Truth or Die (7 page)

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Authors: James Patterson,Howard Roughan

BOOK: Truth or Die
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“WHY CAN’T Winston Smith be his real name?” asked Bowman.

“It’s from a book,” said Lamont, straightening his glasses with a professorial nudge. Class was in session. “George Orwell’s
1984
. Everyone in my high school had to read it that year. They practically made us memorize it. The name of the main character was Winston Smith.”

Bowman shrugged again. “What? So no one else can have that name?”

“They could, but Winston Smith was supposed to represent Everyman,” I said. I caught Lamont’s eyes and cracked a smile. “It was a few years later, but I read it in high school, too.”

“Good for you both,” said Bowman, getting his Bronx up. “I wasn’t even born in 1984.”

I was really starting to dislike this guy. “Anyway,” I said, “Winston Smith is simply a more clever version of John Doe.”

“Not to mention that our Mr. Smith also paid in cash for this room and the one next door,” said Lamont.

As if having prompted himself, he took a walk through the connecting doors to look at the other room. He was back within seconds.

“Do me a favor, Bowman,” he said. “Give Mr. Mann and me a few minutes, will you?”

Bowman was more than happy to oblige. “I’ll be in the lobby,” he said.

As he walked out, Lamont closed the door behind him. He turned and made a beeline for the minibar fridge, grabbing a Diet Coke.

“What do you think they charge for this?” he asked, digging a fingernail under the tab. He popped open the can with a loud snap and grinned. “I guess we’ll just have to put it on Mr. Smith’s bill.”

After taking a long sip, he stepped back and settled into the armchair in the corner. He was in no rush, and whether or not that was calculated I didn’t know. He surely had questions for me. I just didn’t expect his first one to be the same one I had.

“So what happens now?” he asked.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said.

“Well, I know what
I
need to do,” he said, pointing at his chest. “I need to eyeball all the exits and hope that the security cameras aimed at them were actually recording. I also need to get a description of our Mr. Smith from the clerk who actually checked him in, since the beady-eyed woman downstairs told me it wasn’t her.”

He was right. I had the wrong word. The woman at the front desk was more beady-eyed than wary-eyed.

Lamont paused, taking another sip. “Then maybe, just maybe, we can start piecing this whole thing together. Because until then, we’ve got a little problem.”

Yes, we did, and he didn’t need to spell it out. I’d learned it in law school; he’d learned it at the police academy.

No body? No crime.

“So, like I said, what happens now?” he asked. “What do
you
need to do?”

“You mean, besides getting some sleep?”

“That’s a good start,” he said. “But yeah, besides that.”

I was stalling because I had no idea what he was getting at. Of course, that was his point.

“You tried to trace Claire’s footsteps tonight and look where it got you,” he said.

“I know her killer is dead, don’t I?”

“Yes, and if it wasn’t for those dumb doors being open to the next room, you could’ve been next.”

“Is this your way of saying
let us do our jobs?

Lamont winced. “God, I hope not. They only say that on cop shows. What I’m saying is this:
Stop trying to do hers
.”

I was about to shake my head, tell him he was off base. No, worse. Delusional. Like Donald Trump with a comb.

But Lamont knew that was coming and was way ahead of me. He’d already reached into his pocket and was now holding it in the air, Exhibit A.

“Where the hell did you get that?” I asked.

He broke into a smile, and as he did, I could practically see the canary feathers caught in his teeth.

“Did I mention you’re a lousy liar, Mr. Mann?”

CHAPTER 20

LAMONT WAS holding Claire’s cell phone, the old Motorola she used strictly for her sources.

The Stopper.

“Why didn’t you say anything back at the precinct?” he asked.

“I wasn’t sure that was what she was doing,” I said.

“Still, what the hell were you planning? Hop the fence later this afternoon at the Whitestone Pound and search behind the backseat?”

“It was really there, huh?”

“The second you wanted to watch that part of the recording again, I knew you saw her do something,” said Lamont.

“Only I didn’t know it was her phone she was hiding.”

“You know why she would, though, don’t you?”

