Free Mistress by James Patterson Page B

Eastwood or Stallone would say before engaging the villain in a climactic scene. Load the chamber, cock the weapon, and say, This ends here . No— This ends now .
    “This ends now,” I say to the mirror.
    I have one card left to play. I’m going back to Diana’s apartment to grab the surveillance tapes. They’ll tell me who pushed her off the terrace.
    Then I jump as I hear a short, loud buzz, then the same sound a second time. Terror fills me and disintegrates in the time it takes my brain to register that my smartphone, resting on the nightstand, has just received a text message.
    I reach for my phone as though it were a hot burner on a stove. The sender has been blocked. The message is a photograph. It takes me a moment to get it in full view.
    “Oh, no,” I mumble.
    It’s a photograph of Diana’s brother, Randy Hotchkiss, lying facedown in a pool of blood.
    And underneath it, these words:
    Randy couldn’t stop asking questions.
    Can you?

Chapter 25
    Riding the Triumph in the misty morning air, I take a different route to Diana’s place this time. I’m not going to turn up 33rd Street and just walk right into a police detective—not to mention catch the attention of any mysterious guys in a Lexus. No, this time I’m entering Diana’s building from the rear, up the fire escape.
    Cue the theme to Mission: Impossible .
    I park the Triumph a couple blocks away and walk along the C&O Canal’s path, keeping company with joggers getting in their exercise before the workday begins. Then I head to the back of Diana’s building and take the rickety steps of the fire escape up to her floor.
    Wouldn’t it be cool if you could play theme music when you were walking around doing things? Especially during dramatic moments. I think it would inspire people.
    I still have the key that opens the fire-escape entrance and her door. What I don’t have is any idea who might be watching this building right now, or whether I’m committing a crime just by entering. But I’m out of choices at this point.
    I feel a wave of nausea as I take the wobbly steps, but compared to my other challenges the last couple of days, this is a walk in the park. I reach the top and enter the building, my heartbeat fluttering ever so slightly.
    Her apartment is at the end of the hallway. There is yellow police tape across the door, so that removes any question about whether I’m supposed to go in there.
    But I do it anyway. I walk in, and my breath is whisked away, memories cascading through me in waves. Diana. What were you doing, Diana, that brought all this down on you?
    Focus, Ben. It won’t take two minutes to get those tapes and leave.
    I look up at the smoke detector in her kitchen, the pinhole camera inside it. I grab the stepladder Diana always tucked next to her refrigerator and find the Phillips screwdriver she kept in a tray in her pantry and get to work. I’m unscrewing the second of two screws when I hear a noise from the other end of the apartment, a bottle falling over and rolling on glass.
    Panic spreads across my chest. I climb down from the ladder as Cinnamon, Diana’s Abyssinian, comes jogging toward me.
    “Hey, girl!” I cry out, surprised at how happy I am to see the cat. Maybe because I’m happy to see anyone these days who isn’t pointing a firearm at me. Or maybe it’s because Cinnamon is now the last vestige of Diana.
    The poor thing is a nervous wreck. Has anyone been feeding her? I really don’t know. So I find some cat food in the pantry and give her a bowl. She forgets all about me and goes to town on the food.
    I get the last screw out of the smoke detector and pop the bottom lid and—and there isn’t any camera or microphone. The surveillance equipment has been removed.
    I jump down off the ladder and head into Diana’s bedroom and see that the motion-activated video recorder, disguised as an AC adapter plug, is also missing. I look behind Diana’s desk and check every outlet, but no, it’s