Don't Blink (29 page)

Mac sighed theatrically and put a hand to his forehead.

She sidled up to him and cooed, “I think Dior on Montaigne is still open.”

“This is going to be
expensive
,” Mac groaned. The British pair laughed out loud.

They took a taxi to Avenue Montaigne. Mac and Sylvia didn’t buy anything, but the Brit pulled out his credit card and bought a hideous silk shawl for his new wife. Mac settled for a couple of bottles of Moët & Chandon from a nearby wineshop.

Out in the street again he took out a joint, lit it, and passed it to the Englishwoman.

Sylvia put her arms around the Englishman’s waist and looked him deep in the eyes.

“I want,” she said, “to drink these bottles together with you. In your room.”

The Brit gulped audibly and looked at his wife.

“She can play with Mac at the same time,” Sylvia whispered, and kissed him on the lips. “It’s perfectly all right with me.”

They hailed another taxi.

THE CENTRAL HOTEL PARIS WAS a clean, simple spot in Montparnasse. They took the lift to the third floor and tumbled, giggling and slightly stoned, into the room, which looked out on the Rue du Maine.

The walls were sunshine yellow. In the middle of the thick sky blue carpet was an enormous double bed.

“I’ll get this bubbly stuff opened at once,” Mac said, taking one of the bottles of champagne into the bathroom. “No one go anywhere.”

Sylvia kissed the Englishman again, more seriously this time, using her tongue. She noticed his breathing get quicker. He probably had a full erection already.

“I expect you’re a big boy, aren’t you?” she said in a seductive voice, her hand moving along his leg, up toward his crotch.

She could see the Englishwoman was blushing, but she said nothing to stop this from proceeding.

“Bottoms up!” Mac said, coming back into the room with four improvised champagne glasses on the tray that had held the toothbrush glasses.

“Here we go!” Sylvia cried, swiftly taking one of the glasses and knocking it back.

The British pair were quick to follow her example. Mac laughed and went around refilling the glasses.

Then he lit another joint, which was perfectly rolled.

“How long have you been married?” Sylvia asked, inhaling and passing the marijuana cigarette.

“Four weeks,” the woman said.

“Just imagine,” Sylvia said, “all those lovely nights ahead of you. I’m jealous.”

Mac pulled the Englishwoman to him and whispered something in her ear. She let out a laugh.

Sylvia smiled. “Mac can keep going for ages. Shall we try to beat them? I think we can.”

She leaned over and nibbled at the man’s earlobe. She noticed his eyelids were already drooping. The English-woman giggled, a low, confused sound.

“Only a minute or so now,” Mac said. “We’re close now.”

SYLVIA SMILED AND SLOWLY UNDID the man’s shirt. She managed to get his shoes and trousers off before he collapsed on the bedspread.

“Clive,” the woman slurred. “Clive, I love you forever, you know that …”

Then she, too, fell asleep.

Mac had managed to take all her clothes off — apart from her underwear. He removed the underpants now, carried her to the bed, and laid her down next to her husband. Her hair, a little shorter than Sylvia’s but more or less the same color, spread out like a fan.

Sylvia picked up her purse. She riffled quickly through the credit cards, then looked more closely at the passport.

“Emily Spencer,” she read, checking the photo. “This is good, we look similar enough. That makes it easier.”

“Do you think she’s related to Lady Di?” Mac said, as he pulled off her wedding ring.

Sylvia gathered together Emily Spencer’s clothes, valuables, and other important belongings and stuffed them in her backpack.

Then she opened the bag’s outer pocket and pulled out latex gloves, chlorhexidine, and a stiletto knife.

“Mona Lisa?”
she asked.

Mac smiled. “What else? Perfect choice. Help me with the cleaning first, though.”

They pulled on the gloves, got some paper towels from the bathroom, and set about methodically wiping down everything they had touched in the room, including the two unconscious figures on the bed.

Sylvia stared at the man’s genitals.

“He wasn’t that big after all,” she said, and Mac laughed.

“Ready?” she asked, pulling her hair up into a ponytail.

They took off their own clothes and folded them and put them as far away from the bed as possible.

Sylvia started with the man, not for any sexist reasons, just because he was the heavier of the two. She sat behind him and hauled him into her lap, his slack arms flopping by his sides. He grunted as though he were snoring.

Mac straightened the man’s legs, crossed his arms over his stomach, and handed Sylvia the stiletto, which she took in her right hand.

She held the man’s forehead in the crook of her left arm to keep his head up.

She felt with her fingertips for the man’s pulse on his neck and estimated the force of the flow.

Then she thrust the stiletto into the man’s left jugular vein. She cut quickly through muscle and ligaments until she heard a soft hiss that told her that his windpipe had been cut.

UNCONSCIOUSNESS HAD LOWERED THE BRIT’S pulse and blood pressure, but the pressure in his jugular still made the blood gush out in a fountain almost three feet from his body.

Sylvia checked that she hadn’t been hit by the cascade.

“Bingo,” Mac said. “You hit a geyser.”

The force of the flow soon diminished to a rhythmic pulsing. The bubbling sound as the air and blood mixture seeped from the severed throat gradually faded away until finally it stopped altogether.

