Bree started talking as soon as she saw me. “He made a big mistake today, Alex. It wasn’t supposed to go down like this, I’m sure of it.”
“He didn’t expect to see you there. No, I don’t think that he did. But we can’t be one hundred percent sure of that, Bree. He’s the man with a plan, right?”
She winced at the stitch she’d just gotten. The doctor working on her looked up at me for help, but Bree kept talking. “He made the best of it, though. Taunted me, Alex. Let me see the character he was playing—some AP reporter. Neil Stephens, he said. Anything in the name? Or that he was playing a reporter this time? He said he was from Chicago.”
“Let’s talk about this when you’re done,” I said, and squeezed her hand.
She was still for a few seconds but then blurted out, “Did you know Howie Pearsall just got married? Couple of weeks ago. Wife’s a specialed teacher.”
I nodded, trying to model silence until the sewing job on Bree was finished.
“I didn’t see anybody else, Alex. No female in sight. Maybe she was just a one-shot. A distraction. Hey, be careful with that knitting needle, will you?”
“Sorry, Detective,” said the ER doctor.
“Don’t be sorry. Be careful.”
Afterward, Bree and I sat in the lobby to talk. I had a few things to say to her that I knew she wouldn’t want to hear. “Bree, this thing just turned another corner. We both know it did. If he didn’t kill you today, it’s only because it didn’t fit with a different plan he’s already made, a different role he intended to play. I’d be more comfortable if you didn’t work alone for the rest of the case. Make any sense?”
“Alex, I wasn’t alone at the house. I went there with another officer. He’s dead now.”
I nodded. “Okay. I understand. I’m sorry to sound condescending. There’s something else I need to say. I want you to come stay with us—”
“No. Thank you, but no, Alex. I’m not moving because of him. I’ve seen the sonofabitch now. We’re going to nail him. He’s going down, I promise you that. In flames, if I have anything to say or do about it.”
This was all kind of ironic. How many times had I been on the other side of the same sort of conversation? I hadn’t really expected Bree to go for my idea, and I respected her too much to even suggest she back off the investigation. Besides, she wouldn’t do it anyway.
“I’m fine, Alex. I’m okay. Thanks for being nice. Let’s just get out of here. People die in hospitals.”
We were on our way to my car when Sampson called. He sounded excited on the phone.
“Alex, we cracked the IP address. I think it just went live. Anyway, he’s got a new Web site up.”
“Jesus, you’re kidding. Let me get Bree settled, and I’ll be right there.”
“Excuse me?” She was already giving me a look. “Whatever this is, I’m coming with you. Period. End of discussion.”
“Sampson, we’ll be right there.”
Chapter 96
HOMICIDE WAS STRANGELY QUIET when we got there; the office was virtually deserted, actually. I knew that most everybody was out on the street, looking for DCAK, or leads on him, anyway.
“How you doing, Bree?” Sampson stood to let her sit, but she stayed standing where she was, stayed stubborn and strong, the Rock.
“I’m good. Couldn’t be better, Big Man. What have you got?”
Sampson laughed at Bree’s bravado, then the three of us cracked up.
“More of his greatest hits,” Sampson said. “Let me show you the latest.”
We looked at the screen, where the new site had been called up. It had the same headline as the original: MY REALITY, in bold white letters on a black background.
“Give me a break,” Bree muttered. “I am so going to mess this guy up. Next time I see him.”
“Bree, Bree, Bree,” I muttered, and left it at that.
I took the mouse and started scrolling down. Instead of a blog, or any text at all, it was just images this time. They were stacked in two columns, pictures of his self-created killers on the left, his “roles”—and the respective victims on the right. The top two were screen captures from the fake Iraqi video. Next came a shot of Tess Olsen on all fours, with a red leash around her neck.
Another row of pictures showed the X-Files professor-type from the Kennedy Center and a publicity still of Matthew Jay Walker, but with a green X over his face.
