Dead Heat: BookShots (Book Shots)

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Title Page

  Part 1: Tim Gilmore

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Part 2: Lucas Meyer

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Part 3: Witt and Zou

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part 4: Steve Lewis

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Read on for an extract from Chase

  Also by James Patterson

  Copyright

  About the Book

  It’s the day of the opening ceremony of the 2016 Olympic Games in Rio and excitement is at fever pitch.

  But a key athlete has gone missing and Detective Rafael Carvalho, on the brink of retirement, is assigned the case.

  When the athlete suddenly appears at the ceremony, it seems the case is solved. But Carvalho soon discovers that he has returned with the deadliest of intentions.

  About the Author

  JAMES PATTERSON is one of the best-known and biggest-selling writers of all time. His books have sold in excess of 325 million copies worldwide and he has been the most borrowed author in UK libraries for the past nine years in a row. He is the author of some of the most popular series of the past two decades – the Alex Cross, Women’s Murder Club, Detective Michael Bennett and Private novels – and he has written many other number one bestsellers including romance novels and stand-alone thrillers.

  James is passionate about encouraging children to read. Inspired by his own son who was a reluctant reader, he also writes a range of books for young readers including the Middle School, I Funny, Treasure Hunters, House of Robots, Confessions and Maximum Ride series. James is the proud sponsor of the World Book Day Award and has donated millions in grants to independent bookshops. He lives in Florida with his wife and son.

  STORIES AT THE SPEED OF LIFE

  What you are holding in your hands right now is no ordinary book, it’s a BookShot.

  BookShots are page-turning stories by James Patterson and other writers that can be read in one sitting.

  Each and every one is fast-paced, 100% story-driven; a shot of pure entertainment guaranteed to satisfy.

  Available as new, compact paperbacks, ebooks and audio, everywhere books are sold.

  BookShots – the ultimate form of storytelling.

  From the ultimate storyteller.

  PART 1

  TIM GILMORE

  CHAPTER 1

  FOR THIRTY-NINE LONG years, the telephone on Juliana’s side of the bed has rung out in the middle of the night, the same way it is ringing right now. Juliana has never complained. Not one time. Whenever it happens, she just hands me the receiver, and tells me not to get myself killed.

  The phone is on Juliana’s side of the bed because there is nothing on my side except a wall. I earn a cop’s wages, and we live in a house the size of a shoebox. I roll over and press the tiny button on my black plastic Casio and it lights up. 4 a.m.

  ‘Carvalho?’ Vitoria Paz, my partner for the past two years, is the voice on the end of the line.

  I grunt. My bones hurt.

  ‘I hate to wake you.’

  ‘Everyone hates to wake me,’ I tell her. ‘That’s why they always wake you first.’

  I hear her sigh, but I know she’s smiling.

  ‘I’ll be at your place in five minutes.’

  She’s talking out of the side of her mouth because she’s smoking. She smokes a lot. Paz is twenty-six years old and tough as nails.

  ‘What’s the deal?’ I ask, rolling out of bed.

  ‘Missing person.’

  I pull on socks in the dark. I’m an expert at this.

  ‘Won’t they still be missing after I’ve had a decent night’s sleep?’ I hear Paz take another drag on her cigarette.

  ‘The missing guy is an athlete,’ she says. ‘So you know how that goes at the moment.’

  I know exactly how that goes. The Olympic Games officially open in a few hours’ time, and the world’s media are in Rio. Actually, the whole world is in Rio. And everyone, from the President down, is nervous.

  ‘How long has this athlete been gone?’

  ‘Twelve hours,’ Paz says. ‘Get some coffee down your neck – you sound irritable.’

  I put the phone back on the beaten-up dresser as quietly as I can, but I hear Juliana stir.

  ‘Rafael,’ she says. ‘Don’t get yourself killed.’

  I promise her that I won’t, and I listen to her breathing soften. As Juliana slips back into her dreams, I use the blue backlight of the Casio to guide me out of the bedroom and down into the kitchen. I set the kettle on the stove and pull my badge and gun from the cupboard above the refrigerator. Soon Paz’s headlights wash through the kitchen window and I get a first glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look crumpled. My hair is longer than it should be; still mostly brown, but greying at the temples. I haven’t shaved for two days and I’m wearing yesterday’s shirt. It’s fair to say I’ve looked better.

