James Patterson - The Quickie

I sipped my coffee, nodding. I'd bought it at Stop amp; Shop.

"What about the glasses?" I said.

"Not too much, sorry to say," Bonnie said. "There were no visible fingerprints on the lenses themselves. I red-balled them down to the lab to see if they might pick up a partial on the rims, but I wouldn't hold my breath. We're going to have to cross our fingers and see if we can get a hit on a prescription. I just got off the phone with this guy Sakarov, head of ophthalmology at NYU. He's going to analyze them and guide us through the records."

I burned my tongue with another sip of coffee, then placed the mug back down on the corner of her desk.

"Do you think I could see them?" I said.

Bonnie gave me a funny look.

"Why?" she said.

I shrugged my shoulders.

"I don't know," I said. "To get some sort of feel for this guy. Maybe? You never know."

Bonnie grinned as she stood.

"Okay, Psychic Detective. The lab's just down the hall. I'll go get them for you. You sit there and prime your mysterious powers until I get back."

I FINGERED THE GLASSES in my jacket pocket as I watched her walk off. My plan was to improvise, but what would I do? Say, "Look, Bonnie, a bird!" and then do the old switcheroo?

I drank my coffee and tried to think.

About a minute later, a scruffy-looking young man appeared in Bonnie's outer office. I watched him looking around, clearly lost. Maybe it was David Blaine, come to give me some sleight-of-hand tips.

I opened the door.

"Can I help you?" I called out.

"I'm looking for Sergeant Clesnik. I'm supposed to pick up a package for Dr. Sakarov?"

No! He was here for the glasses. I was out of time.

Or was I? The kid stared at me as I debated. Finally, I took the Duane Reade glasses in the evidence bag from my pocket. I found an empty envelope on Bonnie's desk. I dropped the glasses in, sealed it with a lick, and handed it over.

The kid put the envelope in his shoulder bag and stood there, staring at me. What now ? Bonnie was going to be back any second.

"Anything else?" I said.

He rubbed the scruff on his chin.

"How about your number?" Shaggy said with a sly smile. "That'd be cool."

As if. Like I hadn't had enough of younger men. Now, what could I say that would make the kid disappear instantly?

"What's your take on kids?" I said, looking into his eyes lovingly. "Because my four could really use a father figure."

"Take it easy," he said with a wave as he finally left.

Bonnie arrived back maybe three minutes later with Paul's glasses in an evidence bag.

"You're lucky you came early," she said. "A messenger is about to pick them up."

"Oh, no," I said. "Some guy just came in, and I sent him away. Let me run and catch up to him."

I grabbed the glasses out of Bonnie's hand as I jogged for the exit.

"Thanks for the joe, Bonnie. Call me with the first thing you hear," I yelled over my shoulder.

THE FIRST IMPORTANT THING I noticed as I stepped back into the Homicide bullpen was that my boss wasn't alone in his office. I had just enough time to put my coat on my chair before his door opened.

"Lauren," Keane called out. "Come in here, will you. I need to see you right now."

I silenced a groan as I walked across the boss's threshold.

Jeff Buslik looked up at me, his dark eyes clear and bright and vigilant.

"Afternoon, Detective," he said.

For the past five years, the extremely handsome African American Jeff Buslik had been the Bronx DA's office's Homicide Bureau chief. Everybody said he was an actual genius. I'd worked with him three times before he'd become head of the bureau, and three times he'd gotten jury convictions. Bronx jury convictions , slam-dunked with maximum sentences, state prison, twenty-five years to life.

I rubbed my eyes as I sat down.

"What do you have so far?" the prosecutor said. "Let me hear it all, Lauren."

"Give me a break, Jeff," I said. "You have my report right there in front of you. Speed-read it again. It'll be quicker."

Jeff smiled. No wonder juries liked him. He looked like a freaking movie star. Jeff had the gift of glib, too.

"Humor me," he said.

So I told him.

When I was done, he leaned back on his chair's back legs. He laid his hands on the lapels of his spotless gray suit as he stared up at the water-stained drop ceiling. His half-lidded eyes moved back and forth as if he were reading something. How many homicides had crossed his desk? I wondered. A thousand? Two thousand?

Already he was analyzing and sorting, building up the strengths and weaknesses of the case.

Or maybe he was just reading my mind, I thought, stilling the tap-tap routine my shoe had started against the floor. Christ, he made me nervous.

"This elderly witness, Amelia Phelps, does she seem believable?" he said after a minute.

I nodded. "Very believable, Jeff."

"Pathology report?"

"They're rushing it," my boss said. "But it'll still take at least a week."

"What's your gut on these two dealers?" Jeff said. "The Ordonez brothers?"

"They're looking damn good," Keane said. "Only, we're having trouble locating them."

"You think maybe they could be heading back to the Dominican Republic? I think maybe."

Wouldn't that be lovely, I thought.

"Who knows?" I said.

"Do you think these gentlemen are dumb enough to have the murder weapon on them?" Jeff said, creaking the chair back and forth with a flexing wingtip. "My juries love murder weapons. Murder weapons and DNA. Have to give them a crossover episode of CSI and Law and Order these days. You know that. We find the gun, hopefully with a little blood on it, it'll be over before it starts."

A vivid picture of the gun and bloody bag in my toolshed flashed through my brain.

"I've worked in this borough for a while, Jeff," I said nonchalantly. "Dumb is something I never underestimate."

Jeff gave me some more red-carpet wattage as he smiled broadly again.

"You seem to have your end covered as usual, Detective," he said. "I'll head back to the office and get started on boiler-plating some search warrants. Soon as you get an address, we'll be ready to go. Maybe shoot for the death sentence on this one."

I NEARLY IMPLODED in my desk chair after Jeff Buslik had left the building.

I thought I could handle this. Because I was in charge of the case, I thought I could get out in front of everything. Now I wasn't sure. In fact, I doubted it.

I'd been lucky so far, but how much longer could that last? Not long with clear-eyed Jeff Buslik staring over my shoulder. He could sense guilt the way a shark can smell blood.

Twenty minutes later, Mike came in with a dozen Dunkin' Donuts and a Box O' Joe.

Wow, a keg of caffeine. I wasn't high-strung enough yet?

"What's the word?" I said.

Mike shook his head.

"Jelly?" he said, opening the box. "Nobody knows squat. It's hurry-up-and-wait time. Boston cream?"

The rest of the day and into the night was spent "no commenting" the reporters, who called by the half hour, and flipping through Scott's case files.

Scott had really been a terrific undercover, I soon discovered. He'd been loaned out on stings to the FBI and the ATF and had actually gotten to be the right-hand man of a high-level guy in the Cali cartel.

I found a picture of Scott, smiling along with the rest of his interagency task force, as they posed in front of a white sandbag wall of seized cocaine. Oh, Scott .

I shook my head as I slapped the file closed and opened another.

A born bullshit artist, I thought, and I actually had to go ahead and believe him.