Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,102

It might take them that long just to open the storage sheds. It’s not like Wagner’s here anymore. You can spare an hour.”

He looks up at the ceiling and groans.

“I suppose you’re right. Okay,” says Books, “be right back. Call me if anything—anything—comes up.”

He leans in and gives me a quick kiss, then draws back and realizes what he did. “Oh, I—I wasn’t thinking—”

“It’s okay, just—go,” I say, turning so he won’t see me blush. But he’s already bounding down the stairs.

And then my phone buzzes. It’s Elizabeth Ashland.

“The owner of Xtra Storage is here,” she says. “He has a list of the people who rent the storage sheds. Wagner’s not on the list.”

“He probably used a fake name. He’s careful about everything else.”

“So let me read you the list, Emmy. Maybe you’ll recognize somebody.”

She goes through the list of people who’ve rented out these storage sheds. Cunningham, Morris. Cole, Nathan. McDaniel, Steven. Spielman, Ellen—

“Wait,” I say. McDaniel, Steven. McDaniel—“Steven McDaniel!” I shout. “Let me check something, Elizabeth. Hang on a second.” I scroll through the notes folder on my phone.

There. There it is!

“Steven McDaniel,” I tell Elizabeth, “was one of the Scottsdale victims. One of the senior citizens he killed there.”

“Okay, hang on a minute,” she says. I hear her asking someone, “Why is there an asterisk by his name?”

A man responds but I can’t make out the words. Then Elizabeth is talking to me again. “Steven McDaniel rented out this locker last December,” she says. “He paid in advance for three years. He used a credit card over the phone.”

“That’s it!” I say. “Wagner must have purchased it with McDaniel’s credit card after he killed him in Arizona.”

“Okay, Emmy, great work. We’re going to open that shed now.”

I’m about to say, Hold on, give me a few minutes and I can be there. But then I realize two things. First, I’m not an agent, so I probably don’t have the right to insist. And second, and more important, with Books off to his store in Alexandria to receive a shipment of new novels, I’m stranded here at the clinic.

“You want me to patch you in?” Elizabeth asks me.

“I—can you—yes, yes!”

“I’ll put you on FaceTime,” she says. “I’ll call you back in ten.”

I hang up and walk back into the conference room, where Tom Miller has remained in his seat. “Everything okay?” he says. “I heard some shouting.”

“Yeah, everything’s fine. Look, I’m going to need this room. Alone. Is that okay?”

“Sure. Actually, I have a patient in a few minutes, so I’ll be in the basement.”

“Great.”

He stops on his way out and turns to me. “Agent Dockery?” he says.

“It’s Emmy. And I’m not an agent.”

“Okay, Emmy,” he says. “Should I be worried about Michelle?”

102

MICHELLE FONTAINE parks her car in her designated spot. Walks up the back stairs to her apartment. Passes by her two suitcases, sitting by the back door, ready to be thrown into the car.

In the kitchen, she picks up her landline phone and checks her voice mail. One new message.

“Michelle, this is Louise at the clinic. I got your e-mail and I understand you’re leaving us. I won’t pretend I’m not disappointed that you didn’t give us some notice, but—there’s actually another reason I’m calling. The…the FBI is here, Michelle. They’re asking about Martin Wagner. Lieutenant Wagner? He’s gone missing, apparently, and he’s wanted for questioning. They said they’d like to—”

Michelle drops the phone and rushes to the back door. She grabs her two suitcases and carries them with some difficulty down the steps, nearly tumbling forward in the process. She loads them into the trunk, starts up the car, and drives away.

103

“HERE WE go,” says Elizabeth Ashland. We’re on FaceTime. She turns her phone outward, capturing the scene for me.

Multiple agents surround the storage shed, their weapons drawn, riot shields up, helmets on. Through a bullhorn, one of the agents calls out: “Martin Wagner, this is the FBI. We are entering the shed. If you have a weapon, drop it or we will shoot. Get down on your knees and put your hands on your head.”

An agent approaches the shed from the side, turns the key in the lock, then steps away. The garage door slowly grinds open.

Will Wagner be inside? I doubt it.

What about Michelle Fontaine? More likely. My heart hammers in my chest.

The only thing inside the garage, right in the middle, dominating the space, is a Dodge Caravan. The agents shuffle in, weapons trained on the vehicle, peer inside, then shout out