This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorized distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
Epub ISBN: 9781473549708
Version 1.0
Published by Cornerstone Digital 2017
1 3 5 7 9 10 8 6 4 2
Copyright © 2017 by James Patterson
Cover photograph © Shutterstock
Cover design © blacksheep-uk.com
James Patterson has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. All characters and descriptions of events are the products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual persons is entirely coincidental
First published in Great Britain in 2017 by Cornerstone Digital
Cornerstone Digital
The Penguin Random House Group Limited
20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London, SW1V 2SA
www.penguin.co.uk
Cornerstone Digital is part of the Penguin Random House group of companies whose addresses can be found at global.penguinrandomhouse.com
A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library
I KEPT STARING down at my shoes.
I had washed up in the bathroom near the surgical suite on the fifth floor of Manhattan South Hospital. My hands had been covered in Elizabeth’s blood. My shirt and jacket were, too, but they had long since been tossed in the garbage in favor of a sweatshirt from the lobby gift shop. I ♥ NEW YORK, it read.
I wasn’t so sure anymore.
I kept staring down at my shoes because I’d missed a spot, as it were. There was a drop of Elizabeth’s blood on the toe of my right loafer, and all I could do was keep looking at it. The waiting room was packed, but I had blocked out the chorus of hushed conversations around me, various loved ones talking to one another if only to help pass the time and maybe, just maybe, not be consumed by the worries that would otherwise eat them alive.
As for me, I was getting devoured. Will she make it? Please, please, let her survive.
I suddenly got this weird sense. A vibe. I tried tuning back to the surrounding conversations, only they were gone. They’d stopped. The room was utterly silent save for one sound—a voice from the TV that hung on the far wall. I looked up, my head on a swivel, to see everyone staring at me. I then looked at the TV and saw why. The local news was showing me racing down the steps at the courthouse, Elizabeth in my arms.
“The shooter, identified as Emily Louden, was declared dead at the scene. Her intended target, Judge Arthur Kingsman, survived the shooting and is currently listed in stable condition. A second victim, shown here, is believed to have been hit by a stray bullet. She’s been identified as Detective Elizabeth Needham of the NYPD, although there’s been no official statement as to her condition. The man seen here carrying her to an ambulance is unknown.”
I bounced some quick glances around the room as if to say, “Yeah, that’s me.” Most of the people went back to whatever it was they were doing—talking, reading, staring at their phones. The few who didn’t stop staring, though, received a longer stare back from me, the kind with no ambiguity. Mind your own effin’ business.
Back to my shoes.
Only for another minute. Another pair of shoes had walked right up to mine. Wingtips. “You look like shit,” said Beau Livingston.
“If you’re about to tell me that I need to get some sleep, save your breath,” I told him.
“Okay, I won’t tell you,” he said. “Any word on Elizabeth?”
“Nothing,” I said. “She’s still in surgery.”
“I saw what you did. You may have saved her life.”
“We’ll see.”
He sat down in the empty seat to my left only to realize that about half a dozen people were within earshot. That was half a dozen too many.
“Come with me,” he said.
The last thing I wanted to do was listen to Livingston, but he clearly had news about something.
I followed him out to the hallway, down to an area near a soda machine. We were alone; no one could hear us. Still, he whispered.
“Doctors won’t allow us to question Kingsman yet,” he said.
“You’ll want to wait anyway.”
“Why?”
“He’s most likely sedated,” I said. “Any judge, including him, would rule it inadmissible.”
“Good point,” said Livingston. He sighed. “Fuckin’ Grimes and the Gazette, huh?”
“The story or the fact that they gave no one a heads-up?” I asked.
“Both,” he said. “Could you imagine if they got it wrong?”
“What makes you so sure they got it right?” I asked.
“THAT GUY YOU and Elizabeth brought in? Timitz? I got off the phone a few minutes ago with the captain of the Fiftieth,” said Livingston.
“Did the lawyer ever show?” I asked.
“He did, but only after Timitz called him a second time, or so I was told. Not just any lawyer, either. It was Peter Xavier.”
I followed the legal world about as closely as I did cricket matches in Mumbai, but Xavier was a name I knew. The guy was a killer defense attorney, as high-profile as they come. The joke I read about him once was that he had to have his suits custom made with a slit in the back to make room for his dorsal fin.
“Why did he need a guy like that?” I asked, although I didn’t intend to say the words out loud. It was a reflex.
Nonetheless, Livingston had an answer. “According to Xavier, Timitz was afraid he might be wrong about his boss.”
“What do you mean wrong?”
“Timitz had told Xavier days ago that he suspected Judge Kingsman might be involved with the Dealer killings. He claimed he overheard Kingsman on a pay phone in the courthouse.”
“Let me guess,” I said. “Timitz was afraid to go to the police because he’d be risking his job if it turned out Kingsman was innocent.”
“Exactly. Of course that doesn’t explain the knife in Timitz’s car,” said Livingston. “Now ask me what does.”