She stopped humming and looked up. There was the slightest glint of fear in her eyes. Then she smiled.
Her smile was warm and welcoming. Very nice to be on the receiving end of one of her easy smiles.
"Ahh, it is Detective Cross," she said. "And what brings you to the principal's office?" she said in a put-on voice of authority
"I guess I need some help from the principal. Extra help with my homework." That was true enough, I suppose. "I need to talk with you a little about Vernon Wheatley, if that's possible.
I also wanted to get your okay to speak with some of the teachers again, to see if any of them heard anything from the kids after Vernon's murder. Somebody might have seen something that would help us, even if they don't think they did. Maybe something the kids heard their parents say"
"Yes, I figured the same thing," Mrs. Johnson said. "Somebody here at the school could have a clue, something useful, and might not know it."
I liked everything I saw about Mrs. Johnson, but as soon as I saw it, I pushed it out of my mind. Wrong time, wrong place, and wrong woman. I'd done some questionable things in my life, and I'm no angel, but trying to fool with a married woman wasn't going to be one of them.
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"There's not too much new to report, I'm afraid," she said.
"I've been working a little overtime on your account. I grilled the teachers at lunch today. Interrogated them, actually. I told them that they should tell me if they heard or saw anything suspicious.
They talk to me about most things. We have a pretty close-knit group here."
"Are any of the teachers still here? I could talk to them now if they are. I don't know this for sure, but I suspect the killer might have watched the school at some point," I said to her. I didn't want to frighten Mrs. Johnson or the other teachers, but I did want them on the alert and cautious. I believed that the killer probably had scouted the school.
She shook her head slowly back and forth. Then she cocked it softly to the left. She seemed to be looking at me in a new way.
"Almost all of them are long gone by four. They like to leave together, if possible. Safety in numbers."
"That makes a lot of sense to me. It isn't a great neighborhood.
Well, it is and it isn't."
"And being here at five or so, with a lot of unlocked doors, doesn't make any kind of sense," she said. It was what I had been thinking ever since I arrived at her office door.
I didn't say anything, didn't comment on the unlocked doors.
Mrs. Johnson was certainly free to live her life in whatever way she chose. "Thanks for checking with the teachers for us," I said to her. "Thanks for the overtime work."
"No, thank you for coming by," she said. "I'm sure this must be very hard for you and for Damon. For your whole family It certainly is for all of us at the school."
She finally took off the wire-rim glasses and slid them into the pocket of her work smock. She looked good with or without glasses.
Intelligent, nice, pretty.
Off-limits, out-of-bounds, off your radar charts, I reminded myself.
I could almost feel a ruler rap across my knuckles.
Faster than I would have thought possible, she slid a snubnose.38 Special out of an open drawer on the right side of the desk.
She didn't point it in my direction, but she easily could have.
Easily.
"I lived in this neighborhood for a lot of years," she explained.
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Then she smiled and put the gun away. "I try to be prepared for whatever might happen," she said calmly
"And shit does happen around here. I knew you were there in the doorway, Detective.
The kids claim I have eyes in the back of my head. Actually, I do."
She laughed again. I did like her laugh. Anyone with a pulse would. Say goodnight, Alex.
I had mixed feelings about civilians owning guns, but I was sure hers was registered and legal. "You learn to use that revolver in the neighborhood?" I asked.
"No, actually, I learned at the Remington Gun Club out in Fairfax. My husband was, is, worried about my coming to work here, too. You men seem to think alike. Sorry, sorry," she said and smiled again. "I try to catch myself when even I say outrageous sexist things like that. I don't like that. No how, no way Sorry."
She stood up and flicked off the Mac laptop on her desk. "I'll walk you to the front door," she said.
"Make sure you get out safely, since it's well after four."
"That's a good idea." I went along with her little joke. She had me smiling some, anyway That was pretty good, under the circumstances of the past few days. "Are you always this funny?
This loose?"
She work."
"No, thank you for coming by," she said. "I'm sure this must be very hard for you and for Damon. For your whole family It certainly is for all of us at the school."
