Mistress

by James Patterson

I spend an hour on the subway, jumping from one train to another, hoping to throw off anyone who might be following me. Everyone is a suspect—the kindly grandmother, the well-dressed young woman who looks like she’s headed to an interview, the homeless guy with food in his beard. Trust no one.

  In between stops, I find an ATM and withdraw five hundred dollars in cash, then jump on another train before anyone can trace that transaction.

  I spend the evening at a deli on 14th Street and look over the notes I’ve written up for the story on Craig Carney and Diana Hotchkiss. I was bluffing, of course, about having the article written, but I need to finish it now. The story is largely unsubstantiated; I also lied when I said I had proof of Diana’s affair with Carney. I don’t. I only have Diana’s word. In terms of editorial standards, I’d never sign off on this article without more confirmation. But I’m not worried at the moment about journalistic integrity. I’m more concerned with saving my ass.

  Will I run this if Craig Carney calls my bluff? I don’t know. Capital Beat may not be the most popular news website going, but we’ve never gone with sensationalism. We’ve never compromised our standards. Am I willing to do so now?

  No point in worrying about that yet. Just write it, Ben.

  So I crank out a draft, e-mail it to Carney’s office and to myself for safekeeping, and close my laptop. I force down a roast beef sandwich, because being sleep-deprived and malnourished makes Ben a vulnerable target.

  Now it’s nearing nine o’clock. The sun has fallen, but my spirits are slightly elevated with the completion of this article. It’s a chit. It’s something.

  Then I pull out my cell phone—my original one, not the prepaid piece of shit I’ve been using. From my other pocket I pull out the cell battery. I saw in some movie that a cell phone can’t be traced if the battery is removed. So now I’m going to put it back in, just to check any messages, then get the hell out of here and move to another part of the capital before any black helicopters can swoop down on me.

  When I pop in the battery and check my voice mail, I see four messages. One is from an unknown caller. Two are from George Hotchkiss in Wisconsin.

  The last one is from fifteen minutes ago, from Anne Brennan. I punch that message and raise the phone to my ear.

  “Ben…it’s Anne. I—they just—I need you to come here, Ben. They—they said if I—they said next time they’ll kill me—please, I don’t know who else to call—”

  I jump out of my seat, grab my bag, and head for the door.

  Chapter 57

  “It’s Ben,” I say to the door. “It’s me. Open up.”

  When Anne opens her door, my heart sinks. Her shirt, a button-down long denim thing, is ripped at the collar, and most of the buttons have been torn off. Her eyes are bloodshot, her eye makeup smeared, her lip bloody. Behind her, the living room looks like a tornado swept through it.

  She quickly closes the door behind me and double-locks it.

  “Let’s sit,” I say to her in the calmest voice I can muster, but my heart is shredded and my blood is boiling.

  “O—okay,” she says, but she collapses to the floor before she can make it to the couch. She bursts into tears, her petite figure shaking uncontrollably. I sit on the floor and take her in my arms, as if I were rocking an infant to sleep. It’s a long time before she can speak, and I don’t rush her. I keep repeating, “It’s okay, I’m here,” as if that’s any comfort at this moment.

  “It was…two of them,” she says, audibly gulping between sobs. “They said they were from…the government and…and they just wanted to…talk.”

  “Did they have credentials? Badges?”

  She shakes her head.

  “You let someone in without—” I cut myself off. The last thing she needs from me is a lecture. I don’t know her all that well, but from what I’ve discerned so far, it seems just like her to be trusting enough to let strangers into her apartment.

  “Go ahead,” I say. “Tell me what happened.”

  The story comes out amid sobs and deep breaths. She stumbles around it, but I get the point. They forced their way in. They put a knife to her throat. They ripped off her shirt and pulled down her pants.

  “They said, next time—they’d—they’d rape me and then slit my throat,” she stammers. “They said if Benjamin Casper doesn’t stop poking his nose where it doesn’t belong, it will be me who…pays.”

  I hold Anne for a long time, my jaw set in a death lock, my body trembling with rage.

  “You want me to stay?” I whisper. “I can sleep on the couch—”

  “I want you to stop,” she blurts out. “I want all of this to…stop.”

