Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,5

proposed to Emmy (for the second time) and she said yes (for the first time). And yet no date has been set, no china patterns picked out.

“But you two are still…together?”

It’s not like Bill to make small talk. Not like him at all. What does he care about whether Books and Emmy are heading down the aisle or toward separate lives?

“Yeah,” Books says. Two loaded questions from the director, two single-word responses from Books. The director’s a smart guy. He’s read between closer lines than these.

“I need you, Books. An assignment. A special assignment.”

“The Bureau is filled with talented and dedicated agents.”

“I need someone from outside the Bureau.”

“From outside,” says Books. “A double-I?”

Internal investigations are typically handled in-house, just like all other investigations. The Bureau rarely wants to admit that it needs outside help. If the director is asking, this is not the typical double-I. This is not about a boss chasing a subordinate around a desk. This is not about an agent using a Bureau computer to sell beauty products or surf porn. It means something far bigger than that.

It means the director doesn’t know whom to trust within his own agency.

“You have a mole.”

The director nods, some color to his face. “We do. You’d run the investigation. You’d report directly to me. Nobody else.”

“I pick my team,” says Books, realizing how quickly he jumped so many hurdles in his mind, how easily and almost naturally he said yes. Like there was never a doubt. “Starting with Emmy,” Books says, “and not because she’s my fiancée. Because she’s the best analyst the Bureau’s ever had. I know she hasn’t been the same since—”

“She is the best.” The director makes a face. “No question. But I have to say no. You can pick anyone else, Books, but not Emmy. Not this time.”

Books stares at the director, reading him, noting the averted eyes, the discomfort. This is also not like him. Not like him to beat around the bush. Not like him to ask about Books’s personal life either, especially his relationship with Emmy.

Books feels something sink inside him. “No,” he says, as if he can will it away.

“Gives me no pleasure to say it.” The director shrugs. “But Emmy is the target of the investigation. We think your girlfriend is the mole.”

6

I PUT it all together, everything I’ve been able to collect on Nora Connolley, on a biography sheet, the same kind I’ve compiled for each of the victims on my wall. It’s missing some pieces, but it’s enough for the time being.

Now if only the New Orleans PD would call me back. I e-mailed them yesterday. I usually get a phone call, at least, even if the person’s voice is laced with skepticism.

Speaking of which, why hasn’t Detective Halsted called me back about Laura Berg?

The clock says 11:45. I should probably eat lunch. No, I should sleep. I did put my head down on a pillow last night for a few hours. I didn’t sleep, but I rested. My mother used to say that to me when I was kid, when I tossed and turned, that at least I was resting. I never really understood that. Either you sleep or you don’t.

I don’t.

My laptop—my main one—pings with an e-mail. An invitation from some prosecutors’ association to speak at their annual event. I type a quick no-thank-you.

Another e-mail. A Google search alert, not my normal one that produces hundreds of stories a day, my needle-in-a-haystack search. No, this one is more specific.

When I see the headline, I suck in my breath.

Vienna PD Detective Found Dead in Home

“No,” I whisper. “No!”

Vienna Police Department detective Joseph Halsted, 48, a nineteen-year veteran of the force, was found dead this morning in his condominium. He was unresponsive when paramedics arrived. A spokesman for the department said that the cause of death was a heart attack.

I drop my head into my hands. “Oh no. No, no, no!” My phone buzzes on my desk. “I did this…I did this…”

I told him to look into Laura Berg’s death. He never would have given a second thought to it if it weren’t for me. I led Joe Halsted to the slaughter.

It means something else, I realize, though it’s hard to focus on it right now. It means I was right about Laura Berg.

My phone is lighting up, grunting at me. I reach for it. The caller ID shows a New Orleans area code. Oh, right, New Orleans—

“Hello?” I manage.

“Agent Dockery?” A New York accent. “This is Sergeant Crescenzo