Do it.
Now!
He bent, picked up the boy, and immediately started smiling and talking the happiest, friendliest barf-babble he could come up with.
"Hi there, I'm Roger the Artful Dodger. I work here at Toys 'R' Us. What kind of fantastical toys do you like best, huh? We've got every' kind of toy in the whole wide world, 'cause we're the world's biggest, coolest toy store. Yahoo! How 'bout that? Let's go find your superpathetic mom and dad!"
The boy actually smiled up at him. Kids could do weird mood changes like that. His beautiful blue eyes Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
sparkled, glistened; something wet and wonderful happened. "I want Mighty Max," he proclaimed as if he were Richie Rich instead of Little Boy Lost.
"Okay, then come with me. One Mighty Max coming up!
Why? 'Cause you're a Toys 'R' Us kid."
He cradled the boy in his arms and began to hurry up the wide shopping aisle toward the front of the store. Suddenly, he knew he could get away with it, even something this audacious and shocking, with almost a hundred eyewitnesses in the store. Hey, he was the new Pied Piper. Kids loved him.
"We'll get a Vac-Man. Then how about X-men? Or how about a Stretch Armstrong?"
"Mighty Max," the little boy repeated, stuck on his one track.
"I only want Mighty Max."
The killer peeked out of aisle three. He was less than thirty feet from the store's front exit. The mall parking lot bordered on Columbia Park, which had been part of his escape package from the start.
He took a couple of fast steps, then stopped dead in his tracks at the front of the store.
Shit! A couple in their late twenties were walking toward him!
The woman looked just like Little Boy Blue.
They had him... dead to rights. They had him nailed! They had him!
He knew what he had to do, so he never panicked for a nanosecond.
Except for the two or three major heart attacks he had on the inside. Well, here goes everything. Time to bet the ranchero.
"Hey, hi there." He smiled broadly and went into his best stand-up routine ever. "This little guy belong to you? He was lost in the action-figure section. Nobody came for him. I figured I better bring him up to the store manager. Little guy was crying his eyes out. You his mom?"
The mother reached out for her precious bundle of joy, while at the same time throwing her husband a dirty look.
Aha, there was our villain! Pop was obviously the one who had lost the boy in the first place. Pops couldn't get anything right these days, could they! His own pop sure hadn't been able to.
"Thank you, so much," the mom said. She tossed another incredibly nasty look to pop. "That was very sweet of you," she told the killer.
He continued to hold his best smile. Man, he was acting his heart out. "Anybody would do the same thing. He's a nice little boy. Well, so long. Bye-bye. He wants a Mighty Max. That's probably what he was searching for."
"Yes, he does want Mighty Max. Bye. Thanks again," said the mom.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
"Bye-bye," the little boy mimicked, waving his hand.
"Bye-bye."
"Hope see ya some other time," said the Sojourner Truth School killer. "Bye-bye." You morons! You incredible idiots.
You pathetic simps.
He walked away from the family. Never looked back once.
He was wetting his pants, but he was also beginning to laugh.
He couldn't stop himself from laughing. Here was another thing in his favor -- even if he was caught someday -- they wouldn't believe that he was the Truth School killer. No way in hell.
AH, THIS WAS MUCH BETTER. Life was good again. I opened my eyes and Jannie was there, staring at me from about three feet away. Jannie had Rosie the cat in her arms. Jannie likes to watch me sleep sometimes. I like to watch her sleep, too. Fair is fair.
"Hey there, sweetness and light," I said to her. "You know the song, "Someone To Watch Over Me'?
You remember that one?"
I hummed a couple of bars for her.
Jannie nodded her head yes. She knew the song. She'd heard me play it on the piano downstairs, on our porch. "You have guests," she announced.
I sat up in bed. "How long have they been here?"
"They just came. Nana sent me and Rosie up to get you. She's making them coffee. You, too. You have to get up."
"Is it Sampson and Rakeem Powell?" I asked.
Jannie shook her head. She seemed unusually shy this morning, which isn't really like her. "They're white men."
I was starting to wake up in a hurry "I see. You happen to catch the names?" Suddenly, I thought I knew the names. I solved the mystery myself-- at least, I thought I had.
Jannie said, "Mr. Pittman and Mr. Clouser."
"Very good," I complimented her.
Not good, not good at all, I was thinking about my "guests." I didn't want to see the chief of detectives, or the police commissioner -- especially not in my house.
Especially not for the reason I imagined that they were here to see me.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
Jannie bent and gave me my morning kiss. Then a second kiss.
"Oh, what lies there are in kisses," I winked and said to her.
"Nope," she said. "Not my kisses."
It took me less than five minutes to get as ready as I was going to get for this. Nana was entertaining our visitors in the parlor.
Commissioner Clouser had come to my house twice before. This was a first for the chief of detectives.
The Jefe. I assumed that Clouser had forced him to come.
ChiefPittman and Commissioner Clouser were sipping Nana's steaming coffee, smiling at a story she was spinning for them. I wondered what it was she had decided to get off her chest. This was a dangerous time -- for Pittman and Clouser.
"I was just rebuking these gentlemen for allowing Emmanuel Perez to roam our streets for so long," she told me as I entered the parlor. "They promised not to let that sort of thing happen again. Should I believe them, Alex?"
Both Pittman and Clouser chuckled as they looked at me.
Neither of them realized this was no chuckling matter, and that my grandmother was no one to mess with or, even worse, condescend to in her house.
"No, you shouldn't believe one word they say Are you finished now?" I asked her, returning her sweet, phony smile with one of my own.
"I didn't think I could trust either of them. I wanted to get their promise in writing," Nana said.
I nodded and smiled, as if she'd just made a joke, which I knew she hadn't. She was dead serious. The Jefe and Commissioner Clouser both laughed heartily They thought Nana Mama was a stitch. She isn't.
She's the whole nine yards.
"Can the three of us talk in here?" I asked her. "Or should we go outside for our discussion?"
"I'll go in my kitchen," Nana evil-eyed me and said. "So nice to meet you, Chief Pittman, Commissioner Clouscr. Don't forget your promise. I won't."
