Kill Me if You Can

by James Patterson

  “I’m the person…they hired to kill Zelvas.”

  Her body started to shake. “No. No. No. It can’t be possible. No.”

  “Katherine, first of all, it’s true,” I said. “I can’t expect you to understand, but I love you too much to keep it from you. And after what happened in our hotel room, you have to know. That woman’s name is Marta Krall. The people who hired me to kill Zelvas hired her to kill me and get their diamonds back.”

  “This can’t be happening,” Katherine whispered. She was staring at the floor now, not at me. She couldn’t look me in the eye.

  “I think I know what you’re going through,” I said. “The night I got out of the Marines, my father told me that he’d been a professional hit man. He made it sound almost all right. Logical. He only killed bad people, he said. It was like being an executioner in a prison — a really well-paid executioner. He wanted me to think about doing it, too. At first I wouldn’t even consider it. But eventually he turned me. I kill evil men like Walter Zelvas. And the money I get paid lets me follow my dream — it lets me paint.”

  Katherine was in shock. Her face looked tortured. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. “I can’t believe it. You kill people? For money? And your father was doing it before you?” She paused, and then she hit me with the same question I had asked my father. “Did he ever tell your mother?”

  “Yes,” I said. “He said it took her years to get used to it.”

  “Well, I’m not your mother,” she said, sobbing. “Good-bye, Matthew.”

  She stood up, grabbed her bag, and started walking.

  I jumped up and followed her. “Where are you going?”

  “Away from you. There’s a bus that goes to the Venice airport. I’m buying a ticket and flying to New York. I’m going home. Don’t follow me. Don’t call me. Ever.”

  I ran after her, took her by the shoulders, and spun her around. “Please, Katherine. Don’t leave.”

  I stared into her eyes, but the eyes that looked back at me were empty, lifeless. My mind told me to let her go. She would be safer in New York. But my chest was heaving, my heart was breaking, and the emotions I’ve always managed to keep bottled up inside began spilling out.

  “You know how much I love you?” I said, my voice cracking. “Please don’t leave. I’ll change. I’ll do whatever I have to do.”

  “Take your hands off me,” Katherine said. “Or I’ll scream.”

  My hands dropped to my sides. “Katherine, what I do…what I did…it’s a job, like being in the Marine Corps was a job. But it’s not who I am. You know the real me. Nothing is more important to me than our relationship.”

  “You’re wrong, Matthew. I never knew the real you. And our relationship has been built on a mountain of lies. Good-bye.”

  She turned and walked off.

  I stood and watched her disappear into the crowd, feeling something I can’t remember ever feeling before.

  Abandoned.

  Chapter 60

  THE TRIP ACROSS the northern Italian countryside took almost three hours. The train stopped at Padua, Vincenza, Verona, and other cities steeped in the history of the Venetian Republic, but without Katherine to appreciate them with me, I barely looked.

  It was 7 p.m. when we pulled into Milan, and I had forty-five minutes to stretch my legs before the sixteen-hour train ride to Amsterdam.

  Milano Centrale is one of the most beautiful railway stations in the world, but it reminded me of Grand Central Terminal, and that reminded me of the night I found the diamonds. And of course finding the diamonds is what led to losing Katherine.

  I was miserable. I pulled out my cell phone and dialed the only person I knew who could understand what I was going through.

  It was 11 a.m. in Colorado, and my father picked up on the first ring. “How you doing, boy?” he said.

  “Been better,” I said. “I made the mistake of taking my girlfriend on a business trip and it didn’t go well.”

  “I’m guessing she found out what business you’re in, and she’s none too happy about it,” he said.

  “You’re pretty smart for an old jarhead.”

  “Don’t have to be smart if you’re experienced,” he said.

  “So lay some experience on me. I could use a little of that fatherly wisdom you enjoy beating me over the head with.”

  “That’s the thing about us Devil Dogs. We never did get much subtlety training,” he said. “But I’ll give it a shot. I got three questions for you.”

