The Russian by Patterson James & Born James O

Author:Patterson, James & Born, James O. [Patterson, James & Born, James O.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: thriller, Mystery, Suspense, Crime, Adult
ISBN: 9780316420389
Google: UyV_zQEACAAJ
Amazon: 0316420387
Goodreads: 53369463
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2021-01-25T08:00:00+00:00

Chapter 51

Hollis and I turned the corner from the library entrance to find a coffee shop on 41st, just off Fifth Avenue. The place was nearly empty of customers. We headed toward the rear and commandeered two wide tables, where we spread out our papers.

I had a cup of plain black coffee and some kind of cruller. Hollis opted for a healthy and hydrating bottle of water. He never would’ve made the grade when I was a rookie. Back then, drinking coffee during our shifts and alcohol in the evenings felt mandatory. Frankly, I don’t miss the old days.

We’d spent more than an hour talking with the head of library security and his IT guy. We’d searched through the available video feeds. I’d noted the dummy cameras, but I was still surprised at how few active feeds they actually maintained.

The head of security had looked at me and shrugged. “We’re a library, not a central bank. We have a decent budget, but it’s not spent on security cameras. Our biggest expense is staffing exhibits of our permanent collections. Some of the items—like first-edition books by famous authors, or one-of-a-kind photographs and artwork—are quite valuable. We have to prevent tourists from trying to steal a piece of library history. On the flip side, we also need to patrol the quiet spaces where homeless people sneak in to sleep during the day and overnight. But if the guy you’re looking for passed by any of the display areas, we may have captured his image.”

Not likely, I thought, but I thanked the security head for his time.

At least we had a little more information to work with.

The outburst from the concerned citizen outside the library underscored my biggest worry. New Yorkers aren’t shy about criticizing the police, and that guy had felt free to curse us out. God knows an ass like John Macy would use any public outcry as a reason to screw with me, especially as the unsolved murders kept mounting.

I slapped a legal pad down on the table and started writing. The lists of what we were missing and what we still needed to do were far longer than the list of what we had.

When I wondered out loud if I’d caught a glimpse of the killer at the library, Hollis talked me down, reminding me that there was no reason to assume the killer had even been there today, only a case of mistaken identity with the vending machine rep.

With an audible sigh, I conceded his point and then said, “So what’s our next move?”

“Maybe the answer lies in the earlier murders. We need to work those connections until we forge a clear link.”

It was as good a plan as any. And one that would take us back to the office.

As we started to gather up our stuff, the manager of the coffee shop, a well-built young black man, approached. He said, “I noticed your badges. I was wondering if you guys might help me out.”

I said, “What’s the problem?”

“There’s a homeless guy who sits for hours right in the doorway of my shop.

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