You've Been Warned

by James Patterson; Howard Roughan

  Then it gets even worse.

  Penley and Stephen engage in one hot and heavy, no doubt about it kiss. It’s the money shot, and while I no longer need to capture it on film, I do anyway. The photographer’s instinct takes over. Don’t think, just shoot.

  As for Michael, it’s as if he’s watching a spectacular car wreck. He can’t turn away from the Kiss. I don’t really blame him. It is compelling stuff, in a sick sort of way.

  “Unfuckingbelievable,” he mutters under his breath. “Un-fucking-believable.”

  I lower my camera and look at him. It’s his voice. I’ve never heard it like this before. The tone, the register—it’s beyond anger. It’s beyond anything.

  “Are you okay?” I ask. “Michael? I’m sorry you had to see this.”

  “I could kill the bitch” is his answer.

  Chapter 83

  MY MIND IS SPINNING a little, but Michael’s seems completely focused, locked in. For the first time I can see how he is at his job. “Where does she think you are right now?” he asks.

  I barely hear him. “Huh?”

  “Penley—does she think you’re at the apartment?”

  I nod, and he immediately whips out his cell phone.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “Would you ever disappear from work this long without leaving a note?”

  He’s right. I didn’t think that far ahead. “No,” I say. “In fact, I’m supposed to be getting the patio cleaned up for summer.”

  Michael hits his speed dial. “So we need to buy you some time,” he says.

  The next moment borders on surreal. So what’s new? I watch across the street as Penley breaks her lip-lock with Stephen and reaches into her purse. She checks her cell phone and immediately looks uneasily at Stephen, raising a finger to her mouth. Shhh.

  She answers the phone, and I see her lips moving. This is weird but also exciting.

  “Hi, honey, how are you?” says Michael, standing about a foot away from me. “You still at the gym?”

  His voice is completely normal, even chipper, not a hint of stress.

  This is so bizarre, I’m thinking. Of course, this is also so Michael, the same guy who threw his arm around my shoulder and introduced me to everyone at his business dinner. One cool cucumber.

  I’ve got my eyes trained on Penley as my ears pick up her voice through Michael’s phone. It’s sort of like watching a foreign movie with subtitles.

  “I’m leaving the gym now,” I hear her answer. “What do you want? I’m kind of busy at the moment.”

  “You must be exhausted,” says Michael. He shoots me a grin. She’s not the only one with King Kong balls.

  I strain to hear what Penley says next, something about why Michael is on his cell and not in his office.

  “Oh, I’m just out grabbing a cup of coffee,” he replies. “You know how I hate the crap they brew at the office; it’s weak as shit. Actually, that’s why I’m calling. I need a favor.”

  Penley tells him to hold on for a second.

  Michael and I watch through the window as she puts her hand over the phone and says something to Stephen, who appears to be losing his patience. Poor guy. Clearly she’s explaining that she can’t ditch Michael’s call easily. A few seconds later, a frustrated Stephen marches back into the hotel.

  What, does he live there?

  Penley gets back on. “So what’s the favor?”

  “Is everything okay?” asks Michael.

  “Yeah. For a second I thought I left my keys at the gym. I found them, though.”

  Pretty clever, Penley.

  “So, about that favor,” says Michael. “We’ve got a client coming in from Tokyo tomorrow morning, and someone told me that store in Midtown, Takashimaya, sells this amazing Japanese coffee. I was wondering if you could pick some up for me on your way home.”

  Penley sighs so annoyingly loud through the phone that a few people sitting nearby turn their heads. They probably can’t believe what a bitch she is.

  “You can’t send your secretary to do this?” she whines. “I have to go buy coffee for you?”

  “Honey, it would take Amanda over an hour to get there and back. I figured you were only a few blocks away. Please, Pen. Could you?”

  Another sigh, even louder. “So what’s this supposedly amazing coffee called?”

  “I’m not sure, but I’ll recognize the name. Call me on my cell when you get there, okay?”

