Run for Your Life

by James Patterson

  “You said it, amigo,” I told him.

  When she came back a moment later, she shoved the phone at me, with a look of triumph on her face.

  “Who is this?” came a harsh male voice.

  “Detective Michael Bennett.”

  “Listen up, Bennett. This is Mayor Carlson. There’ll be no more crazy talk of canceling this event. We can’t cave in to terrorism.”

  “It’s not exactly caving in to terrorism, sir.”

  “That’s how it will look. Besides, my wife and I are attending, so that’s an end to it. You call the commissioner and tell him to beef up security. Do I make myself clear?”

  Right, I felt like telling him. A highly visible police presence will really be great for our trap. What did another bunch of dead citizens matter, compared to twisting by the pool with the A-list?

  But those were the kinds of thoughts I grudgingly had to keep to myself.

  “Whatever you say, your honor,” I said.

  Chapter 69

  AS I WALKED BACK INSIDE, I met the butler returning with Henry Blanchette. I’d never seen a more unhappy-looking man.

  “I’m sure you’re finding my wife’s behavior somewhat odd, Detective,” he said.

  “That’s not my job to judge.”

  “She has a very hard time dealing with stress,” he said with a sigh. “There’ve been times in the past when much slighter things than this have pushed her over the edge. She goes into denial, drinks, and takes pills, and she’s impossible to deal with. But soon she’ll break down, and then I’ll take her to a discreet clinic, where they know her well. So if you’ll just bear with us for a little while longer.”

  “I’ll do my best,” I said, actually feeling sorry for Henry. On top of his own grief and the danger of the situation, he had a crazy woman on his hands.

  For the next half hour, I followed the mayor’s orders. I called Chief McGinnis, and within minutes a dozen plainclothes cops and detectives arrived on the back elevator along with the caterer.

  I finagled the guest list from the butler and stationed two cops at the penthouse door with it, although it wasn’t like they’d really need to match names to faces, what with all the Hollywood, Washington, and Wall Street celebs due to arrive. I got several more men to pose as waiters, and even posted a couple of detectives outside by the roof pool. With this maniac, who knew? He might try to scale the building like Spider-Man, or maybe paraglide onto the roof.

  Then I made a security check, going upstairs and wandering through the cavernous duplex apartment. This place could have fit even my family comfortably, and would still have a few rooms left over. I passed by his-and-her master bedrooms, marble bathrooms that ancient Roman emperors would have found plush, a white-on-white French châ-teau–inspired library with an ornate, coffered ceiling. Any minute, I expected to turn a corner and find gold and gems just dumped out onto the oriental rugs like pirate treasure.

  I was passing by yet another bedroom when I heard human sounds. It was probably just one of the platoon of maids, but better safe than sorry. I drew my Glock and held it down beside my thigh.

  But instead of a maid, it was Mrs. Blanchette that I glimpsed through the doorway. She was sitting on a small canopy bed, crying. Her husband arrived at her back and embraced her, his cheeks wet. She rocked back and forth, keening, her fists squeezing and pulling at the bedspread as he whispered in her ear.

  This was their daughter’s room, I realized as I reholstered. I regretted all the negative thoughts I’d had about her. Despite appearances and her bristly personality, the woman was going through hell. A place I knew all too well.

  I retreated as quietly as I could. At the top of the stairs, I spotted a photo of Erica, with a man I assumed was her first husband. They were walking with their daughters on a glowing white-sand beach beside deep blue water, laughing, the wind whipping their hair back.

  As I stared, I thought of all the pictures I had of Maeve and the kids. All the happy moments, frozen and captured forever. That was it, wasn’t it? What life was all about. What could never be taken away. The moments shared with family and the people you loved.

  Chapter 70

  I COORDINATED SECURITY from the Blanchettes’ grand-hotel-sized kitchen—the farthest, most out-of-the-way corner of it that I could find. The last thing I needed was to be standing by the penthouse’s front door when the mayor arrived, so hizzoner could give me another earful.

