Run for Your Life - James Patterson [39]
As I watched the ambulance roll toward the Chrysler Building, I found myself thinking about taking that job at ABC. I’d had enough of shootings and death. At least, that was sure how I felt at that moment.
Detective Terry Lavery came stomping up the stairs behind me.
“Just spoke to the precinct captain, Mike,” he said. “The shooter disappeared. They scoured the area under- and aboveground, stopped buses and taxis on Lex and Fifty-first, but not a trace.”
The ESU cop had said it all. Son of a bitch.
“Witnesses?” I said.
“About a dozen. Mostly they glued themselves to the car walls when the shooting started, but their descriptions match closely. Tall Caucasian male with black hair and dark sunglasses, wearing jeans and a graffiti T. He actually used two guns, a .45 and a .22. One in each hand like Jesse James.”
I shook my head in amazement. One man takes down two trained, armed officers at the same time, with two different guns? Outside of a spaghetti western or a John Woo movie, that didn’t happen. Drawing, aiming, and shooting with just a single weapon while under fire took an incredible level of skill and training.
“This guy’s either got some kind of special ops military background, or he’s the luckiest idiot in the world,” I said. “Let’s pray it’s the latter.”
“Oh, and get this,” Lavery said. “He yelled out that he liked cops, right before he opened up on them. Tried to warn them off, even apologized to Tonya Griffith.”
Christ, on top of everything else, he was a cop lover?
“With friends like that, who needs enemies,” I muttered. “Okay, round up any video you can get from the transit booth or the street. I’ll head over to the other crime scene.”
As I walked to the corner, I saw an old Jamaican hot dog guy behind the tape waving at me. I changed direction and went to him, thinking he might have some information, but it turned out he was just handing out free water and sodas to all the responding emergency personnel.
“My daughter’s an EMT in the Bronx, mon,” he said with a contagious grin. “Least I could do for all you good folks.”
He refused to take my money, but finally accepted the PBA card I gave him. Maybe it would get him out of a ticket.
As I went through the familiar ritual of looking for my car, it struck me that every time I was ready to throw in the towel as a cop, I bumped face-first into the reason why I did what I did.
Chapter 35
THE PLATINUM STAR HOTEL was just five blocks west on Sixth. Rolling over there, I constructed a mental outline of my impressions so far.
The most obvious pattern emerging was that after each murder, the killer hid out, then popped up again—wearing different clothes—and committed another murder. He must have a hiding place somewhere in the area. An apartment? A hotel room?
Then there were the words he’d yelled, according to witnesses, about liking cops. Maybe that was just raving. But as cool and organized as this guy was, I had the feeling he knew what he was saying. He’d shot them only because he felt he had to, in order to escape.
That meant he wasn’t just out killing randomly—he was choosing his targets. Further, the Platinum Star Hotel was the third high-end establishment out of three.
My early guess was looking strong. He had an agenda, and it had something to do with wealth.
And unlike typical serial killers, this shooter didn’t operate in secret. He worked in broad daylight, and let himself be seen. Was he trying to send a message? Those kinds of guys were usually out to prove that they were smarter than the police. They wanted to taunt us, let us know that they could kill with impunity and never be caught. So why hadn’t he contacted us or the press?
That was as far as I’d taken those thoughts when I pulled up in front of the hotel.
At least a hundred cops were milling inside a crooked yellow line of crime scene tape that threaded two full city blocks around the hotel. Office workers on the other side of it just stood there, silent and gaping, shell-shocked, braced for whatever was going to happen next. I found