Once she had left the room, the commissioner poke right up "Well, congratulations are in order, Alex. I understand that you found all kinds of kiddie porn in Manuel Pcrez's apartment."
"Detective Sampson and I found the pornography," I said.
Then I was silent. I had decided not to make this easy for them.
Actually, I agreed one hundred percent with the point Nana had been trying to make.
"I'm sure you're wondering what we're doing here, so let me explain," Chief of Detectives Pittman spoke up. He and I were not close, to put it mildly. Never had been, never would be.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
Pittman is a bully and also a closet racist, and those are his better points. He could never seem to see a belt without wanting to hit below it.
"I'd appreciate it," I said to The Jefe. "I was thinking that maybe you had just been in the neighborhood and you dropped by for my grandmother's coffee. It's worth a trip."
Pittman didn't come close to breaking a smile. "We received a formal request from the FBI late last night.
They've asked that you work on the investigation of Senator Fitzpatrick's murder.
Special Agent Kyle Craig strongly suggested that your background and recent experience might serve the investigation well.
Obviously, it's an important case, Alex."
I let Chief Pittman finish, then I slowly shook my head no.
"I've got a half-dozen open homicides here in Southeast," I said.
"The case I just worked on should have been solved months ago.
Then another little girl wouldn't have died for no goddamn reason. A homicide detective got reassigned off the killer's trail back then.
Now a little girl is dead. Six years old."
"This is a major case, Alex," the commissioner said. He had snow-white hair. His face was bright red, which happened when he was angry or disturbed. The two of us went back some. Usually, we went along, got along. Maybe not this time.
"Tell the FBI that I can't be spared for this Jack and Jill mess.
I'll call Kyle and make my peace with him. Kyle will understand.
I'm on several homicide cases in Southeast. People die here, too.
We have our own messes, and even major cases."
"Let me ask you something, Alex," the police commissioner said. He smiled gently as he spoke. Lots of beautifully capped white teeth. I could have played some sweet Gershwin on them, though maybe some key-slamming Little Richard would have been more satisfying.
"Do you still want to be a cop?" he asked.
That one landed, and it stung. It was a sucker punch, but a pretty good one.
"I want to be a good cop," I said to him. "I want to do some good if I possibly can. Same as always.
Nothing's changed."
"That's the right answer," the commissioner said as if I were a child who needed his instruction. "You're on the Jack and Jill investigation. It's been decided in very high places. You have experience with these kinds of murders, with lunatic psychotics.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
You are officially off all your other cases. Now, be a very good cop, Alex. The FBI is almost certain Jack and Jill are going to kill again."
So was I, so was I.
And I felt the very same thing about the Sojourner Truth School killer.
I RESISTED the unique charms of the Jack and Jill case for one more day. Half a day, anyway. I tried to clear a few things on my watch in Southeast. I was furious about what had happened with Clouser and Pittman.
Shanelie Green had died because more detectives hadn't been assigned to find Chop-It-Off-Chucky, hadn't given Alvin Jackson the time of day The whole sorry affair was race-related, no way around it, and it made me both angry and sad.
I came home early and spent the evening with Nana and the kids. I wanted to make sure they were okay after the murder at the Sojourner Truth School. At least that horror tale had been solved. But I still wasn't over the child killing. I couldn't get past it for a lot of reasons.
For half an hour or so, I gave Damon andJannie their weekly boxing lesson in the basement. To Damon's credit, he's never complained that the sessions include his sister. He just puts on the gloves.
They're becoming tough little pugs, but more important, they're learning when not to fight. Not many kids mess with them at school, but that's mainly because they're nice kids and know how to get along.
"Watch that footwork, Damon," I told him. "You're not supposed to be putting out a fire with your feet."
"You're supposed to be dancing," Jannie threw a little verbal jab at her brother. "Step, right. Back. Step, step, left."
"I'll do a dance on you in a minute," Damon warned her off, and then they both laughed like hell.
A little later, we were upstairs in front of the tube. Jannie was crossing her small arms, squinting her brown eyes, and making a tough-as-nails face at me. It was her official, nonnegotiable bedtime, but she had decided to lodge a protest.
"No, Daddy. Nope, nope, nopeee," she said. "Your watch is too fast."
"Yes Jannie. Yep, yep yepeee." I held my ground, held my own against my chief nemesis. "My watch is too slow."
"No, siree. No way," she said.
"Yes, indeedee. No escaping it. You're busted."
The long arm of the law finally reached out and corralled another repeat offender. I grabbed Jannie off the couch and carried my little girl up to bed at eight-thirty on the dot. Law and order reigns at the Cross house.
"Where we going, Daddy?" she giggled against my neck. "Are we going out for ice cream? I'll have Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
pralines 'n' cream."
"In your dreams."
As I tightly held Jannie in my arms, I couldn't help thinking about little Shanelle Green. When I had seen Shanelle in that school yard, I was scared. I'd thought of Jannie. It was a vicious circle that kept playing inside my head.
I lived in fear of the human monsters coming to our house.
One of them had come here a few years back. Gary Soneji. That time no one had been hurt, and we had been very lucky Jannie and I had worked out a prayer that we both liked.
She knelt beside her bed and said the words in a beautiful little whisper.
Jannie said, "God up in heaven, my grandma and my daddy love me. Even Damon loves me. I thank you, God, for making me a nice person, pretty and funny sometimes. I will always try to do the right thing, if I can. This is Jannie Cross saying goodnight."
"Amen Jannie Cross," I smiled and said to my girl. I loved her more than life itself. She reminded me of her mother in the best possible way. "I'll see you in the morning. I can't wait."
Jannie grinned and her eyes widened suddenly. She popped back up in bed. "You can see me some more tonight. Just let me stay up," she said. "I scream for ice cream."
"You are funny," I said and kissed her goodnight. "And pretty and smart." Man, I love her and Damon so much. I knew that was why the child murder had really gotten under my skin. The madman had struck too close to our house.
