Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,85

but then closes his mouth, nods, looks away.

“What, Tom?”

Tom clears his throat, chews on his lip. “It’s probably nothing.”

“Spit it out,” she says, growing concerned.

“The thing is, he wasn’t pissed off,” Tom says. “He seemed…worried.”

A cold wave goes through her chest. Worried? Why would Lew be worried about that? Unless…

“Tell me what he said, Tom.” A sudden tremble in her voice. “Word for word.” The fear on Tom’s face matches her own.

“He said to me, and this is a quote, ‘You don’t think she’d really go to the FBI with this, do you?’”

85

LATE AFTERNOON, and Books is sitting behind the desk in his bookstore. The store is dead, empty this time of day, though he had a good morning—a children’s author did a lunchtime appearance, an event Books had completely forgotten about, despite advertising it like crazy for weeks, despite having signs all over the store. He’d had to scramble when he got in this morning and realized today was the day, unwrapping the books, arranging the chairs and the display. In the end, it was fine. The author, with her full-wattage smile and her singsongy voice, charmed the crowd. He sold thirty-two books. Not bad at all.

Nobody knew that Books almost blew the whole thing, his attention diverted by his Bureau work.

His laptop is open to the website for Lieutenant Martin Charleston Wagner, motivational speaker and political activist. “Congratulations,” he says into his earpiece to Emmy. “This validates everything you’ve been saying. You did it, Em. You found him.”

“Congratulate me when I convince the lawyers from Justice to ask a judge for a warrant. It won’t be easy.”

“No, it won’t,” Books agrees. “When do you meet with them?”

“Seven o’clock tonight. Between now and then, I have to come up with everything I can possibly find.”

“I’ll be there,” says Books, “now that I’m on the team.”

The door chimes. In walks his homeless friend Petty, bald and clean-shaven, wearing a T-shirt and shorts, his camouflage duffel bag slung over his shoulder. He sees that Books is on the phone and gives a curt wave before heading into the back room, which is set up for him to wash up and sleep.

“Maybe someday you’ll explain that to me,” Emmy says to him. “How you managed to convince Elizabeth Ashland to let you in on the Chicago bombing investigation.”

“Simple. I’m investigating you for the leak. This allows me to stay close to you.” Books comes around the counter, folds up the chairs from the author’s appearance, stacks them against a bookcase.

“You do realize you’re putting yourself at considerable risk, Agent Bookman. You’re on a high wire.”

“Says the woman who practically dared a serial killer to come after her. Besides,” he adds, “I like the high wire.”

“Says the man who operates a bookstore.”

“It’s…thrilling in its own way. Trying to figure out how I’m going to pay the monthly lease, for example—that’s a real heart-stopper.” Books feels a smile on his face, realizes how much he’s enjoying the banter. It feels like old times, when he and Emmy first met, when there wasn’t the pressure of marriage or the future—just the two of them together.

“Speaking of which—any luck finding someone to mind the store?”

Petty comes out from the back room, wiping his hands on his shorts, looking around the store. His gaze settles on the open laptop on the counter, and his eyes narrow.

“So far, nobody can do it,” Books says into his earpiece. He turns away and says, quietly, “Maybe…Petty?”

“Oh, Books, I love the guy, but—you can’t leave the store in his hands.”

He turns back. Petty is still looking at Books’s laptop, open to the website of Lieutenant Wagner, his lips moving slightly as he reads.

Books slinks farther away, folding up more chairs, keeps his voice low. “He’s a helluva salesman. He’s rough around the edges, but he…I don’t know, he gets people. He has a real way with them.”

“Sure, I know, he’s great. But…what do you know about him? You don’t even know his first name; he’s just Sergeant Petty. He comes and goes at random. Who knows what else he does?”

Books turns back. Petty has moved in closer to read the laptop.

“He’s actually pretty regular,” Books says. “Monday through Thursday, he comes in like clockwork in the afternoon, stays the night, and he’s gone before I arrive in the morning. He keeps that back room spick-and-span. He’s had plenty of opportunities to steal something, but he hasn’t. All I have to do is teach him the credit card reader and the cash