She finally took off the wire-rim glasses and slid them into the pocket of her work smock. She looked good with or without glasses.
Intelligent, nice, pretty.
Off-limits, out-of-bounds, off your radar charts, I reminded myself.
I could almost feel a ruler rap across my knuckles.
Faster than I would have thought possible, she slid a snubnose.38 Special out of an open drawer on the right side of the desk.
She didn't point it in my direction, but she easily could have.
Easily.
"I lived in this neighborhood for a lot of years," she explained.
Then she smiled and put the gun away. "I try to be prepared for whatever might happen," she said calmly
"And shit does happen around here. I knew you were there in the doorway, Detective.
The kids claim I have eyes in the back of my head. Actually, I do."
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She laughed again. I did like her laugh. Anyone with a pulse would. Say goodnight, Alex.
I had mixed feelings about civilians owning guns, but I was sure hers was registered and legal. "You learn to use that revolver in the neighborhood?" I asked.
"No, actually, I learned at the Remington Gun Club out in Fairfax. My husband was, is, worried about my coming to work here, too. You men seem to think alike. Sorry, sorry," she said and smiled again. "I try to catch myself when even I say outrageous sexist things like that. I don't like that. No how, no way Sorry."
She stood up and flicked off the Mac laptop on her desk. "I'll walk you to the front door," she said.
"Make sure you get out safely, since it's well after four."
"That's a good idea." I went along with her little joke. She had me smiling some, anyway That was pretty good, under the circumstances of the past few days. "Are you always this funny?
This loose?"
She tilted her head again. It was something she did often. Then she nodded confidently. "Always. At least this funny Those were my two vocational choices: comedienne or educator. Obviously, I chose comedienne. More laughs here. Honest laughs. Most days, anyway"
The two of us walked down the deserted halls of the school together. Our footfalls made clapping sounds that echoed loudly The "Shoop Shoop" song played inside my head, the tune she'd been humming in her office. There were lots more questions I wanted to ask her, but I knew I shouldn't be asking some of them.
They had nothing to do with the murder case.
When we got to the school's front door, a husky, middle-aged security guard was there to let me out. He surprised me. I hadn't seen him on my way in.
He had a thick wooden nightstick and a walkie-talkie. It was the look and feel of D.C. schools that I knew all too well.
Guards, metal detectors, steel-mesh screens covering every window.
No wonder the people of the neighborhood hate and fear all established institutions, even their own schools.
"Goodnight, sir," the school guard said with a most congenial smile. "You be leaving soon, Mrs.
Johnson?"
"Pretty soon," she said. "You can go home if you want to, Lionel. I have my Uzi inside."
Lionel laughed at her joke. She had very good delivery, good timing. I'll bet she could have done some stand-up work if she'd wanted.
"Goodnight, Mrs. Johnson," I said. I couldn't help adding, "Please be careful until this case is over."
She stood just inside the heavy wooden door. She looked so wise, and she was attractive, in my way of Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
viewing the world. "It's 'Christine,'" she said, "and I will be careful. I promise. Thank you for stopping by."
Christine! Jesus! It was the same name I'd made up for her.
Probably I'd heard it somewhere before, from Damon or Nana, but it seemed so strange. Kind of magical, actually. Would have made James Redfield happy as hell.
I went home that evening thinking about the two child murders, and Jack and Jill, but also about the principal of the Sojourner Truth School. She was wise, funny, and pretty, too. She could take care of herself-- even handle a gun.
Mrs. Johnson.
Christine.
Shoop. Shoop. Shoop. Shoop.
IN THIS DANGEROUS AGE, everybody needs to think, It won't happen to me. Not to me. What are the odds of it actually happening to me?
The motion picture actor Michael Robinson thought it was absurd and more than a little self-absorbed for him to be concerned or afraid of the maniac killers on the loose in Washington.
What did the malicious Jack and Jill threats have to do with him, anyway? The answer, it seemed clear to him, was nothing at all.
Still, he was a trifle skittish and jumpy, so he tried to enjoy the adrenaline rush, to go with the nasty flow of the moment, of the times we live in.