He had me dead to rights on everything, right down to my waiting until the taxi had been cleared by Forensics, then shrink-wrapped and flatbedded from Lamont’s precinct to, yes, the Whitestone Pound in Queens, where it would eventually be claimed by whoever owned the medallion for it.

The only part the detective got wrong was the timing. Screw the afternoon. Way too risky. Criminal trespassing is better left for the dark, no? I wasn’t planning on hopping that fence until well after midnight.

“She was just protecting her sources,” I said. “That phone was for them exclusively.”

With that, I cocked my head, and he immediately shook his. He knew what I was about to ask.

“Counselor, we both know I can’t turn it over to you, at least not yet,” he said. “Pretty damn impressive, though, her presence of mind. Even in that moment … wanting to shield them.” He flipped open the phone. “Of course, I can see why. There are a lot of boldfaced names in the directory, at least those I could decipher. Most were just listed by initials.”

“Was there a W.S., by any chance?”

“No such luck,” he said, pointing at the table between the two beds. Winston Smith had called from the phone in the room.

The kid was still alive, and we still had no way of contacting him.

Like a kick in the head, though, it occurred to me. What about the people who wanted to kill him? What about contacting them?

I took out my own phone, quickly sending an anonymous text to a number I knew by heart.

Lamont’s eyes narrowed to a suspicious squint. “What are you doing?” he asked.

Something you’re definitely not going to like, Detective.

CHAPTER 21

ONE GOOD setup deserved another. Only mine had to be better, because I’d already discovered theirs.

Less than three hours later, I was sitting on one of the concrete benches lining the perimeter of Bethesda Terrace by the Lake in Central Park. I’d tried to get a little sleep beforehand back in the spare bedroom at my apartment, but it was impossible. Closing my eyes just seemed to magnify everything, if that makes any sense.

In my lap now was a Nikon D4, the 300mm lens peeking out beneath the bottom of the
Daily News.
With the weather warm and breezy and no clouds in sight, I couldn’t have asked for a more picture-perfect day.

About thirty yards in front of me was the famous fountain known as the
Angel of the Waters
, the lily being held in the bronze statue’s left hand representing the purity of the circular pool around her. Claire had told me that. I suspected it was why I’d chosen the location. That, and the crowds of people. There were joggers passing by, locals sipping coffee and hanging out, even some early-bird tourists looking in their guidebooks or just looking lost. All in all, safety in numbers.

Claire had cleverly hidden the Stopper behind her seat in the taxi, but her other two phones had been in her purse, which had disappeared with her killer. He sure didn’t have it when he showed up dead in the tub at the Lucinda. Question was, who had the phones now?

I’d sent the text to Claire’s BlackBerry, the phone provided and paid for by the
Times
. I was posing as a confidant—someone she knew and trusted—and as roles go, it was hardly a stretch. The tough part, in every sense, was acting as if she were still alive. Timing was everything. The text had to be sent before her death had made the morning news. Same thing for the meeting.

R u up yet? Need to c u asap. Think kid might be telling u the truth. Meet me in park, far end of Bethesda Fount at 9. Something to show u.

Ten minutes later, after I’d left the Lucinda, the reply came. A text from Claire’s BlackBerry.

Ok, c u there.

Even if Claire had still been alive, I would’ve known the reply wasn’t from her. She hated the shorthand of texting, countless times complaining to me that it was dumbing down kids and adults alike. Not only would she never use shorthand, but she made fun of me whenever I did.

Ok, see you there, she would’ve typed. Not a vowel or consonant less.

Either way, the time and place had been set. All that was left was the guest list. My end was simple. It was just me. I could’ve told Lamont about it, but that would’ve changed everything.

Police detectives might not have the equivalent of a Hippocratic oath, but there was no way Lamont would’ve allowed me to set this trap alone. He’d either have to handcuff me to a large inanimate object far from the park or be right next to me by the fountain. Most definitely with backup.

That was the difference, really. Why I hadn’t told him. His job was to arrest people for what they did, not
why
they did it. If I had involved him, he’d immediately have brought this person in for questioning. Possession of stolen goods, at the bare minimum, with an eye toward accessory to murder.

