The Quickie

by James Patterson

  “The Sheraton, this is the one out near Reagan National Airport, was hosting the annual NCAA football coaches’ convention,” he said as he chewed. “All the big schools’ coaches and assistant coaches receive Final Four tickets every year for free. These ticket brokers — glorified ticket scalpers, if you want my opinion — just set up shop in the hotel and buy them up. Pay out cash right there and then. Illegal, of course, but we’re talking about college recruiters. They’ve been known to bend a few rules.”

  “How much cash are we talking about here, Roger?”

  “A lot,” Zampella said. “Some of the games go for a thousand bucks a ticket.”

  “And there was a robbery?”

  Zampella went to take another little bite, decided to hell with it, and dropped the whole thing into his mouth. He chewed twice, swallowed, then cleared his throat.

  “One of these brokers apparently came down a couple of nights before the convention,” he said. “And somebody must have gotten wind of who he was, and they robbed him of his suitcase of cash.”

  “Get a description?” I said. “Anything at all?”

  Zampella shook his head.

  “Guy wore a ski mask.”

  A ski mask? Wow, Paul was really original. Not to mention completely insane.

  “Where’d the blood come from? Anybody figure that out?”

  “When the broker was handing over the case, he had second thoughts and hit the thief in the chin with it. Guy was a bleeder, I guess. Ruined the carpet.”

  “What did the thief do then?”

  “He took out a gun, threatened to blow the guy away. That’s when the broker gave it up.”

  “How much did he get?”

  “Half a million, maybe more. The broker said it was only seven thousand, but that’s because he didn’t want to get in trouble with the IRS, or maybe the Mob. This guy was a major ticket guy.”

  “Suspects?” I said.

  “There was no hit on the blood. We interviewed several guests on the broker’s floor. There were, like, two thousand people at the conference that night. We weren’t going to set the world on fire for some slick, probably Mobbed-up asshole ticket broker who was tripping over himself to lie to us. We went by the book and, you know how it is, moved on to the next thing, forgot all about it. Until now, that is. What are you doing? Gathering new material for a revival of Unsolved Mysteries?”

  “It’s actually personal,” I told the detective. “A friend of mine, a jeweler, was pistol-whipped and robbed in a Midtown Manhattan hotel last month. I remembered seeing the abstract on your case when I looked into it. You wouldn’t happen to have a copy of the hotel register, would you?”

  “I did put one in the file,” Zampella said, checking his watch. “But it’s been — what? Five years? God knows where they buried it.”

  “I know I’m being a pain in the neck,” I said. “But do you think you could make a couple of calls and track it down for me? After I take you out for lunch, of course. DC has a Morton’s, doesn’t it?”

  Zampella glanced at his scrawny apple. Then he reached for his pin-striped suit jacket on the back of his chair.

  “As a matter of fact,” he said, standing up. “There’s one right here in Arlington.”

  Chapter 102

  TWO HOURS AND TWO FILET MIGNONS with home fries later, we were back in Zampella’s office, and I was going over the very hotel register I needed to see so urgently.

  Zampella thought he had heart trouble? When I glanced at the top of the second page, I could have used a defibrillator and a shot of epinephrine.

  There it was in black and white — Paul Stillwell.

  Something inside me swayed dangerously. Even after all the evidence, I was hoping for some eleventh-hour reprieve. Yet here was the opposite. More and more proof of Paul’s — what? Lunacy? Secret life?

  I couldn’t believe it. Paul had actually robbed a sports ticket broker of half a million dollars?

  And I’d thought finding out secret stuff about Scott Thayer was devastating. What the hell was wrong with men? Were they all legally insane?

  No, I answered myself. Not all of them. Just the ones who had the misfortune to make my acquaintance. Or the other way around.

  I thought about the Range Rover and the Tiffany bag and the fact that Paul didn’t wear glasses down here in DC.

  I turned to Zampella, half snoozing behind his desk. He’d had a martini with his steak.

  “You think you could do me just one more favor, Roger? Just one, and I’m gone.”

  “Shoot,” he said.

