Tick Tock

by James Patterson

  My building’s front door was locked when I arrived. Which was sort of aggravating considering how much my pricey prewar building charged for twenty-four-hour doorman service. Instead of putting down the heavy box, I turned and knocked on the thick glass with the back of my thick skull.

  I almost fell down when the door was flung open suddenly two long minutes later.

  “Mr. Bennett. I’m so sorry,” Bert, the whiny evening-shift doorman, said hastily, tightening his loose tie. “Everyone else in the building is marked in, or I would have been standing right here at my post as usual. I thought you and the kids were away. We weren’t expecting you back until next week.”

  I watched the short, old doorman yawn as he continued to make no attempt to help me.

  “Yeah, well, you’re looking at what they call a working vacation, Bert,” I said as I walked around him.

  Bert actually stopped me again halfway to the elevator to load me down even more with piled-up mail and packages.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. B. Your secret is safe with me,” the old codger whispered, winking at my six-pack of suds. “I’ve been reading about your case in the Post. Who could blame you for hitting the sauce a little?”

  I rolled my eyes as the door finally slid shut and the elevator began to take me upstairs.

  Just what I didn’t need in my life, another elderly wiseguy. And I was looking forward to a Seamus-free night, too.

  Chapter 58

  I DROPPED THE FILE BOX of victim data with a thud in the stuffy air of my apartment foyer and stood for a strange moment, just listening. After the usually thunderous chaos in our rambling three-bedroom apartment, silence was an almost unique experience.

  Sorting through the mail, I smiled at the return address of a cardboard tube that had arrived. I went into the big boys’ room and put up the action-shot Mariano Rivera Fathead that I’d gotten for my son Brian’s birthday. Brian was going to go nuts when he saw it.

  “Just me and you tonight, Mo,” I said to the life-size wall cling as I left. “Welcome to old guy’s night in.”

  I proceeded to turn on all the window air conditioners to high. Coming back through the living room, I lifted what looked like a plaid horseshoe off the floor. It was one of the girls’ Catholic school headbands, I realized. I twirled it in my hand before placing it on a coffee table littered with Jenga pieces and Diary of a Wimpy Kid books.

  Taking a load off on my beat-up couch, I reflected on all the craziness of the past fifteen years of family life. It was a blur of big wheels and videos and kitchen tables covered in Cheerios, a lot of tears, more laughter. We’d converted the three bedrooms into five by using the high-end apartment’s formal dining room and half of the large, formal living room. Formal anything pretty much sailed out the window onto tony West End Avenue for Maeve and me once our incredible expanding family moved in.

  The funny thing was, I wouldn’t have had it any other way.

  How I’d gotten my guys this far while putting away bad guys and keeping my job and a sliver of my sanity, I’d never know. Actually, I did know. Their names were Maeve, Mary Catherine, and, as much as I hated to admit it, Seamus.

  Back inside my bedroom, I listened to the string of messages on the answering machine. The most recent one was by far the most intriguing.

  “Yes, um, eh, he—, hello? Mary—Mary Catherine?” some fellow with a charming English stammer said. “It’s Jeremy Griffith. I, um, spoke at your class? I, um, do hope you don’t mind that I hunted down your number from the instructor. I don’t normally do things like this, but I—well, I’m here at this atrocious party, and I couldn’t stop thinking about those insightful links you made between German Baroque and Nordic Classicism. To be honest, I can’t remember the last time I met someone who actually knew who Ivar Tengbom was, let alone would admit to being his number-one fan. Anyway, are you doing anything this week? I have another dinner with some MOMA people coming up on Friday and thought, eh, maybe you’d like to, uh, tag along. There, I’ve said it. If you can make it, wonderful. If you can’t, well, my and Ivar’s loss. Here’s my number.”

  “Sorry, old chap,” I said, immediately deleting with extreme prejudice Mary Catherine’s Hugh Grant–like suitor. “Looks like you’re going stag.”

  Was that wrong? I wondered, staring at myself in the mirror. I turned away. It most certainly was, and I most certainly didn’t care.

