James Patterson - Second Honeymoon

“Come,” he said. “Let’s head back to my office. We’re ready for you.”

Halfway there they were intercepted by a gum-chewing young buck of an officer who “just happened” to be in their path. Clearly, he was angling for an introduction.

“Agent Brubaker, this is Detective Nate Penzick,” said Hummel, obliging.

Penzick stuck out his chest. His hand followed. “Welcome to Park City,” he said.

Except there was nothing about his tone that made Sarah feel welcome. Right away she knew Penzick was the homicide detective assigned to the O’Hara case.

This happened occasionally when she would show up in a town or city—an officer, or maybe two, who didn’t want to be told how to do his job by some federal agent. Not that Sarah ever had any intention of doing that. Still, for the Detective Penzicks of the world, the preconceived notion stuck like glue. All FBI agents think they’re hot shit.

“Thanks,” said Sarah with a smile, ignoring Penzick’s tone as well as the G.I.-Joe-meets-kung-fu handshake he was giving her. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Kill ’em with kindness, she always believed. Although on this particular afternoon, after the night she’d had, it took a little extra willpower not to grab this guy by his starched lapels and explain that wannabe macho guys weren’t exactly on her Christmas card list right now. So cool it with the attitude, dude, okay?

Penzick squinted. “The chief has been pretty tight-lipped as to why you’re here, but I’m guessing it has to do with the O’Hara murder,” he said.

“That’s right,” said Sarah. There was no point lying to the guy.

Penzick was chomping so hard on his gum you could hear his jawbone cracking. If Chief Hummel was as laid-back as a Sunday afternoon, this guy was Monday morning rush hour.

“So what’s up with the secrecy?” he asked. “I mean, we all play for the same team, don’t we?”

Sarah glanced at a frowning Hummel, who was immediately regretting the introduction.

“No, seriously, what’s the deal?” pressed Penzick. “What’s the government hiding this time?”

Hummel finally stepped in. “I’m afraid you’ll have to forgive Nate here,” he said. “He hasn’t been the same since The X-Files went off the air.”

Oh, snap.

“Very funny, Chief,” said Penzick. But he got the hint. Shut it down, cowboy. He turned to Sarah, adopting the most polite tone he could fake. “I look forward to working with you, Agent Brubaker.”

“Don’t worry, Nate,” said Hummel, glancing at his watch. “I’d be surprised if Agent Brubaker is still in Park City an hour from now.”

Sarah turned to him. This was news to her, straight from the left field bleachers. Huh? I just got here. Where do you think I’m going?

Hummel didn’t let on, at least not in front of his young detective. “As I suggested before,” he said, “let’s go to my office.”

Chapter 38

THE WAY HUMMEL acted after closing the door to his office, Sarah was thinking that maybe his comment about her leaving town within the hour was meant to be some kind of joke. Either that or the guy suffered from a serious case of short-term memory loss. She was definitely confused—but curious.

Hummel offered no explanation. Instead, he walked directly to a drawer behind his desk, opened it, and removed two disposable latex gloves and an evidence bag containing the paperback copy of Ulysses.

“I suppose you want to see this first,” he said.

Sarah put on the gloves and flipped through the book. Indeed, it was exactly as advertised—a library copy with nothing highlighted, no notes added, and, as Driesen had stated, “not even a dog-ear.”

Hummel leaned back in the chair behind his desk, clasping his hands behind his head. “I remember having to read it in college,” he said. “Hell, I barely understood the CliffsNotes.”

“I know what you mean,” said Sarah. “It’s not exactly a beach read, is it?”

“I’m pretty sure of one thing, though.”

“What’s that?”

“It didn’t belong to the victim.”

“Okay. How do you know?”

“Because I knew John O’Hara,” he said. “How does the saying go? Guys wanted to be him, girls wanted to be with him? He was a helluva good guy. But one thing he wasn’t was—” Hummel paused, searching for the right, or maybe most respectful, way of putting it. “Let’s just say the only thing I ever saw John read was a menu.”

“There’s always a first time.”

“Not with a nine-hundred-page book steeped in Irish dialect that reads like a pretzel, classic or no classic,” he said. “John was no James Joyce fan. Hell, he wasn’t even a Stephen King fan.”

Sarah nodded. Fair point.

Like Hummel, she’d read Ulysses in college as well. That was more than a decade ago. Before the flight out that morning, she’d downloaded it on her Kindle and started to read it again after takeoff. Somewhere over Kansas she waved the white flag and surrendered to her iPod.

Why couldn’t the killer have left behind the latest Patricia Cornwell novel instead?

“Assuming the killer did leave the book behind, do you have any thoughts on what it might mean?” asked Hummel.

“Not yet. Do you?”

He smiled. “Funny you should ask. Actually, I think I do.”

Chapter 39

HUMMEL HADN’T FORGOTTEN about the comment he made outside his office. He was just setting the table before explaining it.

“Every city in the country contributes their crime reports to ViCAP,” he began. “Most every town, too. But not every town, right?”

“Right,” said Sarah. “Usually because they have nothing to contribute, their crime rates being so low or nonexistent. Which is a good thing.”

“So even if, let’s say, a murder were to take place in one of these small towns, it might not even occur to the police there to report it to ViCAP. At least not right away.”

“I’m sure that’s happened,” she said. “Probably more than a few times.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” said Hummel. “Of course, how would you know for sure? The only way would be to monitor every town all the time.”

“Which was the reason behind ViCAP in the first place, so no one would have to. Still, like you said, some crimes are going to fall through the cracks.”

“Unless you knew exactly where to look,” he said, pointing at the copy of Ulysses .

Sarah didn’t follow. “What do you mean?”

“Ever been to Bloom, Wisconsin?”

Now she followed. Leopold Bloom was the main character in the book. “And there’s a John O’Hara living there? In Bloom?”

“Yes, but maybe the location isn’t based on a character,” he said. “For instance, what about Joyce, Washington?”

“That’s a real town?”

“Yes, and there are actually two John O’Haras living there.”

Sarah bobbed her head back and forth, thinking this through. “The killer, now at victim number three in his third different town, decides to throw us a bone and tip his hand where he’s going to kill next.”

“Or where he already has,” said Hummel. “These are small towns.”

“Unlike, say…Dublin, Ohio.”

Hummel pointed at her as though he were the host of a game show and she’d gotten the right answer.

“Exactly,” he said. “Decent-size city; they report everything to ViCAP. Still, there are three John O’Haras listed there, so I called anyway.”

“Wait—you’ve already made calls?”

“Yep.”

“You didn’t use—”

Hummel raised his palms, amused. “Don’t worry. I didn’t ask if there were any dead John O’Haras. Just any murders within the past twenty-four hours.”