Or was it accessories? Who knew who could show up, or how many? That was their end of the guest list.

So I had to be patient. Take pictures. Not take them in for questioning. Be their shadow. Identify them, follow them, and figure out the
why.
Because if you want to get some real answers from people, the last thing you do is let them know you’re watching them.

I pulled back my shirtsleeves, checking my watch. Two minutes after nine. As much as I didn’t know who I was looking for, I knew it wasn’t the elderly man and woman deep in conversation who’d been sitting by the far side of the fountain since I’d arrived.

Turning the page of the
Daily News
spread between my hands, I continued to pretend to read. Through dark sunglasses, I kept peeking above the paper, my eyes scanning for anyone who might be approaching, or at least looking in the direction of, the elderly couple on the bench.

The minutes kept ticking away. No one looked suspicious or out of place. Then again, neither did I. Or so I thought.

I was about to check the time again when I felt the quick, short vibration of my cell. It was an incoming text. Only it wasn’t from Claire’s phone. In fact, I didn’t know whose phone it was from. The sender was anonymous.

Get out of there! it read.

But it was too late.

CHAPTER 22

HE CAME out of nowhere. A man wearing sunglasses even darker than mine, walking around the curve of the fountain and heading straight toward me.

Not fast. Not slow. Just walking. The click of his heels with each step now the only sound in the world.

How had I missed him?

He was dressed in a dark suit with an open-collared white shirt. He looked to be in his thirties. Short-cropped blond hair and in good shape. I couldn’t see his eyes behind those sunglasses, but I had little doubt they weren’t aimed at anyone else. I could literally feel his stare.

Or was it just the rush of fear shooting up my spine?

Suddenly, I didn’t know what to do with any part of my body. My feet were stuck to the ground, my hands frozen and locked in the air, the newspaper pinched between my fingertips feeling as heavy as one of those lead blankets they cover you with before an X-ray.

He had a newspaper, too.

I didn’t see it at first, the way it was tucked neatly under his left arm. Now it was all I could look at. There was something about it, how it was folded so tightly as if there was something …
shit.

Inside it.

His right arm was a blur as it swung across his body, his hand outstretched with his fingers spread. All at once, his left arm loosened, the paper holster sliding down to his elbow while beginning to open. The way he caught the gun in midair, I was instantly sure of two things. One, he’d done this before. And two, I was simply done.

It’s not true what they say. You don’t see your life flash before your eyes. You see your death. In slow motion, no less.

He’d come to a complete stop, ten merciless feet in front of me, with the
Angel of the Waters
rising up behind him. But she wasn’t looking my way.

Others were, though. There was a woman screaming to my left, her high pitch and volume sending nearby pigeons scattering in the air. To my right, there was the sound of feet scampering, someone literally running for his life.
Gun! Gun! Gun!

I heard it all. Still, I couldn’t move.

His arm began to unfold, the barrel of the gun lining up with my head. It was the only thing I could see. Until, out of nowhere, there was something else.

It was another blur, I couldn’t see what exactly. More importantly, neither could my executioner. He was being blindsided, someone tackling him at full speed.

Like a linebacker.

CHAPTER 23

I WATCHED as both bodies slammed against the pavement and rolled, a tumble of arms and legs hurtling over and over. I couldn’t tell who was who, but I was convinced I knew one of them.
Lamont!
It had to be him.

But it wasn’t. As the bodies separated, both sprawling on the ground, I could tell this guy was younger. He was at least half the detective’s age. And not nearly as big.

Big enough, though. I certainly wasn’t complaining.

He pushed himself up, standing quickly, if not a little wobbly. “The gun!” he barked, pointing.

I hadn’t seen it go flying, but there it was, matte black against the terra cotta of the Roman bricks around the fountain. It was closer to me than to him. As for the gun’s original owner, he was somewhere in between and staring right at it.

Then at me.

Then right back at the gun.

It was up for grabs.

I sprang from the bench into a headfirst dive while my camera, launched from my lap, shattered to pieces. Scooping up the gun, I whipped my arm and locked both elbows, and dammit if the view wasn’t so much better from this angle.

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