  Chapter 59

  I SHOWERED, tossed on some shorts, and brought a beer and my phone back into the living room.

  “Hey, Mike,” Mary Catherine said when I called Breezy. “I was just about to call you. You’re not going to believe this. No Flaherty incidents, no stitches, no one even got sunburned. Even Socky the cat seems ready to twist by the pool tonight. How are you holding up? Are you on your way? I’ll save you some pizza.”

  “Don’t bother, Mary,” I said, toweling off my wet hair. “I’m actually at the apartment. This case is looking like an all-nighter. Hey, I forgot to ask you. How was your art course this week?”

  “It was terrific,” she said. “This really bright, young Oxford professor came to speak to us, a world-renowned expert on German architecture. He was really funny.”

  “German buildings are fine,” I said, “but I’m more into Nordic Classicism myself.”

  “I didn’t know you liked architecture, Mike. Were you peeking at my books?” Mary Catherine said.

  “Bite your tongue, lass. Not all cops are meatheads.”

  “I’ll have to remember that,” she said after a beat. “I’m afraid it’s too late to talk with the gang. They’re all asleep.”

  “That’s okay. Just apologize and kiss them good night for me, okay?” I said.

  “No problem,” Mary said. “Who are you going to kiss good night, I wonder?”

  “What?” I said, startled. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “Nothing, Mr. Bennett. Have fun all by yourself in the city tonight,” Mary Catherine said and hung up.

  I stared at the phone. Then I cracked the cap on my beer. Sauce-hitting time had officially arrived.

  “Nothing, Mr. Bennett,” I mimicked in a pretty good Irish accent as I tossed my phone at the opposite couch.

  Chapter 60

  I PUT ON THE TV with the sound off as I sorted through my notes and the case files.

  It was a lot of paper. There was still so much to get through, so much to absorb. I wasn’t even sure if we were wasting our time with our latest theory. The very real threat of yet another insane, pointless copycat killing wasn’t exactly helping my concentration.

  I was getting up to exchange my beer bottle for a coffee cup when my phone rang. I grabbed it from the couch.

  Lo and behold, would you look at that? I thought, glaring at the screen. It was my boss, Miriam. Did the woman never sleep?

  “Bad news, Mike,” she said when I made the mistake of accepting the call. “I just got off the phone with the commissioner. It looks like he wants to go in a different direction with the task-force lead. Major Case is out. Manhattan North Homicide is in. We’re both still on the task force, but he wants to, quote unquote, refresh the supervising investigative angle.”

  “Refresh what? With the Manhattan North scrubs? He’s going to pull the plug on us now? Just when the ice is starting to break?”

  “I know, Mike. This is just a bunch of backroom bullshit. The chief of detectives is just screwing with us because he can. We’ll still run the task-force meeting tomorrow, but then that’s it. I just thought you should know.”

  “I’m sorry. I feel like I let you down, Miriam,” I said.

  “How do you think I feel? I pulled you off your vacay only to get you jammed up. Don’t take this to heart. You’re still my go-to. Sometimes you just can’t catch a break quickly enough.”

  I hung up, trying to absorb what I’d just heard. I was letting out a breath as my text jingle rang. It was Emily.

  Hey, u still awake?

  I’d almost forgotten that Emil
y was still out pounding the pavement. The original plan was to meet back up for dinner to brainstorm and crunch everything we’d learned, but she’d been tied up in an interview when I’d called earlier.

  Just barely, I started texting back, but then remembered I was over the age of twelve and actually called her instead.

  “Hey, yourself,” I said when she answered. I decided not to tell her the devastating news about my impending public demotion. She’d find out tomorrow along with the rest of New York.

  “I thought we were supposed to meet and compare notes,” I said.

  “The best-laid plans of mice and Feds, Mike,” Emily said. I could hear traffic in the background. “Turn left in two hundred yards,” Emily’s GPS system said in its annoyingly calm computer voice.

  “I actually got lost after visiting one of the Grand Central bombing victims’ families. Newark is tricky with all those parkways and turnpikes.”