  “Let’s hear them.”

  “First question,” he said. “Do you love her?”

  “Of course I do. More than anything.”

  “In that case, fatherly wisdom won’t do it,” he said. “Matthew, I could teach you how to shoot, how to live as a man, how to soldier, but when it comes to love I’m as dumb as the next guy, who’s as dumb as the guy next to him. Kind of like dominoes. Men are dumber than dirt when it comes to love.”

  “So it’s hopeless.”

  “No. You just have to learn to understand how women think.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Okay. Good. Second question, then,” he said. “How many pairs of your shoes did Jett chew up before you got her to quit?”

  I smiled. Jett was my favorite hunting dog, but she had a taste for shoes, especially the ones that smelled like me. “About a dozen.”

  “But you didn’t get rid of her after she ruined two pairs. Or four pairs. Or ten.”

  “Hell, no, I loved her, and I was determined to train her.”

  “That’s how women think,” he said. “They love us, and they’re determined to train us.”

  Now he had me laughing. “So what you’re saying is I just need to be housebroken.”

  “According to your mom, we all do,” he said. “Last question. This business trip you’re on — what’s the degree of difficulty?”

  “It was supposed to be a slam dunk, which is why I brought Katherine along,” I said. “But I have this aggressive competitor who would like to put me out of business. Permanently.”

  “In that case, it’s time to beat you over the head with some professional advice. Snap out of it, boy. Put that girl out of your mind and focus on your business a hundred and ten percent. You can’t afford to be pining away like a lovesick puppy when you’ve got chips on the table. You hear that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He was right. As soon as Marta Krall found some dry clothes and a new gun, she’d come after me again. Being in a funk could get me killed.

  “So, here’s the wrap-up, boy,” my father said. “You’re a man, so Katherine expects you to be as dumb as the rest of us. She’s a woman, so she’s hardwired to fix you, which means you’re going to get at least one more chance at redemption. Most important, if you don’t watch your ass on this trip, there ain’t ever gonna be any grandkids. And if that happens, your mama will blame it all on me.”

  “Good advice, Dad,” I said. “I owe you one.”

  “You can pay me back right now,” he said. “I know exactly where you are.”

  I figured he would. The stationmaster’s announcements in the background were a dead giveaway.

  “I’ve been there a dozen times,” he said. “There’s an old nun, Sister Philomena, sitting outside track seven. She used to be a mail drop for me. Put a hundred bucks, or whatever that new Italian money is, in her basket. Tell her it’s from Colorado.”

  “Will do.”

  “I don’t want to know where you’re going, but is there anybody you want me to give your regards to?” he said.

  That was code for I do want to know where you’re going, but don’t say it on the phone. Spell it out for me.

  “Yeah, say hi to Adam, Mom, and Sarah,” I said. AMS. Airport code for Amsterdam.

  “Safe travels,” he said.

  “Thanks. I love you, Dad.”

  “Semper fi, boy.”

  My father is old school. That’s as close as he ever gets to I love you.
>
  Chapter 61

  JUST AS MY father had said, there was an ancient nun outside track 7. She sat on a folding chair with her head bowed, but she looked up to thank anyone who tossed a coin in her basket.

  I dropped in a one-hundred-euro note. Her head came up fast. “Grazie mille.”

  “It’s from Colorado,” I said.

  “Ah, Signor Colorado. Nice man.” She studied my face carefully. “You are the young Colorado, sì?”

  “I’m his son,” I said.

  She beamed and touched a bony blue-veined hand to her heart, much the way I imagined she would have if she’d been in the maternity ward thirty years ago when my father announced, “It’s a boy.”

  “Where are you going?” she said.

  I hesitated. “I’d rather not say, Sister.”

  She lowered her head and peered at me over rimless glasses. She smiled, amused at my lack of trust. The deep-set, watery eyes and crinkled-paper skin put her somewhere north of eighty, but her teeth could not have been more than a few years old. Straight, white porcelain dentures that were so perfect, I imagined they could only have been the generous gift of a devout Catholic dentist.

