Read Online Kill Me If You Can by James Patterson - Free Book Online
Authors: James Patterson
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on.”
Rice surfed from camera to camera. “Got him,” he said after a few minutes.
They watched Zelvas stagger across the marble floor. He crashed into a bank of lockers, found one on the top row, and opened it.
Rice froze the image and zoomed in on the frame. “Jackpot,” he said. “Locker number nine twenty-five. How much you want to bet it’s not filled with cheese?”
Chapter 23
Rice unfroze the image, and Zelvas slumped to the floor. A wet circle fanned out from his body, slowly turning the white marble bright red.
And then wisps of smoke crept into the corner of the screen.
“Shit,” Benzetti said. “We’re going to lose the picture again.”
“Relax,” Rice said. “He’s a good two hundred feet from the blast.”
They watched as the smoke cast a pink haze over the picture, then lifted.
“Look at all those people run. They’re practically tripping over the poor bastard, and they don’t stop to help him,” Rice said.
“As far as they’re concerned, some terrorist just set off a couple of bombs. It’s every man for himself,” Benzetti said. “Wait a minute. Here comes Mr. Good Samaritan.”
The preppy-looking young man knelt down and tried to comfort Zelvas.
“Who is this guy?” Rice asked.
“Who knows? He looks like some latte-sipping pansy who was running for his life and decided to stop and smell the dead guy.”
“Zelvas is telling him something,” Rice said.
“Short conversation,” Benzetti said, as they watched Zelvas die. “He just cashed in his chips.”
“Now what’s this guy gonna do?” Rice said.
“If the kid is smart, he’ll move his ass out of Grand Central.”
But the kid didn’t move. He was staring up at the blood-smeared lockers.
“Uh-oh,” Rice said. “The monkey sees the banana.”
The young man stood up, reached into the open locker, and taking out a small leather bag, looked inside.
“The monkey is about to crap in his pants,” Benzetti said.
“He looks like a Boy Scout,” Rice said. “Maybe he’ll turn it into Lost and Found. I know I would.”
Benzetti laughed. “He could be as honest as a full-length mirror, but we all have our price.”
The young man shut the bag in a hurry and snapped the latch.
“My instincts tell me this dude just found out what his is.”
And then the cop showed up.
“This guy is NYPD,” Rice said.
“He must be from the Idiot Squad,” Benzetti said. “Why would he pull a gun on a civilian?”
The kid ignored the cop’s gun and tended to the dead Russian.
“He’s smart,” Rice said. “He’s using Zelvas’s bag as a prop and playing doctor.”
“And Officer Dumbass is buying it,” Benzetti said as the young cop holstered his gun.
They watched the scenario unfold. Finally the kid dug into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and started talking.
“How convenient,” Benzetti said. “A phone call.”
“It’s a ruse,” Rice yelled at the cop on the monitor. “And you’re buying it, Officer”—he paused the video and zoomed in on the cop’s name tag—“Kendall.”
He hit the play button and watched as Kendall listened to his radio. The call was brief but it seemed to energize the cop.
“Oh, crap,” Benzetti said. “I think I know how this movie is going to end.”
Kendall spent a few more seconds with the kid, then took off toward the Forty-second Street Passageway. The kid waited another ten seconds, then cut and ran in the other direction.
“Track him,” Benzetti said.
Rice followed the action from camera to camera as the kid made his way to the Lexington Avenue exit. The final camera caught the drama outside as three men haggled over a cab and the kid bummed a ride with the winner.
Rice froze the frame. “The hack number is six J four two,” he said, writing it down. “I’ll call the TLC and hunt down the driver.”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” Benzetti said. “It’ll probably be some towelhead who won’t remember anything because he was too
Rice surfed from camera to camera. “Got him,” he said after a few minutes.
They watched Zelvas stagger across the marble floor. He crashed into a bank of lockers, found one on the top row, and opened it.
Rice froze the image and zoomed in on the frame. “Jackpot,” he said. “Locker number nine twenty-five. How much you want to bet it’s not filled with cheese?”
Chapter 23
Rice unfroze the image, and Zelvas slumped to the floor. A wet circle fanned out from his body, slowly turning the white marble bright red.
And then wisps of smoke crept into the corner of the screen.
“Shit,” Benzetti said. “We’re going to lose the picture again.”
“Relax,” Rice said. “He’s a good two hundred feet from the blast.”
They watched as the smoke cast a pink haze over the picture, then lifted.
“Look at all those people run. They’re practically tripping over the poor bastard, and they don’t stop to help him,” Rice said.
“As far as they’re concerned, some terrorist just set off a couple of bombs. It’s every man for himself,” Benzetti said. “Wait a minute. Here comes Mr. Good Samaritan.”
The preppy-looking young man knelt down and tried to comfort Zelvas.
“Who is this guy?” Rice asked.
“Who knows? He looks like some latte-sipping pansy who was running for his life and decided to stop and smell the dead guy.”
“Zelvas is telling him something,” Rice said.
“Short conversation,” Benzetti said, as they watched Zelvas die. “He just cashed in his chips.”
“Now what’s this guy gonna do?” Rice said.
“If the kid is smart, he’ll move his ass out of Grand Central.”
But the kid didn’t move. He was staring up at the blood-smeared lockers.
“Uh-oh,” Rice said. “The monkey sees the banana.”
The young man stood up, reached into the open locker, and taking out a small leather bag, looked inside.
“The monkey is about to crap in his pants,” Benzetti said.
“He looks like a Boy Scout,” Rice said. “Maybe he’ll turn it into Lost and Found. I know I would.”
Benzetti laughed. “He could be as honest as a full-length mirror, but we all have our price.”
The young man shut the bag in a hurry and snapped the latch.
“My instincts tell me this dude just found out what his is.”
And then the cop showed up.
“This guy is NYPD,” Rice said.
“He must be from the Idiot Squad,” Benzetti said. “Why would he pull a gun on a civilian?”
The kid ignored the cop’s gun and tended to the dead Russian.
“He’s smart,” Rice said. “He’s using Zelvas’s bag as a prop and playing doctor.”
“And Officer Dumbass is buying it,” Benzetti said as the young cop holstered his gun.
They watched the scenario unfold. Finally the kid dug into his pocket, pulled out his cell phone, and started talking.
“How convenient,” Benzetti said. “A phone call.”
“It’s a ruse,” Rice yelled at the cop on the monitor. “And you’re buying it, Officer”—he paused the video and zoomed in on the cop’s name tag—“Kendall.”
He hit the play button and watched as Kendall listened to his radio. The call was brief but it seemed to energize the cop.
“Oh, crap,” Benzetti said. “I think I know how this movie is going to end.”
Kendall spent a few more seconds with the kid, then took off toward the Forty-second Street Passageway. The kid waited another ten seconds, then cut and ran in the other direction.
“Track him,” Benzetti said.
Rice followed the action from camera to camera as the kid made his way to the Lexington Avenue exit. The final camera caught the drama outside as three men haggled over a cab and the kid bummed a ride with the winner.
Rice froze the frame. “The hack number is six J four two,” he said, writing it down. “I’ll call the TLC and hunt down the driver.”
“I wouldn’t get my hopes up,” Benzetti said. “It’ll probably be some towelhead who won’t remember anything because he was too
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