  “You’re in Newark?” I said in shock. “What are you, nuts? I gave you all the Manhattan victims so you wouldn’t have to go too far, country mouse.”

  I couldn’t believe how far and fast Emily was going on this. This wasn’t even her case, and she was putting in a superhuman effort. It was because it was my case, I realized. Not only had she volunteered, she was going above and beyond to make me look good.

  “What’s wrong with Newark?” she said.

  “Nothing, if you happen to like drug gangs and gun violence. You should have called me.”

  “Please. I actually just got off the George Washington Bridge,” Emily said over the GPS blathering something about the right lane. “That’s somewhere near you, right? Are you too beat for a powwow?”

  I perked up a little. The case was still mine until tomorrow. Maybe I might pull this off after all. Suddenly, Mary Catherine’s comment about whom I’d be kissing good night crossed my mind.

  “I’m wide awake, Emily,” I said. “Ask that damn thing if it knows where West End Avenue is.”

  Chapter 61

  IN THE GLITTERING LIGHT of a cut-crystal chandelier, Berger lifted a warm mussel to his eyes like a jeweler with a rare gem. From the corner of the room, the piano played a cadenza from Mozart’s piano concerto no. 20. In D minor, if Berger wasn’t mistaken. And he wasn’t mistaken, since, like Wittgenstein, he had the gift of perfect pitch.

  Berger expertly parted the warm shell with his thumbs and scraped free the slick, pale yellow meat. The loud, guttural sucking sound he made as he popped it into his mouth momentarily drowned out the Mozart.

  Berger slowly chewed, maximizing the mouth feel. He loved fresh mussels. So tangy, so of the deep blue sea. The mussels tonight had been accented with a simple and perfect broth of lemon, white wine, and tarragon. The damask napkin tucked into the collar of his shirt was absolutely drenched in the heady broth. It actually heightened the experience.

  Most nights, he liked a variety of food courses, but sometimes, like tonight, a fancy would take him, and he would fixate on one item sometimes for hours at a time.

  It was like a contest of sorts, a culinary marathon.

  He swallowed and burped and dropped the empty mussel shell into the brimming bowl beside him. So many mussels, so little time.

  He was lifting up the next dark sea jewel when the music changed. Waiters came in from the kitchen pushing an immense white birthday cake on a rolling silver tray. The sparklers on top sizzled brightly in the dimness of the dining room.

  “Nous te souhaitons un joyeux anniversaire,” the staff sang. “Nos voeux de bonheur profonds et sincères. Beaucoup d’amour et une santé de fer. Un joyeux anniversaire!”

  It was “Bon Anniversaire,” the French version of the “Happy Birthday” song.

  Berger waved his mussel along to the music like a conductor’s baton. It was their way of saying good-bye, he realized. This was his last meal.

  After the song was over, and the staff was about to depart, Berger rang his seafood fork loudly against his wineglass.

  “No, no. Please. Everyone wait,” Berger said. “Sommelier, please. Glasses for everyone, including yourself. Fetch the champagne.”

  A moment later, carts piled with antique silver ice buckets were wheeled in from the kitchen. Inside the buckets were bottles of ’97 Salon Le Mesnil Champagne, the best of the very best. Behind the champagne came the entire staff, all the servers, the table captain, sommelier, maître d’, the chef and prep cooks, even the dishwasher.

  Berger nodded. Corks were popped. Glasses filled.

  “Over the years, you have treated me with such service, such grace,” Berger said, raising his glass. “The happiest moments of my life were spent here in this room with you. You have provided me with a luxury, in fact, an entire life, I would never have had or even dreamed of without your impeccable assistance. For that, allow me to say, Skol, Salud, Sláinte, and L’Chaim to you all.”

  The servers smiled and nodded. The sommelier and maître d’ and the chef clinked glasses and drank and set their glasses down. One by one, everyone filed past and gave Berger their happy regards before departing.

  The maître d’ and chef were the last ones to leave.

  “My brother, the caterer, will come tomorrow for the tables and chairs, sir,” said the maître d’. “It’s been a pleasure coming here, into your home, all these years to serve you in this unique way. I hope you were happy with our approximation of a fine dining experience.”