  “I’m looking for an owner’s list of 2007 Range Rovers. DC plates starting with ninety-nine.”

  “More Unsolved Mysteries material, huh? All right, you got it. But fraternal order of police cooperation aside, this has to be the last one. My lieutenant is due back from a department conference any second. There’s a bookstore right down the block. Why don’t you catch up on some reading, and I’ll see you in about an hour.”

  It was more like half an hour. I was sitting in front of the magazine rack, paging through a Vanity Fair, when Zampella tapped me on the shoulder.

  “I think you dropped something, miss,” he said, handing me an envelope with a wink before heading off toward the exit.

  I ripped the sheet of paper out of the envelope. The list was twenty-one vehicles long. I traced my finger down the owner’s column, looking for Stillwell.

  No dice. I did it again more slowly. Again nothing.

  I rubbed my overcaffeinated, tired eyes. What the hell? It was worth a shot.

  I went into the bookstore’s café, sat down, and pulled out the hotel guest list. One by one, I cross-referenced each Range Rover owner with the hotel list. It was maybe fifteen minutes later, pins and needles tingling my butt, when I found a match.

  Veronica Boyd. 221 Riggs Place.

  Veronica? I thought, seething. I knew it! A woman! Paul, you goddamned bastard!

  I jumped out of my seat and bolted for the front door. I needed to rent a car. And maybe do some surveillance work.

  It was time to find out exactly what — oh, and most especially who — Paul had done.

  Chapter 103

  THE HOUSE WAS A QUAINT attached brick residence on a low-key, but definitely upscale street in a neighborhood north of Dupont Circle. The rainbow flags outside the coffee bars and the restaurants housed in its old stately buildings reminded me a lot of Greenwich Village, the more yuppified parts, anyway.

  From my rented Ford Taurus parked at the corner, I kept my eyes locked on the gleaming black door of 221 Riggs Place.

  A quick scan of the block didn’t reveal any black Range Rovers among the several other brands of luxury vehicles parked along both sides of the narrow, tree-lined street.

  Well, what do you know? I thought, squinting at the shutter-lined upper windows of the house. In his secret life Paul seemed to be doing darn well for himself.

  But was it his house? I truly didn’t want it to be. If I ever wanted to be completely wrong about something, it was this.

  Let there be some explanation, Paul. Something I can stomach.

  I was about to take a spin for a restroom break an hour later, when the front door finally opened. None other than Paul came down the brick stoop of the town house, carrying the blue Tiffany bag.

  He pressed the key fob in his hand, and the headlights of a hunter green convertible Jaguar on the far corner glowed with a double bloop.

  That really wasn’t fair, I thought, sublimating the urge to plow the rented car broadside into the Jaguar. Why couldn’t we have the Jag in our dimension?

  Next up, I tailed Paul through the afternoon traffic. We made a turn onto 14th Street and passed a bunch of lettered side streets, S Street, R. I followed Paul left onto Q Street, then right onto 13th Street and around the rotary to O Street. I watched as he pulled into the parking lot of an ivy-covered brick building.

  The Chamblis School, said a brass sign on its wall. This couldn’t be good
. Not a chance in hell that this was the happy ending I was looking for.

  I parked at a hydrant, feeling like I was in a trance as I watched Paul get out of the Jag, carrying the Tiffany bag.

  So, Veronica Boyd was a teacher? I could just about picture her. Preppy and little and blonde. Not to mention young. And very attractive, of course.

  Was that what this was all about? I thought, starting to fume in the car. Out with the old, in with the new?

  I watched Paul return to the Jag three minutes later.

  What in the world?

  She was young, all right.

  A three- or four-year-old girl wearing a plaid jumper threw her arms around Paul’s neck. He closed his eyes as he hugged her and then opened the bag. The little girl removed a white teddy bear wearing a silver necklace and kissed it.

  Paul lifted her up under her arms and carefully put her and the teddy bear into the car.

  I was still sitting, immobilized, when Paul maneuvered the purring Jag around the wagons, SUVs, and Hummers of the other parents picking up their kids. When he stopped at the corner, I got a good look at the girl through the back window.

