Worst Case mb-3

by James Patterson

  The sleek, platinum-haired maitre d’, Cristophe, rushed toward him from the front bar.

  “Mr. Mooney,” he said with a flourished raising of his hands. “Finally, you have arrived. Mrs. Clautier was worried. May I take your coat?”

  “Thank you so much, Cristophe,” Mooney said, allowing him to remove his camel hair as the rest of the elegant crowd pretended not to gape at his royal treatment.

  “Has she been waiting long?”

  “Not so long, Mr. Mooney. Shall I take your case as well?”

  Francis hefted the briefcase with the 9-millimeter Beretta in it, as if debating.

  “You know what, Cristophe? I might as well hold on to it.”

  He stopped for a moment before he followed the maitre d’ into the restaurant’s storied Pool Room. He took in the glittering white-marble center pool, the shimmering chain-link drapes, the important and beautiful people at the crisp, glowing tables, all eating with a meticulous casualness. He could almost feel the power thrumming through the floor. Even he couldn’t deny that the sensation was exhilarating.

  The other board members of New York Restore had already arrived. They were seated at the double table by the pool that they always reserved for their quarterly dinner meeting.

  “Well, if it isn’t our wild Irish chairman,” Mrs. Clautier said. “In all the time I’ve known you, Francis, I do believe this is the very first time you’ve ever been late.”

  “I can’t tell you how hectic things have been at the office,” Francis said, grinning widely as he kissed her Cartier-diamond-encrusted hand. “The important thing is, I’m here now to bask in the glow of your loveliness.”

  “Such a charmer,” Mrs. Clautier said with a sigh as she touched his cheek. “Francis, as I’ve told you many a time, you were born several generations too late.”

  “And you several too early, my dear,” Francis said. He declined the menu the tuxedoed waiter offered and ordered the Dover sole.

  “I was with Caroline at lunch today, and she told me that Sloan-Kettering is doing celebrity-designed lunch boxes for their soiree,” Mrs. Clautier told the group. “Isn’t that a hoot? Brooke came up with the idea.”

  For Mrs. Clautier, diva of the New York social set, to actually go out of her way to supply the last names Kennedy and Shields would have been beneath her, Francis knew.

  Mrs. Clautier was an unapologetic snob. In truth, he really couldn’t give two shits about New York Restore and its insipid mission to maintain and beautify Manhattan ’s playgrounds and public spaces. The only reason he’d decided to head it was to humor the generous Mrs. Clautier. Over the years, he’d become a kind of unofficial philanthropy consultant to her, and he had been able to steer millions of the limitless oil fortune her husband had left her to other much more important causes.

  In fact, he was going to squeeze her for the biggest amount he’d ever chanced right after the meal. The papers, all ready for her to sign, were under the holstered automatic in his briefcase.

  “Champagne, Mr. Mooney?” the ever discreet table captain whispered to Francis as Mrs. Clautier’s regaling veered into tales of the latest mischief her Pekingese, Charlie, had gotten into.

  “Glenlivet. A double,” Mooney whispered back.

  Part Four

  Charity case

  Chapter 65

  Waking abruptly in the dark, Francis Mooney immediately regretted the third Scotch he’d ordered the night before. Alcohol always disrupted his sleep. He was trying to fall back when the 1010 WINS xylophone started up from his radio alarm.

  “Good morning,” the anchor said. “It’s five-thirty. Alternate side of the street parking is suspended today for Ash Wednesday.”

  Despair surged like vomit into the back of Francis’s throat at the mention of the day.

  It was here, he thought as he began to whimper inconsolably. No! It’s too soon. I can’t face this. How can I face doing this?

  Tears poured down his cheeks. It took him a full ten minutes of breathing slowly to control himself enough to sit up. He squeezed his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms as hard as he could. The pain was exquisite, but it did the trick. He wiped his eyes, shut off the radio, and swung his feet out of bed.

  He made coffee and carried it through the immaculate rooms of his 25th Street Chelsea town house. Up a circular staircase on the second floor was his favorite place, his rooftop lounge.

