Obsessed, p.1
Obsessed, page 1
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Copyright © 2023 by James Patterson
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ISBN 9780316499583
E3-20230915_DA-NF-COR
E3-20230524-DA-NF-ORI
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105
Chapter 106
Chapter 107
Chapter 108
Chapter 109
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Chapter 1
THE NYPD BOAT lurched and I almost slipped on the deck.
The waves made a monotonous slapping sound against the boat’s hull, like an uneven drumbeat, as we cut through the choppy water. I sucked in a deep breath and could practically taste the Hudson River. The toxic odors of rotting fish and garbage didn’t do anything to help the nausea I felt. I prayed it would pass.
One of the officers assigned to the boat tapped me on the shoulder. He grinned and offered me a piece of beef jerky.
“Very funny, asshole,” Detective Terri Hernandez said as she snatched the jerky from the smirking cop and gave him a shove. “We’re here to work. There’s a woman’s body out there.” She turned to me. “You okay, Mike?”
“Never better. Fresh air, the sea. Who could ask for more?”
She smiled and said, “That’s called karma for all the pranks you’ve played.”
Terri was trying to distract me. That’s why I like working with her. I was on edge, terrified that I’d recognize the body we were on our way to recover.
Suzanne Morton, a friend of my oldest daughter, Juliana, had gone missing three weeks ago. The last place anyone saw her was at a prestigious acting class in SoHo. Suzanne and my daughter had been in a few classes together in the past. The NYU sophomore kept a busy schedule but never missed an acting class. She had been a good influence around my house, encouraging my younger daughters to pursue their passions.
I’d spent hours with Suzanne’s parents. I had first met them six months ago when we attended a short play both the girls were in. Since Suzanne’s disappearance, they’d asked me over and over again what the NYPD was doing to find their daughter. I understood. If your child is missing, you want the whole world to stop and go look for them.
As a parent of ten kids, I always seem to have something to worry about. At least none of them was missing.
I didn’t need to use my imagination to worry about what might have happened to Suzanne. I’d seen enough as a homicide detective. It felt like a knife in my abdomen every time I pictured the young woman, her light-brown hair framing a beautiful face that had deep dimples when she smiled.
I felt a change in the engine just as the pilot looked over her shoulder. She yelled in my direction, “Wind chop is really bad today! I’ll get as close as I can.”
I looked out over the whitecaps and spotted a figure floating in the water. A second boat, a Zodiac inflatable-hull outboard, discharged a diver. Recovery takes a lot of resources.
We idled alongside the body. Now that we were closer, I could see more clearly that the body was a woman, floating facedown in the water, with waves of long hair fanning out around her head. She was wearing a sparkly black cocktail dress that had attracted sea life. A fish nibbled at something in her hair.
Terri stepped behind me. “Is it her?”
Salt spray stung my face as I watched the grim procedure to recover the body. I shrugged. “Can’t tell yet.” I appreciated Terri’s reassuring hand on my shoulder.
The female crime-scene tech on our boat pulled the winch line so the diver could attach it to the recovery basket. The wire basket was over six feet long, with sides tall enough to keep a person firmly inside. I was relieved to see the care they used. They didn’t know about my possible connection to the victim. They were just professionals.
Against all sound judgment, I stepped closer for a better look.
The other crime-scene tech, a doughy guy in his mid-thirties, leaned over the edge of the boat. He’d been the first victim of the beef jerky prank. All it had taken was a quick whiff of the smelly, dried meat, and the tech had vomited over the side of the boat. But now he showed great concentration and focus, leaning so far out of the boat his face almost touched the water.
I heard a helicopter in the distance. When I looked up, I noticed it was a news helicopter. I hoped to God they didn’t try to get too close and film the body coming onto the boat. I couldn’t imagine a family ever seeing that on TV, but reporters continue to amaze me.
I heard one of the crime-scene techs say they were bringing the body on board. I took a deep breath and steadied myself.
Chapter 2
I WATCHED THE crime-scene technicians and police diver struggle in the choppy water. My stomach lurched as I stepped over to help. Forensic scientists and crime-scene investigators can be territorial. The crime-scene tech waved me off.
Then the male crime-scene tech slipped during a particularly rough wave. He grabbed the basket holding the body. It tipped. I tensed, expecting disaster.
The other tech sprang from the deck and managed to straighten the basket. At least temporarily. When the winch holding the basket swayed, the basket came forward onto the boat deck.
That’s when it happened.
The body tumbled onto the deck of the patrol boat with a sickening thud. I kept my mouth shut. It was an accident, and conditions were dicey. It could’ve happened to anyone.
One of the basket’s black straps fluttered in the wind as both crime-scene techs carefully picked up the body, turning her so that she faced up. We all stared at the victim for a moment as the female crime-scene tech kneeled and meticulously brushed wet strands of hair away from the woman’s face.
It was not Juliana’s friend. But whoever she was, this young woman had been stunning. Not just pretty or cute but an honest-to-God beauty. Long, gorgeous dark hair, a straight, petite nose, and high cheekbones. She hadn’t been in the water long. She was fully clothed, and even still had her high heels strapped on. She looked like a peaceful angel lying on the deck of the boat.
Terri Hernandez leaned in close to me. She said in a low voice, “This is really similar to a body we found in the Bronx about two months ago. Both pretty, both in formal wear, and both discarded like an old fast-food container.” She stepped past me and pointed at the body on the deck. “Looks like a puncture wound in the chest. It’s small but noticeable.” Terri turned and added, “See the red soles on those heels? This girl has really expensive taste. Those are Christian Louboutin stilettos, and the dress looks like a Gucci.”
