The Penitent One (Boston Crime Thriller Book 3), Brian Shea [best non fiction books of all time .TXT] 📗

He spent the next several minutes in deep thought, contemplating what lay ahead for the next twenty-two minutes.

His life had always been a series of calculations and equations. He crunched the numbers now one last time, running through the schematics in his mind. Everything had to be perfect. Precision was critical. Connecting all the dots in his head, he affirmed everything was as it should be. Satisfied, he got up from the bench as a group of pigeons parted the way.

He made his way down through the park toward Tremont Street to his morning's destination.

The coffee shop wasn't full, which meant a seat would be available. In the threeweeks since he’d been coming here, he had on only two occasions been left without a seat. He was glad today that wouldn’t be the case.

It was busier than it had been in recent weeks. Now that winter's thaw had given way to spring, more people in the heavily foot trafficked city were out and about.

He walked to the counter, paid cash for a medium black coffee, and then walked toward a small table set along the wall. He grabbed a copy of the USA Today newspaper from the rack before taking his seat.

He perused the headlines but didn't read. He'd already scoured the internet before leaving his small efficiency apartment on Boylston Street. He didn't read the national papers. His sources of information came from specialized access points far beyond the scope and investigative source abilities of even the biggest media conglomerates.

The newsprint went up like a forcefield in front of him. He was invisible again, disappearing behind the gray rectangle of paper as he sipped the coffee.

For a café that prided themselves on their ability to make drinks on the menu such as a half calf decaf with a twist of lemon, they had fallen short on their ability to make a simple cup of coffee.

He sipped at it. Having consumed coffee in cafes around the world, he knew that the right blend of beans brewed to perfection required no sugar, no cream. What was in his cup was anything but that. Although the aroma of the café was wonderfully sweet, the coffee tasted burnt and weak. It was barely above room temp, and he liked his piping hot regardless of time of year. Disappointed, he sipped at it with disdain. With each sip, his mood soured further.

Peering up from the paper, he scanned the small space of the cafe.

A young mother in her early twenties was seated nearby with her son who looked about three years old. His dirty blond hair was a mangled sea of wild curls, and he was still in his pajamas. His mother had obviously not seen it important to dress her child before taking him out. She uncapped a chocolate milk and unsheathed a Nutri-grain bar, sliding it over to him while she enjoyed an iced latte with a blueberry scone.

It was only a matter of seconds before half of the milk ended up on the boy's pajama shirt, soaking the image of the Dabasaurus Rex, whatever that might be. The mother didn't seem to notice that her son was now wearing the chocolate milk she’d just bought him. She was absorbed in whatever message she was reading on her phone. He wasn't close enough to see it, nor did he care enough to try.

Laughter erupted at a table near the exit. Five people wearing brightly colored Lycra form-fitting shirts and tight-fitting bike shorts were chuckling loudly at what one of the bikers had said. A pale skinned red-haired cyclist with a neatly groomed beard of similar color continued whatever story had lit the group afire. They were brightly colored, gregarious people calling attention to themselves in the small quiet setting the cafe was supposed to be. They were the toucans. As a pigeon, he felt nothing but disgust.

The red head told his story with more fervor now that he had engaged the group. He was now telling it as if everyone in the cafe wanted to hear. His story revolved around somebody named Chris who had apparently ridden full speed into the open door of a box truck. Chris's lack of awareness and subsequent crash was a thing of pure comedy for these men.

As the man sipped his lukewarm burnt coffee and watched, scanning the group, he wondered if this Chris was among the brightly colored men. But on second thought, he realized he didn't care. None of their stories mattered. None of their lives mattered.

The clock in his head began to tick.

The door opened and a cool breeze accompanied a well-dressed businessman as he entered the shop.

It was early May, and even though spring was officially here, the mornings were still cold. Cold enough that people typically donned a windbreaker and joggers were still wearing long-sleeved shirts for their morning runs.

The man that just walked in was in a three-piece suit and carried a worn leather briefcase with him. He looked at his watch as he approached the counter. He had an air of importance.

If the others were toucans, this man was a peacock. Aside from the fancy suit, he wore an item of unique interest to man who valued the power of time above all else, a Rolex Submariner watch. Did the businessman appreciate the value of the well-crafted timepiece? Probably not.

Everything about the businessman exuded confidence. He wanted the world to know he was an important man, a powerful man. He moved through the small cafe with a purpose, his eyes never looking down or over at the other patrons. They were beneath him.

His presence commanded the others in the café to take notice. Even the laughter at the table of cyclists lowered in volume at his entrance.

At the counter, he ordered his drink. While the barista was serving him, he asked him if there was anything else he'd like. The man took out his phone, answering it and ignoring the question, inserted the credit card into