Michael Connelly - Chased Down

Chased Down

Michael Connelly

Copyright Michael Connelly 2016. All rights reserved

The right of Michael Connelly to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No parts of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without the prior written consent of the author, excepting for brief quotes used in reviews. Your respect of the authors rights and hard work is appreciated.

This book is a work of fiction. References to real people (living or dead), events, establishments, organizations, or locations are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used factitiously. All other characters, and all other incidents and dialogue, are drawn from the authors imagination and are not to be construed as real.

Part One: Death

My name is Adam Carpenter.

Today, I died again.

This is my fifteenth death in the last four hundred and fifty years.

I woke up in a dark alley behind a building.

Autumn rain plummeted from an angry sky, washing the narrow, walled corridor I lay in with shades of gray. It dripped from the metal rungs of the fire escape above my head and slithered down dirty, barren walls, forming puddles under the garbage dumpsters by my feet. It gurgled in gutters and rushed in storm drains off the main avenue behind me.

It also cleansed away the blood beneath my body.

For once, I was grateful for the downpour; I did not want any evidence left of my recent demise.

I blinked at the drops that struck my face and slowly climbed to my feet. Unbidden, my fingers rose to trace the cut in my chest; the blade had missed the birthmark on my skin by less than an inch.

I turned and studied the tower behind me. I was not sure what I was expecting to see. A face peering over the edge of the glass and brick structure. An avenging figure drifting down in the rainfall, a bloodied sword in its hands and a crazy smile in its eyes. A flock of silent crows come to take my unearthly body to its final resting place.

Bar the heavenly deluge, the skyline was fortunately empty.

I pulled my cell phone out of my jeans and stared at it. It was smashed to pieces. I sighed. I could hardly blame the makers of the device. They had probably never tested it from the rooftop of a twelve-storey building. As for me, the bruises would start to fade by tomorrow.

It would take another day for the wound in my chest to heal completely.

I glanced at the sky again before walking out of the alley. An empty phone booth stood at the intersection to my right. I strolled toward it and closed the rickety door behind me. A shiver wracked my body while I dialed a number. Steam soon fogged up the glass wall before me.

There was a soft click after the fifth ring.

Yo, said a tired voice.

Yo yourself, I said.

A yawn traveled down the line. Whats up?

I need a ride. And a new phone.

There was a short silence. Its four oclock in the morning. The voice had gone blank.

I know, I said in the same tone.

The sigh at the other end was audible above the pounding of the rain on the metal roof of the booth. Where are you?

Corner of Cambridge and Staniford.

Fifteen minutes later, a battered, tan Chevrolet Monte Carlo pulled up next to the phone box. The passenger door opened.

Get in, said the figure behind the wheel.

I crossed the sidewalk and climbed in the seat. Water dripped onto the leather cover and formed a puddle by my feet. There was a disgruntled mutter from my left. I looked at the man beside me.

Ashely Reynolds was my business partner and friend. Together, we co-owned the Reynolds and Carpenter Agency. We were private investigators, of sorts. Ashely certainly qualified as one, being a former Marine and cop. I, on the other hand, had been neither.

You look like hell, said Ashely as he maneuvered the car into almost nonexistent traffic. He took something from his raincoat and tossed it across to me. It was a new cell.

I raised my eyebrows. That was fast.

He grunted indistinct words and lit a cigarette. What happened? An orange glow flared into life as he inhaled, casting shadows under his brow and across his nose.

I transferred the data card from the broken phone into the new one and frowned at the bands of smoke drifting toward me. Thats going to kill you one day.

Just answer the question, he retorted.

I looked away from his intense gaze and contemplated the dark tower at the end of the avenue. I met up with our new client.

And? said Ashely.

He wasnt happy to see me.

Something in my voice made him stiffen. How unhappy are we talking here?

I sighed. Well, he stuck a sword through my heart and pushed me off the top of the Cramer building. Id say he was pretty pissed.

Silence followed my words. Thats not good, said Ashely finally.

No.

It means were not gonna get the money, he added.

Im fine by the way. Thanks for asking, I said.

He shot a hard glance at me. We need the cash.

Unpalatable as the statement was, it was also regrettably true. Small PI firms like ours had just about managed before the recession. Nowadays, people had more to worry about than what their cheating spouses were up to. Although embezzlement cases were up by a third, the victims of such scams were usually too hard up to afford the services of a good detective agency. As a result, the rent on our office space was overdue by a month.

Mrs. Houghbey, our landlady, was not pleased about this; at five-foot two and weighing just over two hundred pounds, the woman had the ability to make us quake in our boots. This had less to do with her size than the fact that she made the best angel cakes in the city. She gave them out to her tenants when they paid the rent on time. A month without angel cakes was making us twitchy.

I think we might still get the cakes if you flash your eyes at her, mused my partner.

I stared at him. Are you pimping me out?

No. Youd be a tough sell, he retorted as the car splashed along the empty streets of the city. He glanced at me. This makes it what, your fourteenth death?

Fifteenth.

His eyebrows rose. Huh. So, two more to go.

I nodded mutely. In many ways, I was glad Reynolds had entered my unnatural life, despite the fact that it happened in such a dramatic fashion. It was ten years ago this summer.

Reynolds was a detective in the Boston PD Homicide Unit at the time. One hot Friday afternoon in August, he and his partner of three years found themselves on the trail of a murder suspect, a Latino man by the name of Shawn Riley. Riley worked the toll bridge northeast of the city and had no priors. Described by his neighbors and friends as a gentle giant who cherished his wife, was kind to children and animals, and even attended Sunday service, the guy did not have so much as a speeding ticket to his name. That day, the giant snapped and went on a killing spree after walking in on his wife and his brother in the marital bed. He shot Reynoldss partner, two uniformed cops, and the neighbors dog, before fleeing toward the river.

Unfortunately, I got in his way.

In my defense, I had not been myself for most of that month, having recently lost someone who had been a friend for more than a hundred years. In short, I was drunk.

On that scorching summers day, Shawn Riley achieved something no other human, or non-human for that matter, had managed before or since.

He shot me in the head.