Then came the “fake” copycat with the Richard Nixon mask—and two pictures of the young kids he’d slaughtered on the parkway overpass.
Abby Courlevais’s picture was a family snapshot that had run all over the news, her husband and little boy smiling next to her. The whole world had been exposed to the image.
The last two photos were grainy and blurred but clear enough for us to make out details. Bree recognized the reporter “Neil Stephens,” even with a White Sox cap pulled down low over his eyes.
Then came Kitz.
His eyes and mouth were open, and there was a spatter of blood across his chin. This shot was obviously taken after he’d been cut but before the rubber mask had been applied to his face. We were looking at a picture of Kitz dying.
Bree banged her fist against the desk. “What the hell does he want? Is this his idea of fame and goddamn glory?”
She turned and walked out of the office. Better she let the steam out here than somewhere else. I heard her pacing and then the glug of a watercooler.
“Just . . . give me a second,” she called from the hall. “I’m fine, Alex. Just a little nuts.”
Sampson nudged my shoulder. “Keep going.”
At the bottom of the page was another familiar icon from the original site. It was an image of a television set with a screenful of animated static. The box was larger than before but otherwise looked the same. Beneath it was a clickable link that read COMING SOON.
“Cocksucker,” Sampson blurted out. “He’s in our face—all the time now.”
I figured the icon would bring up a new image or a video of some kind, but instead the computer opened a blank outgoing e-mail. It was addressed to
[email protected], presumably as untraceable as everything else he’d done.
Bree came back into the room and stood behind me. She started to massage my neck and shoulders. “I just let myself get overloaded. Won’t happen again.”
“Yeah, it will. What do you think of this?” I asked her.
“Well, it’s a direct communication, anyway. That’s something we usually hope for, right? On the other hand, replying means we’re still playing his game. But maybe we have to.”
“Sampson?”
“Seems like there’s more to gain than lose at this point.”
My fingers hovered over the keyboard, and I typed the first thing that came to mind.
You’re on your way down, you pathetic piece of shit.
“Um, Alex?” said Bree.
I was already deleting it, but at least I got a laugh from them. I tried something else.
I typed, What do you want?
Then I sat back and stared at the screen. “Simple. To the point.”
“Go ahead,” Bree said. “That’s the right question.”
So I hit “send.”
Chapter 97
THE NEXT ORDER OF BUSINESS was pretty clear to all three of us: we got the Cyber Unit at the FBI involved with the new site. Our contact now was Anjali Patel, a tiny woman, no more than five feet, with steely gray eyes. Kitz’s replacement. I wondered how much time Anjali had spent thinking about the fact that someone was killed doing the job she now had.
We met her in her second-floor cubicle at the Hoover Building. She had the new DCAK site up on two screens and was navigating from her laptop while she talked to us.
“Here’s the situation, guys. There’s no instance of DCAK anywhere in his code, including the metatags, which are what search engines look at. That probably explains why no one else has found it so far.”
“As long as it stays that way, we??
?d like to keep it up online,” Bree said. “We’ve got a potential communication going, and we don’t want to blow it unless we absolutely have to.”
That established, Patel moved on.
A few minutes later, she looked up from her work. “Here’s the other thing, guys. This site is something of a hybrid. Most of the content was posted using a normal file-transfer program, but two of the images, here and here”—she used her mouse to circle the photos of Kitz and his killer—“were moblogged.”
Before we could ask, she explained, “Posted to the Web using a mobile phone.”
“Is that easier to trace?” I asked, hoping that it would be but doubting it.
“In this particular case, yes.”
She slid a piece of paper around for us to see. It was a Verizon statement, with a billing address.
In Babb, Montana.
“Maybe he’s finally made a mistake. Does the name Tyler Bell mean anything to you?” Anjali asked.
“Should it?” said Bree.
“Not necessarily. Just thought I’d throw it out there. The phone DCAK used was likely stolen.”