  Behind the wheel of her tiny Fiat, Paz looks fresh. The car reeks of smoke as I get in. It’s warm out, and Paz is wearing a tight black vest and jeans. Paz runs three times a week, boxes at a local gym and benches one hundred and forty pounds. She hides her strength and grit behind a perfect white smile, sparkling brown eyes and a mop of black hair, which frames her face in tight spirals.

  ‘Morning, Carvalho.’

  ‘Morning. You okay?’

  ‘Better than you, by the looks of things.’ I smile.

  ‘That’s not saying so much.’

  Paz pulls slowly off the drive and doesn’t hit the accelerator properly until we’re out of earshot of Juliana. Paz swears like a bartender and smokes like a chimney, but whenever she is around my wife, she acts like an altar girl on her way to church. Soon enough, though, she puts her foot to the floor and I’m holding on to my scalding coffee with calloused fingers, hoping to Christ that she doesn’t hit a pothole and scar me for life.

  ‘Do you have to drive quite so fast? I’m two weeks off retirement and I’d like to get there alive, if it’s all the same to you. It’s a missing-person case, not a shootout.’

  Paz smiles. She loves it when I’m grouchy. She has one hand on the wheel and is using the other to cram a new cigarette into her mouth, before flicking a steel Zippo to light it.

  ‘The missing athlete is Tim Gilmore,’ she says. ‘Have you heard of him?’

  ‘The Australian guy?’

  I have an image of Tim Gilmore in my head. He’s Australia’s poster boy, and I’ve seen the pictures of him on billboards and adverts around the city. He’s blond, tanned and tall.

  ‘Javelin, right?’

  Paz nods as the cigarette catches. Her eyes narrow against the smoke, making her look like a Mexican bandit scanning the horizon for trouble.

  ‘Yeah. He’s their team captain, too,’ Paz says, taking another drag. ‘Twenty-seven years old. It’s his second Olympics. He’s got a strong chance of a medal. At least he would, if anybody knew where he was.’

  We pass rows of houses as the tiny Fiat speeds across the city. My free hand, the one that isn’t holding the coffee, is holding on to the edge of the
seat. The fabric has worn through over the years and exposed the foam underneath. There’s a hole where Paz’s five-year-old boy Felipe has been picking away at it with his tiny fingers. He’s the only person who sits in Paz’s passenger seat more often than me. Each time I get into her car, the hole in the foam is bigger.

  ‘Felipe’s like a moth in a wardrobe,’ I tell her. ‘This seat’s going to disappear eventually.’

  Paz doesn’t bite.

  ‘Gilmore trained late yesterday afternoon,’ she says. ‘But he never showed up to eat with his team in the evening. He’s not answering his phone, either.’

  ‘Late afternoon?’ I push the blue backlight on my watch. ‘That’s only twelve hours ago.’

  ‘I know,’ Paz says as she winds down the window and flicks out her cigarette butt. ‘Makes you wonder why they’re so twitchy, doesn’t it?’

  ‘Get used to it,’ I tell her. ‘It’s gonna be like the World Cup all over again. Everybody is going to be watching their backs and covering their behinds for the next two weeks, and if anything goes wrong they’ll go ballistic.’

  Suddenly Paz slams on the brakes and we come to a stop with a tyre screech loud enough to wake a city block. I look at her side-ways as I swill down the last of my coffee and put the cup on the dashboard.

  ‘Was that really necessary?’

  ‘Nope,’ she grins. ‘But it felt good. Anyway, we’re here.’

  We park up on Rua Carioca, surrounded by thirty-one high-rise blocks full of the world’s most talented athletes. Nearly four thousand flats. New coffee shops, flower shops and post offices have sprung up on every corner. But right now, everything is closed and deserted.

  ‘Party central,’ Paz says. ‘Not.’

  She is right. The air is still and the lights behind the thousands of windows are almost all turned off.