A little before midnight, the Hollywood star finally got up his nerve and called for a date from the VIP
escort service. A "snack" before bedtime. He had used the service many times before while visiting D.C.
The discreet, toney, very expensive sex-for-hire service had his requirements down pat. M.R. was in its file, compliments of the star's full-service business agent in Los Angeles.
After he made the phone call, the forty-nine-year-old actor tried to read an expensive adventure-romance script he'd commissioned, but then got up and walked to the window of his penthouse suite at the Willard Hotel on Pennsylvania Avenue.
He knew his fans would find it scandalous that he was paying for a lover, but that was their hang-up, not his.
The truth was, he found it far less complicated, and far easier on the psyche, to pay a thousand or fifteen hundred than to get involved in wooing, and then painfully separating from, lovers while on the road.
Actually, he was in a good mood tonight, feeling very level and grounded, he thought as he stared out on the street. He just needed some company, a little TLC, and some uncomplicated sex. All three of his requirements would be met shortly, he hoped.
In a way, he was still time-warped back in his hometown of Wichita, circa 1963, when he was a high school senior. The fantasies and desires he'd had then were still unresolved and operating full-tilt boogie Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/ab*.html
inside him. There was one difference: he knew what he wanted tonight and he would get it without much trouble, guilt, or the gnashing of teeth.
He glanced around the hotel suite and decided to tidy it up before the escort arrived. The neurotic tidying-up made him smile.
How incredibly bourgeois he still was. You can take the boy out of Kansas, Michael Robinson thought.
He heard two quick raps on the door, and the noise caught him by surprise. The service had said the escort would be there within the hour, which usually meant at least that long, sometimes longer.
"Just a minute," he called out. "Be right there. One minute."
Michael Robinson glanced at his watch. The "date" had arrived in about thirty minutes. Well, fine. He was ready for some quick nookie and then a night of blessed sleep. He was having breakfast with the chairman of the Democratic National Committee early the next morning. He'd been asked to do a fund-raiser for the Democrats. The chairman was a starf*cker of another variety They all were, really Everybody wanted what he thought he couldn't have, and everybody couldn't have Michael Robinson.
Well, almost everybody He peeked through the hotel-door spyhole. Well, well, well.
He definitely liked what he saw in the hallway; even through a fish-eye lens, the escort looked good. He felt a spike of adrenaline kick in. He opened the door and his fifteen-million-dollar-per-picture smile was automatically engaged.
"Hi, I'm Jasper," the handsome escort said. "It's very nice to meet you, sir."
Michael Robinson doubted that the escort was "Jasper." He thought that a name like Jake or Cliff would fit the escort better.
He was a tad older than Robinson had expected, possibly in his mid-thirties, but he was more than acceptable. He was near perfect, actually. Michael Robinson was already hard, and he was lubricated.
Armed and dangerous, he called the ready state.
"How are you doing tonight?" The actor put out his hand and lightly touched the other man's arm. He wanted "Jasper" to know that he was down-to-earth, unaffected, and most of all, a warm person. He truly was all of that. USA Today had recently published a list of the "nicest" stars in Hollywood. He was on it, courtesy of his business agent and lawyer, who spoke exceedingly well of him.
Jack unleashed his best smile as he entered Michael Robinson's Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous hotel suite. He shut the door behind him. He figured he had about half an hour before the real escort arrived from the service. That would be enough time.
At any rate, Jill was watching the lobby of the Willard, just in case the male prostitute arrived early. She would take care of things downstairs. Jill was excellent with the details, all the loose ends. Jill was excellent, period.
"I'm a real fan," Jack said to the big Hollywood star. "I've been following your career closely, actually"
Michael Robinson spoke in a near-whisper that would have shocked male and female fans of his action-romance films. "Oh, really, Jasper? That's always so nice for me to hear. It's kind of you to say, anyway"
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"I swear to God, it's true." Sam Harrison continued his act.
"My name is Jack, by the way Jill is down in the lobby Maybe you've heard of us?"
Jack pulled out a Beretta with a silencer and aimed it between the actor's startled deep-blue eyes. He fired. It fit the pattern of Jack and Jill. People in high places. Execution-style murder.