Patel started to turn back to her computer.
“Hold on a second,” I said.
I was looking at the Verizon statement. “That last name—Bell. I had a case a while ago when I was still with the Bureau. Happened out in LA. It was coded ‘Mary Smith.’ Or ‘Mary, Mary.’ ”
“Sure, I know it.” Patel nodded. “The Hollywood murders. Actors, producers, and such. That’s when I first heard of you, actually.”
“The perp on that case was a Bell. Michael Bell.” He had killed several innocent people—and then nearly killed me.
“How fast can you find out about known living relatives of Michael Bell’s?” I asked Anjali. “I know that he has daughters.”
“Shouldn’t be hard.”
“And we should get someone over to this Tyler Bell’s house in Montana. See if he’s home,” Bree contributed.
“Why do I think he won’t be?” Sampson said.
Bree was already dialing her cell phone. “Maybe because Tyler Bell is here in Washington.”
Anjali set us up at a few empty desks, and Sampson and I each picked up a different thread. He quickly found five Tyler Bells listed in the general DC area, three of them right in the city. It was a long shot that he was listed here, but these leads would have to be checked out.
I did a run through the Uniform Crime Report. There was no record of Tyler Bell, or Ty Bell, at least for the last five years.
That’s as far as I got before Bree came back over, still holding her phone against one ear.
“I’ve got Montana State Police on the line. Guess who disappeared three months ago? Hint, hint. Last name rhymes with hell.”
Part Four
COLLISION COURSE
Chapter 98
NOW THIS WAS GLORIOUS. Truly.
The last place Kyle Craig expected to be—ever again—was on the Champs-Elysées, but here he was in Paris, probably his favorite city in the world. Top three, for sure. With Rome and Amsterdam. Maybe London. He supposed it was that intense yearning he had for freedom that he was feeling now, the need to do the unexpected, to follow his every whim, ultimately to kill again. To torture. To express his rage in new ways.
Over the last few nights, he’d dined at some of the finest restaurants in the world—Taillevent, Le Cinq inside the George V, right next to the Prince de Galles, where he was staying. None of the meals cost him less than four hundred Euros, about five bills American, but he didn’t care, not in the least. He had more than enough money, and wasn’t that what “vacations” were about? Get away from the job, the rat race, all the killing. Give himself time to think, to plan.
The Prince de Galles was a good spot for him in all regards. It was on the scenic Avenue George V, just a few blocks from the Champs-Elysées. The hotel was gorgeous—Art Deco for the most part, gilded—with the most beautiful chandeliers everywhere you looked. But he particularly enjoyed the Regency Bar, which was English in style, lots of leather, dark wood, and velvet. Elvis Presley had once stayed at the Prince de Galles, and now so had Kyle Craig.
There had been museums to visit in the mornings—the Musée d’Orsay and Musée de l’Orangerie were his two favorites—the Impressionists. Maybe he’d go to the Louvre today as well, but just to see the Mona Lisa. And he’d taken long walks along the Seine, where he’d done a lot of thinking—and some more planning.
There was one decision he’d made for sure: he wasn’t going to let DCAK have Alex Cross as his trophy. No, Alex Cross belonged to him, and so did the Cross family—Nana, Janelle, Damon, and little Alex Jr. That had always been the plan. He’d obsessed on it for years.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d do a little wet work before he left Paris. That was his art, which was just as beautiful, and important, as anything created by the so-called old masters. He was a new master, wasn’t he? Perfect for this barbaric age. Right for the times. No one had ever done it better, certainly not DCAK.
He spotted a pretty young woman in a tight gray blouse, black skirt, and high boots, with long hair that was almost auburn in color. She was sweeping the sidewalk in front of a small art gallery. Back and forth, back and forth—very efficient woman. And so attractive to be behind a broom.
So Kyle stopped at the gallery—went inside—and she left him to look around for the first few minutes. So independent—so very French. No wonder he adored them so.
