James Patterson - The Quickie

Manhattan , my father used to say before we'd start his thrice-weekly walks from this very park. The greatest treadmill in the world.

His postretirement exercise routine consisted of riding the subway here to the last stop, walking over to Broadway, and seeing how many of Manhattan 's thirteen concrete miles he could cover before he got tired and hopped on an uptown subway headed back home. All through law school, I'd go with him if I had the chance. Listen to him talk about the crimes and arrests that occurred at the countless intersections. It was on one of those walks with Dad that I decided I wanted to be a cop rather than a lawyer. Wanted to be just like my father.

And it was right here, at the beginning of one of those walks, all alone, that he died of a heart attack. As if he'd have it no other way than to pass on the streets of the city he served and loved.

I rested the FBI report against the rusted railing before me as I listened to the dark waves slap against the concrete pier.

Just when I'd completed the toughest puzzle ever, Dad, I thought.

I'd been handed an extra piece.

Story of my life recently.

"What do I do, Pop?" I whispered as tears fell down my cheeks. "I don't know what to do."

There were exactly two options, I knew.

I could toss away Bonnie's gift, like I had the rest of the evidence, and head to my new life in Connecticut, a blissful soccer-mom-to-be.

Or I could slap myself out of my denial and figure out what the hell was going on with my life, and with my mysterious husband.

I held the envelope over the railing.

This was an easy one, right?

All I had to do was release my fingers and it would be over.

I would go to the train and head north, where safety, my husband, and my new life waited.

A gust of wind picked up off the water, flapping the envelope in my hand.

Let it go, I thought. Let it go, let it go.

But, finally, I dug my nails into the envelope and clutched it to my chest.

I couldn't. I needed to get to the bottom of this, no matter how hard, how ugly, it got. Even after everything I had pulled, all the craziness, all the hurting my friends and covering things up, I guess there was still some scrap of detective left in me. Maybe more than a scrap.

I closed my eyes tightly. Somewhere in the darkness of the park behind me, I sensed an old man stretching his legs, limbering up for a walk. As I turned around quickly to find a taxi, out of the corner of my eye I felt a figure nodding in my direction, a smile on his face.

IT WAS A LITTLE AFTER EIGHT the next morning when the barista at the Starbucks across from Paul's Pearl Street office building raised an eyebrow at me in surprise.

Jeez, I thought. You'd think she'd never seen a disheveled, emotionally demolished woman ask for the entire top shelf of the pastry case before.

After last night's Battery Park epiphany, I'd called Paul and told him that Bonnie wanted me to stay over in the city for old time's sake. Then I'd wandered up Broadway, like the homeless person I now was, until about midnight.

I'd made it all the way to The Midtown, just south of the Ed Sullivan Theater, when my legs quit on me.

I had just enough strength to toss the questionable orange-speckled bedspread into the corner of my three-hundred-dollar-a-night closet before I passed out. Pretty pricey, but Paul could afford it.

I woke up at 7 a.m., left the hotel without showering, and caught a taxi on Seventh Avenue, heading downtown to the financial district.

For the first time in a month, I had a game plan. I knew exactly what I had to do.

Interrogate Paul.

I didn't care what it took. I'd be both good cop and bad cop. I was tempted to bring the hotel phone book along in case I had to beat the truth out of him. One thing was certain. Paul was going to tell me what the hell was going on if it was the last thing he ever did.

And based on the way I was feeling as I stood in the Starbucks across from his office, that was a distinct possibility.

"Anything else?" the barista asked, pushing my five-figure-calorie breakfast across the counter.

"You don't have anything else," I told her.

In an oversize purple velvet wing chair positioned by the window, I read the FBI report, cover to cover.

I stared at the autoradiographs – the DNA vertical barcodes – for both crime scenes until my vision blurred.

There was no mistake, no denying what the pages said. I didn't have to know what variable number tandem repeat meant or what the heck an STR locus was to see that the two samples were one and the same.

I put the report down, and with one eye on the revolving doors of Paul's black-glass office building across the narrow street, I commenced a world-record round of compulsive eating. Hey, alcohol and nicotine were out. What's a very pissed-off, pregnant cop supposed to do?

I was licking chocolate icing off my fingers fifteen minutes later when, through the scrum of business suits and power ties, I spotted the sandy head of a man Paul's height turning into the office building. Good-looking guy, no denying it. That was one constant about my husband. Maybe the only one.

I knocked back the last of an espresso brownie, slowly brushed myself off, and grabbed the latte-stained FBI report.

Come out with your hands up, Paul, I thought as I crossed the still-shadowy canyon of Pearl Street. Your pissed-off, pregnant wife has a gun in her handbag.

But as I stood in line behind a FedEx guy at the security desk, I noticed something odd.

Paul was in the open door of one of the elevators.

Here we go again, I thought.

Unlike the rest of the invading, pin-striped financial army, he was making his way out, like a salmon swimming upstream, a lone salmon.

Whatever, I thought, taking a quick step toward him through the crowd. This saves me an elevator trip.

But as I got closer, I noticed the carry-on strapped across his chest. And the shopping bag in his hand.

The blue Tiffany shopping bag.

I stopped dead-still, and stayed silent as I watched him head toward the doorway.

CARRY-ON? TIFFANY BAG? Where was Paul going? What the hell was happening now? Did I really want to know?

Yes! I needed to find out, I decided, as I watched him flag a taxi.

His cab was pulling out when I whistled and caught the next one pulling in.

"At the risk of sounding clichéd," I told the orange-turbaned driver. "Follow that cab."

So we did. Up to Midtown Manhattan. Then through the Midtown Tunnel onto the Long Island Expressway.

When our cabs reached the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway, I called Paul's cell.

"Hey, Paul. What's up?" I said when he answered after a couple of ring-a-dings.

"Lauren," Paul said. "How was your sleepover?" I could actually see him through the rear window of the taxi in front of me, holding his cell to his ear.

"Terrific," I said. "Listen, Paul. I'm bored out of my mind. I was thinking of heading down to see you for lunch today. What do you say? That be okay?"

Here it is, Paul. Your moment of truth.

"Can't, babe," Paul said. "You know Mondays are impossible. We got six earnings reports coming in that have to be crunched and recrunched. I can see my boss from my desk right now. He's knocking back beta-blockers with his venti. If I get out of here by eight tonight, I'll be lucky. I'm sorry. I'll make it up to you, promise. How are you feeling?"

The green sign we were speeding under said " LaGuardia Airport." I had to hold my hand over the mouthpiece on my cell in order to muffle a sob.

"Just fine, Paul," I said after a second. "Don't worry about me. See you tonight." If not sooner, babe !