4th of July - James Patterson [31]
My jaw tensed as he swiveled on his bar stool and turned his gaze on me.
Chapter 50
I NOTED THE GUY’S stats automatically: white male, maybe six two, a fit 190, forty to forty-two years old, no distinguishing marks except for a healing wound between the thumb and forefinger of his right hand. As if he’d been cut with a knife.
He got down off his bar stool and came toward us.
I said quietly to Carolee, “This is my fault. I looked at him.” I did my best to head the guy off, making a big show of turning my face toward Carolee, but he kept coming.
“How are you two ladies tonight? You’re both so pretty, I just had to say hello.”
“Thanks,” said Carolee. “Nice of you to say.” Then she turned her back on him.
“I’m Dennis Agnew,” he said, pressing on. “Sure, you don’t know me, but listen, we can change all that. Why don’t you girls offer me a seat? Dinner’s on me.”
“Thanks anyway, Dennis,” I said, “but we’re having a nice time on our own. You know. Girls’ night out.”
A frown suddenly crossed the guy’s face, like the lights dimming during a brown-out. A fraction of a second later, his cockiness surged back, as did his beautiful smile.
“You couldn’t be having such a good time. Come on. Even if you’re the kind of girls who don’t like guys, it’s okay with me. It’s just dinner.”
Dennis Agnew was a crazy blend of smooth and crude, but whatever he was up to, I’d had enough of it.
“Hey, Dennis,” I said, fishing my badge out of my handbag and flashing it at him. “I’m a police officer and this conversation is private. Okay?”
I could see the pulse beating in his temple as he tried to strike a face-saving pose.
“You really shouldn’t make snap judgments, Officer. Especially about people you don’t know.”
Agnew walked back to the bar, put down some bills, and gave us a final look.
“You take care, now. I’ll be seeing you around.”
Then he stiff-armed the door that led out to the parking lot.
“Nice work, Lindsay.” Carolee made a cocked gun of her hand and blew imaginary smoke off the end of her finger.
“What a creep,” I said. “Did you see the look on his face? Like he couldn’t believe we were blowing him off. Who does he think he is? George Clooney?”
“Yeah,” said my new friend. “His mom and his mirror have been telling him that he’s irresistible for his whole life.”
Too funny! We laughed hard, clinked glasses. It was great to be with Carolee; I felt that I’d known her for years. Because of her, I stopped thinking about Dennis Agnew, killers and corpses, and even my looming court date.
I lifted my hand and ordered another round of Pete’s Wicked.
Chapter 51
THE SEEKER STASHED HIS new knife under the front seat of his car, then got out and opened the door to the convenience store. He was instantly refreshed by the air conditioning, the soothing sight of the tall, frosty coolers filled with soda and beer.
He was especially gratified to see a small dark-haired woman wearing an expensive Fila tracksuit in line at the checkout counter.
Her name was Annemarie Sarducci, and the Seeker knew that she had just finished her nightly run. She’d buy her bottle of imported spring water, then walk home and have dinner with her family in their home overlooking the bay.
The Seeker already knew a great deal about Annemarie: that she was vain about her size-three, 112-pound figure; that she was screwing her personal trainer; that her son was dealing drugs to his classmates; and that she was insanely jealous of her sister, Juliette, who had a long-running role in a daytime soap filmed down in Los Angeles.
He also knew that she authored a blog under the screen name Twisted Rose. He’d probably been her most attentive reader for months. He’d even signed her “guest book” with his own screen name.
“I like the way you think. The SEEKER.”
The Seeker filled a paper cup with strong black coffee from the urn in the corner of the store, then joined the line behind Mrs. Sarducci. He jostled her a little, brushed her breast as though it were an accident.
“I’m sorry. Oh. Hey, there, Annemarie,” he said.
“Yeah. Hi,” she answered,