Джеймс Паттерсон - NYPD Red 6

I rested my head on her shoulder, closed my eyes, and drifted right back to the land of Nod. A few minutes later she elbowed me awake.

“There it is,” she said, pointing toward the horizon.

The sun was just cracking through the shroud of darkness, spreading soft blues and vivid pinks across the sky.

“You don’t even have to unwrap it,” Cheryl said. She had her camera in her hand and was aiming it at the rising sun.

As the sky bloomed orange, and shafts of gold sliced into the Atlantic, the fog in my brain finally lifted, and I realized— that was my gift.

“It’s the dawn of a brand-new year together,” she said, “and I wanted to share it with you.”

Words failed me. I pulled her closer, and as I sat there huddled under the blanket soaking up the majesty of the moment with the woman I loved, my life of the past two weeks felt distant and surreal. This was where I belonged.

Twenty minutes later we walked back to the bed-and-breakfast, stripped off our damp clothes, buried ourselves under a thick down comforter, and slept for another four hours.

We made love before we got out of bed, then made love again under a high-pressure rainfall showerhead that pelted us with fat droplets of steamy hot water.

We had just finished dressing when Cheryl’s phone rang. She looked at the caller ID. “Zach, I’ve got to take this. I’ll meet you in a few minutes for breakfast.”

The dining room was wood and stone with an eclectic mix of brightly colored Persian throw rugs underfoot and a wall of glass looking out toward the ocean. There was a large groaning board laden with berries, breads, jams, cheeses, and sterling chafing dishes filled with stick-to-the-ribs, clog-up-the-arteries options. The coffee was dark roast and smelled like nirvana.

I poured two cups, toasted two thick slices of raisin pumper-nickel to tide me over till Cheryl got there, and found a quiet table. Ten minutes later, she arrived, her jet-black hair pulled back in a ponytail, her honey-bronze skin glowing against a yellow tank top. Heads turned. They always did.

“Sorry,” she said. “Some phone calls just can’t be ignored.”

“Troubled patient?” I said.

“No. It was Aunt Janet. She talked to Shane this morning.”

“What a sweet boy,” I said. “He called his mommy to say how much fun he was having at the Magic Kingdom.”

She gave me a look that was half a frown, to let me know that she didn’t appreciate me making fun of her cousin, and half a smile, because I was so damned adorable when I did it.

“You know they didn’t go to Disney World, and Shane doesn’t have to call Aunt Janet. She calls him incessantly.”

“And how is his devoted mother these days?” I said.

“Deliriously happy. She said she’s never heard him talk like this about a woman before. She thinks he’s smitten with Kylie.”

I nodded. Kylie could smite mightily. I should know.

“Aunt Janet has been waiting a long time for Shane to find someone. She thinks Kylie may be the one.”

As did I .

“She has high hopes,” Cheryl said.

“For what?”

“Grandchildren.”

“You may want to tell Aunt Janet that Kylie isn’t exactly the maternal type. Also, she’s still very married to Spence, which could throw a monkey wrench into those granny dreams.”

“She knows about Spence, but Shane told her that Kylie said it’s over. It doesn’t matter if he comes back. She’s done with him.”

That’s exactly what she told me back at the academy. “I’m done with him.” Twenty-eight days later he came back, and I became history ,

But Spence is Shane’s problem, not mine. The last thing I need to do is get involved in Kylie’s love life. Especially now, when mine is going so —

“Zach, what are you thinking?”

“Nothing. I mean, nothing except what a great weekend this has been.”

The waitress came and bailed me out. She set two glasses of champagne down on the table. “Congratulations on your anniversary,” she said, her voice as bubbly as the wine.

“I wonder how she knew,” Cheryl said once the waitress was gone.

I shrugged. “I may have let it slip when we checked in.”

“A toast,” she said, lifting her glass. “This past year has been … ” She stared at me, groping for a word. Finally, she settled on one. “ Interesting .”

I would have gone with rocky . Over the past year, we’d tried living together, but that failed. Then there was the time I almost blew the relationship by acting like a jerk because Cheryl spent days on end with her ex when his mother died. And of course she was none too happy about how invested I was in Kylie’s personal life, especially after Spence disappeared, and she caught me digging into the past of Kylie’s poker-playing boyfriend.

“You’re right about that,” I said, raising my glass. “Cheers.” I started to drink.

“I’m not finished,” she said.

I lowered my glass.

She smiled. “Let me take it from the top. This past year has been extremely interesting. Here’s to next year. Let’s hope it’s a lot less interesting.”

I laughed so hard I almost spilled my champagne.

“I know, I know,” Cheryl said, touching her glass to mine. “But I can dream, can’t I?”

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

The authors would like to thank the following people for their help in making this work of fiction ring true: NYPD Detective Danny Corcoran, Bergen County, New Jersey, ADA Jessica Gomperts, Dr. Jon Madek, Lily Karp, Matthew Diamond, Gabe Diamond, Dan Fennessy, Bill Harrison, David Hinds, Mel Berger, and Bob Beatty.

READ ON FOR A SNEAK PEEK OF THE NEXT BLOCKBUSTER

THE PRESIDENT’S DAUGHTER

BY

BILL CLINTON

― AND ―

JAMES PATTERSON

COMING IN JUNE 2021

Lake Marie, New Hampshire

AN HOUR OR SO after my daughter, Mel, leaves, I’ve showered, had my second cup of coffee, and read the newspapers—just skimming them, really, for it’s a sad state of affairs when you eventually realize just how wrong journalists can be in covering stories. With a handsaw and a set of pruning shears, I head off to the south side of our property.

It’s a special place, even though my wife, Samantha, has spent less than a month here in all her visits. Most of the land in the area is conservation land, never to be built upon, and of the people who do live here, almost all follow the old New Hampshire tradition of never bothering their neighbors or gossiping about them to visitors or news reporters.

Out on the lake is a white Boston Whaler with two men supposedly fishing, although they are Secret Service. Last year the Union Leader newspaper did a little piece about the agents stationed aboard the boat—calling them the unluckiest fishermen in the state—but since then, they’ve been pretty much left alone.

As I’m chopping, cutting, and piling brush, I think back to two famed fellow POTUS brush cutters—Ronald Reagan and George W. Bush—and how their exertions never quite made sense to a lot of people. They thought, Hey, you’ve been at the pinnacle of fame and power, why go out and get your hands dirty?

I saw at a stubborn pine sapling that’s near an old stone wall on the property, and think, Because it helps. It keeps your mind occupied, your thoughts busy, so you don’t continually flash back to memories of your presidential term .

The long and fruitless meetings with congressional leaders from both sides of the aisle, talking with them, arguing with them, and sometimes pleading with them, at one point saying, “Damn it, we’re all Americans here—isn’t there anything we can work on to move our country forward?”