Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,106
your real name. If you really were a sergeant. “Emmy says hi,” he adds.
“Oh, okay.” Petty nods. “How’s your big case? You catch your guy?”
“Tell him he got away,” Emmy whispers. “Put him at ease.”
“Not yet,” Books tells Petty.
“Do you want me to send agents to the store?” Emmy asks.
“No,” says Books.
“No what?” Petty looks at him with a question on his face.
“I’ll call you back, Emmy.”
“Books, wait—”
Books ends the call. Drops the phone in his left pocket. Keeps his right hand down, close to the holster. Petty watches him without comment. Sees Books’s right hand poised by the weapon.
“We didn’t get our guy,” says Books. “But he couldn’t have gotten far. He’s in a wheelchair, so his options are limited.”
“Your killer’s in a wheelchair?” Petty asks. “That’s kinda…unusual, isn’t it?” Petty looks Books in the eye, something he rarely does.
“He’s an unusual guy,” says Books.
Petty blinks, glances away. Looks at Books’s right hand again, the gun.
“I stopped by last night,” says Books. “Thought you’d be here.”
“Yeah, well…”
Busy killing Lieutenant Wagner last night? After I basically told you we were about to raid his house?
“Is everything…okay?” Petty asks.
He can imagine how he looks to Petty. Not in a casual polo shirt and jeans but wearing a suit and tie and carrying a sidearm. Not a bookseller but an FBI agent. An FBI agent who is clearly on edge, no matter how Books tries to hide it; his heart is drumming in his chest, adrenaline pumping through him.
“Everything’s fine, Sergeant. Why wouldn’t it be?” He recognizes how strange his own voice sounds—unnatural, forced.
Petty remains still, apparently uncertain of what to do. He doesn’t have a visible weapon. If he reached for one, Books could outdraw him, his right hand still dangling by his weapon.
“Well, so—I just stopped by to grab something,” says Petty, hitching the duffel-bag strap higher on his shoulder.
“You’re not staying? You usually stick around on Thursdays.”
And then disappear Friday through Sunday. Just like Lieutenant Wagner.
“No, I can’t stay,” says Petty. “Just need to grab something.” He looks at the gun in Books’s holster again, then up at Books, as if seeking permission.
“Sure, no problem,” says Books.
Petty walks over to his corner of the room, looks at his neatly made bed, the two stacked crates he uses as a nightstand, the glass vase full of fake flowers that Books had taken out of the main room and put back here in storage.
Petty reaches under his pillow.
Books takes a step back and gets ready to draw his weapon. He’s out of practice, hasn’t been to a range in months—
Petty turns, holds up a Bible, then shoves it into his already overstuffed duffel bag, which gives Books time to move his hand away from his holster.
“Don’t know how I forgot this yesterday,” Petty says. “So…guess I’ll be on my way. Hope you find your bad guy, Agent Bookman.”
He looks in Books’s direction but avoids eye contact.
“Me too,” says Books.
Petty goes out the back door, which closes with a thud. Books exhales, shaky from adrenaline. He looks up at the live video of the closed-circuit camera trained on the alley outside and watches Petty hobble along with that heavy bag.
He calls Emmy. “He just left,” he says. “I’m going to follow him.”
“Please be careful. You want backup?”
“Definitely not. He’s careful. I’ll be lucky if he doesn’t make me. Add in other agents, and it could be a disaster.”
Petty disappears from the screen, and Books calculates how much longer it will take Petty to clear the alley. He gives it that much time and a bit more, for good measure. Then he pulls open the door and closes it as quietly as he can manage.
Books reaches the end of the alley and slowly looks out. He spots Petty easily enough, crossing the street. Holding up a key remote. Opening the door of a navy-blue sedan and climbing inside.
His homeless friend has a car.
106
“SORRY TO rush you,” I say to Louise Hall, the rehab facility’s administrator. “But I need to stay in contact with one of the agents, and I can’t get reception in here.”
“Right, you can only get it on the second floor,” she says, opening the door to the staff room. “This won’t take long. Michelle’s locker is the last one on the left.”
I walk down the row of employee lockers and stop at hers. I use my shirt to lift the latch. I’m not sure what to expect, but all I find is a hand mirror, a hairbrush, and a tube