a madhouse. It was like nothing they teach you at the Academy.”

“I went to the Academy,” Benzetti said, “and I distinctly remember being told, if you see a guy standing over a dead body, check his ID.”

“Hey, man, people were insane, trying to get out of the station, and then I got a ten-thirteen call,” Kendall said. “‘Multiple looters. Officer needs assistance.’ This guy wasn’t a threat. I took off.”

“Listen, kid, nobody expects you to check IDs during a terrorist attack,” Rice said, putting a hand on Kendall’s shoulder and oozing Good Cop from every pore. “So the guy said he was a doc. What else can you tell us about him?”

The cop pulled a pad from his pocket. “I remember he said he worked at St. Vincent’s,” Kendall said as he flipped through the pages. “He gave me his name and I wrote it — here it is. Jason Wood. Dr. Jason Wood. Does that help?”