Free Kill Me if You Can by James Patterson Page B

man.”
    “A killer with a conscience. How noble. What’s his name—Don Quixote?”
    “They call him the Ghost.”
    “And you’re sure he’s good?” Marta said.
    “Nobody better.”
    “Excellent,” Marta said. “He sounds like just the man I’ve been looking for.”

Chapter 28
    “I think I would really like to meet this Ghost fellow,” Marta said. “Tell me about him.”
    Ira stroked the stubble-covered rolls of fat that were his chins. “Let’s see, what can I tell you about the Ghost?” he said. “He likes candlelit dinners, long walks on the beach, outdoor concerts at Tanglewood, and doing the New York Times Sundaycrossword puzzle in bed with a smart, sensuous woman. Someone like you, Giselle. ”
    He shoved a handful of Doritos in his mouth.
    Marta stiffened. “What the hell are you talking about?”
    “C’mon, Marta, do you think I’m stupid?” Ira said, Cool Ranch crumbs blowing out of his mouth. “I have a database of millions of voiceprints, and I have yours from half a dozen phone calls. Somebody buzzes me from downstairs, I check the voice for a match. I’m flattered you would visit. My clients usually come here, but my operatives almost never come to the office. It’s dull as hell around here on Take Your Daughter to Work Day. What do you want with the Ghost?”
    “We’re working on the same job.”
    “What job?” Ira said. “Zelvas is dead. Finished.”
    “Not finished,” Marta said. “The diamonds that Zelvas stole from the Syndicate got stolen from him.”
    “I know,” Ira said. “Chukov sent me a picture of some guy nabbing the stones out of a locker. I passed it along to the Ghost. You want a copy of that?”
    “I have it. Chukov hired me as backup. Sorry about trying to con you, but since the Ghost and I are on the same side, I thought you could connect us.”
    “I couldn’t even if I wanted to,” he said. “He contacts me. But it’s a pleasure to meet you in person. Forgive me if I don’t stand up.”
    “Did you ever meet the Ghost in person?” Marta asked.
    “No, ma’am. He’s got a policy. Nobody gets to see him. That way, nobody knows what he looks like.”
    She unsnapped the clasp on her black leather Bottega Veneta shoulder bag and removed her Glock 38 semiautomatic. The light .45-caliber pistol fit comfortably in her hand, and its ten-round magazine gave her a soul-satisfying feeling of power.
    “Funny thing,” she said, pointing the gun squarely at Ira’s sagging chest. “I have the same policy.”
    He stared at her, much less afraid than she expected. “Oh, come on, Marta. Do you really think I’d rat you out?”
    “Would you?”
    “Never. How do you think I’ve been able to do this all these years? I keep secrets. Yours, his, everybody’s.”
    “I believe that,” she said. “But I also believe that you might part with a few of his secrets if I let you live.”
    “You call this living?” he said, spitting out a bitter laugh. “Eating, drinking, and jerking off in this shit hole—that’s not a life. The only thing that keeps me from slitting my own throat is the danger. Working with assassins, executioners, butchers. I’m a conduit to the death squad. That’s my life. You want to put me out of my misery? Go ahead. You’re not the first one to pull a gun on me.”
    “Maybe not. But I’m the first one who will pull the trigger.”
    She pressed the muzzle of the gun hard against his sternum.
    “It might be an ugly life, Ira,” she said, “but it’s the only one you’ve got. Do you want to live?”
    The bravado drained from his face. “Yes,” he said. “Given the choice…”
    “You hear anything— anything —that will lead me to the Ghost, you call me.”
    She handed him a card with a cell number on it.
    “I’ll call,” he said. “I swear.” His body began to shake, and the bag of chips fell from his lap and spilled on the floor.
    “Careful,” Marta said, lowering the gun. “You don’t want to mess up the