Maybe for that reason Damon and I went for a walk a little later that night. I draped my arm over my son's shoulders. It seemed as if every day he got a little bigger, stronger, harder. We were good buddies, and I was glad it had worked out this way so far.
The two of us strolled in the direction of Damon's school. On the way, we passed a Baptist church with angry, dark-red and black graffiti markings: I don't care 'boutJeez, ' causeJeez don't care 'bout me. That was a common sentiment around here, especially among the young and restless.
One of Damon schoolmates had died at the Sojourner Truth School. What a horrible tragedy, and yet he had already seen so much of it. Damon had witnessed a death in the street, one young man shooting another over a parking space, when he was only six years old.
"You ever get afraid to be at the school? Tell me the truth.
Whatever you really feel is okay to say, Damon," I gently reminded him. "I get afraid sometimes, too.
Beavis and Butt-head scares me. Ren and Stimpy, too."
Damon smiled, and he shrugged his shoulders. "I'm afraid sometimes, yeah. I was shivering on our first day back. Our school isn't going to close down, is it?"
I smiled on the inside, but kept a straight face. "No, there'll be classes as usual tomorrow. Homework, too."
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
"I did it already," Damon answered defensively. Nana has him a little too sensitive about grades, but that probably isn't so terribly bad. "I get mostly all OKs, just like you."
"Mostly all Ks," I laughed. "What kind of sentence is that?"
"Accurate." He grinned like a young hyena who had just been told a pretty good joke on the Serengeti.
I grabbed Damon in a loose, playful headlock. I gently slid my knuckles over the top of his short haircut.
Noogies. He was okay for now. He was strong, and he was a good person. I love him like crazy, and I wanted him to always know that.
Damon wiggled out of the headlock. He danced a fancy Sugar Ray Leonard-style two-step and fired a few quick, testing punches at my stomach. He was showing me what a tough little cub he was. I had no doubt about it.
Right about then I noticed someone leaving the school building.
It was the same woman I'd seen in the early morning of Shanelie Green's murder. The one who had blown me away then.
She was watching Damon and me tussle on the sidewalk. She had stopped walking to watch us.
She was tall and slender, almost six feet. I couldn't see her face very well in the shadows of the school building. I remembered her from the other morning, though. I remembered her self-confidence, a sense of mystery I'd felt about her.
She waved, and Damon waved back. Then she headed down to the same dark blue Mercedes, which was parked up against the wall of the building.
"You know her?" I asked.
"That's the new principal of our school," Damon informed me.
"That's Mrs. Johnson."
I nodded. Mrs. Johnson. "She works late. I'm impressed. How do you like Mrs. Johnson?" I asked Damon as I watched her walk to her car. I remembered that Nana had talked about the principal and been very positive about her, calling her "inspirational" and saying she had a sweet disposition.
She was certainly attractive, and seeing her made my heart ache just a little. The truth was, I missed not having someone in my life. I was getting over a complicated friendship I'd had with a woman- Kate McTiernan. I had been working a lot, avoiding the whole issue that fall. I was still avoiding it that night.
Damon didn't hesitate with his answer to my question. "I like her. Everybody likes Mrs. Johnson. She's tough, though. She's even tougher than you are, Daddy," he said.
She didn't look so tough with her Mercedes sedan, but I had no reason not to believe my son. She was definitely brave to be in the school alone at night. Maybe a little too brave.
"Let's head on home," I finally said to Damon. "I just remembered this is a school night for you."
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
"Let's stay up and watch the Bullets play the Orlando Magic," he coaxed and grabbed onto my elbow.
"Oh -- sure. No, let's get Jannie up and we'll all pull an all-nighter," I said and laughed loudly. We both laughed, sharing the jokey moment.
I slept in with the kids that night. I was definitely not over the murder at the Truth School. Sometimes, we'll throw blankets and pillows on the floor and sleep there as if we were homeless. It gives Nana fits, but I believe she thrives on her fits, so we make certain she has one every other week or so.
As I lay there with my eyes open, and both kids sleeping peacefully, I couldn't help thinking about Shanelie Green. It was the last thing I needed to think about. Why had someone brought the body back to the school yard? I wondered. There are always loose ends on cases, but this one made no sense, so it concerned me. It was a piece that didn't fit in a puzzle that was supposed to be finished.
Then I began thinking about Mrs. Johnson for a moment or two. That was a better place to be. She's even tougher than you are, Daddy. What a glowing recommendation from my little man. It was almost a dare. Everybody likes Mrs. Johnson, Damon had said.
I wondered what her first name was. I made a wild guess -- Christine. The name just came to me.
Christine. I liked the sound of it in my head.
I finally nodded off to sleep. I slept with the kids in the pile of blankets and pillows on the bedroom floor.
No monsters visited us that night. I wouldn't let them.
The dragonslayer was on guard. Tired and sleepy and oversentimental, but ever so watchful.
THIS WAS REALLY NUTS, insane, demented. It was so great The killer wanted to go for it again, right now. Right this minute. He wanted to do the two of them. What a gas that would be. What a large charge. A real shockeroo.
He had watched them from afar --father and son. He thought of his own father, the totally worthless prick. up and watch the Bullets play the Orlando Magic," he coaxed and grabbed onto my elbow.
"Oh -- sure. No, let's get Jannie up and we'll all pull an all-nighter," I said and laughed loudly. We both laughed, sharing the jokey moment.
I slept in with the kids that night. I was definitely not over the murder at the Truth School. Sometimes, we'll throw blankets and pillows on the floor and sleep there as if we were homeless. It gives Nana fits, but I believe she thrives on her fits, so we make certain she has one every other week or so.
As I lay there with my eyes open, and both kids sleeping peacefully, I couldn't help thinking about Shanelie Green. It was the last thing I needed to think about. Why had someone brought the body back to the school yard? I wondered. There are always loose ends on cases, but this one made no sense, so it concerned me. It was a piece that didn't fit in a puzzle that was supposed to be finished.
