Unsolved (Invisible #2) - James Patterson Page 0,86
register.”
“And what does he do the rest of the week?”
“None of my business.”
“It’s your business if you’re going to hand over the keys to your store to him. And today’s Wednesday. Can you count on him for Friday and the weekend?”
Emmy has to run—she’s scrambling to compile information for the warrant application—so they sign off. Petty comes over and helps carry the chairs to the storage room.
Books sighs. Emmy’s right. He’s known Sergeant Petty for, what, six months? He met him during the depths of winter, sleeping outside his store, and invited him in. He’s come to enjoy the guy’s company, and he trusts him not to steal or mess up anything in the store—but running it? He can’t place that kind of trust in him. Hell, Petty wouldn’t even take a job as a salesman; he sure as hell wouldn’t agree to run the whole store, even for a few days, even if Books asked.
“Sergeant Petty,” he says, “I’m going to be closing up the store for a few days.”
Petty emerges from the storage room. “Going on vacation?”
“No, just some outside work I’m doing. Helping out Emmy on a case.”
Petty nods, breaks eye contact, as he usually does. His eyes drift back to the laptop. “Another serial killer, I s’pose?”
“Yeah. She thinks she found her man.”
“Where this time? California? Texas?”
“Right here in Annan—well.” Books catches himself. “Not far from here, anyway.” He has to be more careful about revealing information. He probably shouldn’t have left the laptop open to Lieutenant Wagner’s website either. But it’s only Petty.
“Listen, you gonna be okay while the store’s closed? You can still sleep here. Like always. I can give you a key.”
“I don’t wanna put you out, Agent Bookman.”
“It’s not a problem.” It’s no different than he’s been doing, letting Petty sleep here at night. He tosses a spare key to Petty, who catches it in one hand.
“Actually,” says Books, “I’m probably going to close the shop right now. I have to be at the Hoover Building tonight.”
“Things are moving that fast, huh?”
“Yeah, meeting with prosecutors tonight. We could be executing a warrant this evening, although tomorrow is more likely.”
Petty nods, looks down at the key in his hand, showing Books the crown of his shiny bald head. “It’s…really good of you,” he says. “Trusting me with a key like that.”
Seeing this homeless veteran with all his worldly possessions shoved into a single bag, it hits Books again, as it does so often, how unfair life is. Why isn’t there some big red button you could push that would give everybody a slice of comfort and success—just enough so that no one has to sleep in an alley or eat out of a garbage can.
Or whatever it is that Petty does when he’s not here.
“Of course I trust you, Sergeant,” he says.
86
AT 6:45 P.M., he sits in his wheelchair before his bank of electronics: The computer monitoring Emmy’s home PC, however inactive it may be these days. The GPS keeping tabs on her vehicle. The tablet displaying Emmy’s e-mails. His own laptop, full of research on his next bombing site. Dinner—rice and chicken in lemon sauce—on a plate to the side, untouched.
He tries to still his hands, which are quaking as he forces them down on the desk.
“Well, there’s no doubt now, is there?” he whispers. “You are most definitely out of time, soldier.”
He slams his laptop closed. He hurls the GPS monitor against the wall. He sweeps the plate of food off his desk, and the plate clangs to the floor; sauce and sticky rice stain the wall. He closes his eyes, his chest heaving.
He missed his chance last night with Emmy, when Agent Bookman showed up at her apartment just after she did. True, he could’ve taken them both out, but there would be no passing that off as an overdose or suicide. It would have been a brutal, messy double murder. The spotlight on him would only have grown hotter.
It’s unraveling too quickly. They could be here any time now. Suspicion has grown far too heavy on a cantankerous wheelchair-bound war veteran from Annandale, Virginia.
He pops up from the wheelchair, kicks it backward with his foot.
I can walk! It’s a miracle! Hallelujah!
He’s silently cracked that joke to himself so many times. Oh, how often he’s wanted to do that, to bounce up in the middle of the sidewalk or in some public place, just to see the look on everyone’s face.