  “Fine.”

  Penley gives her phone the finger as she flips it closed. All Michael can do is laugh.

  “I’m going to miss the little woman,” he jokes as Penley disappears from our view.

  I smile, but only because I’m glad he can joke at all. I’ve never seen him as dark as he was a few minutes ago.

  I shoot him a look. “Japanese coffee?”

  “God is in the details, remember?”

  I nod. “So, what now?”

  Michael takes my hand. “You love me, don’t you?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “And you trust me, right?”

  “Yes.” What’s this about? Why do I need to trust Michael right now?

  “What you do,” he says, “is go back to work, get that patio in order, and pretend that everything’s fine and dandy on the home front.”

  “That’s it?”

  “For the time being, that’s it.”

  “What about you?”

  He doesn’t answer. He lets go of my hand and walks toward the door.

  “Michael, what are you going to do?”

  He glances back, flashes me his best smile. Then he winks. It’s my wink.

  “You’ll see.”

  PART 12

  Chapter 84

  GO AFTER HIM! Find out what he’s up to. Now, Kristin.

  But my feet won’t move.

  I remain there in the Starbucks window. I watch Michael leave, hop into a cab, ride off. Gone.

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  Two little words that paralyze me and start me shaking again. Somehow I know that this is it: where everything has been going from the beginning. But how exactly will it end?

  Or do I already know that too?

  I look across the street at the Fálcon Hotel, the late-morning sun reflecting off its windows with a fierce glare. I can still picture the scene so clearly—the gurneys being wheeled out, the four body bags lined up on the sidewalk. Cops everywhere. Delmonico. Was the Ponytail there too?

  First I dream it. Then I see it. Now it’s haunting me every minute of the day.

  I know this is all connected; it has to be. But I can’t figure it out. Could anybody? I wonder.

  Eventually, I move my feet. I rush back to Fifth Avenue and take care of the stupid patio in plenty of time before Penley returns home. When she does, sure enough, she’s sporting a shopping bag from Takashimaya with a pound of Japanese coffee inside.

  Later, I pick up the kids from school and take them to the Ancient Playground in Central Park, where we’ve gone dozens of times before. Sean peppers me with one question after another while Dakota rolls her big blue eyes. But we have fun—under the circumstances, anyway.

  It’s another typical day, all right, everything fine and dandy, just as Michael wanted it.

  But for what reason?

  “You’ll see,” he said.

  As I head home to my apartment, I get this awful, gnawing feeling that somehow I already have.

  Chapter 85

  OH, GREAT, JUST WHO I want to see.

  My lovely neighbor Mrs. Rosencrantz is standing by the mailboxes as I walk into the lobby of my building. It’s almost as if she’s there waiting for me.

  Turns out, she is.

  “Have you gotten your mail yet today?” she asks, her smug tone laced with a small measure of glee.

  Actually, I haven’t gotten my mail for about a week. I’ve been a little distracted.

  “Why do you care?” I say.

  She glares through her overs
ize bifocals, baiting me by saying nothing. There’s obviously something she wants me to see.

  I’m tempted to keep walking toward the elevator, not give her the satisfaction, but my curiosity wins out. Maybe I need to solve a mystery, any mystery. I unlock my box and remove a pile of catalogues, bills, and other assorted junk mail.

  It’s right on top.

  An envelope from Priority Holdings, the management company that owns the building. Inside is a one-page letter, single-spaced.Dear Ms. Burns:

  Due to continuing complaints from other tenants regarding your conduct, we will not be offering you a rent renewal on your apartment when your current lease expires. Under New York State law you have the right to contest this decision and request an administrative hearing in accordance with the New York City Housing Authority.

  There’s another paragraph about whom to contact, but my attention immediately focuses on whom to blame for this outrage. I don’t have to look far.

  “This was your doing, wasn’t it?”

  Mrs. Rosencrantz strikes a priggish pose. “I tend to think you did it to yourself.”

