Killer Instinct - James Patterson Page 0,24
about once a month.”
“She isn’t very persuasive, is she?”
“No, I’m just that pathetic.”
I didn’t say anything. Apparently I was supposed to.
“For the record,” said Elizabeth, shooting an elbow into my ribs, “this is the part where you tell me that I’m not actually pathetic and I simply work too hard.”
“Oh, you mean the old married-to-your-job cliché?”
“If the shoe fits.”
“Okay, here you go,” I said, clearing my throat. “You’re not actually pathetic. You simply work too hard.”
“That wasn’t very persuasive.”
“You don’t believe it so why should I?”
“Do you really think I use my career as an excuse to avoid dating?” she asked.
“Actually, no. I think the excuse you use is your father cheating on your mother.”
“Wow, you went there, didn’t you?”
“Hey, you asked.”
“I’ll make a deal with you,” she said. “You don’t try to psychoanalyze me, and I won’t make the joke about gay men knowing more about women’s shoes than most women.”
“That’s an even bigger cliché than being married to your job.”
Elizabeth chuckled. “It is, isn’t it?” She turned the shoe upside down, staring at the signature red sole of all Christian Louboutins. “So is this idea of yours going to work?” she asked.
“It’s worth a try,” I said.
A few blocks later, we pulled up in front of a converted warehouse in Hell’s Kitchen near the corner of West 44th Street and Tenth Avenue. SILVER KEY STUDIOS read the sign over the entrance.
Tracy’s friend, Doug Chadwick, was waiting for us in the lobby. I shook his hand and introduced him to Elizabeth.
“Thanks again for doing this,” I said.
“I haven’t done anything yet,” he answered, “but Tracy said the magic word.”
“What’s that?” I asked, trying to remember what I’d heard Tracy tell Doug over the phone back at our apartment. I assumed he didn’t mean please.
“Tracy said what you were hoping to do was practically impossible.” Doug smiled wide. “I live for impossible.”
CHAPTER 28
TAKE AWAY Doug’s thick lumberjack beard, pierced eyebrow, rimless glasses, and Woodstock revival wardrobe and replace them with a permanent glass of single-barrel whiskey, a British accent, and the “screw you with a capital F” attitude of a devilishly unparalleled hacker, and you’d basically be looking at Julian Byrd’s separated-at-birth brother.
Or, in other words, he was nothing like Julian.
Except for one thing.
Like Julian, Doug Chadwick clearly didn’t appreciate being on the surrender side of a challenge. Especially one involving a computer.
“Follow me,” he said.
Once again, life was just as much about who you know as what you know. Tracy had been introduced to Doug through an actress he’d met on the set of a shampoo commercial. Almost a year later to the day, Doug hired Tracy for his 3-D motion-capture shoot.
And tonight, Doug was about to help us identify a woman based solely on the way she walked in a very particular pair of high heels. At least that was the plan.
Elizabeth and I had Tracy to thank for setting this all up. He was also being a mensch for staying home with Annabelle. It was a double favor. But it was Doug who was doing us the huge favor.
“Just let me know what the hourly rate is,” I said as we entered one of the studios at the end of a long hallway.
“Zilch,” he said. “The booking agent felt bad for holding me to my session the day after the bombings, so this one’s a freebie.”
“What about your time, though?” I asked. “I need to pay you something.”
“Nah, don’t worry about it. To be honest, making Tracy jump around for hours in that ridiculous green leotard makes me feel a bit guilty for not paying him more,” he said. He turned to Elizabeth. “Speaking of that leotard, I assume you have the honors?”
“I’m afraid so,” said Elizabeth. “And green is so not my color.”
Doug’s involvement required a delicate dance for us in terms of what we could and couldn’t tell him. We’d already emailed him the hotel surveillance footage of Darvish the night of his death. As far as Doug knew, he was helping the police identify the woman on the professor’s arm. We obviously couldn’t share why we wanted to know who she was or the real reason her face was obscured. If he asked about the glow, I was going to tell him it was the result of the footage being tampered with, but I had the feeling he wasn’t going to ask.
“Okay, walk me through what you’re thinking,” he said, eyeing the shoebox in Elizabeth’s hands. “So to speak.”
“It’s simple,” I said. “While we