James Patterson - Lifeguard

“Sorry, Ficke. Plan’s changed. ”

I PICKED UP MY PACE until I could see the Circle Ballroom up a set of stairs beyond the lobby bar.

There was a small crowd gathered at the door, people in tuxedos and evening gowns giving their names and presenting their invitations. Not exactly airline security. The kind of band music you swear you’ll never dance to was coming out of the ballroom. I just sort of melted in behind.

A white-haired woman looked at me as if I were Sponge-Bob SquarePants. The diamond pendants in her ears were about as large as Christmas ornaments. I squeezed past her, and then I was inside. “Sir!” I heard, but I ignored it.

You better make this work, Neddie.

The room was actually breathtaking, filled with fresh flowers, and this incredible chandelier hung from the coffered ceiling. The band was playing “Bad, Bad Leroy Brown,” done cha-cha style. Every woman I passed was dripping in diamonds – necklaces, rings, tiaras. The men wore crisply pressed tuxedos, with white kerchiefs folded perfectly. One man was in a kilt.

I started looking feverishly for Stratton. I knew I looked about as out of place as a Maori tribesman at the queen’s tea party.

Suddenly someone lifted me by the arm from behind, edging me away from the crowd. “Deliveries are in the back, Mr. Kelly,” the person spat into my ear.

I spun around. It was Champ, grinning. “Had you going for a second, didn’t I, mate!”

He was dressed like the perfect waiter holding a silver tray of caviar blinis. Except for the orange hair, he fit right in.

“Where’s Stratton?” I asked him.

“In the rear – where else would the asshole be?” Champ nudged me. “He’s the one wearing the tux… Relax, mate” – he put up his palm apologetically – “just trying to ease the mood.”

I caught a glimpse of Stratton through the crowd. Then I checked around for his goons.

“Ned,” Champ said, putting down his tray and squeezing my shoulder, “this is gonna work. Course, I say that before every jump and I’ve got a couple of permanently rearranged vertebrae that might tend to disagree.” He gave me a wink and knocked his fist against mine. “Anyway, no worries, mate… Friends are in the house. I’ve got your rear.”

“Ned!” A voice crackled in my earpiece. Ellie. “Ned, what’re you doing? Please… ”

“Sorry, Ellie,” I said, knowing she must be panicking now. “Just keep tuned in. Please. You’re gonna get your man.”

In the crowd, I spotted faces I recognized. Henry Kissinger. Sollie Roth, chatting with a couple of prominent business types. Lawson.

Then, I spotted Stratton in back. He was holding a champagne glass and chatting up some blonde in a low-cut gown. A few people around him were laughing. The joke was, Liz was barely in the ground and now he was the most celebrated bachelor in Palm Beach.

I sucked it up and started toward him.

As Stratton caught me approaching, his eyes grew wide. There was a sudden moment of surprise, then his composure returned, a nasty little smirk appearing on his face. Stratton’s friends looked at me as if I were delivering the mail.

“You’re a little early, Mr. Kelly. Weren’t we supposed to meet up in the room?”

“I’m right on time, Stratton. Plan’s changed. It occurred to me, why waste this wonderful event? I thought you and your friends might be interested to hear us conduct our business right here.”

UPSTAIRS IN ONE of the hotel suites, Ellie was panicking. She kept shouting into the microphone, “Ned, what’re you doing?” but Ned wasn’t answering.

“Abort,” Ficke was saying. “We’re calling this fiasco off.”

“We can’t do that,” Ellie said. She pulled herself up from her listening post. “Ned’s in the ballroom. He’s meeting with Stratton. He’s going through with it, now .”

“If we go down there, Special Agent Shurtleff,” Ficke said, glaring at her, “you can be damn sure it’ll be to pick him up, not help him. Show’s over.” He ripped off his headset. “I’m not getting the Bureau dragged down over this cowboy.” He nodded to the ops man. “Cut it off.”

“No,” Ellie said, shaking her head. “Give me two guys. We can’t just walk away from him. We promised. He’ll still need backup. He’s going through with it. He’s meeting with Stratton.”

“Then by all means stay and listen, Special Agent Shurtleff,” the agent in charge said at the door. “Tape’s rolling.”

Ellie couldn’t believe it. He was just folding it all up. Ned was down there. With no backup.

“He said he was going to bring us Stratton, and he’s doing it,” Ellie said. “We promised. We can’t just walk away from him. We’re going to get him killed.”

“You can take Downing,” Ficke said. “ And pick up Finch in the lobby.” He looked at her sort of indifferently. “He’s your asset, Special Agent Shurtleff. He’s your problem.”

“DO OUR BUSINESS HERE? ” Stratton said with that smug, unflappable smile of his, even though I knew he must be wondering what the hell was going on.

I met his smile with one of my own. “You killed my brother, Stratton. You didn’t think I was going to let you off without a little pain?”

A few heads turned. Stratton glanced around, clearly off guard.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr. Kelly, but for a man who’s currently under arrest and facing federal charges, I don’t see how you’re in any position to be hurling accusations at me.”

“He killed Liz, too,” I said, loud enough so that anyone nearby turned to hear. “And covered it up in that ridiculous affair because she was about to turn him in. He stole his own art and resold it, then had those people killed in Lake Worth to make it seem like a theft gone bad. But he’s been searching for something. Something that wasn’t supposed to be taken. Right, Mr. Stratton?”

I held out the wrapped shipping box.

Stratton’s eyes widened. “Oh, Mr. Kelly, whatever in the world do you have there?”

I had him. I had him nailed. I could see that always-incontrol veneer begin to crack and sweat form on his brow.

I spotted Lawson edging closer through the crowd. And worse, Stratton’s henchman, Ponytail.

“Too bad, then, that Moretti was killed by your own father,” Stratton said. “Why not tell everybody that? I think it’s you who’s doing the covering up. You’re the one out on bail. You don’t have the slightest proof.”

“The proof…” I looked at him and smiled. “The proof’s in the painting.” I held out the package. “The one you asked me to bring here tonight, Mr. Stratton. The Gaume.”

Stratton eyed the bundle, wetting his lips, a damp, nervous sheen bubbling up on his brow.

Hushed whispers trickled through the gathering crowd. People were crowding closer, trying to hear what was going on.

“This… this is absurd,” he started to stammer, searching for a friendly face. People were waiting for an answer. I was almost gleeful.

Then he turned back to me, but instead of unraveling, his face began to regain its accustomed control. “This pathetic act might actually work,” he said, his eyes lighting up, “if you actually had that painting in the box. Right, Mr. Kelly?”

The ballroom was suddenly silent. I felt as if every eye had turned to me. Stratton knew. He knew I didn’t have the goods. How?

“Go on, open it. Show the world your evidence. Somehow, I don’t think this is going to play very well when it comes to your sentencing.”