Джеймс Паттерсон: Private Rogue

“OK,” she whispered, pulling the children to a halt. “We should be safe here.”

Maria and Danny looked petrified, but Beth couldn’t console them yet.

“Wait here,” she said.

Danny whimpered and Beth stroked his hair. “I promise I’ll come back.”

She crept toward the cabin. As she neared the edge of the forest she was able to peer through the thickly laden branches and see three black Cadillac Escalades emerge from the mouth of the track and stop in front of the building.

The two men who’d pulled her over jumped out of the lead vehicle. They had ditched their police uniforms and were now dressed all in black. They were joined by five others who emerged from the cars behind.

Beth took her phone from her pocket and checked to see whether she had a signal: nothing, meaning she couldn’t send anyone any pictures, which was a disappointment because she knew she couldn’t take the device with her either. There was too much risk they’d be able to track it. So she dropped it in the snow, and when the men had all congregated on the other side of the cabin, she hurried back toward the children. She stopped at the sound of the front door being kicked in, and glanced back to catch a glimpse of the men through the cabin’s rear windows. They were turning the place over, searching for them.

She reached the children, who were stiff with fear. They breathed sighs of relief when they saw her. Beth ushered them forward, leading them deeper into the forest.

Recent events in Moscow had a huge impact on Private. The organization I’d founded had been labeled a Russian front, and I’d been branded a traitor, but we’d come through it to universal acclaim — it had been a swift and life-changing turnaround. Since then, business had boomed, but Moscow hadn’t only changed things for me professionally. Justine and I had started seeing each other again. I knew there were risks in having a relationship with a colleague, but we were good together. My experiences in Moscow had reminded me of the fragility of life, and the need to value the things that are truly important.

Justine and I weren’t living together, but we were spending a few nights a week at each other’s homes. I wasn’t sure she was ready for a serious commitment. We’d hurt each other before and were taking our time so we could avoid making the same mistakes.

Justine had gone to see some friends last night, so I’d spent the evening alone, reviewing case reports from around the world. With numerous offices on five continents, I had to rely on the heads of those branches to manage their own caseloads, but I still liked to be kept well-informed. I ran Private like an intelligence agency, and each office had a great deal of autonomy. Success had temporarily taken me away from frontline detective work in order to focus more on overarching strategy. At least I thought it was success... maybe it was fear? Perhaps Moscow had left me with more than superficial physical scars? I dismissed the thought. The Moscow investigation had led to a degree of infamy that would fade with time. That and the growth of the business were the real reasons I hadn’t been doing any genuine detective work recently.

I’d been spending more time in Los Angeles than I had for a long while, and I was enjoying it. Private Los Angeles was where everything had started, and for that reason it would always be special to me. I would always think of it as home.

I slowed my Mercedes SLS, an extravagant gift from a grateful client, and turned into the entrance to the parking garage beneath our building on Wilshire Boulevard. I stopped at the bottom of the ramp to give the sensor time to recognize my license plate, and the shutter rose to allow me inside.

A brief minute later, after sliding the Mercedes into my parking space, I took the elevator up to Private’s offices on the fifth floor and emerged into the lobby where Michelle and Dewayne, Private’s two receptionists, sat at their shared desk. Both were on the phone, but they smiled and waved when they saw me. Michelle, a bright young woman in her twenties, signaled something behind me, and I turned to see a tall, muscular man in his early fifties rising from one of the seats in our waiting area. He wore a navy blue suit and had salt-and-pepper hair and a matching beard. He was deeply tanned, his wrinkled skin covered in blemishes and liver spots — the marks of prolonged sun exposure.

“Mr. Morgan?” he said. “I’m sorry to intrude on your day, but I need your help.”

His accent was Southern: Georgia or Louisiana.

“I tried to tell him to make an appointment,” Michelle said, shielding the receiver.

“This can’t wait,” the man said.

He drew closer and offered his hand.

“My name is Donald Singer and I need your help finding my daughter. She and my grandchildren disappeared yesterday.”

“I don’t...” I began.

Singer cut me off. “I know who you are, Mr. Morgan, and I know what you’re capable of. I’ll pay whatever it costs. I need you to bring my daughter home.”

My work means I’ve made a lot of enemies over the years. I’ve taken on the Mob, former Soviet spies, assassins, and a great many more dangerous individuals and organizations besides. I knew better than to take walk-ins, so, after listening to the basics, I left Donald Singer in reception and retreated to my office, where I did some background research on the guy. I was coming to the end when Justine knocked and entered. Always elegant, even when casually dressed as she was now, in jeans and a thick submariner’s pullover, her eyes shone with intelligence and as ever her smile brightened my day. As Private’s resident psychologist and profiler, she supported a wide range of investigations, but always started and ended every day in my office.

I got up and crossed the room to kiss her. I ran my fingers through her jasmine-scented wavy brown hair.

“Jack,” she whispered. “This is definitely blurring the line.”

We’d made a deal to try to maintain professional boundaries in the office.

“So step away,” I suggested.

Instead, she pulled me close and kissed me.

“Now who’s blurring the line?” I asked.

She pushed me away playfully.

“How was last night?”

“Fun. Sarah had too much to drink and I had to drive her home,” Justine replied. “Did you survive without me?”

“Just about.”

“Michelle said the guy in the lobby is waiting for you.”

She missed nothing.

“His name’s Donald Singer. I was just running background. He’s the founder and CEO of Singer Investments, an East Coast property fund. Wife died twenty years ago, leaving him to raise their only child, Elizabeth Singer. She lives in upstate New York with her two children, Daniel and Marianne. They went missing yesterday and he wants me to find them.”

“Why you?” Justine asked.

I feigned offence. “He wants the best, of course.”

“Well, he can’t have you. You’re mine.”

There was a slight edge to her teasing tone. Things had been great between us while I’d been in LA these past months. Justine wanted to keep it that way, and so did I.

“We do have a New York office,” she said.

Justine was right, of course. Our New York office was one of our largest, and the team there were more than capable of handling this case.

“OK,” I said. “But if I have to let him down, you’re sticking around to help me do it.”

I returned to my desk, called Michelle and asked her to bring in Donald Singer. Minutes later, she showed him into my office.

“Mr. Singer, this is Justine Smith, our chief psychological profiler,” I introduced them.

They exchanged greetings and we made ourselves comfortable in the seating area by the windows. Los Angeles spread toward the green hills north of the city. White buildings shone and cars gleamed in the morning sunshine.