  “It’s okay,” she said. “You can tell me. I will pray for you to Saint Christopher.”

  I trusted my father, so I trusted her. “Amsterdam,” I said.

  She took my hand, closed her eyes, and mumbled a prayer. Then she opened her eyes, flashed another dazzling smile, and said, “Vai con Dio.”

  I said good-bye, not sure if my father was paying her back for past kindnesses or buying me some travel insurance.

  I got my answer when I arrived in Amsterdam. The train ride had been uneventful, but as soon as I stepped up to the taxi stand at the station, a man called out, “Colorado.”

  I turned, ready to fight.

  The man held up both hands. “I’m a friend of Sister Philomena’s,” he said. “You don’t want to take a taxi. They remember every passenger and write down every destination. I remember nothing.”

  My father had been long retired, but his network was still open for business.

  My driver’s name was Harold, and my ride was a spacious black Citroën that still smelled factory fresh.

  Harold was a professional. He asked no questions and spoke only when spoken to. He negotiated expertly through the midday traffic, and after driving me to the Zeedijk neighborhood, he handed me a business card that had nothing on it but a phone number.

  “Anytime,” he said. “Day or night.”

  I reached for my wallet, but he wouldn’t take my money.

  I got out of the car and did a slow three-sixty, scanning the area. I hadn’t been tailed. I silently thanked my father and watched as the wheelman he had sent turned the car around and disappeared into traffic.

  Chapter 62

  THE ZEEDIJK REMINDED me of Times Square in New York — part trendy, part seedy. I checked into the Bodburg, a hotel on Beursstraat that was also a little of both.

  The Bodburg should have been called the Bedbug. The elevator was out of order, the fire hose in the hall leaked, there were rat droppings in my room, and my only window looked out onto a sex shop. It was the ultimate comedown after the Danieli. But it was perfect. Hardly the kind of place you’d go if you were looking for a guy with a bag of diamonds.

  Now all I had to do was sell them. Matthew Bannon might not know how to unload millions of dollars’ worth of blood diamonds, but the Ghost did. And my main contact was right here in Amsterdam.

  When you think of organized crime in the European Union, the Italians overshadow everyone. But there are plenty of well-oiled smuggling operations in Holland. The Dutch play such a big role in transporting legal goods across the continent that crossing the line to smuggling is an easy step.

  I knew most of the players by reputation, and I decided that the best possible buyer in the country was Diederik de Smet. I had two reasons. One, he had the money to handle the kind of volume I was selling. And two, he hated the Russians. A year ago, de Smet had been running a cell-phone hacking operation that was so profitable, the Russian mob couldn’t resist trying to move in on it.

  The Dutch pushed back, and it escalated into a blood feud with a nasty body count on both sides, so I knew I didn’t have to worry about de Smet ratting me out to the Diamond Syndicate. I did have to worry about him, though. His street name was de slang—“the Snake”—and word had it he was as treacherous as a king cobra.

  I had a meeting scheduled with him for tomorrow afternoon. But first I needed some sleep.

  I locked my door, pulled down the window shade, got down on the floor, sliced open the underside of the box spring, and shoved my bag of diamonds in between the coils. Then I stretched out on the bed, not even bothering to undress first. The mattress was lumpy, and I felt good knowing that one of those lumps was going to bring me millions.

  I woke up at 9 p.m., showered, got dressed, and felt almost human. I went downstairs and asked the guy at the front desk where to eat.

  “The Grasshopper around the corner on Oudebrugsteeg,” he said. “They’re a steak restaurant, a sports bar, and a cannabis café. They’ve got a little something for everyone.”

  I strolled over and opted for a rib eye and a baked potato at Evita, the Grasshopper’s Argentinean steak house on the third floor. The food was good, but it triggered the memory of the night Katherine and I shared a porterhouse at Peter Luger to celebrate my getting into Parsons.