  “Unbelievable. You really have nothing better to do with your time, huh?” I say, shaking the letter in her face.

  “It’s not like I didn’t warn you this morning.”

  “This morning?”

  “You were terribly rude to me at your door. You have no manners, young woman. None.”

  “Mrs. Rosencrantz, for your information that wasn’t this morning; that was a week ago.”

  “My information is fine, Ms. Burns. I think I know when I knocked on your apartment door.”

  “Apparently you don’t. And in any event, if you think I’m going to let you get away with this, you’re sadly mistaken. I’ll fight this like you won’t believe.”

  “Go ahead, make all the noise you want. Scream, if you have to. Lord knows you’re good at that.”

  Oh, is she asking for it!

  For the first time in my life, I’m tempted to punch an old lady. And what’s with her memory? She can’t even get her days straight.

  But I keep my cool. I summon every last ounce of willpower and walk away. You’ve got bigger fish to fry, Kris.

  I move to the elevator and press the up button. As I wait, another letter from the building’s management catches my eye. A note, really. It’s taped to the wall.Due to a problem with the furnace, the building was without hot water for a brief period early this morning. We apologize for any inconvenience.

  Obviously, the note is from a week ago and they forgot to take it down. Boy, do I remember that cold shower!

  But as I look closer, there’s just one problem.

  The note’s dated today.

  Chapter 86

  CALM DOWN, I tell myself. There’s a simple explanation. It happened again, that’s all. The hot water was out this morning and the morning Mrs. Rosencrantz came banging on my door. Two different days. As far as what the nasty old bat claims, she’s clearly going senile.

  I hop on the elevator, my head a jumbled mess. I’ve never been much of a drinker, but I have a feeling that could change tonight.

  Barely inside my apartment, I pour myself a Stoli. A vodka tonic minus the tonic. Then I gulp it like a shot. The only thing I want to feel right now is numb.

  I wish Michael could be with me. Better yet, I wish I knew what he was thinking. Why didn’t he want to tell me? I worry about that temper of his too.

  I pour another Stoli and page him while I clench the diamond-and-sapphire bracelet he gave me. I bet he wouldn’t mind now if I wore it to work.

  A few minutes pass. The waiting is excruciating.

  I picture him in a late meeting at Baer Stevens, or on an overseas call, unable to break away. Maybe he’s with his lawyer, planning an exit strategy. There’s a lot of money at stake in divorcing Penley.

  A few minutes turn into a half hour, and the anger begins to kick in. I can’t take this. Why isn’t Michael calling me back? He has to know we need to talk.

  I page him again.

  Only now it’s not anger driving me, it’s fear. Has he done something? What might he do?

  I hit *67 and dial him at home. I know Penley never gets the phone, but maybe he will.

  It rings and rings. Damn it.

  The answering machine comes on, and I’m about to hang up when I hear “Hello?” I recognize her accent immediately. It’s Maria. Only today’s not one of the days she cleans. In fact, it’s not even “day” anymore; it’s night.

  “Maria, it’s me, Kristin,” I say, trying not to sound anxious. “What are you doing there?”

  “I’m babysitting,” she answers. “Mrs. Turnbull call me last minute to come over.”

  “Where’s Mr. Turnbull?”

  “With Mrs. Turnbull. They go out to dinner.”

  That stops me cold. Dinner? Together? “You don’t know where they went, do you?”

  “No. They give me cell phone numbers in case of emergency. I call them, you want.”

  “No, no, that’s okay.”

  “When they come home later, I say you call.”

  “No! Don’t—” I catch myself and settle down. “I mean, that’s not necessary. I’ll talk to Mrs. Turnbull tomorrow.”

  I thank Maria and hang up, not knowing whether to be relieved or even more worried. Probably the latter. After the way Michael reacted to seeing Penley this morning, the last thing I’d expect would be their having dinner together.

  Unless of course there’s more to it. As in, what Michael’s not telling me.

