Sign of the Maker (Boston Crime Thriller Book 4) by Brian Shea (novel books to read TXT) 📗

the local citizenry had ventured out en masse to enjoy the brisk mornings. Pedestrian foot traffic jammed the walkways as they scurried about their day.

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 USA Today from the rack before taking his seat.

He perused the headlines but didn't read any of the articles. 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 force field 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 itself on its artisan ability to make the unique drinks listed on the menu, such as a half caf decaf with a twist of lemon, it had fallen short on the ability to make a simple cup of coffee.

Considering himself a coffee connoisseur, he knew that the right blend of beans brewed to perfection required no sugar, no cream. What was in his cup was anything but. 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.

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, a cartooned Tyrannosaurus striking the popular dance move's recognizable pose. Absorbed in whatever message she was reading on her phone, the mother didn't seem to notice that her son was now wearing his chocolate milk. He wasn't close enough to see the screen, nor did he care enough to try.

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

The redhead continued his story with more fervor now that he had engaged the group. He was now telling it as if everyone in the café wanted to hear about 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 scanned 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 ticked.

The door opened, and a cool breeze accompanied a well-dressed business executive carrying a worn leather briefcase as he entered the shop. 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 a man who valued the power of time above all else: a Rolex Submariner watch. Did the wealthy man 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 café with a purpose, never looking down or 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. The barista who was serving him asked if he'd like anything else. The man took out his phone, answering it and ignoring the question as he inserted the credit card into the machine in front of him. The rich man left no tip. He took the coffee and turned without a thank you, then took a seat on the opposite side of the café.

The businessman was alone, but unlike the man with the newspaper, he was anything but invisible. Even the mother looked up from her phone to give him a once-over.

But for all the things he hated about the businessman, there was one aspect he appreciated. At least he was punctual.

Setting his coffee on the table, he looked at his watch. 9:47 a.m. Three minutes later than the businessman had been yesterday when he'd come into the café. Two minutes later than the day before. Based on the law of calculable averages, taking the last three weeks in which he had come here for his morning jolt, the businessman was one minute and thirty-seven seconds late but within the standard deviation of the established timeline.

Time was everything. Time mattered. It was the one constant. Everybody moving around in this world was on an indeterminate timeline. Some cut short, some extended into a long life, but nobody had control. Well, almost nobody. He folded the paper and watched as the businessman berated the person on the other end of the phone. In