The Midnight Club_ A Novel - James Patterson [21]
“I just took a message for you from reception down in the lobby. A Ms. Sarah McGinniss is on her way up now. Ms. McGinniss has the P.C.’s permission to screen the home movies. She’s a writer of note. Apparently, she traded favors for some inside things she knows about St.-Germain. Make your day?”
“I heard something about that. The captain mentioned her to me. Listen, there’s no way some investigative reporter, writer, whatever she claims to be—”
Stefanovitch stopped himself in midsentence. He had no choice. Someone—presumably Sarah McGinniss—had just entered the room.
“Good morning,” she said in a pleasant, very low-key voice. “Lieutenant Stefanovitch, I’m Sarah McGinniss. The writer you were just mentioning?”
Somehow, Stefanovitch succeeded in masking his frustration. He managed to smile, and muttered hello to the slender, dark-haired woman at the door. She was no Kay Whitley, but she was attractive, certainly not what he’d expected when he heard a writer was coming around.
“Bear, could the two of us, Ms. McGinniss and I, have a minute?” he asked.
His hands thrust deeply into his pockets, his tongue planted even deeper in his cheek, Kupchek slowly backed out of the room. He shut the door behind him, letting it click with great effect.
“May I say one thing before you start, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t think so.” Stefanovitch sighed and shook his head. He understood that he had to be absolutely stubborn with her, maybe even unreasonable. “Look, we’re both busy people. You’re writing your story, your book. I’m conducting a nasty, complicated murder investigation. One that’s particularly difficult for me.”
“Lieutenant Stefanovitch, I think maybe—”
“I can’t get involved in New York City politics right now. I won’t. I like what I know about your work. I read A Mother’s Kindness. But these videotapes are part of an ongoing homicide investigation. I don’t care what you can tell me about Alexandre St.-Germain. So, please leave.”
“I like the way you said all that, Lieutenant. The compliments about my book especially.” When Sarah finally got to say a few words, a disarming twinkle came into her eyes. “The problem is, I’m not so sure it tracks.”
“I don’t particularly care what—”
“I listened to you, Lieutenant. Play fair, please?” Sarah smiled. She seemed slightly amused by the outbreak between them. “For one thing, the tapes are under the police commissioner’s jurisdiction, not yours. Second, the P.C. is interested in the material I have on Alexandre St.-Germain, and especially the Midnight Club. I promise not to get in your way, Lieutenant, as long as you don’t get in mine.”
Sarah began to slip out of her jacket, an old electric-blue-and-pink windbreaker. Besides the cheery jacket, she wore a faded club shirt, khakis, and old running shoes. The outfit was comfortable, and it seemed appropriate for a long work session at Police Plaza.
“Hold on there. Hold up. Please don’t get yourself comfortable.” John Stefanovitch was pushing his wheelchair toward her.
“Listen,” he said. “Either I watch these tapes by myself, and this homicide investigation proceeds…or you watch the tapes, and the entire investigation shuts down until you’re finished in here.”
“That’s your choice.” Sarah shrugged. “If you want to wait, that’s fine with me.”
She sat down in one of the two hardwood chairs inside the cramped, musty, rather inhospitable office. The office was tiny, no more than seven by nine. She’d been in bigger clothes closets, nicer Port-O-Sans, classier phone booths.
Sarah suddenly stood up again. She walked over to a small wooden counter and poured herself a cup of coffee.
“Why don’t you have some coffee?” Stefanovitch said from across the room.
“Thanks.” Sarah took a sip, her lips poised over the Styrofoam. “My God, it’s liquid ash. Do you make your own coffee? Is this coffee?”
“I make my own coffee, and I happen to like it strong. As my father used to say, ‘It puts hair on the chest.’ I wasn’t expecting company. I didn’t invite any company. All right, watch the