Read Online Run for Your Life by James Patterson - Free Book Online
Authors: James Patterson
Tags: Fiction, General, thriller, Suspense, Thrillers, American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, Suspense fiction, Mystery, Serial Murderers, Fiction - Espionage, Rich people
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twenty–first–century, right?”
Detective Peters was crisp, clear, and sardonic. I decided I was going to get along fine with her.
“Just right, unfortunately,” I said. “Anything on video, like which direction he headed?”
“We collected surveillance tapes from Macy’s and a few other places around Herald Square. The witnesses are viewing them as we speak, but I’m not holding my breath. Thirty–fourth and Seventh at morning rush, it looks like outside Yankee Stadium after a play–off game.”
A possible correspondence ticked in my brain — between a man who was beautifully dressed and groomed, and the ultra–high–fashion men’s store where I was standing. Was there some kind of upper–class angle?
“At least we’ll have your witnesses to ID this maniac once we catch him,” I said. “Thanks, Beth. Let’s keep each other posted.”
When I finished the call, I granted myself a sixty–second time–out to take a leak. The manager’s men’s room, though small, was almost as luxurious as the rest of the store. And it didn’t smell like puke. I gave it four stars.
I took the opportunity to phone back home.
“I’m really sorry,” I told Mary Catherine when she answered. “You know I wanted to take today off to give you a hand, but there’s this wacko — or maybe wackos — running around and … anyway, suffice it to say, I’m not going to be home for a while.”
“I’m doing fine, Mike. Truth is, I’m glad to get you out from underneath me feet,” she said.
I wasn’t sure that was a compliment, but I was damn sure that the lass was a trouper.
“Thanks a million, Mary,” I said. “I’ll check in again when I get a chance.”
“Wait, someone here wants to talk to you,” she said.
“Daddy?” It was Chrissy, my youngest. Her “sore froath,” as she called it, actually sounded a little better. Thank God for small mercies.
“Daddy, please tell Ricky to stop bothering me,” she said. “It’s my turn to watch TV.”
Yet another bonus to being a widower, I thought. Oh, the joys of teleparenting.
“Put him on, Peep,” I said.
That’s when somebody else tried to walk into the small bathroom, and opened the door so hard it crashed into my back. I fumbled for my flying phone and managed to save it from the urinal by sheer luck.
“Ocupado, you moron,” I yelled, kick–slamming the door closed behind me.
What a day, I thought. Then — day? What the hell was I saying? What a lifetime.
Chapter 17
The next priority on my list was to start comparing descriptions of the suspects in the different incidents. The problem was, I had only the one that Beth Peters had given me. That kind of information from the 21 Club hadn’t gotten to me yet. I’d learned from Lavery that the street search and canvass of local doormen around the Polo store had produced nothing. And we were still waiting for a coherent statement from the men’s shop clerk whose coworker had been gunned down.
I decided it was time for some coaxing.
His name was Patrick Cardone. He was being cared for by EMTs in an ambulance that was still outside, double–parked on Madison Avenue. As I walked up to it, I saw him through the open rear door, sitting on a stretcher and crying.
I didn’t like intruding on people who’d just experienced a tragedy, but it had to be done, and doing it was my job. I tried to handle it as gently as I knew how.
I waited until he was between sobbing spells, then tapped on the door of the ambulance, at the same time giving the paramedics the high sign that I was taking over.
“Hi, Patrick? My name’s Mike,” I said, flashing my badge as I climbed in and quietly closed the door behind me. “I can only imagine how awful you’re feeling. You went through a terrible, traumatic experience, and the last thing I want to do is make it worse. But I need your help — me, and all the other people in this city. Do you feel up to talking for a minute?”
The clerk wiped his
Detective Peters was crisp, clear, and sardonic. I decided I was going to get along fine with her.
“Just right, unfortunately,” I said. “Anything on video, like which direction he headed?”
“We collected surveillance tapes from Macy’s and a few other places around Herald Square. The witnesses are viewing them as we speak, but I’m not holding my breath. Thirty–fourth and Seventh at morning rush, it looks like outside Yankee Stadium after a play–off game.”
A possible correspondence ticked in my brain — between a man who was beautifully dressed and groomed, and the ultra–high–fashion men’s store where I was standing. Was there some kind of upper–class angle?
“At least we’ll have your witnesses to ID this maniac once we catch him,” I said. “Thanks, Beth. Let’s keep each other posted.”
When I finished the call, I granted myself a sixty–second time–out to take a leak. The manager’s men’s room, though small, was almost as luxurious as the rest of the store. And it didn’t smell like puke. I gave it four stars.
I took the opportunity to phone back home.
“I’m really sorry,” I told Mary Catherine when she answered. “You know I wanted to take today off to give you a hand, but there’s this wacko — or maybe wackos — running around and … anyway, suffice it to say, I’m not going to be home for a while.”
“I’m doing fine, Mike. Truth is, I’m glad to get you out from underneath me feet,” she said.
I wasn’t sure that was a compliment, but I was damn sure that the lass was a trouper.
“Thanks a million, Mary,” I said. “I’ll check in again when I get a chance.”
“Wait, someone here wants to talk to you,” she said.
“Daddy?” It was Chrissy, my youngest. Her “sore froath,” as she called it, actually sounded a little better. Thank God for small mercies.
“Daddy, please tell Ricky to stop bothering me,” she said. “It’s my turn to watch TV.”
Yet another bonus to being a widower, I thought. Oh, the joys of teleparenting.
“Put him on, Peep,” I said.
That’s when somebody else tried to walk into the small bathroom, and opened the door so hard it crashed into my back. I fumbled for my flying phone and managed to save it from the urinal by sheer luck.
“Ocupado, you moron,” I yelled, kick–slamming the door closed behind me.
What a day, I thought. Then — day? What the hell was I saying? What a lifetime.
Chapter 17
The next priority on my list was to start comparing descriptions of the suspects in the different incidents. The problem was, I had only the one that Beth Peters had given me. That kind of information from the 21 Club hadn’t gotten to me yet. I’d learned from Lavery that the street search and canvass of local doormen around the Polo store had produced nothing. And we were still waiting for a coherent statement from the men’s shop clerk whose coworker had been gunned down.
I decided it was time for some coaxing.
His name was Patrick Cardone. He was being cared for by EMTs in an ambulance that was still outside, double–parked on Madison Avenue. As I walked up to it, I saw him through the open rear door, sitting on a stretcher and crying.
I didn’t like intruding on people who’d just experienced a tragedy, but it had to be done, and doing it was my job. I tried to handle it as gently as I knew how.
I waited until he was between sobbing spells, then tapped on the door of the ambulance, at the same time giving the paramedics the high sign that I was taking over.
“Hi, Patrick? My name’s Mike,” I said, flashing my badge as I climbed in and quietly closed the door behind me. “I can only imagine how awful you’re feeling. You went through a terrible, traumatic experience, and the last thing I want to do is make it worse. But I need your help — me, and all the other people in this city. Do you feel up to talking for a minute?”
The clerk wiped his
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