Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,6

with the New Orleans PD. You e-mailed us about Nora Connolley?”

“Yes…um…uh…thanks for getting back to me.”

“Bad time to talk?”

I have to get a grip. This is my chance. I clear my throat. “No, sorry—I’m fine. Thank you for the call.”

“Ms. Connolley fell in her shower, Agent Dockery.”

I’m not a special agent, but I don’t correct him. He’s assuming this is an official investigation of the FBI and that I’m a special agent, even though I never said either of those things. I haven’t lied to him.

“And you’ve been to the scene?”

“I was there, yes. You have some reason to believe—”

“She was selling her house, wasn’t she?”

“She—what was that?”

“Her house was for sale.”

“Uh…hang on.” I hear muffled voices, the sergeant asking someone else about whether Nora Connolley’s house was for sale. I already know it was.

“Yeah, guess so,” he says, returning to the phone. “You coulda figured that out from any old computer.”

That’s the point, Sergeant.

“So how does that make a slip-and-fall in the bathroom a murder?” he asks.

“I think it fits into a pattern,” I say. “I’m investigating the possibility of a killer who’s making the victims’ deaths appear accidental or natural.”

“Huh. That sounds like that case you all had a couple years ago, that guy who tortured people and torched the crime scenes.”

“Something like that. But someone even more skilled.”

A pause. “Well, listen, who am I to tell the FBI to stand down? But I gotta say, it sounds like a stretch to me. You wanna take over this investigation, it’s all yours.”

But that’s the thing. I can’t. I don’t have the authority, and I won’t unless I can make a case to the Bureau. That’s the catch-22. I can’t open an investigation to prove that an investigation’s warranted. I need this guy. I need Sergeant Crescenzo.

“Would you be willing to open the investigation locally?” I ask. “I’d prefer to stay below the radar for now.”

“You want me to start an investigation based on the fact that someone put her house up for sale and then slipped and fell in the shower?” Sergeant Crescenzo lets out an amused grunt. “I need more than that to open a homicide investigation.”

Sure he does. I can’t blame him.

“Graham—the arsonist you mentioned? Graham was good,” I say. “But this guy’s better. Graham brutally tortured the victims, then covered up the crime scenes by setting fire to them. This guy? His victims show no sign of foul play. He comes and goes without a trace. He’s a ghost.”

Another pause. I’ve got him thinking, at least. “I’ll come to New Orleans tomorrow,” I say. “We’ll take a look at the crime scene, nice and quiet, and if you still think I’m full of hot air, I’ll leave you alone.”

“Tomorrow, huh?”

“And one more thing, Sergeant. Please keep this out of the press. For everyone’s sake.”

He’s apparently mulling this over.

“I’ll call you when I land,” I say, and I hang up before he can protest.

7

THE FLIGHT into New Orleans is bumpy, but luckily the weather is clear. Rain is the last thing I need. I drive a rental car to St. Roch, a neighborhood still struggling to bounce back from the beating it took from Katrina. There are vacant homes and plenty of potholes in the roads, but there are also planters of fresh flowers in the boulevard medians and some new construction in the commercial areas.

When I pull up to the house on Music Street, a graying African-American man in shirtsleeves, tall and broad, is leaning against a sedan and reviewing a document. When I get out of my air-conditioned car, he nods at me.

“Sergeant Crescenzo,” I say, startled by the blazing heat.

“Call me Robert,” he says, shaking my hand. “Agent Dockery, you are a master of understatement. You didn’t tell me you were the one who caught Graham.”

“I worked on the case, yes. And call me Emmy.”

“Worked on the case.” He chuckles and sizes me up, probably looking for scars. I’m wearing a scarf that covers my neck, so there’s nothing to see here.

“You brought the coroner’s findings?” I ask.

“There was no autopsy,” he says. “No need for one. But we have her initial investigation notes, yes. And I brought the photos too.”

That should be good enough. I turn to the house. Nora Connolley lived in a one-story, stucco A-frame with tomato-red and lime trim. The tiny front yard is enclosed by a wrought-iron fence. A red, white, and blue For Sale sign from a real estate company called Jensen Keller is attached to the