  “You did a wonderful job. Truly excellent,” Berger said, impatient to get back to his last plate of mussels.

  “Mr. Berger, please just allow me one more moment,” Michel Vasser, the tall, bearded chef said. He was a native of Lyon, had trained at le Cordon Bleu, and had actually won the Bocuse D’Or in the early eighties.

  “It really has been a pleasure serving you over the past ten years,” the talented chef said. “You’ve been more than generous, especially in your compensation package, and I just wanted to say that—”

  As the man prattled on, Berger could take it no longer. He lifted the bread plate beside him. It made a whistling sound as it whizzed past the chef’s ear and smashed against the wall.

  “Au revoir, mon ami,” Berger said, waving the asshole away.

  He waited until he heard the front door open and close before he cracked open another shell.

  Chapter 62

  “HEY, DID A TOY COME with this Happy Meal?” I asked as I stole a French fry from the Mickey Dee’s bag on the dash of Emily’s Fed car.

  “I wouldn’t know. That bag was there when I signed the car out,” Emily teased as she flipped through my notes.

  We were now parked down at the West 79th Street Boat Basin. On the dark mirror of the water we could see bobbing sailboats, the black mass of an anchored tanker, and the romantic chandelier-like lights of the George Washington Bridge off to the right. It was a nice secluded parking lot right smack on the Hudson. A notorious lovers’ lane, and I knew we’d have it all to ourselves, since we had yet to catch the still-on-the-loose Son of Sam copycat.

  As usual, Emily looked amazing, buttoned up in her business-hottie-with-a-nine-millimeter style. She looked fresh as a daisy, even though she’d been busting her tail all day. I could think of worse people to hang out with in a prime make-out spot.

  I spat the cold fry into a napkin and looked over at my attractive FBI colleague with feigned hurt.

  “Back to business now. Question one: You spoke to the Bronx stabbing victim, right?” Emily said.

  “If I don’t answer, will you waterboard me?” I said.

  “I’d watch my step if I were you.”

  “Fine, Aida Morales. Yep, spoke to her. She had a complication with one of her stabbing wounds, so she was actually still at Jacobi Hospital.”

  “Did you show her the sketch and Photo Pak of the suspect?”

  I nodded.

  “She actually spent a lot of time with him, so even though he was wearing a curly Son of Sam wig when he attacked her, she was pretty sure it was the same
guy.”

  Emily wrinkled her brow at the pages.

  “What, if anything, about the victims’ families jumps out at you as a possible link?”

  “Not much,” I said, looking out at the water. “Especially on the surface. I mean, we have eight victims, right? Aida Morales, the four people killed in the Grand Central bombing, the double murder of the professor and his lover in Queens, and poor little Angela Cavuto. Four females, four men, five of them blue-collar types, three a little more upscale. You couldn’t get a more disparate bunch.”

  “But like we agreed,” Emily said, “only two of the people who died at the newsstand—the owner and the girl who worked there—can be considered targets. The officer who was killed wasn’t on his regular post, and the homeless man wasn’t known to frequent the area.”

  “Okay, fine,” I said. “Six victims, then, but there’s still no obvious connection. Maybe we’re digging a dry hole.”

  “Family dynamics are one thing we haven’t fully looked into, Mike. We have to keep looking.”

  Emily stared at me and then started flipping through my notes again. To make myself useful, I started looking through hers. The interview parameters were extensive: socioeconomic status, brothers, sisters, parents, birth order, status of parents, employment history, education.

  When the words started to blur, I slapped the folder closed.

  “I’m not feeling it. I can’t think here. Start the car. I know just the place.”

  Chapter 63

  I DIRECTED EMILY and told her to stop under the beacon of a green neon harp. It was the Dublin House bar on 79th Street, where I’d celebrated my twenty-first birthday.

  “You can think better here?” she said.

  “What do you mean?” I said, leading her inside. “The library’s closed. Besides, haven’t you heard? People leave bombs there.”