Then I began thinking about Mrs. Johnson for a moment or two. That was a better place to be. She's even tougher than you are, Daddy. What a glowing recommendation from my little man. It was almost a dare. Everybody likes Mrs. Johnson, Damon had said.
I wondered what her first name was. I made a wild guess -- Christine. The name just came to me.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
Christine. I liked the sound of it in my head.
I finally nodded off to sleep. I slept with the kids in the pile of blankets and pillows on the bedroom floor.
No monsters visited us that night. I wouldn't let them.
The dragonslayer was on guard. Tired and sleepy and oversentimental, but ever so watchful.
THIS WAS REALLY NUTS, insane, demented. It was so great The killer wanted to go for it again, right now. Right this minute. He wanted to do the two of them. What a gas that would be. What a large charge. A real shockeroo.
He had watched them from afar --father and son. He thought of his own father, the totally worthless prick.
Then he saw the tall, pretty schoolteacher wave and get into her car. Instinctively, he hated her, too.
Worthless black bitch.
Phony teacher smile spread all over her face.
POW! POW! POW!
Three perfect headshots.
Three exploding head melons.
That what they all deserved. Summary executions.
A really rude thought was forming in his mind as he watched the scene near the school. He already knew a lot of things about Alex Cross. Cross was his detective, wasn't he? Cross had been assigned to his case, right? So Cross was his meat. A cop, just like his own father had been.
The really interesting thing was that nobody had paid much attention to the first killing. The murder had almost gone unnoticed. The papers in Washington had barely picked it up. Same with TV. Nobody cared about a little black girl in Southeast. Why the hell should they?
All they cared about was Jack and Jill. Rich white people afraid for their lives. Scary! Well, f*ck Jack and Jill. He was better than Jack and Jill, and he was going to demonstrate it.
The school principal drove past his hiding place in a cluster of overgrown bushes. He knew who she was, too. Mrs. Johnson of the Truth School. The Whitney Houston of Southeast, right?
Screw her, man.
His eyes slowly drifted back to Alex Cross and his son. He felt anger rising inside him, steam building up.
It was as if his secret button had been pushed again. The hair on his neck was standing at attention. He was beginning to see red, feeling spraying mists of red in his brain. Somebodyblood, right? Cross's? His son's? He loved the idea of them dying together. He could see it, man.
He followed Alex Cross and his kid home- in his rage state -- but keeping a safe distance. He was thinking about what he was going to do next.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
He was better than Jack and Jill. He'd prove it to Cross and everyone else.
THE FESTIVE charity gala for the Council on Mental Health was being held at the Pension Building on F Street and Fourth on Friday night. The grand ballroom was three stories, with huge marble columns everywhere, and more than a thousand guests noisily seated around a glistening working fountain. The waiters and waitresses wore Santa Claus hats. The band broke into a lively swing version of "Winter Wonderland." What great fun.
The guest speaker for the evening was none other than the Princess of Wales. Sam Harrison was there as well. Jack was there.
He observed Princess Di closely as she entered the glittering, stately ballroom. Her entourage included a financier rumored to be her next husband, the Brazilian ambassador and his wife, and several celebrities from the chic American fashion world: Ironically, two of the models in the group appeared to suffer from anorexia nervosa m the flip side of bulimia, the nervous disorder that had plagued Diana for the previous dozen years.
Jack moved a few steps closer to Princess Di. He was in-trigned, and had serious questions about the quality of her security arrangement. He watched the Secret Service boys make a discreet sweep, then remain on duty nearby, earphones at the ready A formal toastmaster had been brought all the way from England to properly salute the queen- the council's presidentand host Walter Annenberg. The ambassador spoke briefly, then a lavish, though overcooked and underspiced, din-her followed: baby lamb with sauce Niqoise and haricots verts.
When the princess finally rose to speak during dessert, an orange almond tart with orange sauce and Marsala cream, Jack was less than thirty feet away from her. She wore an expensive gold sheath of taffeta with sequins, but he found her somewhat gawky, at least to his taste. Her large feet made him think of the cartoon character Daisy Duck. Princess Daisy, that was his moniker for Di.
Diana's speech at the gala was very personal, if familiar, to those who had followed her life closely. A troubled childhood and adolescence, a debilitating search for perfection, feelings of self-revulsion and low personal esteem. All this had led to what she spoke of as her "shameful friend," bulimia.
Jack found the speech strangely off-putting and cloying. He wasn't at all touched by Diana's self-pity, or the near hysteria that seemed to reside just below the surface of her performance --perhaps her entire life.
The audience clearly had a different reaction, even the usually cool-as-ice Secret Service guards seemed to react emotionally to the popular Di. The applause when she had finished speaking was thunderous and seemed heartfelt and sincere.
Then the entire room stood up Jack included, and continued the warm, noisy tribute. He could almost have reached out and touched Di. Here to bulimia, he wanted to call out. Here's to worthwhile causes of all kinds.
It was time for him to move into action again. It was time for number two in the Jack and Jill story. Time for a lot of things to begin.
It was also his turn to be the star tonight- to solo, as it were. He had been watching another well-known personality that evening at the party He had watched her, studied her habits and mannerisms on a few other occasions as well.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
Natalie Sheehan was physically striking, much more so than Di, actually The much-admired TV
newswoman was blond, about five eight in heels. She wore a simple, classic, black silk dress. She oozed charm, but especially class. First class. Natalie Sheehan had been aptly described as "American royalty, an American princess."
Jack started to move at a little past nine-thirty Guests were already dancing to an eight-piece band. The breezy chitchat was flowing freely: Marion Gingrich's business dealings, trade problems with China, John Major's problems du jour, planned ski trips to Aspen, Whistler, or Alta.
She had downed three margaritas -- straight up, with salt around the rim. He had watched her. She didn't show it but she had to be feeling something, had to be a little high.
She was an extremely good actor, Jack was thinking as he came up beside her at one of the complimentary bars. She a master of the one-night stand and the one-weekend affair. Jill had researched the hell out of her. I know everything about you, Natalie.
He took two sidelong steps, and suddenly they were face to face. They nearly collided, actually He could smell her perfume.