  Despite the short amount of time we’d had to beef up security, we’d managed to do an excellent job. Fortunately, the employees of the Blanchettes’ upscale catering firm had worked UN events and presidential fund-raisers, so we were able to get background checks from the Feds without too much fuss.

  It was the guests and hosts who turned out to be the pain in the butt. When we insisted on bag checks at the door, I thought some of them would have to be sedated. We reached a compromise only when a borrowed metal detector was shuttled up from the Manhattan criminal courthouse, on the order of Mrs. Blanchette’s good friend the mayor.

  About the only high note came when the Cajun head chef, Maw-Maw Josephine, heard that one of the Midtown North detectives had volunteered down in the Big Easy after Hurricane Katrina. Next thing we knew, all us cops were getting hooked up with as much gumbo, shrimp, and corn bread as we could stuff ourselves with.

  It was ominously quiet during the first hour, as the most favored guests arrived for the pre-event private dinner. Of course I was relieved that everyone stayed safe, but on the other hand, I was hoping Gladstone would make a move so we could nail him to the floorboards. His unpredictability was burning a slow hole through the lining of my stomach. Or was that Maw-Maw’s Tabasco jambalaya?

  I’d just done my hundredth radio check with the bored-stiff ESU gang across the street at Central Park, when Beth Peters rang my cell phone.

  “You’re not going to believe this,” she said excitedly.

  “What? We got him?”

  “Get over here to West Thirty-eighth near Eleventh Avenue, and maybe you can tell me,” she said.

  What the heck did that mean? And West 38th? That was where the French photographer had gotten whacked.

  “Come on, Beth, no games,” I said. “What’s going on?”

  “I’m honestly not sure, Mike,” she said. “I just really need you over here. The scene’ll be easy to spot. It’s the building with all the fire trucks out front. Oh, yeah, and the horses.”

  Horses?

  Chapter 71

  THE TOP OF THE HELL’S KITCHEN tenement was still smoldering when I pulled my Chevy up on the sidewalk behind a FDNY rescue truck.

  Beth Peters came over to meet me as I climbed out, blinking in astonishment at what I saw.

  “I told you, you wouldn’t believe it,” she said.

  She’d been true to her word. A herd of spooked-looking horses was milling around on the sidewalk beyond the fire lines. As she and I followed a smoke eater into the building, he told us that a stable of Central Park buggy horses was right next door to the blaze.

  Well, why not horses at this point? I thought. We already had an outlaw and gunfighting. All I needed was a white hat. Maybe I could borrow one from that Naked Cowboy lunatic in Times Square.

  The walls of the top-floor apartment were even more blackened than the Cajun shrimp I’d just eaten. Beth talked to some CSU techs in the wasteland of one of the torched rooms, then handed me a dust mask before guiding me to a scorched lump of ash in the center.

  My stomach clenched like a fist as I stared down at a badly burnt body. The fire had charred and melted its features into a horror movie rictus.

  “I had the techs take some dental shots. And we got Thomas Gladstone’s dentist, out in Locust Valley, to e-mail us his X-rays,” Beth said. “The ME’s pretty sure it’s a match.”

  The surprise of seeing the horses was nothing by comparison to that. My jaw just about went unhinged.

  “You’re telling me this is Gladstone?” I said.

 
; “One and the same.”

  I know it’s not right to disrespect the dead, but I couldn’t deny that I was pleased. This ulcer-inducing case was finally over. In fact, I couldn’t help smiling, and I let out a long sigh of relief as what felt like a piano was lifted from my back.

  “What do you know?” I said. “He offed himself, huh? Literally went down in a blaze of glory. Thank God it’s over.”

  But Beth was shaking her head. I’d spoken too soon.

  She crouched beside the corpse and moved her gloved finger to a small circular hole in the temple. Then she showed me the bigger hole on the other side of the head, a jagged exit wound.

  “Shooting yourself is pretty easy, but shooting yourself and then setting yourself on fire, well, that’s a notch trickier,” she said.

  “Maybe he did it the other way around,” I tried desperately. “Torched the place first, then boom.”

