Run for Your Life by James Patterson

them? With the way Cathy Calvin had portrayed me on this morning’s front page, I looked like the media’s new best friend and law enforcement consultant.
    “What do you want?” I barked.
    There was a brief, icy silence before she said, “This is Sister Sheilah, the principal of Holy Name School.”
    Oh, boy.
    “Sister, I’m really sorry about that,” I said. “I thought you were? —”
    “Never mind, Mr. Bennett.” Her quiet voice somehow conveyed even more distaste for me than the commissioner had.
    “Yesterday, you sent in two children who turned out to be ill,” she went on. “Might I refresh your memory that on page eleven of the ‘Parent/Student Handbook,’ it states, and I quote, ‘Children who are ill should be kept home,’ unquote. We here at Holy Name are doing our best to stem the effects of the citywide flu epidemic, and the flouting of our preventative measures cannot and will not be tolerated.”
    Again, I reached for my excuse bag. I had a good one. My kids had looked fine when we sent them in. But the negative mojo coming from the Mother Superior stopped my words like a cinder–block wall. I felt like I was back in fifth grade myself.
    “Yes, Sister. It won’t happen again,” I mumbled.
    I hadn’t made it three blocks farther south in the gridlock when my cell phone rang yet again. This time, it was Chief of Detectives McGinnis.
    Why do I even have one of these things? I thought, putting the phone to my ear and bracing myself for a tirade. I wasn’t disappointed.
    “Listen, Bennett. I just heard from Daly,” McGinnis roared. “Are you trying to get me fired? How about instead of canoodling with Times reporters, you do us both a favor and do what you’re getting paid for? Namely, figuring out where this serial shooter is! Your la–di–da attitude toward this case is pissing me off big–time. As is the way you’re handling this catastrophe, Mr. Expert. Now I’m starting to understand why people got so upset about Hurricane Katrina.”
    That was it — I’d had enough. Two capitulations was my morning’s limit. I was also fed up with having the truly self–sacrificing professionals I used to work with at the CRU be insulted. Had McGinnis ever been a first responder at a plane crash? Had he ever had to work in a portable morgue and deal with human misery on a mass scale day in and day out? I cut sharply in front of a Liberty Lines bus and shrieked to a stop in the middle of Fifth Avenue. The rush–hour traffic behind me must have snarled clear back into Harlem, but I didn’t care.
    “Hey, that gives me an idea, boss,” I yelled. “From here on out, I’m legally changing my name to Mike ‘–La–di–da’ Bennett. If you don’t like that and you want my resignation, you’re welcome to it. Or maybe you should just go ahead and bring me up on departmental charges. Canoodling in the first degree.”
    I endured another icy pause before McGinnis said, “Don’t tempt me, Bennett,” and hung up.
    I sat there for a second, my face red, my head pounding. His giving me an earful was one thing, but to imply that I’d jeopardize a case over a reporter was a really low blow. They asked me to come in on this, right? What an idiot I’d been — so proud to be handpicked, and worried sick about letting down the team. Now my team was kicking me in the teeth.
    I guess William Tell’s son had been handpicked, too. Right before they’d put an apple on his head.
    “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” I yelled to the wailing horns all around me. No wonder people in this town went nuts. I added my own horn to the chorus as I peeled out.
     
    Chapter 29
     
    In a conference room on the twelfth floor of One Police Plaza, I met Detective Beth Peters face–to–face for the first time, by the coffee cups. Fortyish, petite, and fine–boned, she looked more like a news anchor than a cop. She was pleasant but sharp, with a quick smile. Again, I got the sense that we were going to get along.
    But there