Killer Instinct - James Patterson Page 0,30

“That’s funny,” he said. “I was told you were funny.”

Elizabeth immediately put down the carafe and turned toward the man. His sunglasses were as dark as hers. Maybe even darker. He was also impeccably dressed in a gray suit and blue tie with a matching pocket square that had just the right amount of puff to it.

“Do I know you?” she asked. Translation: How the hell do you know me?

“Here,” he said, handing her the open yellow packet. “That’s how you like it, right? Light with one Splenda?”

If this guy was trying to creep her out, he’d succeeded. Quickly, Elizabeth looked around. Was he alone? It seemed that way.

More importantly, was he a threat?

Through her sunglasses, Elizabeth focused on his hands. For the moment, both were where she could see them. The split second that changed, she’d be reaching for her Glock.

He knew it, too.

“I assure you there’s nothing to fear from me, Agent Needham,” he said. “I’m here to help you.”

“Good,” she said. “You can start by telling me who you are.”

“I’m a friend of a friend.”

“You’re going to have to do better than that.”

“Actually, I don’t,” he said. “That’s not how this works.”

“How what works?” asked Elizabeth.

“Take the Splenda, Agent Needham.”

“Why?”

“So I can reach into my suit pocket,” he said. “Slowly, of course.”

Elizabeth thought for a second. If he wanted to kill me, he would’ve done it already …

She took the Splenda.

The man reached into his pocket—slowly, as promised—and removed an envelope, handing it to her.

“You’ll be asked by people where you got this information,” he said. “You can tell them anything, except that you got it from me.”

Elizabeth glanced at the plain white envelope. “I don’t even know who you are,” she said.

He nodded, satisfied. “Exactly.” He then pivoted on his heel, heading straight for the door.

Poof, he was gone.

CHAPTER 35

ELIZABETH GAVE another quick look around, her eyes darting, making sure the guy didn’t have a wingman. If he did, the disguise was excellent. The entire Starbucks held either people rushing in and out on their way to work or wannabe screenplay writers getting an early jump on hogging all the tables.

Ping!

Never mind. Her Uber was out front.

In the back of an old Ford Taurus in desperate need of an air freshener, she opened the envelope. Inside was a photo—old-school, three-by-five glossy—of a young man wearing a taqiyah, the traditional Muslim cap. Even more traditional was its color: white.

On the back of the photo, written in pen, was presumably his first name. Gorgin. There was also an address up in Pelham in Westchester County, about a half hour’s drive from Manhattan.

Finally there was this, her instructions: Ask him what he knows about the Mudir.

Elizabeth knew the word. Mudir was Arabic. It meant a local governor or someone who holds sway over a group of people. She didn’t recognize the young man in the photo, though.

Of course, that was the whole point. This guy, “Gorgin,” was supposed to be a lead. Supposed to be.

According to whom, though? And why the mysterious middleman back in Starbucks? Was she really supposed to trust this stranger with a Middle Eastern accent?

There were too many questions, with even more to come once she followed protocol and brought Pritchard up to speed. After his briefing, she’d show him the photo. If he didn’t know the young man in the taqiyah named Gorgin, there was probably a computer somewhere in-house that did.

But before that could happen, Pritchard would want to know something else. She could practically hear his booming voice, prodding her. Why you, Needham? How come you were the one he approached? Huh?

“Here we are,” said her Uber driver.

Elizabeth didn’t hear him. She was still listening to Pritchard in her head. “Excuse me?”

“This is your stop, right?” asked the driver. “Where you wanted to go?”

Elizabeth stared out the window at the granite facade of the JTTF building. Pritchard’s briefing would start in a couple of minutes. She’d have to hustle if she wanted to make it up to the conference room in time. She reached for the door handle.

Seriously, why you? What makes you so special, Needham?

Elizabeth’s hand suddenly froze. “Change of plans,” she told the driver.

Twenty blocks south and a $5.60 surcharge later, Elizabeth was at City Hall standing face-to-face with Beau Livingston, the mayor’s chief of staff, who had his back up against the door to his boss’s office. He was literally blocking her way.

“You can’t just show up unannounced, Elizabeth,” he said. Livingston’s arms were folded, his feet spread. The