  Outside, the cold air was pleasant as he wiggled his bare toes on the tar paper. He remembered playing tag on the roof of his Inwood tenement when he was a child. Was that why he liked this rooftop lounge so much?

  From the almost-empty street below, he heard a speeding cab’s tire slap off a road plate. He smiled, looking north at the green McGraw-Hill Building, which loomed like some landlocked Art Deco cruise ship. His smile departed as he turned toward the hint of dawn on the dark eastern horizon behind the Empire State Building.

  The day was coming. It would not be stopped. Another tear rolled down his cheek. He wiped it away. He finally steeled himself with a breath and tipped his mug at the coming dawn as if in a toast.

  Gray light was spilling down 25th Street as he locked his front door half an hour later. He always dressed well, but this morning of all mornings, he’d pulled out all the stops. He slid a hand down the sleek lapel of his best suit, a light gray chalk-stripe Henry Poole he’d splurged on when he was in London on business six years before. The thirty-two-hundred-dollar black John Lobb calfskin brogues on his feet complemented it perfectly. The only thing that didn’t really go was the large case he carried. It was black and boxy with stainless-steel hasps.

  He popped the cuffs of his Italian milled-poplin Turn-bull amp; Asser shirt as he carefully lifted the heavy case and brought it with him out into the street to hail a taxi.

  The church that the cab let him out in front of ten minutes later was Most Holy Redeemer on 3rd Street in the East Village. He’d chosen it as his parish because it was the city’s most tolerant, catering to gays and the HIV-positive.

  At the votive offering inside the tiny chapel, he lit some candles and said a prayer for the teenagers he had killed. Like martyrs’, their souls would ascend directly to heaven, he knew. Their necessary sacrifice was most certainly acknowledged by God. Francis had faith in that. How could he have done this without faith?

  He raised his head as the organ began. The seven-o’clock mass was about to start. He quickly lit a last candle.

  “So that my faith will not waver this day, my Lord,” he whispered in the scented darkness.

  He sat in the last pew. When the time came, he lined up behind the dozen early churchgoers and got his ashes. They were made from palms like the ones that had welcomed the Lord on the last week of His life. Francis found comfort in that fact. The scratch of the priest’s thumb on his forehead almost made him cry out. Then the sacred words of Latin were in his ears.

  “Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris.”

  Know that you are dust and to dust you shall return.

  “I am dust,” Francis said to himself as he turned and came back down the aisle. He felt amazing, unblemished, filled with the light of the Lord’s grace. He scooped up the heavy valise he had left by the kneeler. His step was light as he came out of the church into the new morning.

  Chapter 66

  Out on the sidewalk the next morning, despite my sleep deprivation, I found myself smiling as I walked my kids to church. Cutting an extra-wide swath through the bustling Manhattan foot traffic, Chrissy and Shawna entertained one and all by singing every Nationwide and free-credit-report-dot-com commercial they knew by heart.

  Wearing their plaid school uniforms and walking in two sort of straight lines, my ten boys and girls looked like they’d stepped off the first page of Madeline. Maybe I wasn’t as tough as Miss Clavel, but I did carry a Glock.

  My gang’s warmth and lack of self-consciousness as we walked were contagious enough that I almost forgot the horror of my latest cas
e. That is, until we ran into the solemn people spilling out of the early mass at Holy Name.

  My eyes locked on the ashes on their foreheads. My stomach churned as images of the two dead teens shot through my mind. I could almost see the blood patterns from their wounds on the church steps.

  I let out an angry breath. It made me sick that something so holy had taken on such a twisted symbolism. Ashes were supposed to symbolize sacrifice and humbleness at Christ’s suffering. They weren’t supposed to be a detail in an autopsy report that I couldn’t get out of my head.

  The churchgoers themselves seemed a little self-conscious. Last night Seamus had told me that the archdiocese had done a little hand-wringing over whether to distribute ashes today, because of the high-profile case. I was glad wiser heads had prevailed down at St. Pat’s. Having one person hold such sway over all of New York City ’s Catholics would have been horrendous.