  I page Michael again. If he’s really having dinner with Penley, why can’t he simply excuse himself and return my call?

  I start to cry and hate that I do. I can’t help myself, though. The more I dwell on this, the harder it gets to take.

  I’m about to pour myself another drink when I realize it’s not alcohol that I need.

  I need my darkroom.

  A minute later, under the faint red glow of my safety light, I get busy developing the film I snapped of Penley and Stephen outside the Fálcon. I still can’t believe they walked out of there together. Maybe it’s true what they say: people having affairs secretly want to get caught.

  Whether that’s really the case with Penley and Stephen isn’t clear.

  But soon, as I stare at the first shot of them, I see what is. No!

  Stephen’s image is transparent.

  Just like Penley’s.

  Just like the body bags.

  But it still doesn’t make sense.

  My dream is more than a dream. It’s real. It happened. Past tense. I know because I was there.

  And it’s not only me, is it? Someone else knows I was at the Fálcon.

  Of course, he’s about the last person on Earth I want to see again. Am I so nuts that I’d seek him out?

  No, just very, very desperate.

  Chapter 87

  I DIG THE CARD he gave me out of my shoulder bag, bold black lettering printed on thick white stock. Detective Frank Delmonico, 19th Precinct, 153 E. 67th Street.

  Just the sight of his name makes me uneasy. The phone number is crossed out and another is written above it in pen. A couple of the digits I can’t make out, not that it matters. I have no intention of letting him know I’m coming, of course. I’m banking on the element of surprise. That, and something else.

  Only a complete idiot would physically assault me in a building filled with cops.

  Taking deep breaths most of the way, I cab it over to the East Side, the precinct mere blocks from the Fálcon. Amid the streetlamps and multiple floodlights, the stone building seems to glow under the night sky. It’s actually quite beautiful, albeit in a foreboding kind of way.

  In fact, given different circumstances, I’d be reaching for my camera to shoot it. Not now, though.

  I’ve taken enough scary pictures for a while.

  As I walk inside, two young policemen are walking out, deep in conversation. One glances my way, giving me a quick nod and
a smile. I’m about to ask him if Delmonico is here, when from the corner of my eye I see what looks like the front desk.

  Behind it sits another officer, a hard-nosed type, much older, bulky, red faced, Irish as Paddy’s pig. He’s typing something into a computer as I approach him.

  “Help you?” he says without so much as looking up from the monitor. So far he’d never be able to pick me out of a lineup.

  “Yes,” I answer. “I’m here to see Detective Frank Delmonico.”

  His stubby fingers practically freeze on the keyboard. Slowly, he turns to me, his eyes collapsing into a squint. “Excuse me?”

  What’s that supposed to mean? “Is Detective Delmonico here or isn’t he?”

  He shakes his head. “No, he’s not here.”

  “Do you know where he is?”

  “Matter of fact, I do. He’s dead. That’s where he is.”

  I take a wobbly step back. “What? I just saw him. He came to my apartment.”

  The officer leans forward in his chair.

  “When was this?”

  “A few days ago.”

  “I think you’re mistaken, Miss—I don’t think I caught the name?”

  “No, I’m sure of it. He was at my apartment.”

  He nods, stifles a chuckle. “Oh, yeah?”

  How can he be so cavalier about this? “I’m telling you the truth. Actually, I talked to him several times in the past week. He’s very thin. Older?”

  The officer leans forward even farther, stone-faced. “Now, let me tell you the truth,” he says slowly. “Delmonico has been dead for over three years.”

  I stand there in stunned silence as the precinct lobby begins to whirl around me. I can feel the blood draining from my head. My knees are starting to go.

  “Hey, you okay?”

  No, I’m not. I’m absolutely, positively not okay. “Are you sure we’re talking about the same guy?” I ask. “Detective Frank Delmonico? Homicide?”

  “Yep. Frank Delmonico.” He mutters something else under his breath.

  “What? I didn’t hear that last part.”

  “It was nothing.”