  “So what happened to the gun? Even if it melted, there’d be traces left, but the techs haven’t found any. Plus Cleary says there’s fly larva embedded in the left upper arm. That means he’s been dead for two, maybe three days. And that means?—”

  “Gladstone couldn’t have killed all those people,” I finished for her. I dug the heels of my hands into my eyes.

  “Sorry, Mike, but he’s not our shooter.”

  I cursed under my breath. If it wasn’t Thomas Gladstone, then who the hell was it?

  “That’s not all,” Beth said, standing. She led me to a closet with a barbecued door and walls.

  I winced at the slight young blond woman crumpled up inside it. The fire hadn’t gotten to her too badly, but she was still very dead—shot in the back of the head.

  “We found her purse. Name’s Wendy Stub. Twenty-six. Her business card says she’s a publicist at Stoa Holdings, a hotshot Park Avenue South PR firm.”

  A publicist? What was her connection to this?

  As I listened to firemen ripping open the walls in the other rooms, I wondered if FDNY was still hiring. A midlife career change seemed like just the ticket. Or maybe the stable next door could use a horse whisperer, to help the poor creatures get over their trauma.

  Beth was watching me inquiringly. “What now?”

  “You’re asking me?” I said.

  Chapter 72

  RUSH HOUR WAS STILL in full swing when the Teacher’s cab stopped behind a police car that was parked in front of the Pierre Hotel. It made him a little nervous, but Vinny, the doorman, came bustling over to open the taxi’s door like nothing was out of the ordinary. Cops didn’t come to places like this to pick up people—they came to protect people. Still, the Teacher kept his face averted and his hand on the butt of his .45 as he got out.

  “Welcome home, Mr. Meyer!” Vinny said. “How was your trip? Paris, wasn’t it?”

  That’s where he’d told everyone at the Pierre he was going. In fact, he’d gone infinitely farther. To other dimensions. But now he was home, the place where he’d actually lived for the past three years.

  “It was great, Vinny. Especially the food,” the Teacher said, smiling despite himself. He’d liked Vinny since the moment he decided to move into the world-famous hotel. That was right after his mother had passed away, and he’d become the sole beneficiary of the twenty-four-million-dollar Ronald Meyer fortune. He’d decided that he owed it to his asshole stepdaddy to blow every last red penny of the old man’s dough. And he’d kept his Hell’s Kitchen apartment as a command center.

  “What’s up with the cop car?” the Teacher asked casually.

  “Oh, Jeez. You probably didn’t hear. There’s this fucking—pardon me—freaking maniac going around shooting people the last couple of days. Killed a stewardess at a hotel on Sixth and a maître d’ at Twenty-one. It’s in all the papers. They think it’s some rich guy who flipped his lid. So they got cops everywhere they got rich people. Which is everywhere around here, I guess. My cousin, Mario, he’s a sergeant down in the Village, he says the rank and file are psyched they’re making a fortune in OT. Isn’t this world nuts?”

  “I’m with you there, Vin,” the Teacher said, letting go of his gun.

  “Hey, any more word on that Food Network thing? I’m sick of that Emeril already, with that ‘bam’ shtick.”

  “Patience, Vinny. Good things come to those who wait.”

  “If you say so, Mr. Meyer. What’s up? No bags?”

  “Some kind of mix-up out at Kennedy. What else is new? Be along later, they said. Right now, I just need a drink.”

  “You and me both, Mr. M. Have a good one.”

  Inside the Pierre, the concierge, Michael, echoed Vinny’s greeting. “Mr. Meyer. Welcome back, sir.” The Teacher liked the concierge almost as much as he liked Vinny. Michael was a small, blond, circumspect man with a soft, discreet voice, who managed to be incredibly helpful without kissing your ass—a true quality person.

  Without any fuss, Michael went into the mailroom behind the check-in desk and retrieved the Teacher’s mail.

  “Oh, before I forget, sir. Barneys called an hour ago and said that your final fitting is ready whenever you are.”

  The Teacher literally felt a sudden cold shiver race like an icy snake down his spine. His suit was ready.

  The one he would die in.

  That was what he would call a true final fitting.

