You've Been Warned by James Patterson Read Free Book Online

you always sneak up and scare the hell out of people?” I ask him angrily. “You have some nerve.”
    “I was hardly sneaking,” he says.
    I watch as he pulls out a pack of Marlboros, shaking a cigarette loose. His hands are huge, knotted and gnarled. This guy works for a living.
    “So, what brings you here?” he asks, lighting up, then inhaling deeply, enjoying it. “Or should I say, what brings you
back
here?”
    It’s a simple question, certainly not unexpected given the circumstances. Still, I immediately get this vibe from him. He isn’t so much asking as he is interrogating.
    “I’m on my way to work,” I answer. “This is the route I take every day. Most days.”
    He exhales a thin stream of smoke from the corner of his mouth. “You want one?” he asks, extending the pack.
    “No, thanks.”
    “You sure?”
    “I don’t smoke,” I say.
    “You used to, though.”
    “What makes you think that?”
    “The way you’re looking at the cigarette,” he says. “Desire is an easy read with people — especially with the things we know we shouldn’t do. I’m a
detective.
Homicide.”
    He’s right. I used to smoke. More than a pack a day, in fact. I started after I moved to New York. Not that I’m about to admit it and give him the satisfaction.
    He takes another long drag and continues to stare at me. “Of course, there are so many things that can kill you in this city, what’s one more?”
    It’s the perfect opening to ask him what happened — who were the people in the hotel and how did they die? But again there’s that vibe. Is he trying to get me to talk about it? If so, why? What could I know about four strangers?
    “What brings
you
back here?” I ask instead.
    And like that, he grins. Not unpleasantly, and he seems more human. “Sometimes the bad guy is dumb enough to return to the scene of the crime,” he says. “Or bad
girl,
as the case may be.”
    So much for that vibe being just a vibe.
    “What did you say your name was again?” he asks.
    “I didn’t.”
    He reaches into his jacket. Out come a ballpoint pen and a notepad. “Any time you’re ready,” he says, poised to write.
    “Are you interrogating me?”
    “No, I’m just asking for your name.”
    “It’s Kristin Burns,” I quickly answer. “And yours?”
    He stares at me.
Those eyes.
    “Delmonico,” he says. “Detective Frank Delmonico.”
    He reaches into his jacket again and hands me his card. I don’t look at it. On purpose. Instead, I glance at my watch.
    “Listen, I’m sorry to cut this short,” I say, “but I’m afraid I’m going to be late for work.”
    It sounds like such a line, and for the most part it is. Then again, this guy has never encountered the wrath of Penley “the Pencil” Turnbull. As much as I want to hightail it out of there, I also need to. Otherwise, Detective Frank Delmonico might be investigating another death, this time up on Fifth Avenue. Mine.
    “I promise,” I say. “If we can do this later, I’ll answer any question you have. But I don’t know anything. Just tell me where we can meet.”
    He snaps his notepad shut. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head,” he says. “I’ll find you. It won’t be a problem.”
    Then he touches one finger to the side of his temple. “Detective, remember? Homicide.”

Chapter 22
    HUFF AND PUFF,
huff and puff.
    But Penley isn’t waiting for me at the door when I arrive for work. I guess that’s my reward for sprinting the last few blocks up Fifth Avenue so I wouldn’t be late.
    I’ve barely taken two steps into the apartment’s foyer, however, before I hear her lovely voice call out from the kitchen. “Kristin, is that you? Tell me it’s you.”
    “Good morning, Penley,” I answer.
    Though, like yesterday, it’s been anything but a good morning. In fact, with the repeat of the bad dream, having to see that creepy detective again, and, in between, shattering one very expensive camera lens, the morning so far has been