Free Run for Your Life by James Patterson

ass, I thought.
    She wasn’t somebody I wanted to talk to right now. On top of all the problems I was facing, I was still very annoyed at how distinctly unhelpful she’d been at the St. Pat’s Cathedral siege.
    But I put a smile on my face and walked over to the barricade where she was standing. The enemies we cannot kill, we must caress, and deception is the art of war, I remembered. Thank God for the classical education I’d received from the Jesuits at Regis High. You needed to brush up on your Machiavelli and Sun Tzu to survive an encounter with this lady.
    “Why is it every time we meet, it’s over police sawhorses and crime scene tape?” she said with a big bright grin of her own.
    “Good fences make good neighbors, I guess, Cathy,” I said. “I’d love to chat, but I’m really busy.”
    “Aw, come on, Mike. How about a quick statement, at least?” she said as she turned on her digital recorder. She was giving me some pretty intense eye contact. For the first time, I noticed that hers were green — striking, and actually kind of playful. She smelled good, too. What was it she’d just said? Oh yeah, she wanted a statement.
    I kept it as by–the–book vague and as short as possible. A store clerk had been shot, I told her, and we were withholding his name pending notification of his family.
    “Wow, you’re a font of information just like always, Detective Bennett. What about the shooting at Twenty–one? Is it related?”
    “We can’t speculate at this time.”
    “What’s that mean, really? Chief McGinnis isn’t letting you in on that one?”
    “Off the record?” I asked.
    “Of course,” Cathy said, clicking off her recorder as I leaned in.
    “No comment,” I whispered.
    Her emerald eyes didn’t look so frolicsome anymore as she clicked the recorder back on.
    “Let’s talk about last night, up in Harlem,” she said, totally switching tracks. “Witnesses say police snipers shot an unarmed man. You were right next to the victim. What did you see?”
    I was used to aggressive reporting, but I was starting to wonder where I’d left my pepper spray.
    “Cathy, I’d just love to relive that experience, especially with you,” I said. “But as you can see, I’m in the middle of an investigation, so if you’ll excuse me.”
    “Why don’t you tell me about it over lunch? You have to eat, right? My treat. And no tape recorder.”
    I snapped my fingers in fake disappointment. “Wouldn’t you know it? I already have a reservation at Twenty–one.”
    “Very funny,” she said with a wry look. Then she shrugged. “Oh, well. A girl has to try. I probably shouldn’t tell you this — it’ll go to your head — but I could think of worse lunch dates. If you ever put an ad in the personals, I’ll give you a couple of tips on what to say. Tall, nice build, thick brown hair, definitely cute.”
    I was startled that she thought that about me. Maybe she was just flattering me to get more information, but she seemed like she meant it.
    “I don’t have any plans to,” I said. “But thanks.”
    “And that crack I made about you not looking like a Polo customer was below the belt. You’re actually a very sharp dresser.”
    My hand rose automatically to smooth my tie. Christ, was she really hitting on me? Or was I a total fool to even imagine it? Cathy was damned nice–looking herself, and in the kind of outfit she was wearing right now — short, tight black skirt, tighter blouse, and patent leather pumps — she was flat–out hot. As long as you could ignore her being a bitch on Rollerblades.
    But was she even such a bitch? I started wondering. Or just a hard–driving professional trying to do her job, with a brassy style of flirting, and I was a hopelessly grumpy old bastard who’d been taking it all wrong?
    I backed away, as confused as a schoolboy. She was watching me with her hands on her hips and her head cocked a little to one side, like she’d challenged me to a duel and was