Flowers and spices. Very nice. He even knew the delightful fragrance's name- ESCADA acre 2. He'd read that it was Natalie's favorite.
"I'm sorry. Excuse me," he said, feeling his cheeks redden.
"No, no. I wasn't looking where I was going. Clumsy me," Natalie said and smiled. It was her killer TV
close-up smile.
Really something to experience firsthand.
Jack smiled back, and suddenly his eyes communicated recognition.
He knew her. "You never forgot a name, or a face, not in eleven years of broadcasting," he said to Natalie Sheehan. "That's an accurate quote, I believe."
Natalie didn't miss a beat. "You're Scott Cookson. We met at the Meridian. It was in early September.
You're a lawyer with...
a prestigious D.C. law firm. Of course."
She laughed at her small joke. Nice laugh. Beautiful lips and perfectly capped teeth. The Natalie Sheehan. His target for the evening.
"We did meet at the Meridian?" she said, checking her facts like the good reporter she was. "You are Scott Cookson?"
"We did, and I am. You had another affair to attend after that, at the British embassy."
"You seem never to forget a face or factoid, either," she said.
The smile remained fixed. Perfect, glowing, almost effervescent.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
The TV star in real life, if this was real life.
Jack shrugged, and acted shy, which wasn't so hard to do with Natalie. "Some faces, some factoids," he said.
She was classically beautiful, extremely attractive at any rate, he couldn't help thinking. The warm heartland smile was her trademark, and it worked very well for her. He had studied it for hours before tonight. He wasn't completely immune to her charms -- not even under the circumstances.
"Well," Natalie said to him. "I don't have another party after this one. Actually, I'm cutting back on parties. Believe it or not.
This is a good cause, though."
"I agree. I believe in good causes."
"Oh, and what's your favorite cause, Scott?"
"Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals," he said.
"That's my pet cause."
He tried to look pleasantly surprised that she would remain talking with him. He could play parlor games as well as anyone -- when he had to, when he wanted to.
"If I might be just a little bold," he said, "would you consider the two of us cutting back together?" His very natural and unassuming smile undercut the forward-sounding line. It was a come-on just the same.
There was no disguising that. Natalie Sheehan's answer was tremendously important, to both of them.
She stared at him, slightly taken aback. He'd completely blown it, he thought. Or maybe she was acting now.
Then Natalie Sheehan laughed. It was a hearty laugh, almost raucous. He was sure that no one in America had ever heard it in her prim and proper role as a network television reporter.
Poor Natalie, Jack thought. Number two.
NATALIE TOOK another margarita for the trip home. "A roadie," she told him and laughed that deep, wonderful laugh of hers again.
"I learned how to party a little bit at St. Catherine's Academy in Cleveland. Then at Ohio State," she confided as they walked to the garage under the Pension Building. She was trying to show him that she was different from her television persona. Looser, more fun. He got that much, got the message. He even liked her for it. He was noticing that her usually crisp and exact enunciation was just a little off now. She probably thought it was sexy, and she was right. She was actually very nice, very down-to-earth, which surprised him a little.
They took her' car, as Jill had accurately predicted. Natalie drove the silverblue Dodge Stealth a little too fast. All the while she talked rapid-fire, too, but kept it interesting: GATT, Boris Yeltsin's drinking problems, D.C. real estate, campaign-financing reform. She showed herself to be intelligent, informed, Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
high-spirited, and only slightly neurotic about the ongoing struggle between men and women.
"Where are we going?" he finally thought he should ask. He already knew the answer, of course. The Jefferson Hotel.
Natalie's honey trap in D.C. Her place.
"Oh, to my laboratory," she said. "Why, are you nervous?"
"No. Well, maybe a little nervous," he said and laughed. It was the truth.
She brought him upstairs to her private office in the Jefferson Hotel on Sixteenth Street. Two beautiful rooms and a spacious bath overlooked downtown. He knew that she also had a house in Old Town Alexandria. Jill had visited there. Just in case.
Just to be thorough. Measure twice. Measure five times, if necessary.
"This place is my treat for myself. A special spot where I can work right here in the city," she told him.
"Isn't the view breathtaking?
It makes you feel as if you own the whole city It does for me, anyway"
"I see what you mean. I love Washington myself," Jack said.
For a moment he was lost, peering off into the distance. He did love this city and what it was supposed to represent -- at least, he had once upon a time. He still remembered his very first visit here. He had been a marine private, twenty years old. The Soldier.
He quietly surveyed her workspace. Laptop computer, Canon Bubblejet, two VCRs, gold Emmy, pocket OAG. Fresh-cut flowers in a pink vase beside a black ceramic bowl filled with foreign pocket change.
Natalie Sheehan, this is your life. Kind of impressive; kind of sad; kind of over.
Natalie stopped and looked at him closely, almost as if she were seeing him for the first time. "You're very nice, aren't you?
You strike me as being a very genuine person. The genuine article, as they say, or used to say You're a nice guy, aren't you, Scott Cookson?"
"Not really," he shrugged. He rolled his sparkling blue eyes and an engaging little half-smile appeared. He was good at this: getting the girl -- if it was necessary. Actually, though, under normal circumstances, he never ran around. He was at heart a one-woman guy
"Nobody's really nice in Washington, right? Not after you've lived here for a while," he said and continued to smile.
"I suppose that's true. I guess that's basically accurate," she snorted out a raucous laugh, then laughed again. At herself? He could see that Natalie was disappointed a little in his answer.
She wanted, or maybe she needed, something genuine in her life. Well, so did he; and this was it." The Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
game was exquisite, and it was definitely the genuine article. It was so important. It was history. And it was happening right now in this Jefferson Hotel suite.
This irresistible, dangerous game he was playing, this was his life. It was something with meaning, and he felt fulfilled. No, he felt, for the first time in years.
"Hi there, Scott Cookson. Did we lose you for a see?"
"No, no. I'm right here. I'm a here-and-now kind of person.
Just admiring the wonderful view you have here. Washington in the wee hours."
"It's our view for tonight. Yours and mine."