  A door closes in the apartment upstairs. We both jump at the sound. The goons who delivered this message probably won’t be back tonight. But maybe they knew I would come.

  Anne looks up at me. “I know I don’t have a right to ask that. I know Diana was important to you. She was to me, too. But is it worth the cost?”

  She’s right. It’s one thing to risk my own life. I don’t really have a choice in that. But I’m endangering people I care about. First Ellis Burk, now Anne—innocent victims, punished for nothing more than listening to me and trying to help me.

  “I’ll think of something,” I tell her, which is about the emptiest promise I could give.

  Chapter 58

  I spend the night at Anne’s, sitting up on the couch, dozing off occasionally, but mostly watching the front door and trying to figure a way out of this mess.

  In the morning, my head is cloudy, my limbs are shaky, and a permanent dull ache has taken up residence in my stomach. I use my prepaid phone to dial George Hotchkiss, who called my old cell phone twice yesterday but didn’t leave a message.

  “George, it’s Ben Casper. I know you’re anxious to learn more about Diana. But I need more—”

  “You don’t know what I’m going to say,” he says, interrupting me. “What I’m going to say is I want you to forget about what you told us. I don’t want to make any noise about Diana. I want to let it go.”

  He wants me to let it go? “George—”

  “She’s gone, Ben. And the sooner my wife and I accept that, the sooner we can move on with our lives. We’ve lost two children in the space of a week.”

  I sigh. I can see his point, of course. But if there was a chance my child were alive, I’d chase that hope like I’ve never pursued anything in my life. Why wouldn’t George Hotchkiss do the same?

  Oh. Oh, of course.

  “They got to you, didn’t they, George? They—”

  “Nobody did anything.” His voice is rising, as if in panic. “Nobody did anything, you understand? I still have a wife, and I don’t want to lose her, too. So I’m not going to ask the government to hand over Diana’s body or perform a DNA test or anything else, and I don’t authorize you to do those things, either. And I’m telling you that I want you to stop pursuing this. I want you to let this go. Diana is dead, okay? She’s dead.”

  Shit. These guys are smart. They’re hitting every pressure point they can find. They got to George and threatened him.

  “I need you to let this go,” George says. “Please, Mr. Casper.”

  Chapter 59

  “It’s not good, Ben.”

  Eddie Volker says these words before he says hello. I’m in his law firm after taking the most circuitous route I possibly could to his office. “Not good at all.”

  Eddie is the Beat’s lawyer—the one who represents us in the rare cases when someone tries to sue us for defamation or has some other beef with an article we published. But his principal practice is criminal defense, which is why I had him contact Detective Liz Larkin to discuss my case. I’m here now for a report, and Eddie’s first words aren’t what I wanted to hear.

  He has the office of a busy lawyer—piles of paper everywhere, the fancy diplomas and honors framed on his wall, the piping hot cup of Starbucks on his desk. He’s losing his hair as well as his battle with the bulge these d
ays, but he remains a formidable presence. I feel a small measure of comfort with him on my side.

  “As you know, they searched your house. They had a warrant, and it looks fine to me. No basis to quarrel with it. Anyway, what they found wasn’t good for us, Ben.”

  I don’t answer. There are plenty of things they could find in my town house that would be embarrassing to me, but I can’t imagine what would prove that I killed Diana or Jonathan Liu, especially considering the small detail that I didn’t kill either of them.

  “I made a lot of noise about the First Amendment, that cops can’t steal a reporter’s notes or work product, threats to run to court to get a protective order. But I didn’t see anyone trembling in their boots, Ben. I wouldn’t be, either, if I were them.”

  “Why not?” I ask.

  Eddie rearranges some papers on his desk. Avoidance behavior, something you do when you don’t want to deliver bad news.

  “They found traces of carpet fibers from Diana Hotchkiss’s apartment on your shoes.”

  “So what? I’ve been in Diana’s apartment many times.”

  “They found traces of carpet fibers from Jonathan Liu’s downstairs carpet on another pair of your shoes.”

  “That’s impossible.” Since leaving Jonathan Liu’s home, I haven’t been to mine. I’ve been on the run.

