You've Been Warned

by James Patterson; Howard Roughan

  “Here, Vin,” says Michael, handing him a folded hundred-dollar bill. “Can you buy me a pack of Luckies, please?” Michael doesn’t smoke.

  Vincent, a large man who looks as if he just walked off the set of The Sopranos, gives a quick and firm nod. Enough said. He closes the door behind us and promptly gets lost.

  Michael and I settle into the plush leather backseat. He dims the lights so they’re just right.

  “Alone at last,” he says, stroking my hair. “I’m really sorry about back there.”

  “It’s okay. You’re too protective, that’s all.” I give him a playful poke to the chest. “Okay, so now tell me: why did everyone at the table offer you a pen?”

  “It’s called, God is in the details.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Michael unbuttons my jacket and begins to kiss my neck. He’s a terrifically good kisser, and massager, and tickler.

  “I told them my secretary had brought some contracts that I’d forgotten to sign earlier today back at the office.”

  He slides his hand underneath my sweater, unhooking my bra.

  “Then, for good measure, I told them I didn’t have a pen on me. Suddenly, they’re all so busy looking for one that they never bother to wonder if I’m actually telling the truth.”

  He cups my left breast, caressing it slowly. He’s a good breast cupper and caresser too. Michael definitely has the touch.

  “That’s what separates the good liars from the bad ones—going the extra mile, adding that little nuance. Details, my dear.”

  “You’re crazy, you know that?” I say.

  “Crazy for you, anyway.”

  Then Michael reaches down and begins to unbutton my jeans. I can feel myself getting wet and incredibly hot.

  Wait. Stop. Hold it.

  “Michael, there’s something I have to tell you about—”

  But I only get partway into the sentence before he covers my mouth with his. He kisses me deep and hard, and I get caught up even more in the moment. He feels so good, and I feel so safe in his arms. And, need I say, sane.

  We fall back against the length of the seat, the leather cool and enticing to the touch. He pulls off my jeans, and I help him out of his trousers. His hand slowly travels up my thighs, over my stomach, around my chest, his fingers barely grazing my skin.

  “God, you’re amazing,” he says. “So soft, so sweet. So not Penley.”

  I wrap my legs around Michael tightly as he enters me, and I don’t let go of him until I come.

  I feel dizzy and wonderful and I never want the feeling to end.

  Not ever.

  This is no dream.

  Chapter 17

  “SO, WHAT DID YOU WANT to tell me?” asks Michael, tucking in his shirt. “Did something happen today? Something good, I hope. That gallery called?”

  But somehow I don’t feel like a postsex conversation. Honestly, what happened today seems too crazy to talk about now. I feel embarrassed. I’m also whipped.

  “We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” I say. “You’ve got to get back to your dinner.”

  He grasps my hand. “Are you sure?”

  I nod. “Pens or no pens, your guests might be a little suspicious by now.”

  “That, or just more drunk.”

  I laugh and he smiles. God, I’m still helpless in front of that smile of his.

  Michael pages Vincent to have him come back and drive me home. Putting down his BlackBerry, he begins to fidget with his tie.

  “Here,” I say. “Let me do that.”

  As I flip up his collar and straighten the knot—always a double Windsor—he gently caresses my cheek.

  “I love you. I adore you. You know that, right?” he asks.

  “Do I?”

  “You better.”

  I give him “the Look,” the same look I’ve been giving him for months now. He knows what’s coming next and playfully rolls his eyes.

  “Go ahead and say it, Kris.”

  You bet I will.

  I lean over, whispering in his ear the two words that will make all the difference—the one thing he absolutely needs to do.

  “Dump Penley.”

  For some added incentive, I gently lick his ear and blow. He recoils like a little boy being tickled. I kind of like that too, his vulnerability at times.

  “I’m working on it,” he assures me.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.” He reaches into his pocket. “And in the meantime, there’s this.”

  He pulls out a narrow rectangular case—red leather with a white bow.

