Tick Tock - James Patterson [79]
After all, he’d killed for his country for no more than his mother had been paid at the Burger King. Killing for his friend with a $20 million inheritance was a no-brainer.
Apt ate a couple more peanuts, his eyes moving left to right then right to left, the scan of a hawk perched on a utility pole. He stirred his drink and continued to people-watch at the tables. A nipped-and-tucked divorcée on the prowl. A well-groomed, swarthy little Prada-wearing fuck with three gorgeous Asian women. A black male model in a white sport coat who kept trying to catch his attention.
Then he spotted her, a busty pale blonde in her late twenties sitting at the other end of the bar. There was a sexy, slutty, Old World Hollywood glamour about her, Marilyn Monroe.
Carl knew her name wasn’t Norma Jean Baker but rather Wendy Shackleton. She’d made Berger’s list for showing up from an escort service for Lawrence one night and taking one look at him and turning on her heels. The whore had totally rejected his good buddy before he’d even had a chance to open his mouth. She’d hurt Lawrence’s feelings very badly. Bad move.
Carl made eye contact as he carried his drink over.
“Good-bye, Norma Jean. Though I never knew you at all,” he sang, taking her hand as he sat down beside her.
She laughed demurely.
“I’m sorry,” he said, letting her go after a second. “How forward of me. My computer company just went public, and you’re just about the most glamorous-looking woman I’ve ever seen. You could be Marilyn herself.”
“You’re very kind,” she said, checking him out with approval. “Are you staying at the hotel?”
“Yes, I am,” Apt said. “I actually rang the opening bell down at the stock exchange this morning. It’s been one of the most exciting days of my life, and I need someone to share it with. Please, please, please, let me buy you a drink.”
“Sure, sure, sure,” she said, giggling. “What a gentleman.”
“Are you looking for some company tonight?” she said in his ear when her $20 dirty martini arrived.
“Oh,” he said, feigning surprise. “Oh, wow. You’re um…”
“Working. Yes,” she said, nodding, smiling. “Does that bother you?”
“Bother me? I’m bothered, all right. Hot and bothered in the best way possible. How does it work?”
“You’re not a cop, are you?”
Carl laughed and took a sip of his Whiskey Smash.
“Hardly,” he said.
“I didn’t think so. How does it work? Let’s see. You give me a thousand dollars, and I give you a lovely night you won’t forget.”
“Heck, let’s get to it, then,” Carl said, taking her hand again.
She banged his bad knee as she was pulling out her bar stool.
“I’m so sorry,” she said.
“No problem,” he said, his eyes tearing with the pain. She was going to pay for that, Carl thought.
His limp became more pronounced as they left the bar and headed for the opulent lobby’s elevator.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Old war injury,” Carl said. “Don’t worry. Everything else works fine.”
“Glad to hear it. What should I call you?”
“My employees call me Mr. Rifkin,” Apt said. “But you can call me Joel.”
Chapter 87
MONDAY MORNING, I sat at my desk at One Police Plaza still as a Zen master, breathing slowly, eyes closed, mentally prepping myself for my upcoming reaming at the task force meeting.
After reading the morning papers, I needed the meditation. Berger’s lawyer, some fool named Allen Duques, was crying false arrest and police negligence and was insisting on a thorough investigation into his client’s death. Only the Post piece happened to remind everyone that his client was a child- and cop-killing wacko.
I was thinking about getting into the lotus position to counteract all the bad karma when there was a knock on my cubicle wall. I reluctantly opened my eyes. Then I smiled. It was Emily Parker.
“Mike, are you… okay?” she said.
“Fine,” I said.
“Good, because my friend’s cousin is downstairs waiting for us.”
“Oh, right. The spook,” I said, standing.
“Shh,” Emily said. “The walls have ears.”
Outside on the street half a block east, a massive silver Lincoln Navigator sat idling. A bony, attractive brown-haired