Natalie made the first physical move, which was also as he had predicted and was therefore reassuring to him.
She came up close to him, from behind. She placed her long slender arms around his chest, bracelets jangling. It was extremely nice. She was highly desirable, almost overpoweringly so, and she knew it. He felt himself become aroused, become extremely hard down the left side of his trousers. That kind of arousal was like a small itch compared to everything else he was feeling now. Besides, he could use it.
Let her feel your excitement.
Let her touch you.
"Are you okay with this?" she asked. She actually was nice, wasn't she? Thoughtful, considerate. It was too bad, really Too late to change the plan, to switch targets. Bad luck, Natalie.
"I'm very okay with this, Natalie."
"Can I take your tie off, tasteful as it is?" she asked.
"I think that ties should be done away with altogether," he answered.
"No, ties definitely have a place. First Communions, funerals, coronations."
Natalie was standing very close to him. She could be so sweetly, gently seductive- and that was sad. He liked her more than he'd thought he would. Once upon a time, she had probably been the simple Midwestern beauty she now half pretended to be. He had felt nothing but revulsion for Daniel Fitzpatrick, but he felt a great deal tonight. Guilt, regret, second thoughts, compassion. The hardest thing was killing up close like this.
"How about white pima cotton shirts? Are you a white-shirt man?" Natalie asked.
"Don't like white shirts at all. White shirts are for funerals and coronations. And charity balls."
"I agree a thousand percent with that sentiment," Natalie said as she slowly unbuttoned his white shirt. He let her fingers do the walking. They trailed down to his belt. Teasing. Expert at this. She rubbed her palm across his crotch, then quickly took her hand away.
"How about high heels?" Natalie asked.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
"Actually, I like those on the right occasion, and on the right woman," he said. "But I like going barefoot, too."
"Nicely put. Give a girl her choice. I like that."
She kicked off just one black slingback, then laughed at her joke. A choice -- one shoe on, one off.
"Silk dresses?" she whispered against his neck. He was rock-hard now. His breathing was labored. So was Natalie's. He considered making love to her first. Was that fair game? Or was it rape? Natalie had managed to confuse the issue for him.
"I can do without those, depending on the occasion, of course," he whispered back.
"Mmm. We seem to agree on a lot of things."
Natalie Sheehan slid out of her dress. Then she was in her blue lacy underwear, one shoe, black stockings. Around her neck was a thin gold chain and cross that looked as if it had come with her all the way from Ohio.
Jack still had his trousers on. But no white shirt, no tie. "Can we go in there?" she whispered, indicating the bedroom. ,'It's really nice in there. Same view, only with a fireplace. The fireplace even works.
Something actually works in Washington."
"Okay. Well, let's start a fire then."
Jack picked her up as if she weighed nothing, as if they were both elegant dancers, which in a way they were. He didn't want to care about her, but he did. He forced the thought out of his mind.
He couldn't think like that, like a schoolboy, a Pollyanna, a normal human being.
"Strong, too. Hmmm," she sighed, finally kicking off the other shoe.
The picture window in the bedroom was astonishing to behold.
The view was north up Sixteenth Street. The streets and Scott Circle below were like a lovely and expensive necklace, jewelry by Harry Winston or Tiffany. Something Princess Di might wear.
Jack had to remind himself that he was stalking Natalie. Nothing must stop this from happening now. The final decision had been made. The die was cast. Literally.
He forced himself not to be sentimental. Just like that! He could be so cold, and so good at this.
He thought about throwing the high-spirited and beautiful newswoman through the plate glass window of her bedroom. He wondered if she would crash through or just bounce back off the glass.
Instead, he set Natalie down gently on a bed covered with an Amish quilt. He pulled out handcuffs from his jacket pocket.
He let her see them.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
Natalie Sheehan frowned, her blue eyes widening in disbelief.
She seemed to deflate, to depress, right before his eyes.
"Is this some kind of sick joke?" She was angry with him, but she was also hurt. She figured he was a freak, and she was right beyond her wildest nightmares.
His voice was very low. "No, this isn't a joke. This is very serious, Natalie. You might say that it's newsworthy."
There was a sudden and very sharp knock at the door to the demi-apartment. He held up a finger for Natalie to be quiet, very quiet.
Her eyes showed confusion, genuine fear, an uncustomary loss of her cool demeanor.
His eyes were cold. They showed nothing at all.
"That's Jill," he told Natalie Sheehan. "I'm Jack. I'm sorry. I really am."
I EASED MY WAY inside the Jefferson Hotel just before eight in the morning. A little Gershwin was rolling through my head, trying to soothe the savage, trying to smooth out the jagged edges.
Suddenly, I was playing the bizarre game, too. Jack and Jill. I was part of it now.
The cool dignity of the hotel was being scrupulously main-rained; at least, it was in the elegant front lobby It was difficult to grasp the reality that a bizarre and unspeakable tragedy had struck here, or that it ever could.
I passed a fancy grillroom and a shop displaying couture fashion. A century-old clock gently chimed the hour; otherwise, the room was hushed. There was no sign, not a hint, that the Jefferson m indeed the entire city of Washington -- was in shock and chaos over a pair of grisly, high-profile murders and threats of still more to come.
I am continually fascinated by facades like the one I encountered at the Jefferson. Maybe that's why I love Washington so much. The hotel lobby reminded me that most things aren't what they appear to be.
It was a perfect representation for so much that goes on in D.C. Clever facades fronting even morfrom his jacket pocket.
He let her see them.
Natalie Sheehan frowned, her blue eyes widening in disbelief.
She seemed to deflate, to depress, right before his eyes.
"Is this some kind of sick joke?" She was angry with him, but she was also hurt. She figured he was a freak, and she was right beyond her wildest nightmares.
His voice was very low. "No, this isn't a joke. This is very serious, Natalie. You might say that it's newsworthy."
There was a sudden and very sharp knock at the door to the demi-apartment. He held up a finger for Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
Natalie to be quiet, very quiet.
Her eyes showed confusion, genuine fear, an uncustomary loss of her cool demeanor.