  I can feel the smile breaking out on my face. “Oh, you’re scoring some huge points tonight, Turnbull!”

  “I do play to win, don’t I?” He places it in my hand. “And no, it’s not a pen.”

  It certainly isn’t.

  Slowly, I open the elegant case, the hinges providing just enough tantalizing resistance.

  Then I stare in disbelief.

  It’s a bracelet. A diamond-and-sapphire bracelet! The sparkle is so bright my hands are glowing.

  “It’s so beautiful!” I gush.

  “Just like you,” says Michael. “Here, put it on. No, let me do it for you.”

  He gently snaps it around my wrist, and I can’t take my eyes off it. Partly because I love it, but mostly because it’s from him.

  “So, do you like it?” he asks. Then his voice becomes low and soft. “I’m always afraid when I pick out things for you. I want you to be happy.”

  “I love it! I love you!”

  “Good answer.”

  I kiss and hug him, squeezing tight. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Let me see that wink of yours,” Michael says.

  So of course I wink, my killer wink.

  “Just promise me one thing,” he says with a grin.

  “What’s that?”

  “Don’t wear it to work.”

  Chapter 18

  I KEEP STARING at my stunning, unbelievably beautiful bracelet as Vincent drives me home.

  Four diamonds... two sapphires... four diamonds... two sapphires... all the way around my wrist. A perfect circle.

  Well done, Michael!

  It’s almost enough to make me forget why I came rushing down to see him in the first place. Not quite, but almost. I’m certainly glad I did, though. Already, my awful day seems like a long time ago. That’s a very good thing.

  The limo eases to a stop at a red light, and Vincent asks me if the temperature is okay “back dere.”

  I glance up at the nape of his thick neck, where a jagged scar protrudes from beneath his shirt collar. “It’s fine,” I answer. “No, it’s perfect. Thank you for asking, Vincent.”

  He’s driven me home a handful of times, and we’ve yet to have what could be considered an actual conversation, though he’s always very nice to me. It’s funny how big guys like him are never much for small talk.

  Then again, it could also be due to my feeling a bit awkward around him. I mean, he knows what’s going on. In a way, he’s a conspirator.

  Michael says he trusts “the big guy” more than anyone, and by all indications, he has every reason to. Vincent has been his driver for over nine years. Not only does he predate me, he predates Penley.

  Still, it makes me a little uncomfortable that he knows about us, that anybody does.

  We ride the remaining blocks in silence, and my eyes take turns between the bracelet and the view out my window. The glistening lights, the people, the buildings—the city can be so hypnotic at night.

  “Here we are, Ms. Burns.”

  As he always does, Vincent steps out and opens the door for me in front of my building. I take his arm at the biceps and he guides me to the curb.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “You’re welcome.”

  Closing the door behind me, Vincent is about to climb back into the limo. I feel as if I need to say something, though I’m not sure what. Anything, I suppose, to eas
e the awkwardness. It’s about time we said something beyond general niceties.

  “Can I ask you a question, Vincent?”

  He turns to me. “Yes, Ms. Burns?”

  I sputter for a moment. Then some words come. “Do you like your job?”

  “Yes, very much so,” he says. “Mr. Turnbull is a good boss.”

  “I’m sure he is. I know he trusts you a great deal.”

  He nods.

  “You’re pretty loyal to him, aren’t you?” I ask.

  Vincent pauses for a second. He’s probably not sure where this is going, and to be honest, neither am I.

  “Extremely loyal,” he answers.

  “That’s important.”

  “Yes, it is, Ms. Burns.” He folds his arms. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him.”

  “Good answer,” I say.

  PART 4

  Chapter 19

  I JOLT UP FROM MY BED midscream, but I’m holding it inside because I don’t want to explain myself to Mrs. Rosencrantz again. I’m soaking in sweat as tears race down my cheeks, the images still burning in my mind.

  From the dream... which feels so incredibly real.

