Run for Your Life - James Patterson [26]
The manager waved at me anxiously from the doorway, awaiting my signal that he could remove the crime scene tape. His slain employee’s moment of silence had lasted a New York minute. So much for any dignity about being dead, I thought. A fat cop in a Tyvek suit hauled your carcass out of the way, and, with depressingly little trouble, the world moved on.
I watched the manager balling the yellow tape in his hands as he hurried back under the awning. Maybe they’d string it up above the bar with the other toys, was my merry parting thought—the NYPD’s contribution to lifestyles of the rich and famous.
I started walking, trying to remember where I’d parked my van.
Chapter 21
EVER SINCE Commissioner Daly’s phone call earlier today, the fact that he’d handpicked me for this assignment had been in the back of my mind. As I drove home, it surfaced for the thousandth time. I was as nervous as hell about this case—I admitted it. In all likelihood, we would catch this guy, especially if he kept on going.
But that was precisely the problem. How many more people might he kill before we did catch him?
It was a tough spot for me to be in. So far, I had very little to work with. But I couldn’t let the commissioner, or the city, down.
When I opened my apartment door, I was greeted by the strong waft of Lysol. With it came the memory of all the problems that awaited me in this world, too.
“Daddy, Daddy, look!” Fiona cried out. Her pigtails whipped around as she ran toward me, waving the dollar bill I’d left under her pillow. Her hug-tackle almost knocked me down. “The Tooth Fairy didn’t forget! She came after all!”
I’d read somewhere that eight-year-old girls couldn’t care less about toys or other childish things anymore—just makeup, clothes, and electronics. But I was blessed with one who still believed in magic. I returned her hug, with all my anxiousness shedding off me like old skin. At least I was doing something right.
As Fiona tugged me into the living room, I spotted a mop and plastic pail, and I started thinking about how Mary Catherine must have spent her day. Who was I to complain? As bad as mine had been, hers had to have been worse.
A moment later, she came hurrying in for the mop. I grabbed it at the same instant she did, and with my other hand I pointed to the stairs to the third floor, Mary Cather-ine’s apartment.
“Out you go, Mary,” I said. “Whatever needs doing here, I’m all over it. You go have fun with somebody who’s old enough to vote. That’s an order.”
“Mike, you just got in, you need to relax a bit,” she said. “I can stay for a few more minutes.”
She pulled at the mop, but I held on to it. In the tug of war that followed, the water-filled pail went over with a splash, flooding across the hardwood.
I don’t know which of us started giggling first, but after a second, we were both full-out belly laughing.
“The floor needed a mop anyway,” I finally said. “Now for the last time, I’m giving you a police order to remove yourself from these premises. I have handcuffs, and I’ll use them on you.”
Mary Catherine stopped laughing abruptly. She let go of the mop and turned away hastily, like she’d done when we’d brushed against each other in the kitchen. This time, there was no doubt that she was blushing.
“I didn’t mean . . . that,” I said warily. “I . . .”
“It’s been a long day, Mike. There’ll be another tomorrow, so let’s both get some rest.” With her face still averted, she started to leave, pausing to tap a sheaf of paper on the coffee table. “This’ll be useful to you. Good night.”
I was setting a personal-best record for the number of times I’d put my foot in my mouth with women in one day, I thought. I decided to blame it on exhaustion. Or maybe I was coming down with the flu, too.
I looked at the papers she’d left me—a detailed computer printout, a medical chart of my quarantined family. Who needed which medicine, how much of it, and when. I shook my head in disbelief. This woman could do the impossible.
I should have asked her where the psycho killer was.
Chapter