  My lungs quit. No inhaling. No exhaling.

  I recognized that pin-straight nose, those blue eyes, that sandy hair. The girl was as beautiful as Paul was handsome. She’d gotten all of his looks.

  I couldn’t believe it, absolutely couldn’t. The pain was unreal, impossible to imagine without actually experiencing it, open-heart surgery without anesthesia.

  Things were a thousand times worse than I’d ever thought they could be. Paul had pulled off the cruelest trick possible.

  A baby, I thought.

  Paul had had a baby.

  Without me.

  Chapter 104

  I ARRIVED BACK at 221 Riggs Place just in time to see Paul coming back out of the house with his little girl, and a Dora the Explorer bike complete with training wheels. I nodded ironically as he popped the smiling child onto it and headed the bicycle south down the sidewalk.

  Off to the playground, no doubt. I always knew Paul would make an excellent father.

  When they were out of sight, I emerged from the Taurus and headed for the stoop. Just one more thing to do here, I thought as I climbed the stairs mechanically and rang the doorbell. One final detail to take care of.

  I just needed to core out the very last remnants of my heart.

  “Yes?” said the woman who opened the door.

  She was blonde, all right, but not preppy. And not little. At least not her chest. I guessed she was about my age, which, honestly, didn’t help one bit. I scrutinized her heavy-handed makeup, the way her tight black skirt cut into her tummy. She looked like she’d recently put on weight.

  An attractive woman desperately battling the onslaught of her late thirties. Welcome to the club.

  I stared into her dark brown eyes under the razor streaks of blonde, an off-putting clash of light and dark. When I smelled her perfume, something cold drew across my stomach. Like a razor.

  “Veronica?” I finally spoke.

  “Yes,” she said again. I noticed she had an accent, Texan maybe, definitely southern.

  I took out my badge.

  “I’m Detective Stillwell,” I said. “May I please have a word with you?”

  “What’s this about?” she said tensely, not budging from the doorway. I couldn’t tell if she knew me or just didn’t like badges.

  I took out the DMV printout I’d gotten from Zampella.

  “Do you have a 2007 black Range Rover?” I asked the blonde woman. Paul’s other wife?

  “Yes,” she said. “What about it?”

  “I’m investigating a hit-and-run accident. May I come in? It will only take a moment.”

  “Why does a New York City detective want to investigate a hit-and-run accident in Washington, DC?” she asked, keeping herself wedged in the doorway.

  I already had an answer for that. “I’m sorry. I should have explained. My mother came down three days ago with her church group. She was the victim. If there’s some sort of problem, I could always just go ahead and have your vehicle impounded.”

  “Come in,” she said, stepping to the side. “This has to be some kind of mistake.”

  There was an off-white pub mirror and a cute espresso-stained mail desk in the front foyer. The design was contemporary, moderately tasteful. The rooms were sunny and cozy.

  She led me into the kitchen, where she’d opted for retro appliances. A pink mixer sat on the butcher-block island next to a bag of flour. She was cooking dinner for Paul? Sweet girl.

  “My daughter Caroline’s fourth birthday is today, and I have to make a Dora the Explorer cake or the world will end,” Veronica said, staring into my eyes.

  The world has ended, I felt like saying as I looked away.

  “Coffee?” she asked.

  “That would be fine,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She opened and closed a cupboard over the sink. I stood there light-headed, fighting to stay on my feet. What the heck was I doing here? What was I trying to get out of this?

  Down the hallway, I spotted a vanity wall, photographs on floating shelves.

  “May I use your bathroom?” I asked.

  “Down the hall to your right.”

  The walls of the hall seemed to collapse in on me as I saw Paul in one of the photos. He was on a sunny beach with Veronica and the baby, who was maybe one at the time. Surf spraying, the sand like powdered sugar. The next shot — to my heart — was of the two of them, Mommy and Daddy, their cheeks together in midlaugh, red-eyed with city lights twinkling behind them.

