Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,31
alarm on the wall, the light flashing red, wanting to blare out a high-pitched whine. But it doesn’t, because the Repressor Ultimate in Charlie’s left hand, the handheld UHF transmitter, is blinding the master receiver and scrambling the signal, telling the wall unit that everything is fine, nothing to see here, stop trying to talk to the master receiver. It shouldn’t take long for the wall unit to agree to stay quiet, ten or fifteen seconds at most.
Once, in Dubai, when his target was a vacationing Kuwaiti sheikh who was becoming too friendly with interests hostile to the United States, it took more than sixty seconds for the alarm to shut itself off. It was, at the time, the longest minute of his life.
This time, after twenty seconds, the wall unit is quiet, the light a solid red again, as if nobody had ever opened that front door.
He closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Everyone has a smell. He wants to know her scent. All that returns is a vaguely musty, sweaty odor overlaid by strong coffee. But that’s okay; that’s a scent, and a perfect one for Emmy.
“You don’t wear perfume,” he whispers. “Of course you don’t. My lady wouldn’t bother with such frivolities.”
He opens his eyes and looks around. The place is dark. Drapes are pulled over the window in the main living space. The kitchen looks like the kitchen of someone who favors a microwave over a stove. The living room is carpeted, with a stationary bike and a treadmill for her extensive physical therapy. No artwork on the walls. Simple furniture. Emmy is all business. He wouldn’t have her any other way.
He moves down the hall. A bathroom on the left. Two bedrooms, facing each other, on the end. One has a door that’s swung open. There is a cheap full-length mirror nailed to it, allowing Charlie to see all of himself, which, he realizes, he rarely gets to do.
He works the remote on the wheelchair, rolls up to the mirror, and takes a hard look at his overall appearance. The unshaven face, the shiny scar shaped like a crescent moon near his right eye, shoulder-length hair pulled back into a ponytail, the camouflage hat and army fatigue jacket. He looks at the wheelchair too. With the American-flag decal on the leather armrest and the bumper sticker reading RANGERS LEAD THE WAY on the bottom shroud of the wheelchair, he is the quintessential wounded veteran.
He looks past the mirror into the bedroom, obviously the one she sleeps in; there are clothes everywhere, the bed unmade. He turns to the other bedroom, surely the home office where Emmy—
He draws a breath. To call this a home office would not be doing it justice. This is more like command central. Two computers, a desktop and a laptop, on an L-shaped desk. The walls papered with notes and flow charts and articles. He wheels himself inside, thankful that it’s hardwood floor and not carpet so no tracks will be left.
He wants to review everything on these walls, but first things first.
He removes his equipment and quickly gets to work, downloading everything from her computers, using his spyware to bypass her password protection, and uploading tracer software.
Soon he will have all her data, and with the software, he will see everything she does on these computers.
He checks his GPS tracker to confirm that Emmy is still in DC. “Now I have some time to get acquainted with you, my dear Emmy,” he whispers.
30
I SIT in the conference room like a prisoner awaiting sentencing, my eyes bloodshot and heavy, the beginning of a cold stuffing me up, a dull ringing in my ears.
The turn of the knob startles me, even though I’m expecting him.
Dwight Ross enters without a word and takes a seat across from me at the walnut table. He stares at me, letting the silence ramp up the tension. Maybe he thinks that if he just stares at me, I’ll start blurting out apologies, begging for forgiveness, throwing myself on his mercy. If that’s what he’s waiting for, he’s going to wait a long time.
“You know why you’re here,” he says finally.
I nod.
“You admit you opened an unauthorized investigation?”
“I admit that when I initially reached out to the New Orleans PD, I didn’t specify that I was doing so on my own. I gave the impression that I was working in my official capacity. I cleared that up once I got there,” I say.