  I’ve had it again, the exact same one. I don’t believe this!

  It’s the next morning, but that’s all that’s changed. I even hear the music, that same song playing in my head. A familiar tune, though I still can’t put a name to it.

  And the smell of something burning is present too. Just like at the Fálcon. What is that smell?

  Swinging both feet out of bed, I take a second to wipe my eyes dry. I feel miserable and drained. Not even the sight of my beautiful new bracelet curled up on the nightstand can raise my spirits.

  It isn’t as if I’ve never had a recurring dream before. I’ve had plenty—only they’re the ones you read and hear about, the anxiety dreams apparently everyone shares, like being naked in public or showing up unprepared for the big college exam.

  This one is different.

  This dream seems to be all mine, nobody else’s. The Fálcon Hotel. Why there of all places? Four dead people. Who were they and how did they die?

  I check my alarm clock. Like yesterday, it’s a few minutes before six. I can sleep a little more if I want to. Yeah, right. As if I really want to invite the dream to come back.

  Dragging myself to the bathroom, I immediately make the mistake of looking in the mirror. Ouch. This could be worse than yesterday. Staring back at me could easily be the “before” picture of a face-lift.

  Hey, at least I’ve got hot water today.

  With the shower on full blast, I crank my Wet Tunes, the hope being that I can drown out one song in my head with another. Better yet, maybe they’ll play the same song, so I can hear the lyrics and figure out what it is.

  Somehow, I don’t imagine myself being that lucky.

  The shower does feel good, though, so I stay in there for a while. As the water cascades over my head, I begin to relax. I’ve got the radio tuned to WFUV, the college radio station out of Fordham, and they’re playing “Alison” by Elvis Costello, one of my favorites.

  Before I know it—and just as I hoped—it’s the only thing I hear between my ears.

  That is, until the song ends and some guy comes on reading the news.

  I whip back my head from the shower spray. I could swear he said something about a tragedy at the Fálcon Hotel.

  But that’s not what has me shaking like a leaf as I try to towel myself dry.

  The radio newsman didn’t say it happened yesterday.

  He said it happened this morning.

  Thirty minutes later, Michael hasn’t called, but I’m heading out the door of my place. I turn my key to double-lock it. And —

  “Ms. Burns? Ms. Burns?”

  Not again. It’s way too early to face the Wicked Witch on Nine. I turn—and it’s even worse than I thought. Mrs. Rosencrantz has brought a bald old man, who towers over her despite his being no more than five-foot-five, six tops.

  “You were screaming and screaming,” she practically screams in my face. “You woke up my Herbert. He heard it. Ask him, Ms. Burns.”

  I don’t ask Herbert. I scurry away. I don’t even use the elevator; I take the stairs. Hurry!

  Chapter 20

  EVEN BY MANHATTAN STANDARDS, I’m walking incredibly fast a few minutes later. People are parting for me left and right. I’m a sidewalk Moses.

  Next stop, the Fálcon Hotel. Probably the last place in the universe I want to visit. But I have to go there.

  Sure, a cab would be quicker. But I’d prefer not to freak out while trapped in a moving vehicle.

  No wonder I’m thinking again about my ex-shrink, Dr. Corey. While puffing away on his pretentious pipe, he would espouse these little self-help mantras. Things like “Hang tough!” and “Face your fear!” and “You have to take responsibility for your own life.”

  Back then I thought they were all pretty silly, clichés—not unlike a psychiatrist who smokes a pipe.

  Yet here they are, sticking in my head, a blast from the past. And they actually seem to be working a little.

  I pick up the pace. Only a few more blocks to go.

  I can feel the undertow grabbing hold now, sucking me in. Why am I so drawn to this hotel? Well, I happen to know the answer to that one, but it’s a secret I’m taking to my grave. The secret of the Fálcon.

  Reaching to my side, I pat my shoulder bag for the outline of my camera. I know it’s there; I checked as always before exiting my apartment, but I’m leaving nothing to chance.

