Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,118
reader within five miles of the ambush spot yesterday.
She pulls up the registrations. The first one is to an African-American man who lives in Roanoke, on the other side of the state. “Gotta be a couple hundred miles in distance,” says Pully. “And the wrong race. Petty’s a white guy, I assume?”
Yes, he is.
The second registration is to Mary Ann Stoddard, age fifty-one, who lives in Huntington, Virginia.
Huntington. The town next to Alexandria. The town where Petty ambushed Books.
I grab my phone and dial Books. “We got it,” I say.
120
BOOKS LAYS out a satellite view of a Google map before the other FBI agents he’s assembled for the raid.
“The Meredith Court and Gardens,” he says. “A twelve-story apartment building in downtown Huntington, just off Route One. Mary Ann Stoddard lives on the seventh floor, unit seven-nineteen. Officially, she lives alone.” He looks around at the agents. “But obviously, we have reason to believe she’s not alone at the moment.”
“Seven-nineteen,” says one of the agents. “Is that an interior unit?”
“Actually, that’s the good news—no, it’s not. It’s a corner unit.” Books spreads out an architectural layout of the apartments that Emmy found online. “Unit nineteen on each floor is on the southeast corner. That means…” He returns to the Google map, the satellite view of the building. “Right here, this side. So we can set up shooters on the roofs of these buildings right here.”
“Do we know he’s there?”
“We don’t. I think it’s fifty-fifty at best. He could definitely be in the wind. I may have spooked him yesterday.”
“You mean yesterday, the day he kicked your ass?” That comment from an agent named Hendricks, whom Books has known for years. He’s got a chaw of tobacco in his mouth and a smirk on his face. It’s like Books never left, these guys and their bullshit.
“Yeah, Hendricks, that yesterday. I’m taking four agents with me to the seventh floor. The rest of you?” He holds up three fingers. “Three ways to exit that building. One is the front door. One is the rear door. The third is through the underground parking garage. We station two agents at each of them. I don’t think he could make it to the underground parking, because we’re going to kill the elevator service. So we should station agents there who are less experienced or just general pussies. Hendricks, you’d make sense.”
Like he never left.
“No fooling around, boys,” he says. “This man is wanted for blowing up that building in Chicago and killing two hundred innocents. We like him for over a dozen other murders around the country. He’s capable of anything, so we have to be ready for anything. Okay?”
Nods all around the room, nervous energy and performance adrenaline so thick you can almost smell it.
“Let’s go catch a bad guy,” he says.
121
“BE CAREFUL,” I say to Books over the phone.
“I will. I’m not alone this time. I’m working with pros. If you find anything on Petty, either through the fingerprint search or at the rehab facility, let me know right away, okay?”
“Of course. And you keep me updated.”
“Will do.”
I end the phone call before I say something mushy or touchy-feely to Books. It’s not what he needs right now. He’s in performance mode.
“I’m heading to the rehab facility,” I say to Rabbit and Pully. “I’m going to show Tom Miller the video footage of Petty.”
“Right,” says Pully.
Rabbit glances at me but says nothing.
“That was good work, guys, getting that address so fast.”
“Thanks,” says Pully.
Rabbit looks away, remaining silent.
I check the clock. It’s now two thirty. “It won’t take me long,” I say. “I should be back no later than…four. See you guys then?”
“Of course you’ll see us,” says Pully. “Where the hell else would we go?”
But I wasn’t really addressing that comment to Pully, and the third member of our team knows it. “Rabbit,” I say, “I’ll see you around four.”
This time, I say it not as a question but a command. Rabbit clenches her jaw but doesn’t respond. Pully senses something between us but isn’t sure what, and he’s not the type to ask. He probably chalks it up to some older-women thing.
“Four o’clock, Rabbit,” I say, and I head out, not even bothering to wait for a response.
122
MICHELLE FONTAINE paces the hotel room, checking her watch, holding her cell phone, a phone whose number only a handful of people know. She calls her landline voice mail again, listening to the message for the third time.
“Michelle, it’s Tom Miller. Hey, listen, I was sorry