James Patterson - Don’t Blink

Not quite yet, though. No sooner did the elevator arrive than we were stopped by a man’s voice coming from down the hall. He was calling out Phalen’s name.

Immediately, Phalen muttered something under his breath.

“What did you say?” I asked.

“Huh? Oh, nothing,” he answered. “I was just saying we’ll catch the next elevator.”

But I was almost positive that wasn’t what he’d said. In fact, I was pretty sure he’d muttered only two words. Holy shit.

As if he couldn’t believe something. Like what? This bruiser coming down the hall?

“Oh, hey, Ian,” said Phalen as the man caught up to us at the elevator. “How are you?”

“I’m good,” he said. “You got a minute?”

The two of them started to talk shop for a bit – at least, I think that’s what they were doing. I tuned out mostly, my ears giving way to my eyes and how different these two guys were physically. Derrick Phalen was a lean, compact man with short-cropped brown hair and a square jaw. Ian LaGrange was much taller and considerably wider. To be blunt, the word fat came to mind. So did the all-you-can-eat buffet at Caesars Palace in Vegas.

Of course, I didn’t even know then that Ian LaGrange was, well, Ian LaGrange.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” said Phalen, suddenly realizing he hadn’t introduced me. “Ian, this is Nick Daniels.”

“Nice to meet you, Nick,” said LaGrange as we shook hands.

Phalen turned to me. “Ian’s the deputy attorney general in charge of the Organized Crime Task Force. Or, as I like to call him, the Godfather.”

“It does have a nice ring to it, I have to admit,” LaGrange said, smiling through his scruffy beard. “So where are you guys heading?”

“We’re getting a quick bite to eat,” said Phalen. “Just across the street.”

LaGrange glanced down. “You’re wearing your vest?” he asked. “Derrick?”

“We’re only going across the street,” Phalen repeated.

“Yeah, and Lincoln was just going to the theater. Go put it on.”

Phalen shot LaGrange an exasperated look that reminded me of a teenage son catching heat from his father.

“Vest?” I asked.

“Bulletproof vest,” said Phalen before turning around for his office. “I’ll be right back.”

Wait a minute. The guy needed a bulletproof vest to go out in public? More important, where was mine?

“Hey, we could always order in!” I called after him. It sounded funny but I wasn’t really joking.

“Don’t worry, it’s just office policy,” said LaGrange, trying to reassure me. “There’s never been an attempt on anyone working for the OCTF.”

I was going to make some crack about there always being a first time for everything, but I bit my tongue. I’d only just met this guy. I didn’t know his sense of humor or for that matter anything else about him. Except his size.

“So what line of work are you in, Nick?” he asked. Very cool and casual-like.

Uh-oh. Careful, now.

“I’m a writer,” I said.

“No kidding. What do you write?”

“Articles, mostly. I work for Citizen magazine. You heard of it?”

“Sure have. Is that why you’re here to see Derrick?” he asked. “To do an article?”

There was no outright concern in his voice, but I knew subtext when I heard it. No way he was asking just to make idle conversation in the hallway.

And I wasn’t about to give an answer that could get Phalen in any kind of trouble.

“No. Derrick’s actually helping me out with some background on a novel I’m writing,” I said. “Verisimilitude and all that.”

“No kidding. We help out on the Alex Cross books sometimes.”

“Never read them,” I said.

I watched closely as LaGrange nodded, relieved when he quickly changed the subject. He asked which restaurant we were going to.

“Actually, I don’t know,” I told him.

He seemed to believe me. And as far as I could tell, LaGrange didn’t know that I was lying about why I was in his building to see Phalen.

He had bought the novel line.

At least that’s what I thought.

Only it turned out Ian LaGrange knew exactly what I was up to. The real surprise, however, was how the big man knew.

As Phalen had said himself…

Holy shit.

And then some.

DERRICK PHALEN RETURNED to his office after lunch with Nick Daniels and did very little but stare up at the grid of white ceiling tiles above his desk. He stared at the ceiling for a good twenty minutes straight. The prosecutor had a lot to digest and it certainly wasn’t the pasta fagioli. It wasn’t even the very interesting story he’d just heard from Nick Daniels.

“Knock, knock,” came a voice at his door.

Instinctively Phalen looked to see who it was, but he really didn’t need to. He knew it was Ian LaGrange, and not because of his boss’s all-too-familiar baritone.

No, he expected the Godfather to be dropping by sooner or later. Probably sooner.

“Hey, Ian, what’s up?”

“Not much,” said LaGrange. “How was your lunch with the writer – the novelist?”

Phalen rolled his eyes up toward the ceiling tiles. “Don’t ask. All I can say is, that’s the last time I do a favor for a friend.”

“Why? What do you mean?”

“That guy I introduced you to at the elevator is a writer for Citizen magazine. As a favor to his editor I agreed to give him some research, a little help for a novel he’s working on. Only it turns out there’s no novel.”

“I don’t follow,” said LaGrange. “What was he here for, then?”

“It was a ruse,” said Phalen. “What the guy actually wanted to do was sell me on this crazy idea that it wasn’t Eddie Pinero who ordered the hit on Vincent Marcozza. What kind of bullshit is that?”

“You’re kidding me.”

“I wish I were. The guy’s a real conspiracy nut. It was like having lunch with Oliver Stone.”

LaGrange laughed. “So if Eddie Pinero didn’t order the hit on Marcozza, who did? In his opinion?”

“That’s the thing. He didn’t know.”

“Gee, and let me guess, he wanted your help in finding out.”

“Exactly,” said Phalen.

“So what did you tell him?”

“A polite version of Go sell your crazy somewhere else, you nutbag. What else could I do?”

“Thatta boy,” said LaGrange, tipping an imaginary cap at Phalen. “Keep your distance from the guy, okay? Writers like that, all they can spell is trouble for everybody concerned.”

“Consider it done.”

As LaGrange strolled off, Phalen leaned back in his chair, his eyes finding their way back up to the white ceiling tiles. Slowly, he exhaled.

He’d been holding his breath the entire time, hoping that LaGrange would believe him.

It hadn’t been easy.

Hell, no. Ian LaGrange – the Godfather – hadn’t gotten to where he was by being anybody’s fool. Bluffing him was like tap dancing to ZZ Top on a tightrope.

But it was nothing compared to what Phalen was going to do next.

“I CAN’T FREAKIN’ believe I’m doing this,” Phalen muttered to himself as he slowly walked down the deserted and dark hallway of the OCTF offices at close to midnight that same evening.

But of course he could believe he was doing this. He even knew why.

If he’d learned anything in his nearly three years with the Task Force, it was that his family of fellow prosecutors actually shared one major similarity with the Mafia families they were trying to take down: the motto Never Trust Anyone.

Including the Godfather.

Granted, it was impossible to work for the OCTF without succumbing to a little paranoia. Phalen didn’t have to look any further than the standard-issue bulletproof vest.