  As we entered the church, Eddie and Ricky headed toward the front to put on their altar boy attire. Julia led the rest of the kids into the church’s rear pew as I went over to the votives.

  I dropped a five into the offering box and lit candles. Kneeling down before their ruby glow, I closed my eyes and said prayers for the dead and most especially for their families. I knew all too well how completely devastating death could be in a tight-knit family. I could only guess at a parent’s depth of despair that the loss of an only child would bring.

  As I was crossing myself, I felt a tap on my shoulder. It was Seamus.

  “Good man. Just the lad I was looking for,” he whispered. “I need a volunteer. Will you do the first reading or bring up the gifts? Your choice.”

  “Bring up the gifts,” I said.

  “Actually, you’ll have to do both. I lied about that choice thing. Let’s get this show on the road.”

  The mass seemed more solemn and sadder than usual. Try as I might, I couldn’t get the killer out of my thoughts even when Seamus whispered the High Latin phrase used on this solemn holy day.

  “Memento homo, quia pulvis es, et in pulverem reverteris,” he said as he administered the ashes.

  From dust we are born and to dust we shall return, I thought. It was the same thing written on the blackboard next to the first poor young man’s corpse.

  Please, God, help me to stop the sick individual who is responsible for all this death, I prayed as I walked back to my pew with the cross on my forehead.

  As I knelt down, I realized I was marked the same way the kids had been. My forehead seemed to burn. I could almost sense Jacob Dunning and Chelsea Skinner in the shadows around me. Behind my closed eyes, I could see the face of Dan Hastings, whose fate was still unknown.

  Dear Lord, I prayed, I can’t let them down.

  Chapter 67

  Francis X. Mooney was passing the Flat Iron Building when he shook some Dexadrine tablets into his hand. As he made it across the street into Madison Square Park, he reconsidered, dropping them into a corner trash barrel. He didn’t need any speed today.

  His blood felt like it was singing. In fact, everything that presented itself to his heightened senses seemed significant. The ornate architecture on the facades of the Beaux Arts buildings of lower Broadway, the scent of grease and sugar from the curbside doughnut carts, the filth-covered sidewalk beneath the soles of his shoes. None of it had ever been so vivid.

  The case he carried was becoming heavier. He had to move it to his other hand every other block. Sweat from his exertion was actually making his shirt stick to his back. Still, no way would he call a taxi. His last walk, his last pilgrimage, had to be on foot.

  He’d always loved the city. Walking its endlessly fascinating streets had been one of his life’s greatest and simplest pleasures. The French actually coined a word for urban strollers, flaneurs, people who derive pleasure from observing the urban scene completely objectively and aesthetically.

  But that was the problem, he thought as he walked on. He had been objective for way too long.

  At the corner of 25th and Fifth, he suddenly stopped. A woman was approaching the side alley of a run-down building, carrying a white garbage bag.

  “Excuse me,” Francis called as he jogged over. “Miss! Miss! You there!”

  She stopped.

  “How dare you!” Francis said, pointing to a Diet Coke bottle clearly visible beneath the thin plastic garbage bag she was holding. “That’s recycling. You’re throwing out recycling!”

  “What are you, the garbage police?” she said. She gave him the finger. “Get a life, you pathetic freak.”

  Francis thought about shooting her. His Beretta, locked and loaded, waited at the top of the valise. Blow the smugness and the woman’s ugly face clean away, kick her into the stinking alley, where she belonged. Suddenly aware of the passing pedestrians, he got a grip instead. He wouldn’t let his emotions get the better of him. He had much bigger fish to fry.

  But he just couldn’t help himself when he stopped for the second time, on 33rd, one block south of the Empire State Building. Putting down his case, he halted before the telephone company’s idling box truck on the corner.

  “Excuse me!” he said to the oaf eating his breakfast behind the driver’s side window. He rapped sharply with his Columbia ring on the glass right beside the jerk’s face. “I said, excuse me!”

  The phone guy threw open the door and leapt out onto the sidewalk. He had a shaved head and the shoulders of a defensive lineman.

  “Fuck you knocking on my window for, dog?” he bellowed, spitting doughnut crumbs.