“Nice work,” Mac said. “Maybe you should have been a doctor.”

“Too boring. Too many rules. You know me and rules.”

Sylvia carefully moved away from Clive, propping him
against the cheap headboard. She got blood on her arms when she arranged the man’s hands on his stomach, right on top of left, but didn’t bother to wash it off yet.

“Now it’s your turn, darling,” she said to the doped-up Englishwoman.

Emily Spencer was thin and light. Her breathing had almost stopped already. Her blood scarcely spurted at all.

“How much champagne did she actually drink?” Sylvia asked as she arranged the woman’s small hands on her stomach.

She looked down at her bloody arms and went into the shower. Mac followed her.

They pulled off the latex gloves. Carefully they soaped each other and the stiletto, rinsed themselves off, and left the shower running. They dried themselves with the hotel’s towels, which they then stuffed into the top of Sylvia’s backpack.

Then they got dressed and took out the Polaroid camera.

Sylvia looked at the bodies on the bed, hesitating, deciding if the look was right.

“What do you think about this?” she asked. “Does it work?”

Mac raised the camera. The brightness of the flash blinded them momentarily.

“Works pretty damn well,” he said. “Maybe the best one yet. Even better than Rome.”

Sylvia opened the room’s door with her elbow and they stepped out into the corridor. No security cameras, they’d made sure of that on the way up.

Mac pulled his sleeve down over his fingers and hung the
DO NOT DISTURB
sign outside the door. The door closed with an almost inaudible click.

The sounds of the night faded into silence. The gentle patter of the shower inside the room could just be heard above the hum of the ventilation system.

“Stairs or elevator?” Mac asked.

“Elevator,” Sylvia said. “I’m tired. Murder is hard work, darling.”

They waited until the doors had closed and the elevator was descending before they kissed.

“I love being on honeymoon with you,” Sylvia said, and Mac smiled brilliantly.

THE NEW ALEX CROSS NOVEL, COMING IN NOVEMBER 2010

Cross Fire

James Patterson

The Mastermind is back, and he’s about to destroy everything - and everyone - Alex Cross loves.

Detective Alex Cross and Bree’s wedding plans are put on hold when Alex is called to the scene of a perfectly executed assassination of two of Washington DC’s most hated public figures: a corrupt congressman and a scheming lobbyist. All avenues of investigation lead Cross to dead ends, and the prospect of finding the killer seems nearly impossible. As more crooked politicians are picked off with simliar long-range shots, public opinion is divided – is the elusive marksman a vigilante or a hero?

Media coverage of the case explodes and FBI agent Max Siegel battles Alex for jurisdiction. As Alex struggles with the sniper, Siegel, and the wedding, he receives a call from his deadliest adversary, Kyle Craig. The Mastermind is in DC and will not relent until he has eliminated Cross – and his family – for good. With a supercharged blend of suspense, action, and deception, Cross Fire is James Patterson’s most exciting Alex Cross novel yet.

A NEW THRILLER

Private

James Patterson
& Maxine Paetro

Jack Morgan is a war hero. On returning home from Afghanistan, Jack is called into California State Prison to visit his father, Tom, who is serving a life sentence for extortion and murder. Before being incarcerated, Tom ran a private investigation firm called ‘Private’. Tom wants Jack to restart the company, and gives him $15 million to do it with.

Five years later and Jack has set up offices spanning the globe. Private’s services are much sought after and Jack has clients ranging from movie stars to politicians. Jack is keen to keep the business legal and not fall into the same traps as his father.

But when the mob come calling, they are not easy to refuse.

On a rare night off accompanying a client to the Golden Globe awards, Jack receives a phone call from school friend Abbie Cushman. Abbie’s wife has been murdered and he desperately needs Jack’s help. The murder is brutal and with no apparent motive; fingers begin pointing towards Abbie.

Meanwhile, Jack’s second-in-command at Private, Justine Smith, is helping the L.A.P.D. in a serial killer investigation. Over the past two years, twelve schoolgirls from the same area in L.A. have been murdered. Justine has been called in to make use of her experience and Private’s resources. A breakthrough is desperately needed, because of stopping.

THE
SUNDAY TIMES
NO. 1 BESTSELLER

Swimsuit

James Patterson
& Maxine Paetro

Perfect models, beautifully executed

A supermodel disappears from a swimsuit photo shoot at the most glamorous hotel in Hawaii. Only hours after she goes missing, Kim McDaniels’ parents receive a terrifying phone call. Fearing the worst, they board the first flight to Maui and begin the hunt for their daughter.

Ex-cop Ben Hawkins, now a reporter for the
LA Times
, gets the McDaniels assignment. The ineptitude of the local police force defies belief – Ben has to start his own investigation for Kim McDaniels to have a prayer … and for Ben to have the story of his life.

Swimsuit
is a heart-pounding story of fear and desire, transporting you to a place where beauty and murder collide and unspeakable horrors are hidden within paradise.

‘Patterson’s annual summer thriller is another exceptional treat’ Mirror

‘It terrifyied me rigid – but there was no way in a million years I could put it down … utterly compulsive’ Daily Express