  Dinner was a lonely affair, and by the time I finished, I was feeling pretty damn sorry for myself. I knew I should get back to my room and keep one eye on the diamonds and the other peeled for Marta Krall, but sometimes, no matter how hard trouble is beating down on you, you just don’t give a shit. So despite my better judgment, I went downstairs for coffee and some weed.

  Technically, selling marijuana is illegal in Amsterdam, but it’s not punishable, so the law isn’t enforced. Most of the coffeehouses that sell it follow some basic rules, like no hard drugs and no selling to kids. The espresso was mediocre, but the weed was primo. After my first few hits, I wanted Katherine to be with me something fierce.

  I figured she was back in New York now, and I wondered if she missed me as much as I missed her.

  And then I started wondering if my father was right. Would she give me another chance? And what did I have to do to earn it?

  I hadn’t smoked grass since I got out of the Marines, and this stuff was powerful. It sneaked up on me, and before I knew it, I was half-baked.

  I desperately wanted to call Katherine, but I knew I’d regret it in the morning. So I did what any lovesick, stoned-out artist would do.

  I took a pen out of my pocket and began sketching her face on a place mat.

  Chapter 63

  I HAD ROUGHED out the portrait of Katherine when a group of about a dozen college kids piled in. They were loud, American, and drunk. A few of them pushed tables together while one guy with a wispy blond beard and a Duke University Blue Devils T-shirt leaned over my shoulder.

  “Whatcha drawing, dude?” he said.

  “Looks like I’m drawing a crowd,” I said.

  My cannabis-infused wit escaped him. “How much to do a picture of me?” he said.

  “No charge if you’ll pose nude,” I said.

  He gave me the finger and joined his friends.

  The waitress brought me another double espresso and a bottle of beer.

  “I didn’t order these,” I said.

  “They’re my treat,” she said. “Would you like to drink them outside, where you don’t have to put up with these dickheads?”

  “Thanks,” I said and took a swig of the beer. It was definitely the better of the two beverages.

  “We artists have to stick together,” she said. “My name is Anna.”

  “Matthew.”

  She picked up my coffee and carried it outside. The entire three-story building was bathed in an eerie green light. “The owner loves it,” Anna said, “because it’s the
color of grasshoppers. Pretty ugly, right?”

  “Not to another grasshopper,” I said.

  There were at least forty tables, all empty. Anna set me up in the corner farthest from the noise and only ten feet from the canal. A street lamp cast a soft yellow light on the table. Anna excused herself, then returned a few seconds later with about twenty clean white paper placemats.

  “We’re all out of sketch pads,” she said.

  “Thanks again.”

  She looked at my drawing of Katherine. “She’s pretty. Who is she?”

  “Nobody,” I said. “I’m over her.”

  “I get off work in an hour. You want to come up to my apartment, look at some of my paintings, drink some wine?”

  Anna had a lithe, athletic body, blue eyes, blond hair pulled back in a ponytail, and a heavenly smile. So it took me a solid five seconds to answer the question. “Thanks,” I said, “but I’m kind of tired.”

  Anna was not the kind of woman men say no to, so she looked a little surprised when I turned her down. But she shrugged and laughed it off.

  She took another look at the sketch of Katherine. “You’re not as over her as you might think.” She turned around and walked back inside to deal with the rowdy college guys.

  I took a long pull on the beer, picked up my pen, and started to work on a second drawing.

  “I guess that’s the last I’ll be seeing of table service tonight,” I said as Katherine’s face began to emerge from the page. “I know you don’t approve of my job, but at least give me some credit for not jumping into some other woman’s bed.”

  The sketch came to life quickly. I don’t know if it was the pot or the pain I felt from losing her, but it was the best drawing of Katherine I’d ever done.

  Sometimes the difference between a piece of art and a piece of crap is the artist’s ability to know when to stop. I worked furiously. And then I set my pen down. I had labored over hundreds of sketches of Katherine since we met, but this one had poured out of me in minutes. It was not only finished, it was inspired.