  ‘Athletes love to sleep. It’s one of the few things I have in common with them these days. Come on.’

  Gilmore’s coach is waiting for us in the lobby.

  ‘Hunter Brown,’ he says in a broad Aussie accent. He has a firm, dry handshake and bright, attentive eyes, just the right side of furtive.

  ‘Carvalho,’ I say. ‘And this is Detective Paz.’

  Vitoria shakes his hand.

  ‘Has he shown up yet?’

  Brown shakes his head. I frown as we walk over to a couple of sofas at the far side of the lobby. Hunter Brown looks away, composing his thoughts.

  ‘I get it,’ he says. ‘You probably think I’m overreacting.’

  I say nothing.

  ‘Listen. Tim has trained for four years for this event. He wouldn’t run out on us now. Not unless something is very wrong.’

  He’s genuinely worried.

  ‘Has he ever gone missing before?’ Paz asks.

  Brown shakes his head.

  ‘No way. We’ve been locked on this schedule for eighteen months. He calls me if he’s heading out for a run. He calls me if he’s thinking about eating something new. He’s petrified of WADA.’

  ‘The anti-doping guys?’

  ‘Too right,’ Brown says. ‘They can knock on your door any time, demanding urine and blood.’

  ‘Gilmore’s clean, though?’ Paz asks.

  ‘You bet. But if you’re not there when they show up, the world thinks you’re a cheat for the rest of your career. Especially when you’re as good as Tim.’

  He sighs, and I wonder if he’s slept at all.

  ‘Can you get us into Gilmore’s room?’ I ask.

  He nods.

  ‘He’s sharing with Oscar Ryan, the hammer-thrower. Have you heard of him?’

  I shake my head.

  ‘You will have, by the end of these Games,’ Hunter Brown says and, for a moment, he smiles. ‘Anyway, Oscar’ll let us in.’

  ‘Well,’ Paz says. ‘Let’s go and wake him up.’

  CHAPTER 2

  THE LIFT IS tight and intimate, and I get the feeling Hunter Brown wants to tell me something. Before he gets a chance, the doors open and we’re out into a long, straight corridor. The place smells of fresh paint and new carpet.

  We walk down the corridor until Brown stops outside a door and says, ‘This is it.’

  A brooding hulk of a guy opens the door and fills most of the frame. He looks as though he could crush a man without breaking a sweat, and without losing much sleep over it, either. I assume he’s Oscar Ryan, but I never find out because he gives the slightest nod of recognition to Hunter Brown while scowling at all three of us, and then melts back into the darkness and disappears into his room.

  ‘There’s something you need to know about Tim Gilmore,’ Brown says as he leads us through the gloom. ‘He is not in a great place right now.’

  The room is square, and one wall is taken up by a picture window, while another is covered with white high-gloss kitchen units. The floor is wooden and scuffs noisily, and there is a flat-screen TV stuck to one of the magnolia walls. A single bulb, underneath the extractor hood above the cooker, lights the entire scene. I fall into one of the sofas opposite the Aussie team coach. The dim light casts long shadows and gives his eyes a hooded and careworn appearance.

  ‘What do you mean – “he’s not in a great place”?’

  Brown sighs.

  ‘He has a media image as the all-Australian hero. He struggles to live up to it. This is the best chance he’s had of winning Olympic gold.’

  ‘He’s feeling the pressure?’

  ‘Too bloody right.’

  Behind the coach, Paz is skulking around the place, picking up bottles of protein supplements and boxes of pasta. Looking for clues.

  She stops pacing and sits down next to me on the sofa. I ask her if she’s found anything interesting and she shakes her head.

  ‘Gilmore’s the messy one,’ Brown says as I gaze across the unwashed plates and unfolded sports kit littering the room. There’s a book on the sofa with its spine broken and a scrap of paper marking the point Gilmore had reached. I find myself wondering if he’ll ever finish it.

  Then I notice writing on the bookmark. I pull it out and turn it over in my fingers, before handing it to Paz. It’s a phone number written on top of a supermarket receipt.

  ‘Mobile phone,’ Paz says. ‘Could be something.’