His eyes were cold. They showed nothing at all.
"That's Jill," he told Natalie Sheehan. "I'm Jack. I'm sorry. I really am."
I EASED MY WAY inside the Jefferson Hotel just before eight in the morning. A little Gershwin was rolling through my head, trying to soothe the savage, trying to smooth out the jagged edges.
Suddenly, I was playing the bizarre game, too. Jack and Jill. I was part of it now.
The cool dignity of the hotel was being scrupulously main-rained; at least, it was in the elegant front lobby It was difficult to grasp the reality that a bizarre and unspeakable tragedy had struck here, or that it ever could.
I passed a fancy grillroom and a shop displaying couture fashion. A century-old clock gently chimed the hour; otherwise, the room was hushed. There was no sign, not a hint, that the Jefferson m indeed the entire city of Washington -- was in shock and chaos over a pair of grisly, high-profile murders and threats of still more to come.
I am continually fascinated by facades like the one I encountered at the Jefferson. Maybe that's why I love Washington so much. The hotel lobby reminded me that most things aren't what they appear to be.
It was a perfect representation for so much that goes on in D.C. Clever facades fronting even more clever facades.
Jack and Jill had committed their second murder in five days. In this serene and very posh hotel. They had threatened several more murders -- and no one had a clue why, or how to stop the celebrity stalking.
It was escalating.
Clearly, it was.
But why? What did Jack and Jill want? What was their sick game all about?
I had already been on the phone very early that morning, talking to my strange friends in abnormal psych at Quantico. One of the advantages I have is that they all know I have a doctorate in psych from Johns Hopkins and they're willing to talk with me, even to share theories and insights. So far, they were stumped.
Then checked in with a contact of mine at the FBI's evidence analysis labs. The evidence hounds didn't have much of anything to go on, either. They admitted as much to me. Jack and Jill had all of us chasing our tails in double time.
Speaking of which, I had been ordered by the chief of detectives to work up "one of your famous psych profiles" on the homicidal couple, if that's what they really were. I felt the task was futile at this point, but hadn't been given a choice by The Jefe. Working at home on my PC, I ran a wide swath through the available Behavioral Science Unit and Violent Criminal Apprehension Program data. Nothing obvious or very useful popped up, as I suspected it wouldn't. It was too early in the chase, and Jack and Jill were too good.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
For now at least the correct steps were (1) gather as much information and data as possible; (2) ask the right questions, and plenty of them; (3) start collecting wild hunches on index cards that I would carry around until the end of the case.
I knew about several stalker cases, and I ran the information down in my head. One inescapable fact was that the Bureau now had a database of more than fifty thousand potential and actual stalkers. That was up from less than a thousand in the 1980s. There didn't seem to be any single stalker profile, but many of them shared traits: first and foremost, obsession with the media; need for recognition; obsession with violence and religion; difficulty forming loving relationships of their own. I thought of Margaret Ry, the obsessed fan who had broken into David Letterman's home in Connecticut numerous times. She had called Letterman "the dominant person in my life." I watch Letterman sometimes myself, but he's not that good.
Then there was the Monica Seles stabbing in Hamburg, Germany Katarina Witt had nearly suffered the same fate at the hand of a "fan."
Sylvester Stallone, Madonna, Michael Jackson, and Jodie Foster had all been seriously stalked and attacked by people who claimed to adore them.
But who were Jack and Jill? Why had they chosen Washington, D.C., for the murders? Had someone in the government harmed one or both of them in some real or imagined way?
What was the link between Senator Daniel Fitzpatrick and the murdered television newswoman Natalie Sheehan? What could Fitzpatrick and Sheehan possibly have in common? They were liberals -- could that be something? Or were the killings radom, and therefore nearly impossible to chart? Random was a nasty word that was sticking in my head more and more as I thought about the case. Random was a very bad word in homicide circles. Random murders were almost impossible to solve.
Most celebrity stalkers didn't murder their prey- at least, they didn't use extreme violence right away.
That bothered the hell out of me about Jack and Jill. How long had they been obsessed with Senator Fitzpatrick and Natalie Sheehan? How had they ultimately chosen their victims? Don't let these be random selections and murders. Anything but that.
I was also intrigued by the fact that there were two of them, working closely together.
I had just come off a dizzying, high-profile case in which two friends, two males, had been kidnapping and murdering women for more than thirteen years. They had been cooperating, but also competing with each other. The psychological principle involved was known as twinning.
So what about Jack and Jill? Were theyfreak-friends? Were they romantically involved? Or was their bond something else? Was it a sexual thing for them? That seemed like a reasonable possibility.
Power dominance? A really kinky parlor game, maybe the ultimate sex fantasy? Were they a husband-and-wife team? Or maybe spree killers like Bonnie and Clyde?
Was this the beginning of a gruesome crime spree? A multiple-murder spree in Washington ?
Would it spread elsewhere? To other large cities where celebrities tend to cluster? New York? Los Angeles? Paris? London?
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
I stepped off the elevator on the seventh floor of the Jefferson Hotel and looked into a corridor of dazed and confused faces.
Judging from the looks at the crime scene, I was pretty much up to speed.
Jack and Jill came to The Hill To kill, to kill, to kill.
"THE GOOD DOCTOR CROSS, the master of disaster. Well, I'll be. Alex -- hey, Alex -- over here!"
I was lost in a bad jumble of thoughts and impressions about the murders when I heard my name. I recognized the voice immediately, and it brought a smile to my lips.
I turned and saw Kyle Craig of the FBI. Another dragonslayer, this one originally from Lexington, Massachusetts. Kyle was not your typical FBI agent. He was a totally straight shooter. He wasn't uptight, and he usually wasn't bureaucratic. Kyle and I had worked together on some very bad cases in the past.
He was a specialist in high-profile crimes that were marked by extreme violence or multiple murders.
Kyle was an expert in the nasty, scary stuff most Bureau agents didn't want to be involved with on a regular basis. Beyond that, he was a friend.
