Glenn Cooper - Library of the Dead aka Secret of the Seventh Son

He walked for the better part of an hour, getting sweaty, until he finally found one in a sandwich shop on North Beverly. It was in between breakfast and lunch and the place was not crowded. He felt like he was being watched by the few patrons, but it was imaginary. He melted into the drab hall near the restrooms and the back door. He’d changed a twenty back at the hotel, so armed with a pocketful of quarters, he rang the first of his numbers and got voice mail. He hung up without leaving a message.

Then the second-voice mail again.

Finally the last number. He held his breath.

A woman answered on the second ring. “Hello?”

He hesitated before he spoke. “Is this Laura Piper?” Mark asked.

“Yes. Who’s this?” Her apprehension was palpable.

“My name is Mark Shackleton. I’m the man your father is looking for.”

“Omigod, the killer!”

“No! Please, I’m not! You have to tell him that I didn’t kill anybody.”

Nancy was driving John Mueller to Brooklyn to interview one of the bank managers in the borough’s recent robbery spree. There was overwhelming surveillance and eyewitness evidence to indicate that the same two Middle Eastern-looking men were involved in all five jobs, and the Terrorism Task Force was breathing down the neck of the Major Crimes Division to see if there was a terrorism angle.

Nancy was unhappy about the second-guessing, but her partner was undisturbed.

“You can’t take these cases lightly,” he said. “Learn that lesson early in your career. We are in a global war on terror and I think it’s completely appropriate to treat these perps as terrorists till proven otherwise.”

“They’re just bank robbers who happen to look Muslim. There’s nothing to indicate they’re political,” she insisted.

“You’re wrong once, you’ve got the blood of thousands of Americans on your hands. If I had stayed on the Doomsday case, I would have pursued the possibility of terrorism there too.”

“There wasn’t any terror connection, John.”

“You don’t know that. Case isn’t closed, unless I missed something. Is it closed yet?”

She gritted her teeth. “No, John, it’s not closed.”

He hadn’t brought it up yet but this was his opening. “What the heck is Will doing anyway?”

“I believe he thinks he’s doing his job.”

“There’s always one right way to do things and multiple wrong ways-Will consistently finds one of the wrong ways,” he pontificated. “I’m glad I’m here to get your training back on the straight and narrow.”

When he wasn’t looking, she rolled her eyes. She was already agitated, and he was making things worse. The day began with a disturbing news story about the sniper-killing of Nelson Elder, surely a coincidence, but she was powerless to check into it-she was off the case.

Will might have gotten the news on the car radio or a motel TV, and anyway, she didn’t want to call and take the chance of waking him during one of his rest breaks. She’d have to wait for him to reach out to her.

Just as she was pulling into the bank parking lot in Flat-bush, her prepaid phone rang. She hurriedly unlatched her seat belt and scrambled out of the SUV to get far enough away to be out of Mueller’s range when she answered.

“Will!”

“It’s Laura.” She sounded wild.

“Laura! What’s the matter?”

“Mark Shackleton just called me. He wants to meet Dad.”

Will was climbing, which felt good to him because it felt different. He was ragged from fighting hypnotically flat terrain, and the I-40 gradient through the Sandia Mountains was helping his mood. Back in Plainfield, Indiana, he’d caught six hours at a Days Inn, but that was eighteen hours ago. Without another rest soon he’d nod off and crash.

When he stopped, he’d call Nancy. He’d heard about Elder’s murder on the radio and wanted to see if she knew anything. It was making him crazy, but there were a lot of things agitating him, including his forced abstinence. He was jittery, humoring himself in a silly voice:

“Maybe you’ve got a drinking problem, Willie.”

“Hey, screw you, the only problem I’ve got is that I haven’t had a drink.”

“I rest my case.”

“Take your case and shove it up your ass.”

And he was agitated over what he’d told Nancy the day before, the love business. Had he meant it? Was it fatigue and loneliness speaking? Did she mean what she said? Now that he’d uncorked the love word, he would have to deal with it.

Maybe sooner rather than later-the phone was ringing.

“Hey, I’m glad you called.”

“Where are you?” Nancy asked.

“The great state of New Mexico.” There were traffic noises on her side. “You on the street?”

“Broadway. Friday traffic. I’ve got something to tell you, Will.”

“About Nelson Elder, right? I heard it on the news. It’s driving me nuts.”

“He called Laura.”

Will was confused. “Who called?”

“Mark Shackleton.”

The line went quiet.

“Will?”

“That son of a bitch called my daughter?” he seethed.

“He said he tried your other numbers. Laura was the only way. He wants to meet.”

“He can turn himself in anywhere.”

“He’s scared. You’re the only one he says he can trust.”

“I’m less than six hundred miles from Vegas. He can trust me to fuck him up for calling Laura.”

“He’s not in Las Vegas. He’s in L.A.”

“Christ, another three hundred miles. What else did he say?”

“He says he didn’t kill anyone.”

“Unbelievable. Anything else?”

“He says he’s sorry.”

“Where do I find him?”

“He wants you to go to a coffee shop in Beverly Hills tomorrow morning at ten. I’ve got the address.”

“He’s going to be there?”

“That’s what he said.”

“Okay, if I keep going at this clip and take an eight-hour nap somewhere, I’ve got plenty of time to have a cup of coffee with my old buddy.”

“I’m worried about you.”

“I’ll stop for a rest. My butt’s sore but I’m okay. Your grandmother’s car wasn’t built for comfort or speed.”

He was happy he could make her laugh.

“Listen, Nancy, about what I said yesterday-”

“Let’s wait until this is over,” she offered. “We ought to talk about it when we’re together.”

“Okay,” he readily agreed. “Keep your phone charged. You’re my lifeline. Give me the address.”

Frazier hadn’t gone home since the start of the crisis, and he hadn’t let his men leave the Ops Center either. There was no end in sight; the pressure from Washington was intense and everyone was frustrated. They had Shackleton within their grasp, he lambasted his people, but an untrained piece of shit had somehow managed to slip the grasp of some of the best tactical ops men in the country. Frazier’s rear end was on the line and he didn’t like it being there.

“We need a gym down here,” one of his men groused.

“It’s not a spa,” Frazier spat out.

“Maybe a speed bag. We could hang it in the corner,” another one piped up from his terminal.

“You want to punch something, come over here and take a shot at me,” Frazier growled.

“I just want to find the asshole and go home,” the first man said.

Frazier corrected him. “We’ve got two assholes, our guy and the FBI turd. We need both of them.”

A Pentagon line rang and the speed-bag man answered and started taking notes. Frazier could tell from his body language that something was up.

“Malcolm, we got something. The DIA tappers picked up a call to Agent Piper’s daughter.”

“From who?” Frazier asked.

“Shackleton.”