1st Case - James Patterson Page 0,88

she poured some cabernet. “What’s your favorite fairy tale?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sleeping Beauty? Snow White?” Mom asked. “Which story stuck to you most from your childhood?”

Billy looked at a loss, like the question was some kind of personality test. Which it basically was.

“I don’t know,” he said. “I’ve never been much into fairy tales.”

A round of knowing looks circled the table as my mother reached out to take Billy’s hand.

“I can help,” she said. “Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine.”

It was funny, but also true. Because deep down inside, my mother knew exactly what she was talking about. Everything would be fine one of these days. Even if Billy wasn’t the happily-ever-after type.

Then again, neither am I.

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Kevin Swindon and the staff of the Computer Analysis Response Team at the Boston FBI field office.

AN UNLIKELY DETECTIVE BRINGS LIFE INTO THE WORLD BY DAY — THEN BRINGS JUSTICE TO THOSE WHO TAKE IT AWAY.

FOR AN EXTRACT, TURN THE PAGE.

IT’S MONDAY. IT’S AUGUST. And it’s one of those days that’s already so hot at 6 a.m. that they tell you to check on your elderly neighbors and please don’t go outside if you don’t have to. So of course I’m jogging through the stifling, smelly streets of Crown Heights, Brooklyn, with a dog—a dog named The Duke. Yes. Not Duke, but The Duke. That’s his name. That’s what my son, Willie, who was four years old when The Duke was a puppy, wanted. So that’s what we did.

The Duke is a terrific dog, a mixed-breed German shepherd, terrier, and God knows what else from the Brooklyn Animal Resource Coalition—BARC—animal shelter. He’s cuter than any guy I ever dated, and Willie was instinctively right about the dog’s name. He’s The Duke. The Duke is snooty and snobby and slow. He actually seems to think he’s royalty. His Highness belongs to Willie, but for forty-five minutes a day, The Duke condescends to be my running buddy.

The Duke doesn’t seem to know or care that I’ve got places to be. I’m a certified nurse-midwife, so I do my work by the schedules of a lot of pregnant women. On a normal day like today, I’ve got only a small window of time to exercise before getting breakfast on the table, because although Willie is now nine years old, he still needs a lot of looking after by me, his single mom. Then it’s a half hour subway ride into midtown Manhattan. Back to work, although I’m tired as hell from delivering a preterm last night. (Emma Rose, the infant, is doing just fine, I’m relieved to say.) Yeah, I’m beat, but I love my job as much as I hate running.

Get away from that rotten piece of melon, The Duke. Those pigeons got there first!

I tug hard on the leash. It takes The Duke a full city block to forget about the melon. Don’t feel bad for the dog; he’ll find some other rotten food to run after. If not, there’s a big bowl of Purina and some cold Chinese takeout beef and broccoli waiting for him at home.

I turn up the volume in my headphones. Okay, it’s the same playlist I listened to when I was a teenager, but Motörhead’s Ace of Spades never gets old, does it? Willie says that every band I like—Motörhead, Korn, Cake—is “definitely old school.” He’s right. But, hey, you like what you like, right? And, hey, old school isn’t so awful. At least not for me.

No, no, no. We’re not stopping to talk to Marty … “Hey, Marty, how ya doing, man?” No, no, The Duke, we don’t need any cocaine today. Keep moving. Keep moving.

Pep talk to self: Come on, Lucy Ryuan, you can do it. Keep moving. Even on just four hours’ sleep, you can do it. A little bit more. One more block. Then one more block.

And now we’re moving into Grand Army Plaza, into Prospect Park with all the other runners. God bless them. They’re all an annoying inspiration.

I’m strangely and amazingly awake on so little sleep. Now I’m into a running groove, and everything feels good, until the music suddenly stops. My cell is ringing. It’s one of my assistants, Tracy Anne Cavanaugh, a smart, energetic young woman.

“Lucy, I’m sorry, really sorry, to bother you. I know you must be—”

“What’s up, Tracy Anne?”

“Valerina Gomez is here at the hospital. Her brother brought her in. She’s at eight centimeters …”

I roll my eyes at The Duke, for God’s sake. Valerina Gomez has been