James Patterson - Don’t Blink

But then came the morning. And now I understood everything.

So did the rest of Manhattan, if not the world.

Someone had posted a video on YouTube. It starred the French supermodel Marbella, backstage a few days earlier at the Hermès fashion show in Paris. The stunning brunette had a cigarillo in one hand, a glass of champagne in the other – and next season’s must-have Jimmy Choo shoe planted firmly in her mouth.

A voice off camera asked the supermodel who the richest man she’d ever slept with was.

After a sip of the champagne and a puff of the cigarillo – removing the shoe from her mouth first – she looked straight into the camera and answered with her French accent. “Thomas Ferramore. Far and away, him!”

“When was that?” the off-camera voice asked.

She giggled and whispered, “Last night.”

Whoops.

I hadn’t actually seen the video, but news of it was splashed all over the papers, especially the New York Post that was opened on the diner counter in front of me as I gobbled up my fried eggs over easy and a stack of wheat toast. How do I stay at my current weight of 175? A very good gene pool. There’s no other possible answer.

Anyway. Of course I felt horrible for Courtney that she would have to endure such a public humiliation, but at the same time I couldn’t help selfishly hoping that this would change everything between her and Ferramore.

“Excuse me, is this your phone?” I suddenly heard to my left.

I turned to see a man sitting on the stool next to me. He must have just sat down, because I hadn’t noticed him. He was pointing at my iPhone on the counter between us.

“I’m sorry,” I said, moving it closer to me.

“No, it’s fine, it wasn’t in my way. I only wanted to make sure it was yours and not the person who was sitting here before me.”

“Oh,” I said. “Thanks. It’s mine, all right.”

I was about to turn back to my newspaper when he motioned to the article about Ferramore.

“That’s pretty amazing,” he said, “don’t you think?”

“Yep, it sure is,” I said, if only to be polite. I knew diner counters were prone to communal chitchat, but I really just wanted to finish eating and reading in peace, then get off to work and whatever else awaited me at Citizen that morning.

But the stranger wasn’t finished with his spiel. “That’s the thing about gossip. Everybody loves to stick their nose into other people’s business,” he said. “Then again, how much sympathy can you have for an engaged billionaire who sticks his prick in some Euro-trash supermodel’s business, right?”

I said nothing. I didn’t want to encourage the guy too much.

Not that it mattered.

“Isn’t that right, Nick?” he asked again.

Huh?

Not only did he not need any more encouraging, he clearly didn’t need an introduction.

“Do I know you?” I asked.

“No, Nick, you don’t. But I know you,” he said with a dead stare. “I also know you’re in a shitload of danger. The two of us should talk.”

OKAY, YOU’VE OFFICIALLY got my attention. Now let’s rewind the tape a bit. Who the hell are you?

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“It doesn’t matter,” he said.

“It does to me. Especially if you want this conversation to continue.”

He smiled, a real shit-eating New Yorker’s grin. He was enjoying this. “You can call me… Doug. Don’t you want to hear why you’re in danger, Nick?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “But for sure the cops sitting at the other end of the counter might. Would you like me to call them over?”

I have to admit I felt pretty smug pointing out the two policemen in uniform saddled up to the counter with their coffees about a dozen stools away.

But the stranger – Doug? – didn’t even bother to look. He kept his eyes trained on mine.

“The last time you were in a restaurant with two cops – that didn’t work out too well, did it? I don’t think so.”

I suddenly didn’t feel so smug, or protected, either.

“What do you want?” I asked. “Why did you follow me here?”

He casually pulled back the lapel of his sport coat to show me his holster. It sure wasn’t empty, and I was getting tired of seeing guns lately.

“What I want is for you to ask me nicely why it is that you’re in danger, Nick Daniels,” he said. “Say please. Better yet, say pretty please.”

I glanced at all the people around me. The Sunrise was packed for breakfast as usual, just like Lombardo’s was for lunch.

I could literally feel the sweat beginning to seep out from my pores. Not so good.

“Please tell me why I’m in danger,” I said, my voice nearly cracking. The stranger stared at me, saying nothing. He was waiting.

“Pretty please,” I added.

He leaned in close.

“You see, that’s what’s so intriguing,” he whispered. “Because I think you already know the answer, Nick.”

He tilted his head, inspecting the bruises around my eyes and mouth. They were now ripening to a soft purple. “In fact, you might say it’s written all over your face.”

“Who do you work for?” I asked.

“What makes you think I work for someone?”

It was actually a pretty good question, because he certainly didn’t come across as the “for hire” type. Unless, that is, IBM was doing the hiring. This guy was clean-cut, straight-laced. He didn’t look scary at all. Actually, he looked like a “Doug.”

And that was scaring me even more.

“You obviously know a lot about me,” I said. “What is it that you want me to do? Tell me what you want.”

“Now we’re making some progress. Finally,” he said with a satisfied nod. “What I want you to do is nothing. Whatever you’re planning on doing, whatever you’re even thinking of doing, I don’t want you to do it. Do you follow what I’m saying?”

“I think so.”

“Good. Because if you do nothing, maybe – just maybe – you’ll live to see another sunrise. Hey, make that another Sunrise Diner.”

With that wisecrack, he stood and walked away. Out the door, and out of the diner.

Gone.

But definitely not forgotten.

TWENTY MINUTES LATER, I was marching very quickly into One Hogan Place, otherwise known as the New York County District Attorney’s Office. Or David Sorren’s home away from home.

“Hi, Nick Daniels to see Mr. Sorren,” I said to his secretary, a young woman with big hair and an attitude to match. She acted as if I’d just interrupted her wedding ceremony.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Nick Daniels,” I repeated my introduction of myself. “I’m here to see David Sorren.”

“That’s what you think.”

“Excuse me?”

“Do you have an appointment to see Mr. Sorren?”

“No.”

“Is he expecting you?”

“No.”

“Yeah, like I said, that’s what you think.”

Cute, very cute. But in case you haven’t noticed yet, I’m in no mood for cute today. I’m a man with a mission, a man on fire.

I stormed right by her.

“Hey!” she shouted. “Come back here!”

But she was a little too slow on the draw. By the time she scrambled out of her evil little chair on wheels, I’d already opened the door to Sorren’s office. The funny thing was, he barely batted an eyelash as he looked up from a file he was reading.

“Hey, Nick, have a seat,” he said. Almost as if he actually was expecting me. “It’s all right, Molly.”

“Yeah, it’s all right, Molly,” I echoed him. “We’re good.”

I winked at his secretary, who shot me the royal stink eye as she closed the door on her way out. Then I did exactly what Sorren had invited me to do. I took a seat facing his big wooden desk.