About the book:
As Detective Michael Bennett's wedding day approaches, a killer has a vow of his own to fulfil in the thirteenth thrilling novel by James Patterson featuring the NYPD's finest detective
As Detective Michael Bennett's wedding day approaches, a killer has a vow of his own to fulfil... Weeks before NYPD Detective Michael Bennett is to marry his long-time love, Mary Catherine, an assassin announces their presence in the city with a string of murders. All of the victims are young women. And each has been killed in a manner as precise as it was gruesome.
Tasked with working alongside the FBI, Bennett uncovers multiple cold-case homicides across the country that fit the same distinctive pattern. Bennett promises Mary Catherine that the case won't affect their upcoming wedding. But, as he struggles to connect the killings, Bennett may be walking into a deadly trap.
EXTRACT:
CHAPTER 1
I CHECKED THE street in both directions in front of an
upscale coffee house called Flat Bread and Butter on Amsterdam
Avenue near 140th Street. The street was about as quiet as New
York City gets.
There’s never a good time to be breaking in a new detective
on the squad, but this moment was one of the worst. The new
detective’s name was Brett Hollis. He was a sharp up-and-comer.
He may not have been experienced, but he looked good. Full
suit and tie. Not a hair out of place. He almost looked like he
could be one of my kids dressed for church.
Occasionally I have a hard time trusting a well-put-together
cop. I figure cops who take the job seriously have a permanent
disheveled look. Like mine.
Hollis was also young. Maybe too young.
My lieutenant, Harry Grissom, hadn’t used the word babysit,
but he’d said to make sure this kid didn’t get into any trouble.
Sort of what a babysitter does. Normally I wouldn’t mind, but
we were in the middle of a major murder investigation.
Chloe Tumber, a first-year student at Columbia Law, had
been found stabbed to death with some kind of sharp tool. One
Police Plaza was keeping recent developments quiet, but Chloe
was the third victim—after one in the Bronx and another in
Brooklyn—to die by similar means. The stab wounds had been
made by blades with slightly different markers. We suspected
the killer had a toolbox full of sharp implements.
I turned to the rookie and said, “Remember, this guy Van Fleet is
a person of interest. Not necessarily a suspect. Follow my lead.”
Hollis nodded his head nervously, saying, “We need to call in
our location.”
“Why?”
“Policy says we have to check in on the radio for safety
reasons.”
I smiled at the young detective. “I appreciate your knowledge
of the NYPD policy manual, but in real life, if we called in
every location we stopped at, we’d do nothing but use the radio
all day.” I stepped into the coffee house without another word,
trusting Hollis would follow.
The coffee house was narrow, with about ten tables and a bar
with ten stools. A good-looking young man wearing the name
tag jesse stood behind the counter and welcomed us.
I said, “Is Billy around?”
“You guys cops?”
Hollis stepped forward and said, “What about it?”
Jesse shrugged. “You got the look. Listen, Billy doesn’t steal
from me and he shows up for his shifts—that’s all I care about.”
Jesse set down his rag and jerked his thumb toward the rear of
the narrow coffee house. “He’s in the back.”
I followed Hollis through the constricted hallway, boxes of paper
towels and toilet paper stacked along the walls. Hollis walked past
the bathrooms and storage room into the kitchen. That’s where we
found Billy Van Fleet. The tall, slim, pale twenty-eight-year-old
was busy washing dishes. He looked up and smiled, clearly making
us for police officers. Guess we did have the look.
I saw Hollis take a step forward, and I placed a gentle hand
on his shoulder, saying, “Be cool.”
“What can I do for you, Officers?” the dishwasher asked,
drying his hands and straightening his shirt.
I held up my shield. “Billy Van Fleet?”
He nodded.
“When was the last time you saw Chloe Tumber?”
“Why?”
Hollis’s demeanor changed in an instant. “We’re asking the
questions,” he snarled.
Van Fleet held up his hands and said, “Okay, okay, just asking.”
Hollis kept going. “How about you tell us where you were
last night between 8 and 11 p.m.”
Van Fleet kept his eyes on Hollis, which I figured I’d use to my
advantage. Maybe I’d let my new partner lead the interview. That
way I could watch Van Fleet and see what made him nervous.
Right now he seemed very calm. Until suddenly he wasn’t.
Without warning, he spun and sprinted away from the sink,
blasting through the rear exit. He was fast.
Hollis broke into a run, calling over his shoulder almost
cheerfully, “He’s our man!” just as Van Fleet hit the safety bar on
the door, letting sunshine flood into the dark kitchen.
CHAPTER 2
I COULD’VE BROKEN into a run with Brett Hollis.
But that would’ve been counterproductive. Hollis was trying to
keep the suspect in sight. I was sure he’d give this guy a good
run for his money. But veteran cops don’t engage in foot chases.
Experience is supposed to teach you something. It taught me to
either find a car or use my head.
I knew this neighborhood. Every block of it. Traffic had
picked up on Amsterdam Avenue, and no one runs toward a busy
street. This guy had a plan. I figured he’d take the alley a block
down and move away from any pedestrian traffic. If I were him,
I’d head toward St. Nicholas Park. It wasn’t that far away.
I broke into a light jog. We needed this guy—make no mistake.
Van Fleet was the first lead we’d had in Chloe Tumber’s
homicide. Which, despite the different blades used, looked to
be connected to those two other cases. All three victims were
young women who’d suffered gruesome injuries moments before
their deaths. And the three crime scenes looked similar. Messy.
Though I couldn’t shake the feeling that the mess was deliberate,
almost designed for effect. We were still developing a theory
as to why.
I found the garbage alley I was looking for between two
buildings, with its gates, as usual, left wide open. Then I saw
an abandoned dog leash. A long one. Maybe twelve feet, and
already hooked to a pole behind a pizza place. I took the leash
in my hand and stepped to the other side of the alley.
Ten seconds later, as if on cue, Van Fleet slid around the
corner, ducked a drainage pipe that stuck out into the alley, and
picked up the pace again. He never even saw me. As he neared
the dog leash, I jerked the line. His feet tangled and he tumbled
down onto the alley’s nasty asphalt, slipping in some pizza
grease congealed in the middle of the alley and knocking over
an empty forty-ounce beer bottle like it was the last bowling pin
in the lane.
Before I could even reach Van Fleet, Hollis barreled around
the corner. He didn’t notice the drainage pipe, and ran full
speed into it, headfirst. The impact made the pipe reverberate
like a gong and knocked him completely off his feet. I could only
imagine what the collision sounded like inside his brain.
I cuffed the suspect, then looked over at Hollis. His nose was
flattened, blood spraying from it like a busted sprinkler attached
to his face. “You okay, Brett?”
He mumbled, “I’m good,” as he struggled to his feet. Blood
poured onto his clean white shirt and made dark stains on his
power tie.
With Van Fleet’s hands cuffed behind his back, I helped him
up and started to lead him back to the coffee house. I didn’t want
to embarrass Hollis, so I walked slowly as he tried to keep up.
Hollis’s wound was so spectacular, a corner bodega owner
abandoned the outdoor displays she was stocking and rushed
inside for a handful of crumpled paper towels. She forced them
on Hollis, who held them to his nose.
Hollis wasn’t complaining. I had to admit, I liked his toughness.
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by James Patterson & James O. Born
As Detective Michael Bennett's wedding day approaches, a killer has a vow of his own to fulfil in the thirteenth thrilling novel by James Patterson featuring the NYPD's finest detective.
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