I just nodded. I always need a few minutes after recovering a body. I tried to picture the circumstances that led to the victim’s death. There was something about being dumped in the water that felt extra evil. It’s one of my nightmares. I said a quick, silent prayer for this poor woman.
At the moment, the only thing I could think of was catching whoever killed her.
The crime-scene techs took photo after photo from every angle.
The male crime-scene tech looked up from the body and said, “No ID of any kind. I’d put her age between nineteen and twenty-two. We’ll try to get her fingerprints back at the lab. We’ll see if she ever applied for a government job or has ever been arrested, but we might have a hard time figuring out who she is.”
I shook my head. “Somebody’s missing her. She’ll match a missing person’s report. We’ll know in a day or two who she is.” The thought of this girl dying alone caused a wave of sadness to pass over me.
I’d promised myself that if these kinds of feelings didn’t come to me whenever I saw a body, I’d know it was time to retire.
Chapter 3
BY NOON, I was headed back to my office. Every time I walk through the doors of the Manhattan North Homicide unit, in an unmarked building on Broadway near 133rd Street, I am thrilled not to work anywhere near One Police Plaza.
I was hoping there would be more information waiting for me at my desk. I also intended to track down our criminal intelligence analyst to help me sift through the data from my newest death investigation.
I headed to the seventh floor, where my squad took the center of the space, with half a dozen small offices and interview rooms ringing it.
I slid behind my desk and took a moment to make a few entries in my notebook and just think about what to do next. Even though we’ve moved on from physical case files to an electronic system called ECMS, Enterprise Case Management System, I still trust my own handwritten notes.
Then I hustled to my boss’s office. Harry Grissom’s tall and lean frame fit well behind a desk, and I knew that sitting eased the discomfort he always felt. Harry favored his left side when he walked, the result of a knife wound that had severed his femoral artery when he was a young patrolman. He never complained, but it was clear from his gait that it was painful for him to walk too long.
I realized Harry was starting to show his age lately. The creases around his eyes were now cracks. The mustache that drooped below his mouth, contrary to NYPD grooming policies, was now almost completely gray. Recently, I’d heard whispers that the big shots at One Police Plaza wanted Harry to retire. I hoped it wasn’t true. Work was all Harry knew. I worried that without the NYPD, Harry, with three ex-wives and no kids, might become one of the many suicides in the police ranks. It’s an issue no one inside or outside police agencies wants to talk about. The pressure of the job can be intense. But the pressure of losing the job can be overwhelming.
Harry gave me a little wave and his version of a smile. “What do you got?”
I filled him in on the recovery from this morning, and told him about Terri Hernandez’s mention of a similar victim. “I’d like to work with Terri on this and look at both homicides together. Just in case we’re dealing with another serial killer, I don’t want anything to put us behind the eight ball. For a change, I wouldn’t mind being a step ahead of an asshole like this.”
Harry gave me a nod. That meant to move full speed ahead. Other lieutenants might ask for memos or extra admin, but Harry’s nod carried a lot of information. It told me to catch this killer any way I could. I almost ran from his office before things could be slowed down.
I looked toward the criminal intelligence analysts’ room as I left Harry’s office and felt my first relief of the day. Sitting by himself in the corner of his office was Walter Jackson, arguably the best analyst in the NYPD.
Without a doubt, Walter was the biggest analyst with the NYPD.
He stood six foot six and was every bit of three hundred pounds—the word imposing didn’t completely capture the thirty-five-year-old African American. The big man’s smile tended to lift everyone’s spirits. Walter had always been interested in helping his community, but he didn’t like some of the risks associated with being a police officer. He found he had a knack for piecing together information and solving puzzles when he studied English literature at Virginia, so when he saw a job announcement for criminal intelligence analyst, he thought he’d give it a try. Now he was a legend in the department.
I popped my head in the room. “Hey, Walter, I just caught a homicide and I’ve got a lot of information to put together. Any chance you’re free?”
“I got plenty to do, but it’s tough to turn down a new homicide. What do you need?” he asked.
I stared at him. He didn’t say anything.
He returned my stare as he slowly smiled. “What is it?”
“That’s one of the first times you’ve ever answered a question without a pun.”
The big man laughed, his belly jiggling. “I bet my daughter, Janine, I could go a week without making a pun. I have to give her a dollar every time I slip up. Whether she hears it or not.”
“What made her want to bet?”
“I asked her, when does a joke become a dad joke?” He paused, then added, “When the punch line becomes apparent.”
I guess most dads share a little bit of the same sense of humor, but I couldn’t help but groan at that one. I didn’t tell him I’d use that pun almost as soon as I got home.
I gave Walter the recovery information I had and what I had learned from Terri Hernandez about her homicide in the Bronx. Walter didn’t have to be told what needed to be done. He’d call the medical examiner’s office to get the latest information, track down all the outside sources, like news stories, on the other homicide. Then he’d give it to me in a concise manner.
In short, it’s people like Walter Jackson who make homicide detectives look efficient.
Chapter 4
I’D BEEN IN the office less than an hour, searching the ranks of missing persons, hoping to find a match for the girl we had pulled out of the Hudson, when a shadow fell across my desk like an eclipse. I turned to see the towering figure of Walter Jackson.
He eased down onto the hard, wooden chair across from my desk. Walter never sat down with force. He’d learned better, after a similar city-purchased chair had once crumpled under his weight. Now he instinctively tested each chair.
He gently placed a photo on my desk. It was clearly a recent picture of the beautiful victim from this morning. It hurt my heart a little to see her smiling in the photo. I said, “That was fast.”
