Chapters (48)
- Cover
- Title
- Copyright
- Dedication
- Prologue
- Chapter One
- Chapter Two
- Chapter Three
- Chapter Four
- Chapter Five
- Chapter Six
- Chapter Seven
- Chapter Eight
- Chapter Nine
- Chapter Ten
- Chapter Eleven
- Chapter Twelve
- Chapter Thirteen
- Chapter Fourteen
- Chapter Fifteen
- Chapter Sixteen
- Chapter Seventeen
- Chapter Eighteen
- Chapter Nineteen
- Chapter Twenty
- Chapter Twenty-One
- Chapter Twenty-Two
- Chapter Twenty-Three
- Chapter Twenty-Four
- Chapter Twenty-Five
- Chapter Twenty-Six
- Chapter Twenty-Seven
- Chapter Twenty-Eight
- Chapter Twenty-Nine
- Chapter Thirty
- Chapter Thirty-One
- Chapter Thirty-Two
- Chapter Thirty-Three
- Chapter Thirty-Four
- Chapter Thirty-Five
- Chapter Thirty-Six
- Chapter Thirty-Seven
- Epilogue
- Acknowledgments
- Discover More
- About the Author
- Praise forThe Midnight Ride
- Also by Ben Mezrich
Marsh gestured toward one of the CSI guys, who brought over a pair of black-and-white photographs, culled from the security footage. Both photographs were from cameras at the end of the hallway, above the elevators. The first was of a man of indeterminate age, with narrow features and light brown hair. The guy’s face had a weathered, tough look to it, and his build was tall and athletic, but there was a slight hunch to his shoulders. He had been caught in motion, and from the way he walked—confident but wary, arms loose enough that if he needed to move quickly he could—Zack could tell he was no stranger to the worlds both Zack and the detective knew well. If Zack had to guess, the guy was a criminal, a cop, or a convict.
The second photo was a bit more of a surprise.
“Is that a tennis skirt?” Zack asked. The detective only shrugged.
The girl was pretty, probably late twenties, with streaked hair and too much jewelry on her fingers and throat. Her face was round, her cheeks flushed, even in black and white. She had also been caught moving down the hallway, but her gait was much faster, and she was looking back over her shoulder. No doubt, she was running from something.
“Yeah,” Marsh said, noticing Zack’s look. “Hotel security had chased her into the elevator on the gaming floor. Apparently, she’s a card counter, made a bundle at a blackjack table and then booked it up to the sixth floor when they came after her to throw her out.”
“They checked her ID at the table?”
“They did, but turns out it was a fake. Ran the name and picture, and they don’t match anyone in the state. Hotel security looked back over the tape, say she’s real good, had them completely fooled for most of the night. And this wasn’t the first time she’d hit them. We’re working on a real ID, but it’s going to take time.”
“And the guy?”
“Him, we know. Facial recognition software generated a match right away. A dirtbag named Nick Patterson, nine years at Shirley on a string of bank jobs all over Middlesex and Suffolk counties. Did his time quiet, out on parole just two weeks ago.”