Unsolved by James Patterson

Author:James Patterson
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Little, Brown and Company
Published: 2019-06-02T16:00:00+00:00

62

I SMILE at Dwight Ross’s secretary, who shakes her head dismissively as I pass her with the grande cup of Starbucks. When I enter his office, Dwight is standing by a table in the corner that is stacked with folders. Elizabeth Ashland has her nose in a file. She looks up at me, then at the coffee, a question on her face.

Dwight, reading something on his phone, notices me and mumbles, “That’s not necessary, Emmy,” part of his standard routine, then he glances at his watch to see if I’ve made it by eight a.m. I’m supposed to reply with a Just wanna show my appreciation, but I don’t bother. Elizabeth nods at me with a slight pursing of her lips that is supposed to convey something short of outright hostility, then she looks again at the coffee. I put it down on his desk and go back to my cubicle.

Rabbit and Pully have beat me to work. Rabbit’s gray hair is pulled back in a bun, which is about as fashionable as she gets, though it’s meant to be practical rather than stylish. I’m just about to call for a quick morning update when my phone rings. The caller ID says Sgt. Crescenzo NOPD.

“Robert Crescenzo!” I say into the phone, hoping that my trip to New Orleans paid off, that our visit to Nora Connolley’s house bore fruit. At this point, I’d settle for a tiny shred of hope. Or is he going to tell me that he’s done some looking and I’m completely wrong?

“Good morning, Emmy.”

“You got the results from the tox screen?” It was the one concession I dragged out of him; because of the unexplained puncture wounds on Nora Connolley’s body, he agreed to have the ME test her blood.

“I do,” he says. “It’s negative. Negative for illegal drugs, paralyzing agents, anything that would have subdued her.”

I close my eyes. If I didn’t have bad luck, I wouldn’t have any luck at all.

“But you put a bee in my bonnet,” he says. “Are you near a computer?”

“Uh—yeah, give me one minute.” I turn on my computer and wait for it to boot up, wondering what Sergeant Robert Crescenzo has for me.

“So you piqued my curiosity about Nora Connolley, and I followed up on a few things,” he says.

“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that.”

“You don’t have to thank me for doing my job. Anyway, I checked her credit card activity. The night before she was found dead”—Sunday night, I think—“she went to the grocery store. I’ve seen the interior video and she’s on it, she’s in there, but there’s nothing unusual about it. I can send it to you just in case.”

“Please do.” With my free hand, I type in my computer password.

“The store has exterior surveillance too. Cameras that look over the parking lot. I saw something interesting there. Something that—well, it’s interesting. I just e-mailed you the clip. You remember her car?”

“Yeah. It was a pretty standard car. A Honda, I think.”

“Honda Accord.”

“I remember getting inside it in her garage.

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