Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,64

interest. There are no ridiculous expenditures that would stand out for an agent on a government salary—no major home remodels or expensive cars, the kinds of things that can be paid for in cash to launder the bribe money.

And nothing, thus far, revealed in online activity. No suspicious e-mails. Websites are all over the place—including a fair amount of porn for a few of the agents, even some of the married ones—but nothing that sounds an alarm for Books, no secret message boards or additional e-mail accounts where the agent might surreptitiously rendezvous with Citizen David.

But whoever he is, he wouldn’t be that stupid. He probably doesn’t have any interaction with David at all. The leaks to Shaindy Eckstein at the Post are likely his sole means of communication at this point.

He raises his eyes and looks at Petty, who is asking the customer’s young daughter what kinds of TV shows she likes so he can analogize it to books. That’s the right technique for people who walk into a bookstore with no real idea what they want. It took Books, a cop by trade, quite a while to figure out that that’s how you sell books. He’s always loved everything about books, the way they transport you to another place, stimulate your mind, widen your horizons, but he doesn’t enjoy the sales or business side of it. Petty, however, has proven to be a natural at finding out what people want and then closing the deal.

Too bad, Books thinks, that a talented guy like Petty can’t have a more normal, stable life. But then, what the hell is normal? Petty has never seemed particularly unhappy, never showed the slightest hint of self-pity. He drifts along, sure. His future doesn’t look so bright. But he’s apparently fine with living in the present.

And what does Books really know about this guy other than that he was messed up in the war, loves to read, and sleeps in the bookstore’s back room during the week?

You’re one to judge, Books thinks. Your bookstore’s on the verge of failing, yet you’re more concerned with your temporary Bureau job. And you can’t find a way to make things work with Emmy, the only woman you’ve ever loved, the best person you know. And you think you can decide what Petty needs to be happy?

He returns to his investigative work, stopping only to answer the phone and ring up customer purchases. There aren’t many. It’s been a rough couple of months for his store. Okay, it’s been a difficult year.

But how easily he dives back into this work, the Bureau stuff. How quickly it revs his motor. He loves hunting for clues. Discerning patterns. A game of chess. A game made all the more enticing because the people he’s investigating are trained agents who’ve done the very thing he’s doing right now and who know how not to leave bread crumbs.

I’m going to find you, he vows to himself, the bravado of an agent returning to him. You’re in here, in these papers somewhere, and I’m taking you down.

62

I SMILE at Dwight Ross’s secretary, who shakes her head dismissively as I pass her with the grande cup of Starbucks. When I enter his office, Dwight is standing by a table in the corner that is stacked with folders. Elizabeth Ashland has her nose in a file. She looks up at me, then at the coffee, a question on her face.

Dwight, reading something on his phone, notices me and mumbles, “That’s not necessary, Emmy,” part of his standard routine, then he glances at his watch to see if I’ve made it by eight a.m. I’m supposed to reply with a Just wanna show my appreciation, but I don’t bother. Elizabeth nods at me with a slight pursing of her lips that is supposed to convey something short of outright hostility, then she looks again at the coffee. I put it down on his desk and go back to my cubicle.

Rabbit and Pully have beat me to work. Rabbit’s gray hair is pulled back in a bun, which is about as fashionable as she gets, though it’s meant to be practical rather than stylish. I’m just about to call for a quick morning update when my phone rings. The caller ID says Sgt. Crescenzo NOPD.

“Robert Crescenzo!” I say into the phone, hoping that my trip to New Orleans paid off, that our visit to Nora Connolley’s house bore fruit. At this point, I’d settle for a tiny shred