Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,25

with his fist. “You swore to me it was over.”

I walk to him and put a hand on his chest. He recoils. I realize he’s shaking.

I ask, “If you knew somebody was out there killing people, and the police didn’t even know he was doing it, would you do something about it? Or would you do nothing?”

He steps back from me. He opens his mouth as if searching for words. I think it’s a legitimate question—the only question. And he seems to think, judging from his reaction, that I am missing the point entirely. That we are missing each other entirely.

My phone buzzes, a call. Instinctively, I look at my phone. Then back at Books, who is slowly shaking his head.

“Go on, check it,” he says, pushing past me. “I’ll be downstairs.”

25

THE MAN who calls himself Charlie has time on his hands. He rolls his wheelchair along the red-brick sidewalks of Old Town, enjoying the mild morning air, whiling away the hours until Emmy drives her Jeep from Harrison Bookman’s house back to her own. The GPS tracker in his pocket has shown no movement in Emmy’s car since it was parked by Bookman’s house Friday night, when he planted the device under the fender. He drove by the house once on Saturday just to be sure.

True, he had hoped that, at most, she would spend Friday night at his house and then return home the following morning. He hadn’t expected her to spend the entire weekend at his house. But it’s not a total loss. Alexandria is quite beautiful, especially Old Town—the scenic waterfront of the Potomac, the historic architecture. The George Washington Masonic National Memorial is his personal favorite.

He hums to himself as he rolls along the empty sidewalk, empty because it is not yet seven in the morning, enjoying the early sparks of dawn as the world stretches and yawns. Down the way, a few places are coming to life—a pastry shop emits delicious aromas of baked goods and fresh coffee, and a waiter is setting up outdoor tables in preparation for brunchers. But Charlie, on the sidewalk near a real estate agent’s office, its window filled with photos of gorgeous and charming and adorable properties for sale, is completely alone.

The sidewalk ends in a slope down to pavement, something that most people wouldn’t think about. But if you’re in a wheelchair, you notice a change in the surface. You are constantly on the alert for anything that might bar your way or force you to rethink your route.

It’s an alley, a narrow one between two buildings, wide enough for a single truck to travel through.

Wide enough, as well, for a homeless person sitting against the brick wall, long hair jutting from a maroon baseball cap on backward, wearing a filthy shirt that barely covers his navel, baggy gray trousers, and sandals. An empty McDonald’s bag is near him, as are three stray, half-smoked cigarettes.

“Spare change for the train, mister?” he mumbles, straightening up a little.

Charlie uses the remote on his wheelchair to turn toward the homeless man. He would guess that the man is in his mid-thirties, although it isn’t possible to discern much of anything given the grunge and foul odor.

“Train fare, mister?” the man says again.

Charlie tilts his head. “That would be an easier sell if you were more presentable, if you really looked like a commuter. From you, I’d expect something more along the lines of spare change for a cup of soup or coffee.”

The homeless man blinks, his eyes unfocused, the smell coming off him horrific. “Please, mister, train fare, mister, please?”

Charlie sighs. “I’ll bite. Where are you headed, friend?”

The man looks everywhere but at Charlie. “Met—Metro…station.”

“Tell me your destination,” says Charlie, “and I’ll gladly provide your fare.”

A pause. This is bordering on painful.

“Cap—capital,” he says.

“Wonderful! Where in the capital, friend?” Charlie looks about. Still nobody nearby. It’s been several months for him—in terms of a homeless person, that is. Not since Los Angeles. It was like shooting fish in a barrel out there, but he’d stopped after eleven. A pattern was developing. He couldn’t have that. He’s checked on the investigation from time to time, and, not to his surprise, the LAPD has lost interest in it, if it ever had any.

The senior citizens in Scottsdale were just as easy, but again he had to abort after nine. He didn’t have the patience to wait, and even the elderly didn’t die that consistently in one area over one small window of