James Patterson - Cat & Mouse

I could feel Gary Soneji here in Goldman’s room, I could see him, and it stunned me that I could imagine his presence so strongly, physically and emotionally. I remembered a time when Soneji had entered my home in the night and with a knife. Why would he come here? I wondered. Was he warning me, playing with my head?

“He definitely wanted to make a high-profile statement,” I muttered, more to myself than to Carmine Groza. “He knew that Goldman was running the case in New York. He’s showing us that he’s in complete control.”

There was something else, though. There had to be more to this than I was seeing so far. I paced around the bedroom. I noticed that the computer on the desk was turned on.

I spoke to one of the techies, a thin man with a small, grim mouth. Perfect for homicide scenes. “The computer was on when they found Detective Goldman?” I asked.

“Yeah. The Mac was on. It’s been dusted.”

I glanced at Groza. “We know he’s looking for Shareef Thomas, and that Thomas was originally from New York. He’s supposed to be back here now. Maybe he made Goldman pull up Thomas’s file before he killed him.”

For once Detective Groza didn’t answer. He was quiet and unresponsive. I wasn’t completely certain myself. Still, I trusted my instincts, especially when it came to Soneji. I was following in his bloody footsteps and I didn’t think I was too far behind.

THE SURPRISINGLY hospitable New York police had gotten me a room for the night at the Marriot Hotel on Forty-second Street. They were already checking on Shareef Thomas for me. What could be done was being taken care of, but Soneji was on the loose for another night on the town.

Shareef Thomas had lived in D.C., but he was originally from Brooklyn. I was fairly certain Soneji had followed him here. Hadn’t he told me as much through Jamal Autry at Lorton Prison? He had a score to settle with Thomas, and Soneji settled his old scores. I ought to know.

At eight-thirty I finally left Police Plaza, and I was physically whipped. I was driven uptown in a squad car. I’d packed a duffel bag, so I was set for a couple of days, if it came to that. I hoped that it wouldn’t. I like New York City under the right circumstances, but this was hardly Fifth Avenue Christmas shopping in December, or a Yankees World Series game in the fall.

Around nine, I called home and got our automatic answering machine-Jannie. She said, “is this E.T.? You calling home?”

She’s cute like that. She must have known the phone call would be from me. I always call, no matter what.

“How are you, my sweet one? Light of my life?” Just the sound of her voice made me miss her, miss being home with my family.

“Sampson came by. He was checking on us. We were supposed to do boxing tonight. Remember, Daddy?” Jannie played her part with a heavy hand, but it worked. “Bip, bip, bam. Bam, bam, bip.” she said, creating a vivid picture out of sound.

“Did you and Damon practice anyway?” I asked. I was imagining her face as we talked. Damon’s face. Nana’s, too. The kitchen where Jannie was talking. I missed having supper with my family.

“We sure did. I knocked his block right off. I put out his lights for the night. But it’s not the same without you. Nobody to show off for.”

“You just have to show off for yourself,”I told her.

“I know, Daddy. That’s what I did. I showed off for myself, and myself said, ‘Good show.’”

I laughed out loud into the phone receiver. “I’m sorry about missing the boxing lesson with you two pit bulls. Sorry, sorry, sorry,” I said in a bluesy, singsong voice. “Sorry, sorry, sorry, sorry.”

“That’s what you always say,” Jannie whispered, and I could hear the crackle of hurt in her voice. “someday, it’s not going to work anymore. Mark my words. Remember where you heard it first. Remember, remember, remember.”

I took her counsel to heart in the lonely New York City hotel room as I ate a room-service burger and looked out over Times Square. I remembered an old joke among shrinks: “Schizophrenia beats eating alone.” I thought about my kids, and about Christine Johnson, and then about Soneji and Manning Goldman, murdered in his own house. I tried to read a few pages of Angela’s Ashes, which I’d packed in my bag. I couldn’t handle the beautifully described Limerick ghetto that night.

I called Christine when I thought I had my head screwed on straight. We talked for almost an hour. Easy, effortless talk. Something was changing between us. I asked her if she wanted to spend some time together that weekend, maybe in New York if I still had to be here. It took some nerve for me to ask. I wondered if she could hear it in my voice.

Christine surprised me again. She wanted to come to New York. She laughed and said she could do some early Christmas shopping in July, but I had to promise to make time for her.

I promised.

I must have slept some finally, because I woke in a strange bed, in a stranger town, wrapped in my bedsheets as if I were trapped in a straitjacket.

I had a strange, discomforting thought. Gary Soneji is tracking me. It’s not the other way round.

HE WAS the Angel of Death. He had known that since he was eleven or twelve years old. He had killed someone back then, just to see if he could do it. The police had never found the body. Not to this day. Only he knew where all the bodies were buried, and he wasn’t telling.

Suddenly, Gary Soneji drifted back to reality, to the present moment in New York City.

Christ, I’m snickering and laughing to myself inside this bar on the East Side. I might have even been talking to myself.

The bartender at Dowd amp; McGoey’s had already spotted him, talking to himself, nearly in a trance. The sneaky, red-haired Irish prick was pretending to polish beer glasses, but all the time he was watching out of the corner of his eye. When Irish eyes are spying.

Soneji immediately beckoned the barmon over with a wave and a shy smile. “Don’t worry. I’m cutting myself off. Starting to get a little out of control here. What do I owe you. Michael?” The name was emblazoned on the barmon’s shirt tag.

The phony, apologetic act seemed to work okay, so he settled his bill and left. He walked south for several blocks on First Avenue, then west on East Fiftieth Street.

He saw a crowded spot called Tatou. It looked promising. He remembered his mission: He needed a place to stay the night in New York, someplace safe. The Plaza hadn’t really been such a good idea.

Tatou was filled to the rafters with a lively crowd come to talk, rubberneck, eat and drink. The first floor was a supper club; the second floor was set up for dancing. What was the scene here about? he wondered. He needed to understand. Attitude was the answer he came up with. Stylish businessmen and professional women in their thirties and forties came to Tatou, probably straight from work in midtown. It was a Thursday night. Most of them were trying to set up something interesting for the weekend.

Soneji ordered a white wine and he began to eye the men and women lined up along the bar. They looked so perfectly in tune with times, so desperately cool. Pick me, choose me, somebody please notice me, they seemed to plead.

He chatted up a pair of lady lawyers who, unfortunately, were joined at the hip. They reminded him of the strange girls in the French movie La Ceremonie. He learned that Theresa and Jessie had been roommates for the past eleven years. Jesus! They were both thirty-six. Their clocks were ticking very loudly. They worked out religiously at the Vertical Club on Sixty-first Street. Summered in Bridgehampton, a mile from the water. They were all wrong for him and, apparently, for everyone else at the bar.