  “Fuck you idling your truck for, dog?” Francis shot back. “You’re violating Section twenty-four-dash-one-sixty-three of the New York City Administrative Code: ‘No person shall cause or permit the engine of a motor vehicle, other than a legally authorized emergency motor vehicle, to idle for longer than three minutes while parking.’ You see that poison coming out of your tailpipe there? It includes chemicals like benzene, formaldehyde, and acetaldehyde, not to mention particulate matter that can lodge deep in your lungs. It kills people, heats up the environment, too. Now shut it-”

  The gaping, wide-eyed phone company man let out a kind of snort as his huge hand suddenly reached out. He snatched Francis’s tie and swung him around in a full three-sixty before letting him go. Francis actually went off his feet as he slammed into a newspaper box on the corner. He skinned his chin and the palms of his hands as he went ass over tea kettle onto Fifth Avenue. Horns honked as Gotham Writers’ Workshop pamphlets fluttered past his face.

  Turning, Francis got a good mouthful of particulate matter-laced exhaust as the fleeing phone truck left rubber. He coughed as he pulled himself back into a sitting position on the curb.

  There were pebbles embedded in his bleeding palms, a streak of something black and wet across the forearm of his tailored suit jacket. He looked down at the torn knee of his Savile Row pants. For a moment, he was back in the schoolyard again, picked on and knocked down by assholes who were bigger and older. Like it did then, the misery of feeling powerless began to bubble up.

  But then, the startled fury on the phone man’s face came back to him, and he was suddenly laughing. He had to stop this nonsense. He’d gotten off easy, Francis realized, considering how large the man was. He was lucky the guy hadn’t killed him.

  Besides, he wasn’t powerless anymore, was he? he thought as he found his valise. He patted it lovingly before he lifted it and continued his pilgrimage north.

  A snatch of grammar school Robert Frost came to him as he picked up his pace.

  He recited to himself, But I have promises to keep, and miles to go before I sleep.

  Chapter 68

  “Daddy, do my ashes look okay? I told Grandpa to do a good job,” my five-year-old, Chrissy, said as we sat by the window inside the crowded Starbucks at 93rd and Broadway.

  We’d just dropped off her siblings at school after church. Chrissy, who was in kindergarten now, luckily didn’t have to go in until noon. In our big family, one-on-one ti
me was an extremely rare commodity. Not even a nasty killing spree would make me miss our Wednesday-morning Starbucks date.

  “I don’t know. Let me see,” I said, reaching across the table, holding her tiny chin in my hand as I peered at her. I couldn’t help but kiss her elflike nose. “They look great, Chrissy. Grandpa did fine. And they go really well with your hot chocolate mustache.”

  As she went back to her drink, I looked at the long line by the pastry case. Waiting for their morning fix of Seattle ’s main export were nannies with infants, tired-looking construction workers, and tired-looking men and women dressed in business clothes. Maybe ten percent of them, along with one of the baristas, had ashes.

  I wondered with a cold chill if it was in the killer’s mind to shoot people who had ashes today. That he was going to do something was a given. Every indication was that today was the day. The only questions left were where and how.

  I rubbed my eyes before I lifted my coffee and took a large gulp. My blood caffeine level had hit record highs in the past couple of sleepless days, but it couldn’t be helped. After last night’s end-of-day task force meeting, I’d spent much of the night Googling everything I could on Ash Wednesday.

  Ash Wednesday was one of the most solemn days in the Catholic liturgical year. It was a day for contemplating one’s transgressions.

  But whose transgressions was the killer trying to point out with the slayings? The dead kids’? Society’s? His own?

  I caught my ash-streaked, mournful reflection in the plate glass.

  Well, I was certainly stewing in my own lapses this morning, I thought, looking away. For not already putting an end to this horrible case.

  As Chrissy played peekaboo with a neighboring toddler in a stroller, I checked my cell phone for the millionth time to see if I had missed any messages. I winced when only my Yankees-logo wallpaper appeared again. Emily had put an incredible rush on the print, but there was still no word.