Run for Your Life - James Patterson [67]
The surprise of seeing the horses was nothing by comparison to that. My jaw just about went unhinged.
“You’re telling me this is Gladstone?” I said.
“One and the same.”
I know it’s not right to disrespect the dead, but I couldn’t deny that I was pleased. This ulcer-inducing case was finally over. In fact, I couldn’t help smiling, and I let out a long sigh of relief as what felt like a piano was lifted from my back.
“What do you know?” I said. “He offed himself, huh? Literally went down in a blaze of glory. Thank God it’s over.”
But Beth was shaking her head. I’d spoken too soon.
She crouched beside the corpse and moved her gloved finger to a small circular hole in the temple. Then she showed me the bigger hole on the other side of the head, a jagged exit wound.
“Shooting yourself is pretty easy, but shooting yourself and then setting yourself on fire, well, that’s a notch trickier,” she said.
“Maybe he did it the other way around,” I tried desperately. “Torched the place first, then boom.”
“So what happened to the gun? Even if it melted, there’d be traces left, but the techs haven’t found any. Plus Cleary says there’s fly larva embedded in the left upper arm. That means he’s been dead for two, maybe three days. And that means?—”
“Gladstone couldn’t have killed all those people,” I finished for her. I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes.
“Sorry, Mike, but he’s not our shooter.”
I cursed under my breath. If it wasn’t Thomas Gladstone, then who the hell was it?
“That’s not all,” Beth said, standing. She led me to a closet with a barbecued door and walls.
I winced at the slight young blond woman crumpled up inside it. The fire hadn’t gotten to her too badly, but she was still very dead—shot in the back of the head.
“We found her purse. Name’s Wendy Stub. Twenty-six. Her business card says she’s a publicist at Stoa Holdings, a hotshot Park Avenue South PR firm.”
A publicist? What was her connection to this?
As I listened to firemen ripping open the walls in the other rooms, I wondered if FDNY was still hiring. A midlife career change seemed like just the ticket. Or maybe the stable next door could use a horse whisperer, to help the poor creatures get over their trauma.
Beth was watching me inquiringly. “What now?”
“You’re asking me?” I said.
Chapter 72
RUSH HOUR WAS STILL in full swing when the Teacher’s cab stopped behind a police car that was parked in front of the Pierre Hotel. It made him a little nervous, but Vinny, the doorman, came bustling over to open the taxi’s door like nothing was out of the ordinary. Cops didn’t come to places like this to pick up people—they came to protect people. Still, the Teacher kept his face averted and his hand on the butt of his .45 as he got out.
“Welcome home, Mr. Meyer!” Vinny said. “How was your trip? Paris, wasn’t it?”
That’s where he’d told everyone at the Pierre he was going. In fact, he’d gone infinitely farther. To other dimensions. But now he was home, the place where he’d actually lived for the past three years.
“It was great, Vinny. Especially the food,” the Teacher said, smiling despite himself. He’d liked Vinny since the moment he decided to move into the world-famous hotel. That was right after his mother had passed away, and he’d become the sole beneficiary of the twenty-four-million-dollar Ronald Meyer fortune. He’d decided that he owed it to his asshole stepdaddy to blow every last red penny of the old man’s dough. And he’d kept his Hell’s Kitchen apartment as a command center.
“What’s up with the cop car?” the Teacher asked casually.
“Oh, Jeez. You probably didn’t hear. There’s this fucking—pardon me—freaking maniac going around shooting people the last couple of days. Killed a stewardess at a hotel on Sixth and a maître d’ at Twenty-one. It’s in all the papers. They think it’s some rich guy who flipped his lid. So they got cops everywhere they got rich people. Which is everywhere around here,