  The third photograph hit me like a serrated blade between my eyes. A half-naked Veronica in an open nightgown, Paul resting his chin on her shoulder as he cupped her ripe, pregnant belly in his hands.

  By the time I got to the fourth, and final, photo, a thousand-megaton blast in my skull had mushroomed. Paul, you bastard.

  Veronica’s breath was suddenly at my back.

  “You’re not here to ask about some car accident,” she announced.

  I stared at their wedding photo for another moment, dry-eyed. It had been taken on the same beach as the first photograph. A minister was there. White flowers in Veronica’s blonde hair. Paul in an open-throated, white silk shirt. Smiling. Beaming, actually.

  She wisely jumped out of my way as I stumbled toward the front door.

  Chapter 105

  IT HAD ALL BEEN FOR NOTHING! Not just everything that had happened in the past month — my entire marriage.

  That thought hummed like high-voltage electricity through my head as I drifted in the direction Paul had gone with the little girl, Caroline.

  All my covering up. Gutting my friendships. Blowing my police career to smithereens. I had actually blackmailed the district attorney, hadn’t I?

  I covered my mouth with my hands.

  I had nothing left, did I?

  I made the corner. Across the busy street was some kind of park.

  I looked out at a trio of street musicians and a group of old men playing chess under the trees. Other people were strolling along the path or lounging around a big white fountain. Everything was dappled with sunlight, like in that famous Renoir in all the art books.

  As I came past the fountain, I spotted Paul pushing his daughter on a swing. He helped Caroline down and guided her to the sandbox as I arrived at the chain-link fence. The two of them seemed to love each other very much.

  I walked around to the other end of the playground and was a few feet behind the bench Paul was sitting on when the four-year-old came running over to him.

  “Daddy, Daddy!” she said.

  “Yes, love?” Paul said.

  “Can I have a drink?”

  Paul reached into the basket of the bicycle and fished out a juice pack. I felt it in my stomach when he poked the straw through the foil. Then he knelt down and gave her another hug.

  Even from behind, I could sense the joy radiating off
Paul as he walked his little girl back to the swings.

  “Is this seat taken?” I said as he came back to his bench.

  Chapter 106

  AT FIRST PAUL FROZE.

  Then spasms of shock, fear, concern, and sorrow crossed his face. For a second, I thought he was going to bolt and start booking for the park exit.

  Instead, he suddenly sagged down on the bench and put his head between his knees.

  “Where do you want me to start?” he finally said quietly as he rubbed his temples.

  “Let’s see,” I said, tapping my finger against my lower lip. “There are so many choices. How about the first time you cheated on me? Maybe the time you robbed a ticket broker at the Sheraton? Or no, no, no. The day you secretly got married. Wait, I’ve got it. My favorite. Tell me about the time you had a baby without me!”

  Scalding tears ran down the sides of my face.

  “I was barren and you needed to have a kid? Was that it? ‘Sorry, Lauren, you sterile waste of life. I need to be fruitful and multiply with some other woman behind your back’?”

  “That wasn’t it,” Paul said, looking at me, then out at his daughter. “She was an accident.”

  “You think that matters in the slightest?” I said, my face raw with anger.

  Paul wiped at his eyes and looked at me.

  “Just give me a second,” he said, standing. “Then I’ll tell you. I want to tell you everything.”

  “How considerate,” I said.

  Paul rolled the bike over to where the nannies were gathered. He spoke to one of them and then returned without the bike.

  “Imelda works for the people next door. She’ll take Caroline back. Why don’t we walk and talk. I knew this had to happen someday.”

  I shook my head. “I didn’t.”

  Chapter 107

  “IT WAS ALMOST FIVE YEARS AGO,” Paul said as we took the strolling path at the park’s perimeter.

  “I picked the short straw on that bullshit analyst’s-convention thing in DC, remember? I was pissed off. Things weren’t going real well between me and you and . . . Anyway, I was in the lounge at the Sheraton, nice room, piano bar, trying to drink away the memory of yet another ludicrous meeting, when this loud, drunken moron storms in and demands that the Patriots game be put on.”