Kinky touches and poem to follow.
Jack and Jill came to The Hill To kill, to kill, to kill.
ONE SPECIFIC, and particularly fascinating, detail about the murders was weighing heavily on my mind, troubling the hell out of me. I thought about it as I turned onto crowded Pennsylvania Avenue and double-parked in front of the Willard Hotel -- the latest helter-skelter murder scene.
I thought about the troubling detail as I marched inside and headed up to Michael Robinson's suite.
I thought about it as the smooth-riding elevator whooshed open on the seventh floor, where half a dozen uniforms were standing around, and rolls of crime-scene tape ribboned the hallway like a tangle of distasteful Christmas wrapping.
There wasn't much evidence of passion in the first two killings, I was thinking. Especially the second murder. The murders were so cold-blooded and efficient. The arrangement of the bodies of the victims seemed to have been art-directed. The kinkiness of the scenes seemed too directed and orderly. This is the exact opposite of the Sojourner Truth School murders, which were violent explosions of pent-up anger and pure rage.
I didn't get the full significance yet, and neither did anyone else I spoke to about the murder case. Not inside the D.C. police, and not at the Federal Bureau in Quantico. If, as a detective, I had one basic rule about premeditated murders, it was this: they were almost always based on passion. There usually had to be extreme love. Or hate. Or greed... but these killings seemed to have none of that. It kept bugging me.
Why Michael Robinson ? I wondered as I walked toward the hotel room where he had been murdered.
What are these two bizarre psychopaths doing here in Washington? What sick and cruel game are they playing... and why do they crave millions of spectators for their sensational blood sport?
I spotted Kyle Craig once again. The FBI senior agent and I talked for several moments outside the suite. All around us, usually sangfroid D.C. cops appeared in mild shock. A lot of them were probably disappointed Michael Robinson fans.
"The medical examiner figures he's been a famous corpse for about seven hours. So it happened around twelve last night," Kyle told me, giving me the lay of the land. "Two shots fired to his head, Alex. Close range, just like the others. Take a look at the tattooing for yourself. Whoever did the shooting is a real heartless bastard."
I agreed with what Kyle was saying.
Heartless.
No passion.
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No rage.
"How was Michael Robinson found?"
"Oh, that's another good part, Alex. A new wrinkle. They phoned it in to the Post. Told the newspaper where to pick up the trash this morning."
"Is that a quote?" I asked Kyle.
"I don't have the exact quote they used, but 'pick up the trash' was definitely part of it," Kyle said.
I was interested in any irreverence or cynicism Jack and Jill might use in describing the killings. They were obviously into wordplay They were artistes. I also wondered if they might be out there on Pennsylvania Avenue, watching us again. Filming us as we bumbled and stumbled over one another inside the Willard.
I wondered if they were preparing a second film, with their usual wide-release distribution method in mind. Surveillance had been posted outside, so if they were there, we had then.
I entered the living room of the suite, and I was relieved to see that Chief of Detectives Pittman was nowhere on the scene. The film actor Michael Robinson was there, however. As they say, he had been born to play the role -- Perhaps his greatest.
His naked body was in a sitting position on the floor, the head against the couch. It seemed as if the actor had been propped up to see anyone entering the room, and maybe that was the killers' idea. His eyes stared out at me. To see, or to be seen? I wondered.
He was not a pretty sight. took note of the lividity The blood had already pooled in the lowermost parts of his body, which now had an ugly purplish red color.
Another celebrity had been exposed. Brought down to earth.
Punished for some real or imagined sin ? What connection was there with Fitzpatrick and Sheehan? Why a senator, a newswoman, and an actor?
Three murders in such a short time. Celebrities are supposed to be safer than the rest of us, more protected at least, and above all this. It got to me, seeing Michael Robinson dead and violated.
There was something visceral and system-shocking about what the killers were doing.
What was the bizarre, complex message from Jack and Jill?
That nobody was safe anymore? I rolled the outrageous thought around in my head. It was a good starting place, a concept to work with.