  ‘That’s a local supermarket,’ I say, ‘so he’s only recently written the number down. Who does he need to contact in Rio that isn’t already on his phone?’

  I pull out my own phone. I dial the number and listen to it ringing out.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE MARACANÃ STADIUM is an imposing fortress, and there is excitement on the faces of everyone bustling past me, as I wait outside and soak up the atmosphere.

  Officially I’m on duty tonight, supervising the VIP section. In reality, I have front-row seats for the show. It’s a thank-you from the city for four decades of service. Juliana is holding my hand and I can feel the excitement pulsing through her. She’s proud of me. She told me as much as she was straightening my jacket before we left. Paz is on my other arm clutching Felipe, her young boy, to her side.

  ‘Keep your eyes open tonight,’ she tells him. ‘You’ll still remember all of this when you’re as old as Carvalho.’

  Paz winks at me and flashes that toothpaste-advert smile. We’ve been working on the Gilmore case all day, without much joy, and we’re both keen to shake off the day and enjoy ourselves. The air is crackling with anticipation and pride. The biggest show on earth has arrived in Rio. I think of Igor Morales, a friend of my dad’s when he was alive, and now a lifelong friend of mine. We play dominoes together on Friday nights and he tells me stories of watching Uruguay winning the World Cup in 1950, with two hundred thousand people crammed inside the Maracanã Stadium.

  ‘Hold on to Felipe,’ I tell Paz. With every step we take towards the stadium, the crowd gets tighter.

  ‘Way ahead of you.’

  I grip Juliana’s hand and push forward into the crowd. People are smiling and joking as they shuffle slo
wly forward. It takes us fifteen minutes to get into the VIP section. Felipe is wide-eyed with excitement. Our seats have been covered in sky-blue leather, in time for the Games, and cup-holders have been built into the armrests. I guess Igor Morales wouldn’t recognise the place.

  ‘Will you watch Felipe? I’m going to get drinks,’ Paz shouts above the roar of the crowd, which seems close to fever pitch before the ceremony has even begun.

  The stretched-plastic roof feels like canvas above us, as if the whole crowd is cocooned in a Bedouin tent as the last of the daylight begins to fade and the first of the stars emerge. Music pumps through the air, and the giant screens hanging from gantries high above our heads race through the superhuman achievements of previous competitors. It is visceral. And intoxicating. I turn and kiss Juliana’s cheek, same as I’ve done for the past forty years, and feel the warmth of her skin.

  ‘Break it up, lovebirds.’ Paz smiles as she returns through the crowd. ‘I got hot dogs.’

  Suddenly the crowd erupts as, twenty yards to our right, the presidential party arrives. We are the almost-VIPs – the security-approved buffer between the real VIPs and the cheap seats. Felipe spots the President and points in astonishment.

  With perfect orchestration, the stadium fades to black the instant the President takes her seat. Stars peer down curiously through the yawning centre of the roof and the music stops, replaced by the whistles of the crowd. Then silence. One last breath before the madness.

  When it happens, it is a roar and a cacophony. The first boom of fireworks shakes the blood in my arteries, and there’s an explosion of colour and fire. The music returns, driving and insistent. Hundreds of musicians suddenly appear from every tunnelled entrance and flood onto the arena surface, coming together to play an ear-shattering fanfare. Juliana is inching forward to get the best possible view. The entire sky is ablaze, and now, behind the musicians, hundreds of athletes are streaming into view. They move in teams, bathed in restless and garish lights, swirling around the edge of the field.

  Flags start appearing on the screens. Afghanistan, Antigua and Saudi Arabia all join the parade. As we watch, the Australian flag flutters onto the giant screens and a section of green-and-gold-clad spectators cheer far away behind us. The camera follows the flag down to its bearer, a man in his mid-twenties with a square jaw, broad shoulders and tight bronze skin. I stare at the huge screen, transfixed and disbelieving, because the man holding the flag is Tim Gilmore. His eyes have a far-away quality and he is wearing earphones. He’s chewing gum and staring straight ahead. I glance over towards Paz, who looks confused.