  The speed walking breaks into a jog as I cross over Park Avenue at 68th Street. Up ahead, around the corner on Madison, is the Fálcon.

  My heart starts to pummel my chest, and I can feel the veins in my neck throbbing.

  You can do this, Kris. Nobody is going to solve this but you.

  I’m steps away from the corner. Do I hear a crowd still gathered? Is that a siren? There’s only one way to find out.

  But my feet have other ideas.

  I stop shy of the corner, fighting the undertow and giving in to my fear. I’m afraid to look.

  Don’t be such a wimp!

  That’s not exactly one of Dr. Corey’s mantras, but it does the trick just the same. Taking a deep breath and balling my fists, I push around the corner and stare.

  At absolutely nothing.

  What I see is a typical New York street scene outside the Fálcon—people coming and going, cars and cabs sputtering along in front of the hotel’s bright red awning. It’s as if nothing happened.

  Duh. What was I thinking?

  Obviously I misheard the guy on the radio. I was under the shower, after all. Too much water in the ears.

  That has to be it.

  I reach for my camera. These won’t be my most inspired pictures, but they may be among my most satisfying. See, Kris, you’re not as crazy as you thought.

  And after clicking away, I’ll go inside the hotel and ask the front desk what happened yesterday. I’ll get the story, the scoop, the truth. Then I’ll put this whole bizarre thing behind me.

  I lift the camera to my eye, my hand reaching to focus. I’m twisting the lens clockwise when I feel someone touch my shoulder.

  I freeze.

  Like a picture.

  Click!

  Then—crash!

  The camera slips from my grasp, falling to the pavement.

  Chapter 21

  DAMN IT TO HELL! I stoop to pick up the Leica. Still in one piece, but the lens shattered on impact.

  Then I spin around—and it’s his eyes I see first, the same intense stare as yesterday. It’s that detective, the thin older man who smells of aftershave and tobacco and has that look that says “I know you did something.”

  He stands there, dressed in what appears to be the same dark gray suit, as I try to catch my breath. He says nothing—not even “Sorry I startled you.” Instead, he seems to be suppressing a smile. What, this is funny to you?

  S
uddenly, I don’t care how foolish I might look to him.

  “Do you always sneak up and scare the hell out of people?” I ask him angrily. “You have some nerve.”

  “I was hardly sneaking,” he says.

  I watch as he pulls out a pack of Marlboros, shaking a cigarette loose. His hands are huge, knotted and gnarled. This guy works for a living.

  “So, what brings you here?” he asks, lighting up, then inhaling deeply, enjoying it. “Or should I say, what brings you back here?”

  It’s a simple question, certainly not unexpected given the circumstances. Still, I immediately get this vibe from him. He isn’t so much asking as he is interrogating.

  “I’m on my way to work,” I answer. “This is the route I take every day. Most days.”

  He exhales a thin stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “You want one?” he asks, extending the pack.

  “No, thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t smoke,” I say.

  “You used to, though.”

  “What makes you think that?”

  “The way you’re looking at the cigarette,” he says. “Desire is an easy read with people—especially with the things we know we shouldn’t do. I’m a detective. Homicide.”

  He’s right. I used to smoke. More than a pack a day, in fact. I started after I moved to New York. Not that I’m about to admit it and give him the satisfaction.

  He takes another long drag and continues to stare at me. “Of course, there are so many things that can kill you in this city, what’s one more?”

  It’s the perfect opening to ask him what happened—who were the people in the hotel and how did they die? But again there’s that vibe. Is he trying to get me to talk about it? If so, why? What could I know about four strangers?

  “What brings you back here?” I ask instead.

  And like that, he grins. Not unpleasantly, and he seems more human. “Sometimes the bad guy is dumb enough to return to the scene of the crime,” he says. “Or bad girl, as the case may be.”

  So much for that vibe being just a vibe.

  “What did you say your name was again?” he asks.