Finally she appeared at his elbow. “You wish some help?”
Kyle smiled, and his eyes went bright. He spoke to her in French. “You are a detective? My clothes, my haircut—they gave me away.”
“No, it was your shoes, actually,” she said.
He laughed. “You just say that—to be perverse.”
Finally she laughed too. “Or maybe humorous?”
“This isn’t funny,” he told her then. It wasn’t. He took over an hour to kill her. And then he used her broom—and not in the usual way, not to sweep, and handle first.
And then, a fabulous parting meal at L’Atelier de Joël Robuchon.
Ahhh, Paris. A miracle city.
Chapter 99
THIS MONTANA CONNECTION was a big break in the case—with any luck, the one we needed. Information on Tyler Bell began to pile up quickly. He was in fact the brother of the late Michael Bell, and actually the more elusive character of the two. While Michael was becoming a minor player in Hollywood circles, Tyler made his living as a river guide and general handyman; he operated out of a Rocky Mountain cabin he had built himself. His reputation around Babb, Montana, population 560, was that of a quiet, nice-enough fellow who wasn’t unsociable but mostly liked to be alone. There was no mention of a steady female companion.
More to the point, Tyler had inherited nearly a million dollars from his brother’s estate, sat on it for six months, then closed the account and received several dozen cashier’s checks in varying amounts on the last day anyone saw him out in Montana. Now what was that all about? And where was Tyler Bell right now?
Bree, Sampson, Anjali, and I had a conference call going with the sheriff’s department in Glacier County, along with a senior agent named Christopher Forrest in the FBI’s Salt Lake City field office. John Abate, a senior agent in charge of DCAK here in Washington, had joined us as well.
“What’s the status of your missing-persons case?” Abate asked into the speakerphone.
“The file’s certainly open but not what I’d call active. This bloke’s either dead or doesn’t want to be found.” The Montana deputy on the case, Steve Mills, had an unexpected English accent. What was with that?
“Forrest, what have you got?” asked Abate in a curt, take-charge voice. “Tell us everything you can about Bell.”
“Far as we can tell, he was pretty much cut off from the world. His Verizon account was prepaid through December, including minutes he hasn’t used, for whatever reason. And there’s one credit card, a Visa, totally dorman
t.”
“Well, he did have a million or so at his disposal,” Sampson said.
“He took only a few things from his place,” Mills contributed. “His phone, wallet, some clothes. Not that there was so much to leave behind. He lived rather simply. Off the grid and all.”
“He doesn’t sound like a cell-phone person to me,” I said.
“Except when the alternative is having wires strung out to your property,” Mills said. “I doubt he ever used the cell much, though.”
“Well, someone used it.” Patel looked down at the phone report in front of her. “Yesterday, two ten p.m.”
“Someone?” Christopher Forrest asked. “Do you have reason to believe it wasn’t him?”
“Not at all. We just don’t have any hard evidence that it was him,” said Bree.
“Mighty big coincidence if it wasn’t,” Mills said. “Don’t you think?”
“Agreed.” Patel sounded a little testy; they weren’t keeping up with her. She’d also been working for more hours than she could count.
“What else about Bell?” Bree asked. “How soon can we get a picture of him?”
“Here you go,” Forrest said. “I just sent it your way.”
With a few keystrokes, Patel brought up an image of Tyler Bell’s Montana driver’s license. She flipped it over to the conference-room screen.
I remembered meeting his brother in California and how my first impression had been lumberjack but in a California rock-and-roll sort of way, like some lost member of the Eagles. Tyler looked like the real thing. His brown hair and full beard were shaggy but not unkempt. The license stats put him at six three, 220 pounds.
“What do you think, Bree? Recognize him? Could he be your AP reporter?”
She squinted at the license and took her time before answering. “The way he can change his looks? Sure, it’s possible. The reporter was a big man. Maybe six three.”