"They've got all the big guns out on this one," Kyle said as we shook hands in the foyer. He was tall, still gaunt. Distinctive features and strikingly black hair, coal black hair. He had a long hawk's nose that looked sharp enough to cut.
"Who's here so far, Kyle?" I asked him. He would have everything scoped out by now. He was smart and observant, and his instincts were usually good. Kyle also knew who everybody was and how they fit into the larger picture.
Kyle puckered up. He made a face as if he had just sucked on a particularly sour lemon. "Who the hell isn't here, Alex? Detectives from D.C., your own cornpadres. The Bureau, of course.
DEA, believe it or not. The blue suit is CIA. You can tell by the clipped wings. Your close friend Chief Pittman is in visiting with Ms. Sheehan's lovely corpse. They're in the boudoir as we speak."
"Now that's scary," I said and smiled thinly. "About as grotesque as you can get."
Kyle pointed to a closed door, which I assumed was the bedroom.
"I don't think they want to be disturbed. A rumor circulating at Quantico has it that Chief of Detectives Pittman is a necrophiliac," he said with a deadpan look. "Could that be true?"
"Victimless crimes," I said.
"How about a little respect for the dead," Kyle said, peering down his nose at me. "Even in death, I'm certain Ms. Sheehan would find a way to rebuff your chief of detectives."
I wasn't surprised that The Jefe himself had come to the Jefferson. This was developing into the biggest D.C. homicide case in years. It definitely would be if Jack and Jill struck again soon -- as they had promised.
Reluctantly, I parted company with Kyle and walked toward the closed bedroom door. I opened it slowly, as if it might be booby-trapped.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
The one and only Chief George Pittman was in the bedroom with a man in a gray suit. Probably a forensics guy. They both glanced around at me. Pittman was chomping on an unlit Bauza cigar. Pittman frowned and shook his head when he saw who it was. Nothing he could do about it. It was Commissioner Clouser's invitation-order that I be on the case. It was obvious that The Jefe didn't want me here.
He muttered "the late Alex Cross" to the other suit. So much for polite introductions and light banter.
The two of them turned back to the famous corpse on the bed.
Chief Pittman had been abusive for no apparent reason. I didn't let it bother me too much. It was business-pretty-much-as-usual with the rude, bullying prick. What a useless bastard, a real horseass. All he ever did was get in the way.
I breathed in slowly a couple of times. Got into the job, the homicide scene. I walked over to the bed and started my routine: the collection of raw impressions.
A G-string was pulled partly over Natalie Sheehan's head, and the waistband was wrapped around her throat. Panties covered her nose, chin, and mouth. Her wide blue eyes were fixed on the ceiling. She was still wearing black stockings and a blue bra that matched the panties.
Here was evidence of kinkiness again, and yet I didn't quite believe it. Everything was too orderly and arranged. Why would they want us to suspect kinky sex might be involved? Was that something? Were Jack and Jill frustrated lovers? Was Jack impotent?
We needed to know whether anyone had sex with the victim.
It was a particularly disturbing death scene. Natalie Sheehan had been dead for about eight hours, according to Kyle's information.
She was no longer beautiful, though, not even close. Ironically, she had taken her biggest news story with her to the grave.
She knew Jack -- and maybe Jill.
I could remember watching her on TV, and it was almost as if someone I knew personally had been murdered. Maybe that's why there's such fascination with celebrity murder cases. We see people like Natalie Sheehan on almost a daily basis; we come to think that we know them. And we believe they lead such interesting lives. Even their deaths are interesting.
I could already see that there were some obvious and striking similarities to the murder of Senator Fitzpatrick. The element of kinky sadism for one thing. Natalie Sheehan was manacled to the bedposts with handcuffs. She was seminude. She also seemed to have been "executed," just as the senator had been.
The news celebrity had received one close-range gunshot to the left side of her head, which hung to one side as if her long neck had been broken. Maybe it had been.
Was this the Jack and Jill pattern? Organized, efficient, and cold-blooded as hell. Kinky for some reason known only to them.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
Pseudokinky ? Sexual obsession, or a sign of impotence? What was the pattern telling us? What was it communicating?
I was beginning to formulate a psychological personality print for the killers. The method and style of the killings were more important to me than any physical evidence. Always. Both murders had been carefully planned -- methodical, very structured, and leisurely --Jack and Jill were playing a cold-blooded game.
So far, there had been no significant slipups that I knew of. The only physical evidence left at the scenes was intentional -- the notes.
Sexual fantasy was obvious -- both in exhibiting the female on her bed and in the senator's case, male mutilation. Did Jack and Jill have trouble with sex?
My initial impression was that both killers were white, somewhere between the ages of thirty and forty-five- probably closer to the latter, based on the high level of organization in both murders. I suspected well above average intelligence, but also persuasiveness and physical attractiveness. That was particularly telling, and bizarre to me -- since the killers had managed to get inside the celebrities'
apartments. It was the best clue we had.
There was much more for me to take in, and I did, madly scribbling away in my notepad. Occasionally, TheJefe looked my way and glared at me. Checking up on me.
I wanted to go at him. He represented so many things that were wrong with the department, the Washington PD. He was such a controlling macho a*shole, and not half as bright as he thought he was.
"Anything, Cross?" he finally turned and asked in his usual clipped manner.
"Not so far," I said.
That wasn't the truth. What definitely occurred to me was that Daniel Fitzpatrick and Natalie Sheehan might both have been "promiscuous," in the old-fashioned sense of the word. Maybe Jack and Jill
"disapproved" of them. Both bodies had been left exposed, in compromising and very embarrassing positions. The killers seemed preoccupied with sex -- or at least the sex lives of famous people.
Exposed... or to expose I wondered. Exposed for what reason?
"I'd like to look at the note," I told Pittman, trying to be civil and professional.
Pittman waved a hand in the direction of an end table on the far side of the bed! His gesture was dismissive and rude. I wouldn't treat the rawest rookie patrolman that way. I had shown more respect to Chop-It-Off-Chucky.
I walked over and read the note for myself. It was another poem.