James Patterson - Kill Me If You Can

“According to my father, there are two ways to pack,” I explained to the cat. “The Marine way and the wrong way. First rule: travel light. Unless you’re flying to the moon, you can buy anything you didn’t bring. If you know what you’re doing, you can go around the world with one bag.”

My one bag was a well-traveled Red Oxx Sky Train, the world’s most efficient carry-on. I opened it up and then started bundle-wrapping. It’s an old military trick that saves space and avoids creases. It’s also a great way to hide things in plain sight.

You lay your clothes out flat, one on top of the other, biggest stuff on the bottom. At the top of the pile, you put a central core object. Mine is always an organizer pouch filled with socks and underwear. Then you carefully fold your clothes over the core, one by one, until you have a compact little bundle. Once you master the technique, you’ll never pack any other way.

I had done it hundreds of times, but this time, my central core was the medical bag and my socks filled with diamonds.

“I know it’s risky, smuggling these into a foreign country,” I told Hopper. “If I get caught by French customs, I could wind up in jail. Even worse, if anyone finds out I’m the guy who has Mr. Zelvas’s diamonds, I could wind up dead. If that happens, Hopper, my neutered little friend, you’ll have to stay at the cat sitters’ forever. But it’s worth the risk. If I can sell these, I’ll be in fat city. Even if I get half of the thirteen million they’re supposed to be worth, I’ll still be pretty much set for life.”

I got another meow.

“You’re right. We’ll be set for life. You, me, Katherine, and maybe a couple of rug rats. Don’t get excited, I’m not talking about actual rodents, I mean—”

The doorbell rang, and I checked the monitor.

“It’s Katherine,” I told Hopper. I zipped up the Sky Train and buzzed her in.

She came bounding up the stairs, wearing jeans, a navy sweater, and a New York Yankees baseball cap.

“This is all I brought,” she said, dropping a soft-sided canvas carry-on bag to the floor.

“Boy, when I said travel light, you really took me seriously,” I said.

“Everything is washable,” she said. “Plus, I’m hoping you rented one of those Paris hotel rooms where clothing is optional.”

I turned to the cat. “What did I tell you? She’s one in a million.”

I wrapped my arms around Katherine’s slim waist and pulled her close. Her breath was warm and sweet. Her lips were soft and seductive.

This was joy. This was all I ever needed. I had my art, I had the woman I wanted to be with for the rest of my life, and if things went according to my makeshift plan, I was about to have all the money I’d ever need.

Nothing could stop me now.

“HIS NAME IS BANNON,” Gravois said. “Matthew Bannon.”

Marta didn’t have to write it down. It was seared in her mind. “What took you so long, Etienne?” she said. “Please don’t tell me you decided to meet your wife for dinner after all.”

“No, no, I didn’t meet my wife.”

“If I find out you did, I’ll kill her and make you watch.”

“I swear I went straight back to the office, but my boss was still there. He knew it was my wife’s birthday and wanted to know why I came back. I told him we had a fight. Then I had to wait for him to go home.”

“Why?”

“He hovers,” Gravois said. “What was I supposed to do? Tell him I came back to break into confidential police files and download data for some assassin’s next target?”

Marta lit a cigarette. She was, as always, in a no-smoking hotel room. They were always so much cleaner than the rooms that allowed smoking. Most smokers were pigs. Not her.

She inhaled deeply and watched the smoke billow into the air slowly. She took a second drag so that Gravois could suffer in silence for at least a minute.

“All right,” she finally said, “I’ll take your word for it. Now tell me about this Matthew Bannon.”

“He’s not in the criminal database,” Gravois said. “I picked him up through his military records. He’s an American, served in the Marines.”

“Combat-trained?”

“Very. He did a tour in Iraq and two in Afghanistan.”

“Where is he now?”

“New York. He’s a student.”

“A student?” Marta said. “How old is he?”

“Thirty. He’s a master’s candidate in Fine Arts at Parsons in Manhattan.”

“A combat-trained Marine studying Fine Arts? He sounds conflicted.”

“There was nothing in his military records about psychological problems,” Etienne said.

“Relax, Etienne. I was only making a joke.”

“Oh,” the Frenchman said, laughing. “Yes. Very funny.”

“Where can I find Mr. Bannon?”

“His apartment is on Perry Street,” he said, and gave her the number. “Parsons is a few blocks away on West Thirteenth.”

Marta smiled. And St. Vincent’s Hospital is on West Twelfth. Maybe that dumb cop wasn’t so dumb after all.

“I can e-mail you a complete dossier with his address, phone number, military records, and his school transcript,” Etienne said.

“All that’s missing is his obituary,” Marta said.

Etienne laughed loud and hard.

“I wasn’t joking,” Marta said.

“I’m sorry. The German sense of humor is so different from the French.”

“Yes,” Marta said. “We’re not funny.”

Etienne held his breath, trying to guess whether to laugh or not. “It’s late, Marta,” he said. “Do you need anything else?”

“Not tonight. Why don’t you go home and wish your wife a happy birthday,” she said.

“Merci.”

“And many more,” Marta added. “But that, of course, will be entirely up to you.”

She hung up the phone.

MARTA HAD A rule when on a job: Never leave an impression that can’t be forgotten, controlled, or erased. Part of that meant never taking a taxi to a contract killing. Cab drivers remembered too much. She walked from the hotel to Times Square, then blended into the evening rush hour and caught the downtown number 1 train to Sheridan Square.

Once out of the rush-hour mob, she had to watch her movements. Her determined stride turned into a casual saunter. She strolled along Christopher Street, gawking at store windows, looking more like a sightseer than a murderer on a mission. She headed north on Bleecker, where the street was wider and the stores and restaurants not nearly as funky.

At the corner of Bleecker and Perry, she stopped to look in the window of Ralph Lauren, checking the glass’s reflection for tails. Those moron cops might follow her, looking for payback. But she was clear, so she headed west on Perry, a tree-lined residential street dotted with classic West Village brownstones and town houses.

She walked slowly past Matthew Bannon’s building, then doubled back and walked past it again. Five stories. Bannon’s apartment was on the top floor. Compared with some of the other buildings, this one looked secure. But she’d faced tougher.

She climbed the six steps and tried the front door. Open. She stepped into the vestibule, where the security kicked up a notch — a closed-circuit camera and a heavy brass plate protecting the inner door from being jimmied.

The doorbells were clearly labeled. She pressed apartment 5, BANNON.

There was no answer, but then the inner door was opened.

A man came through, African American, early thirties, about six foot six, with a thick bull neck and a square head that was shaved clean. He barely looked at her, just pulled the inner door shut and quickly left the building.

She rang Bannon’s bell a second time. Still no answer. She rang all the bells. Someone would buzz her in and she’d wait for Bannon in his apartment.