Nobody is safe?Jack and Jill were telling us they could come for anyone, at any time. They knew how to get inside.
There was another note with the body Another Jack and Jill rhyme. It was on the night table, where the weird and ghoulish killers, or killer, had left it for us to find.
Jack and Jill came to The Hill To do some deadly deeds.
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They weren't far wrong To judge how long A bleeding liberal bleeds.
One of Michael Robinson's agents was in the room. He'd flown down from New York. He was a good-looking man, with silver-blond hair. He wore a long cashmere coat over an Armani suit. I noticed his eyes were red and swollen. He seemed to have been crying. Two medical examiners were working on the film actor's body I suppose you could call all that attention going out in style.
Only the best for Michael Robinson.
There were some other obvious connections to the Fitzpatrick and Sheehan murders. There was a tawdry, kinky side to all three killings. Each had been an execution. And maybe most important so far, they were all "bleeding liberals," weren't they? They had all been exposed for what they were.
"Dr. Alex Cross ? Excuse me, you're Dr. Alex Cross, aren't you ?"
I turned to a tall, rangy man who had spoken my name. He was clean-cut and his bearing was almost military. About forty, I guessed. He wore a black raincoat over a dark gray suit. A buttoned-down look.
Definitely senior law enforcement of some kind, I figured.
"Yes, I'm Alex Cross," I said to him.
"I'm Jay Grayer from the Secret Service," he introduced himself formally There was something about the very erect way that he held himself. Extreme confidence. Or was it moral certitude? A stiff pole up his behind?
"I'm senior agent of the First Family detail."
"What can I do for you?" I asked Agent Grayer. Alarms were already sounding in my head. I felt I was about to get a much fuller understanding of why I had been put on the Jack and Jill investigation. By whom, and for exactly what reason.
"You're wanted at the White House," he said. "I'm afraid it's a command performance, Dr. Cross. It's about the Jack and Jill investigation. There's a problem we have to let you know about."
"I'll bet it's a big problem, too," I said to Agent Grayer.
"Yes, I'm afraid it is. It's a very big problem, Dr. Cross. We have something we need to share with you."
I had suspected as much. I'd had a quiet fear way in the back of my mind. Now it was up front.
I was being summoned to the White House.
They wanted the dragonslayer there. Did they understand what that meant?
THE ONLY THING anybody seems to share very readily in Washington these days is trouble.
I could hardly argue with the command from on high, though.
I dutifully accompanied Jay Grayer up the street to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Ask not what I can do for my country.
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The White House was only a short jaunt from the Willard Hotel.
Despite the relative performance of some of the recent occupants, the White House continues to cast its spell over a lot of people, including me. I had been inside only twice, on canned guided tours with my kids, but even they had been larger-than-life and moving. I almost wished Damon and Jannie could be with me.
We were quickly passed through the blue-canopied guardhouse on West Executive Drive. Agent Grayer was allowed to park his car in the garage under the White House. He seemed modestly proud of the perk. He explained that the garage was still considered a primary bomb shelter, but also an escape route in case of an attack.
"Good to know," I said and smiled. Grayer smiled back. It was forced conviviality, but at least we were both making an effort.
"I'm sure you're curious as to why you've been asked to come.
I would be."
"I don't think I've been invited to tea," I said stiffly. "But, yes, I'm very curious."
"The reason is the Soneji and Casanova cases," Grayer explained to me as we took an elevator one flight up from the garage.
"Your reputation precedes you here. You're aware that the FBI has never captured a single serial killer, for all their expertise?
We want you on the tean:."
"What team is that?" I asked.
"You'll see in a few seconds. This is definitely the A team, though. Be ready for some crazy shit. The Bureau has staked out the hotel room where John Hinckley stayed. Just in case the killers might decide to stay there. Pay homage, or something like that."
"Not such a terrible idea," I told Grayer. He looked at me as if I were crazy, too. "Not a particularly good idea, either," I said. He cracked a grin.
Half a dozen men and two women in business attire were gathered in the West Wing office of the White House chief of staff. I sensed a lot of tension in the room, but everyone was working hard to hide it. I was introduced as the representative of the Washington police. Welcome to the team. Say hello to the dragonslayer.