  Eddie gives a curt nod. It’s not the first time in Eddie’s career that somebody sitting where I’m sitting has denied doing something. It’s probably not even the first time today. The words I didn’t do it have probably echoed off the walls of the office so often that they’re embedded in the plaster.

  “Ben, they say you killed Jonathan Liu the same way you killed your mother. They say you either snuck up behind him or you subdued him, put a gun against his temple, and pulled the trigger. Then you made it look like a suicide.”

  I stare at the ceiling. “They have no proof of that. They don’t even have proof that I was in his house when he was murdered. A carpet fiber—”

  “And your fingerprint on Liu’s computer mouse—”

  “Okay, fine, both of those might prove I was there at some point, but not when he was killed.”

  Eddie looks at me like he has more to tell me, like the bad-news express hasn’t stopped yet.

  “Spit it out,” I say to him.

  He sighs. “Ben, they found Jonathan Liu’s wallet in your bedroom.”

  “That’s bullshit,” I say. “That’s bullshit!”

  “And he used his credit card to buy a plane ticket for himself the evening he was murdered. So anyone who stole his credit card must have done it after that time. Basically, that means they’ve got you in his apartment right about the coroner’s estimated time of death.”

  I jump out of my chair. “I can’t believe this is happening. They planted Jonathan Liu’s wallet and those carpet fibers. They framed me. They fucking framed me!”

  “I believe you and I’ll fight for you,” Eddie says. “But it’s very bad. They want you to come in for more questioning. And if I don’t deliver you to them by the end of the day, they’re going to issue a warrant for your arrest.”

  I cover my face with my hands and drop my head against the wall. They’ve finally got me in the corner.

  Eddie comes over to me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “It’s time to cut your losses, my friend. I’ll take you downtown. They’ll book you, print you, and I’ll see if we can do something about bond.”

  I let out a bitter chuckle. “Bond for a double murderer? Is there a good chance I’ll get bond?”

  “Not really, no.” Eddie’s always told it to me straight. “You’re looking at a long time in lockup awaiting trial. But we’ll pull out all the stops—”

  “I’ll never get to trial,” I say. “They won’t let that happen. If I go inside, I’ll never come out.”

  I take a breath and nod to Eddie.

  “I’ll be in touch,” I say.

  “They’ll issue the warrant, Ben. They’ll come looking for you. It won’t be pretty.”

  Please stop this, Anne said.

  Please stop, George Hotchkiss pleaded.

  Surrender to the police, Eddie’s telling me.

  I release my arm from Eddie’s hand. “Give me a couple of hours to think about this,” I say. “I’ll be in touch.”

  Chapter 60

  “Deputy Director Carney, please,” I say into a new prepaid cell phone I purchased an hour ago.

  “May I say who’s calling, please?”

  “His favorite reporter,” I answer. I take a breath and steel myself. You can do this, Ben. Act confident. Don’t act like you’re scared out of your mind. Keep the upper hand.

  A moment later: “This is Craig Carney.”

  “Hello, Mr. Deputy Director. It’s twenty-four hours later. You’ll recall I set a deadline.”

  “I do recall that.”

  “Did you read the article I e-mailed to your office?”

  “I read a document that doesn’t remotely bear any relation to the truth, Mr. Casper.”

  “Either way, I snap my fingers and it’s online, front and center, a pretty big headline. Should I snap my fingers, Mr. Deputy Director, or do you have something to tell me?”

  “I have something to tell you.”

  “Will I like it?”

  “I would if I were you, yes. But not over the phone. Come to my office.”

  That’s about the least surprising thing he could have said.

  “Your office? I don’t think so. Let me think a second.” I take a swig of the bottled water I’m holding. My mouth is dry as a sandbox. My heart is pounding so furiously that I can hardly hear myself speaking.

  I take a couple of short breaths. The delay works for me, because he thinks I’m trying to come up with a place to meet. The truth is, I already have one.

  “The Washington Monument,” I say. “One hour. Stand on the east side and face the Capitol. And Mr. Carney, this is just the two of us, right?”

  “Of course.”

  “Of course,” I say, mimicking him. “If it’s more than the two of us, I snap my fingers. Know what I mean?”

  Carney lets out a sigh. “It will be just the two of us, Mr. Casper.”

