Джеймс Паттерсон - Ambush

Alex just stood in the darkened room wondering if she should say something like, It doesn’t matter . Because it wouldn’t in just a few seconds.

Tom kept talking anyway. “I didn’t tell you that I have a daughter.”

“What?”

“I don’t want you to think I was trying to hide something. I also don’t want to freak you out. But I have a three-year-old named Emily.”

“Are you married?”

“No. I asked Emily’s mother to marry me when we found out she was pregnant, but she wasn’t interested. Now I have to fight hard to make sure I’m as involved in Emily’s life as I want to be.”

Alex didn’t know what to say.

Tom said, “I hope this doesn’t change anything. I had a great time, and I hope we can see each other again.”

To Alex it did change something. It added something to her careful calculations. Suddenly she thought of a girl, not much younger than Gabriela, calling out for her absent father. Her father, who was a decent, hardworking man and didn’t do anything wrong.

He sat up in bed and reached for the light on the nightstand.

Alex quickly dropped the hand with the stiletto into her purse.

Tom said, “Let me walk outside and get a cab with you.”

“It’s really not necessary.”

“I can’t let a defenseless woman stand alone on a street corner in New York.”

A smile spread across her face. “I guarantee you won’t be letting a defenseless woman stand on the street. Go back to bed. Dream happy dreams.”

Alex leaned down until she was just a few inches away, the stiletto still in her hand. He looked up at her from the bed, exposing the underside of his jaw.

She hesitated for a moment, then kissed him on the lips. She didn’t say another word as she slipped out of the apartment.

I was still looking for the men whose names the regulator had given me. I had an address on 129th Street for one of them, Julio Laza, on the second floor of a run-down apartment building.

As I circled the block to get a feel for the area, I noticed a green Chevy Cruze parked by the side of the building. When I got out and looked the car over, I found a bullet hole just in front of the driver’s-side door. Jackpot.

Normally I would call in assistance and arrest someone who tried to shoot me. In this instance, I thought it was more important to find out who had hired Julio.

Not only would finding out who hired him be a bigger coup, I might also find some way to tie the information in with what Brian had told me earlier. Maybe that way, with a better lawyer, we could have his sentence reduced. I saw it happen all the time. That’s why I was willing to take a risk today.

A few minutes later, as I headed up the raw concrete front steps, I saw someone coming out the sturdy metal door. Immediately I realized it was my man, Julio Laza. He looked up and recognized me, too. Why couldn’t all cases be this easy?

He wasted no time. Julio leaped off the entryway, jumping down four feet to the spotty grass surrounding the building. He landed on his feet and started to run. And he ran fast.

I yelled out to him, “I just want to talk.” But he didn’t believe me. Why should he? If I ran into someone I’d tried to shoot, I’d probably flee as well.

When I was a rookie, I used to chase fleeing suspects on foot all the time. Then a veteran, not much older than I was but with four years on the job, showed me the wonders of patience. He said it was always better to let rookies chase on foot, while he preferred a patrol car.

I knew how jerks like Julio thought. He was going to run away and come back for his car. Guys like this never wanted to leave their rides.

I acted like I was chasing him. I even let him look over his shoulder and see me fading in the distance as he turned a corner. Then I casually walked back toward his building and sat down behind a tree not far from his car. The rough bark of the trunk was covered in dozens of carvings. Mostly hearts with names inside.

I was not disappointed. About five minutes later, I saw Julio Laza jogging casually toward the Chevy.

I waited until he was in an awkward position. He hadn’t stuck the key into the lock of the door yet. Then I stood up. He didn’t notice me.

I stepped around the tree. He still didn’t notice me.

I was starting to get a complex. Finally I cleared my throat and said, “I wondered how long it would take you to get back here.”

It startled Julio so much that he dropped his keys under the car. He stood up, shaky from his run, hair plastered to his forehead.

He said, “Whatchoo want, man?”

“Exactly what I told you before you went on this marathon. I just want to talk.”

He looked around nervously. No one wanted to be seen talking to a cop in this neighborhood.

I said, “Come take a walk with me. We’ll get out of public view and have a little chat.”

As he took a few steps with me, I put my arm around his shoulders as if I were comforting a child after he lost a football game.

Julio said, “What do you want to talk about?”

I stopped and looked at him. “You’re joking, right?”

Julio just shrugged and walked along with me.

Instead of taking Julio Laza to a comfortable café or a McDonald’s to sit and chat over a drink, I put him in the passenger seat of my police car.

He was shaking and sweating as if he were working a coal furnace. We drove to a parking lot several blocks away so no one would notice us. But Julio didn’t care. He figured he was going to jail shortly — if I didn’t shoot him before that.

Hell, he’s the one who pointed a machine gun at me. And at a priest! When I mentioned that, I thought his eyes would pop out of his head.

He said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. It was just business. And I didn’t even realize the other guy was a priest. I never shot at him. I hope my mom doesn’t find out.”

“Your mom is the least of your concerns. You shot at a New York City detective. And then you were stupid enough to be caught almost right away. Not only are you looking at a shitload of jail time, any kind of street cred you had is ruined.”

Julio was about thirty and average in every possible way. His brown curly hair could’ve used a shampoo, and the acne on his chin and nose made me think he didn’t wash as often as he should. I said, “You’re sweating. That doesn’t do much to recommend a hit man.”

“Hit man! Hit man! You can’t be serious.”

“You tried to shoot me yesterday. I can only assume you did it for money, since we’ve never met and I never made a case on you.”

“Look, man, I don’t think I want to talk to any cops right now.”

It was time to get serious. “You’re already talking to a cop. Your options are very simple. You talk to me and tell me what the hell is going on or you end up in Rikers Island. And I spread it around that you’re a snitch.”

“What?” He yelped like I’d slapped him across the face.

“The inmates will hate you because you’re a snitch, and none of the cops will help you because you tried to kill a cop. I’ve never met anyone who was stuck between such a rock and a hard place.”

I saw him consider exactly what I was talking about. I sat back and let him think up the worst possible scenario himself.

After almost two minutes, he looked at me and said, “Okay, what sort of information are you looking for?”

“Who hired you to kill me and why?”

“I don’t know all the details. It was my cousin who hired me. He needed someone to drive. I pulled out my old MAC-10 when I saw you were kicking his ass. I swear to God I was just trying to keep you away from them so they could get away.”