  “Excellent. Thank you, Michael,” he said, flipping through his mail.

  He stopped when he got to the oversized envelope with the embossed invitation. “Mr. and Mrs. Blanchette,” the return address read. He nodded with satisfaction. Someone he knew from his former life had gotten him on the guest list. The Blanchettes had no idea who Mr. Meyer was.

  “Michael?” he said, tapping the envelope against his chin as he walked toward the elevator.

  “Yes, sir?”

  “I need an emergency appointment at the in-house salon.”

  “Done, Mr. Meyer,” Michael said.

  “And would you please send up a bottle of champagne? I think a rosé should do it.”

  “Dom Pérignon? Veuve Clicquot?” Michael said, immediately remembering his favorites.

  “How about both?” the Teacher said with his winningest smile, what he called his Tom Cruise special. “You only live once, Michael. You only live just once.”

  Chapter 73

  AN HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER, the Teacher stood in front of a floor-length triple mirror in Barneys.

  “Does the gentleman like what he sees?” the salesman asked.

  The navy cashmere suit the Teacher now wore was a Gianluca Isaia, the bootlicker had told him in the loving, reverent tones of a saint uttering the name of God. The silk shirt was a Battistoni, the cap-toed lace-ups from Bettanin and Venturi.

  He had to admit, he looked pretty darn good. James Bond–suave. Like the latest actor, including new blond hair, thanks to the cut and dye job.

  “The gentlemen loves what he sees,” the Teacher finally said with a grin. “What’s the bill again?”

  The fitter toted up numbers on a cash register. “-Eighty-eight twenty-six,” he said after a minute. “That includes the socks.”

  Oh, including the three-hundred-dollar socks. What a bargain.

  “If the accessories are too pricey, I could show you something else,” the salesman said, with a clear trace of condescension in his voice.

  Out of his peripheral vision, the Teacher could see that the immaculately dressed little suckass actually had the nerve to roll his eyes.

  These luxury store salespeople just didn’t learn, did they? Exactly when was the last time you dropped four figures on a suit? he wanted to ask the jaded piece of crap. Like so many other people, this guy was practically begging for a bullet in the empty space between his ears.

  The Teacher took a steadying breath. Gear it down, he told himself. That’s it. Good boy. This was no time for a silly temper blowup. This close to the goal line, this close to making things right.

  “I’ll take it,” the Teacher said, re
aching into his Vuitton beside the mirror. His fingers played across the checkered steel grip of one of the two 50-round Intratec Tec-9 machine pistols waiting there under the butter-soft napa leather like loyal friends.

  He reluctantly passed them by, instead retrieving his billfold and his American Express Black card.

  “Even the socks,” he said.

  Chapter 74

  “YOUR CUTE DOGGY is what his name?” the turbaned taxi driver asked in a heavy accent, as he pulled up in front of the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

  “Finishing Touch,” the Teacher said. He paid the man and tugged the platinum blond Maltese out of the cab.

  He’d bought the dog at a boutique pet store on his way over here. It was going to be his prop for doing recon around the Blanchettes’ building. An extremely well-dressed metrosexual walking a lapdog in that part of the Upper East Side would seem like wallpaper.

  The Teacher headed up the park side of Fifth, with the nervous little dog straining at its leash. A full block south of the Blanchettes, he stopped and scanned the busy activity out in front of their apartment building. There was a double-parked line of Bentleys and limos, with doormen hustling back and forth as well-heeled ladies and gentlemen exited town cars and stepped under the awning.

  One thing struck him as odd. He’d expected extra security, but he didn’t see any besides the doormen. Well, so much the better. His lips curved in a smile. His destiny was holding strong. He was at the finishing line, about to enter the winner’s circle.

  The plan was to gain access with the invitation he’d finagled. If he was stopped or searched, he would simply draw the Tec-9s, now hanging in their custom holsters under his arms, and start firing. Kill his way into the elevator. Go upstairs and blast everyone dumb enough to get between him and the Blanchettes.

  In a way, he actually hoped there would be some resistance. The Blanchettes would hear, and it would give them something to think about as he made his way closer.