  “Okay. See you there. Wear a Nationals cap.”

  “Wear a what?”

  “A Nationals baseball cap. So I know it’s you.”

  “You’ll know it’s me.”

  “Wear a Nationals cap and, come to think of it, have a Nationals pennant. Y’know, those things you wave?”

  “Why do I need to do that?”

  “Because I’m not going to appear until I see you. And from a distance, I won’t recognize you. So wear a Nationals baseball cap and be waving a pennant.”

  “I don’t have either of those things.”

  “You’re one of the most powerful men in the country, Mr. Carney. I’m confident you’ll make it happen. Do as I say, or in one hour, we publish the story. Oh, and I also set up a new e-mail address, under a fake name, of course, that is timed to send this article to the Post, the Times, and about ten other newspapers ninety minutes from now. Unless I stop it, of course.”

  He doesn’t answer. Good. He’s letting me call the shots.

  “One hour,” I say. “And give me your cell number.”

  He does so. Then I hang up the phone. I wipe the sweat from my forehead, bend over at the waist, and vomit into a bush.

  Chapter 61

  An hour later, I dial the cell number Craig Carney gave me.

  “Hello, Mr. Casper,” he says when he picks up. “I’m here at the Washington Monument, as you can see. Where are you?”

  Where am I? I’m among about five hundred people strolling the west side of the National Mall right now, looking at the many memorials. But he doesn’t need to know that. Like pretty much everyone else around here, I have a camera, only I’m not snapping pictures. I’m using it as I would a pair of binoculars, zooming in wherever I need to look, trying not to be too obvious.


  “I want you to move to the other side of the monument, Mr. Deputy Director. Come around to the west side and face the Lincoln Memorial.”

  “Okay, I’ll go around to the other side of the monument.”

  I have a feeling he didn’t say that for my benefit. I think he’s trying to signal someone—FBI agents, CIA, Capitol Police, whatever—what he’s doing. He must be wearing a wire. That’s about as surprising as a hot day in August.

  “You’re not waving the pennant, Mr. Carney. I told you to wave it.”

  Okay, that wasn’t called for or necessary, but give me a break—I’m nervous here. I’m trying to convince myself I have the upper hand. This is high-stakes poker and I’ve never played anything but solitaire.

  “Okay, are you happy now?”

  “I’m just kidding. I don’t know if you’re waving the pennant or not. I’m not on the National Mall right now. Sorry about that. There’s been a change of plans.”

  They say that a lot in movies, when there are ransom drops or other controlled meetings. There’s been a change of plans, delivered with much more bravado than I can muster right now, when I’m doing my damnedest to keep the tremor out of my voice. Hell, I’m trying not to piss my pants.

  I say, “Go to the Foggy Bottom metro station and take the Orange Line to the Landover stop.”

  “Landover? This is ridiculous.”

  “Do it or become a national disgrace. The clock is ticking.”

  I punch off the phone and listen to a tour guide tell me and a dozen other people what each of the pillars on the perimeter of the World War II Memorial represents. Interesting.

  Even more interesting? What happens next. Due east, at the Washington Monument, Craig Carney is speaking into his collar. So that confirms he’s wired up, and he’s obviously telling his people that he’s on the move.

  Carney starts to head west and north toward the Foggy Bottom station. Several people dressed as tourists suddenly lose interest in the attractions they’re supposedly here to view and simultaneously begin to change course. A man in a navy suit and sunglasses near the Korean War Memorial breaks sharply toward the Washington Monument and trails Carney from a distance. A man in a gray T-shirt and blue jeans at the Lincoln Memorial breaks north into a jog, which means he’s either one of Carney’s guys or he likes to jog in denim. Two women, one in a blue suit and the other in a brown sundress, strolling east along the reflecting pool, suddenly stop strolling and nonchalantly pivot in the opposite direction. A casually dressed man and woman, who are not more than twenty yards away from me at the World War II Memorial, freeze in their tracks, touch their ears momentarily, and then start following Carney as he passes by on his way to the metro station. A nearby woman who is a dead ringer for Patricia Arquette in Goodbye Lover bends over and fixes the strap on her heel. I don’t think she’s with Carney, but I thought Patricia Arquette was totally hot in that movie.