James Patterson - You’ve Been Warned

“Would you ever disappear from work this long without leaving a note?”

He’s right. I didn’t think that far ahead. “No,” I say. “In fact, I’m supposed to be getting the patio cleaned up for summer.”

Michael hits his speed dial. “So we need to buy you some time,” he says.

The next moment borders on surreal. So what’s new? I watch across the street as Penley breaks her lip-lock with Stephen and reaches into her purse. She checks her cell phone and immediately looks uneasily at Stephen, raising a finger to her mouth. Shhh.

She answers the phone, and I see her lips moving. This is weird but also exciting.

“Hi, honey, how are you?” says Michael, standing about a foot away from me. “You still at the gym?”

His voice is completely normal, even chipper, not a hint of stress.

This is so bizarre, I’m thinking. Of course, this is also so Michael, the same guy who threw his arm around my shoulder and introduced me to everyone at his business dinner. One cool cucumber.

I’ve got my eyes trained on Penley as my ears pick up her voice through Michael’s phone. It’s sort of like watching a foreign movie with subtitles.

“I’m leaving the gym now,” I hear her answer. “What do you want? I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

“You must be exhausted, ” says Michael. He shoots me a grin. She’s not the only one with King Kong balls.

I strain to hear what Penley says next, something about why Michael is on his cell and not in his office.

“Oh, I’m just out grabbing a cup of coffee,” he replies. “You know how I hate the crap they brew at the office; it’s weak as shit. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I need a favor.”

Penley tells him to hold on for a second.

Michael and I watch through the window as she puts her hand over the phone and says something to Stephen, who appears to be losing his patience. Poor guy. Clearly she’s explaining that she can’t ditch Michael’s call easily. A few seconds later, a frustrated Stephen marches back into the hotel.

What, does he live there?

Penley gets back on. “So what’s the favor?”

“Is everything okay?” asks Michael.

“Yeah. For a second I thought I left my keys at the gym. I found them, though.”

Pretty clever, Penley.

“So, about that favor,” says Michael. “We’ve got a client coming in from Tokyo tomorrow morning, and someone told me that store in Midtown, Takashimaya, sells this amazing Japanese coffee. I was wondering if you could pick some up for me on your way home.”

Penley sighs so annoyingly loud through the phone that a few people sitting nearby turn their heads. They probably can’t believe what a bitch she is.

“You can’t send your secretary to do this?” she whines. “I have to go buy coffee for you?”

“Honey, it would take Amanda over an hour to get there and back. I figured you were only a few blocks away. Please, Pen. Could you?”

Another sigh, even louder. “So what’s this supposedly amazing coffee called?”

“I’m not sure, but I’ll recognize the name. Call me on my cell when you get there, okay?”

“Fine.”

Penley gives her phone the finger as she flips it closed. All Michael can do is laugh.

“I’m going to miss the little woman,” he jokes as Penley disappears from our view.

I smile, but only because I’m glad he can joke at all. I’ve never seen him as dark as he was a few minutes ago.

I shoot him a look. “Japanese coffee?”

“God is in the details, remember?”

I nod. “So, what now?”

Michael takes my hand. “You love me, don’t you?”

“Of course I do.”

“And you trust me, right?”

“Yes.”What’s this about? Why do I need to trust Michael right now?

“What you do,” he says, “is go back to work, get that patio in order, and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy on the home front.”

“That’s it?”

“For the time being, that’s it.”

“What about you?”

He doesn’t answer. He lets go of my hand and walks toward the door.

“Michael, what are you going to do?”

He glances back, flashes me his best smile. Then he winks. It’s my wink.

“You’ll see.”

GO AFTER HIM! Find out what he’s up to. Now, Kristin.

But my feet won’t move.

I remain there in the Starbucks window. I watch Michael leave, hop into a cab, ride off. Gone.

“You’ll see,” he said.

Two little words that paralyze me and start me shaking again. Somehow I know that this is it: where everything has been going from the beginning. But how exactly will it end?

Or do I already know that too?

I look across the street at the Fálcon Hotel, the late-morning sun reflecting off its windows with a fierce glare. I can still picture the scene so clearly – the gurneys being wheeled out, the four body bags lined up on the sidewalk. Cops everywhere. Delmonico. Was the Ponytail there too?

First I dream it. Then I see it. Now it’s haunting me every minute of the day.

I know this is all connected; it has to be. But I can’t figure it out. Could anybody? I wonder.

Eventually, I move my feet. I rush back to Fifth Avenue and take care of the stupid patio in plenty of time before Penley returns home. When she does, sure enough, she’s sporting a shopping bag from Takashimaya with a pound of Japanese coffee inside.

Later, I pick up the kids from school and take them to the Ancient Playground in Central Park, where we’ve gone dozens of times before. Sean peppers me with one question after another while Dakota rolls her big blue eyes. But we have fun – under the circumstances, anyway.

It’s another typical day, all right, everything fine and dandy, just as Michael wanted it.

But for what reason?

“You’ll see,” he said.

As I head home to my apartment, I get this awful, gnawing feeling that somehow I already have.

OH, GREAT, JUST WHO I want to see.

My lovely neighbor Mrs. Rosencrantz is standing by the mailboxes as I walk into the lobby of my building. It’s almost as if she’s there waiting for me.

Turns out, she is.

“Have you gotten your mail yet today?” she asks, her smug tone laced with a small measure of glee.

Actually, I haven’t gotten my mail for about a week. I’ve been a little distracted.

“Why do you care?” I say.

She glares through her oversize bifocals, baiting me by saying nothing. There’s obviously something she wants me to see.

I’m tempted to keep walking toward the elevator, not give her the satisfaction, but my curiosity wins out. Maybe I need to solve a mystery, any mystery. I unlock my box and remove a pile of catalogues, bills, and other assorted junk mail.

It’s right on top.

An envelope from Priority Holdings, the management company that owns the building. Inside is a one-page letter, single-spaced.

Dear Ms. Burns:

Due to continuing complaints from other tenants regarding your conduct, we will not be offering you a rent renewal on your apartment when your current lease expires. Under New York State law you have the right to contest this decision and request an administrative hearing in accordance with the New York City Housing Authority.

There’s another paragraph about whom to contact, but my attention immediately focuses on whom to blame for this outrage. I don’t have to look far.

“This was your doing, wasn’t it?”

Mrs. Rosencrantz strikes a priggish pose. “I tend to think you did it to yourself.”

“Unbelievable. You really have nothing better to do with your time, huh?” I say, shaking the letter in her face.