The others at the table cordially introduced themselves. Two more senior agents from the Secret Service, a woman named Ann Roper and a youngish, good-looking man named Michael Fescoe; the director of intelligence from the FBI, Robert Hatfield; General Aiden Cornwall from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the U.S. Army; the national security advisor, Michael Kane; the White House chief of staff, Don Hamerman.
The other woman turned out to be a senior officer in the CIA. The inspector general.
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was being considered. There was a twist I hadn't considered before.
It was fast company for a homicide detective from SoutheaSt D.C., even for a deputy chief. But I figured I was pretty fast company, too. I had seen nasty things that none of them had, or would ever want to.
Let the sharing begin.
Glistening sweet rolls, butter in ice, and coffee in silver pots had been put out for our unusual breakfast club. It was obvious that some of the others had worked together before. I had learned a long time ago that if you can't spot the pigeon in a poker game, then you're probably it.
The national security advisor called the gathering to order a minute or so past ten. Don Hamerman was a wiry, blond man in his mid-thirties who appeared to be tightly strung. That definitely fit the White House staff profile in recent years: very young and very uptight. On the move. On the make, get set, go.
"I'm going to use overheads for this presentation, folks. That's the way we do it here in the Big House,"
Hamerman said and managed a thin, forced smile. He had an unsettling kinetic energy.
He reminded me of high-flying D.C. public relations types, and even of Michael Robinson's overwrought agent back at the Willard.
I gathered from his remark that White House meetings were usually bureaucratic and somewhat formal, rather than loosy-goosy.
Everyone seemed to enjoy the small joke, anyway.
Actually, the forced cordiality disturbed me. I was still flashing On the death-mask expression of Michael Rob Michael Fescoe; the director of intelligence from the FBI, Robert Hatfield; General Aiden Cornwall from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the U.S. Army; the national security advisor, Michael Kane; the White House chief of staff, Don Hamerman. The other woman turned out to be a senior officer in the CIA. The inspector general.
Her name was Jeanne Sterling. Her presence meant that a foreign power's involvement in Jack and Jill was being considered. There was a twist I hadn't considered before.
It was fast company for a homicide detective from SoutheaSt D.C., even for a deputy chief. But I figured I was pretty fast company, too. I had seen nasty things that none of them had, or would ever want to.
Let the sharing begin.
Glistening sweet rolls, butter in ice, and coffee in silver pots had been put out for our unusual breakfast club. It was obvious that some of the others had worked together before. I had learned a long time ago that if you can't spot the pigeon in a poker game, then you're probably it.
The national security advisor called the gathering to order a minute or so past ten. Don Hamerman was a wiry, blond man in his mid-thirties who appeared to be tightly strung. That definitely fit the White House staff profile in recent years: very young and very uptight. On the move. On the make, get set, go.
"I'm going to use overheads for this presentation, folks. That's the way we do it here in the Big House,"
Hamerman said and managed a thin, forced smile. He had an unsettling kinetic energy.
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He reminded me of high-flying D.C. public relations types, and even of Michael Robinson's overwrought agent back at the Willard.
I gathered from his remark that White House meetings were usually bureaucratic and somewhat formal, rather than loosy-goosy.
Everyone seemed to enjoy the small joke, anyway.
Actually, the forced cordiality disturbed me. I was still flashing On the death-mask expression of Michael Robinson. It wasn't an image I liked bringing with me into the White House.
Michael Robinson's naked corpse was probably still in the Willard Hotel with the morgue team, ready to be tagged and bagged.
"I have about an hour's worth of briefing material -- tops.
With full discussion, let's say we're at two hours," Hamerman continued. "That will take us close to noon, but I believe the unfortunate circumstances warrant a tight briefing up front."
What unfortunate circumstances, exactly ? I wanted to interrupt Hamerman, but I kept my cool. It was neither the time nor the place.
Cups of coffee and several cigarette packs were already laid out on the worktable. Everyone was prepared for a tough siege.