“What does your gut say?”
Here, she didn’t pause. “It tells me we just found the creep we’ve been looking for. And like I said before—he’s going down.”
Chapter 100
AS SOON AS WORD about a possible suspect named Tyler Bell reached the chief of police’s office, a reply boomeranged back to us. We were told to “go public” with the information immediately. Easy to say—a whole lot harder to do.
Certainly we had to tell the press something. If another murder came down and we hadn’t shared what we knew, it wouldn’t matter why we had made the decision to withhold. The damage control would become a huge time suck, and the investigation would suffer badly.
On the other hand, our suspect was definitely part of the receiving public. Putting out too much information about what we knew, and didn’t know, was a mistake that couldn’t be undone.
So what should we do?
Our compromise was a quick, unscheduled press briefing out on the steps of the Daly Building. It was something none of us wanted to do, but there didn’t seem to be an alternative that the chief was willing to agree to. He needed to communicate “progress” on the case, no matter what the possible consequences for the investigation.
At eight that night, Sampson and I spoke with reporters, all right, but only long enough to name Tyler Bell as our primary suspect and to say that we weren’t taking any questions at this time.
Bree stayed off camera. It was her decision all the way. She didn’t want to make her recent attack any more of the story than it already was.
Afterward, the three of us went straight into an emergency session upstairs. It was hard to imagine that this case was heating up, but it was. DCAK seemed to want it that way.
Someone certainly did.
Chapter 101
WHAT A MESS THIS WAS, and maybe getting worse. The extended team was waiting for us upstairs, along with just about every Major Case Squad detective and at least one representative from every district station house in the entire city.
Someone passed an envelope for Officer Pearsall’s family while I was up in the front getting ready to talk and answer any questions I could. I waited an extra couple of minutes for the sad, depressing collection to end, then I began.
“I’ll make this as quick as I can. I know you want to get back out there on the street. So do I.” I held up Bell’s photo. “This is Tyler Bell. We’ll pass around copies of the picture. There’s a real good chance that he’s DCAK.
“By the eleven o’clock news, this will be the most famous picture in Washington, probably in the entire country. The problem is, there’s no way Bell’s going to be seen looking like this. For what it’s worth, we’re working up simulations without all the hair. His height is the only given. Six two or six three. That’s something he won’t be able to change very much.”
One of the Second District guys raised a hand. “Dr. Cross, if this is about revenge for Bell’s brother, why do you think he hasn’t come directly after you?”
I nodded. It was a good question to get out of the way.
“First of all, I’d say that he has come after me, but not in the way you mean. The closer he can put himself to those of us who are looking for him, the bigger his emotional payoff. I’m guessing it’s an extension of the kick he gets from killing in front of an audience. But it’s only an educated guess at this point. We just don’t know for sure.
“Second, I’m not convinced yet that this is about revenge. We’ll have to see. If anything, I’d say he might be trying to succeed against me where his brother failed, and he’s using the brother to misdirect us. Maybe even to delude himself that this is serving something more than his own ego. But really it’s all been about him from the beginning. Not revenge, not his brother—his huge ego.”
Lisa Johnson, one of our D-2s, looked up from her notes. “How would Bell even know you’d be assigned to the case? You weren’t back on the force when he started. That’s right, isn’t it?”
Bree took that one. “Lisa, even if Alex wasn’t involved at the beginning, the Michael Bell connection would have gotten him involved eventually. And remember, we were led right to this connection.”
“So you think he used the cell phone on purpose?” Johnson asked. “Am I tracking this right?”
“Absolutely. I don’t think he does anything without a reason,” I said. “If we dropped the ball at some point, missed a clue, he would have lobbed another one our way. The more of this he can engineer, the more his needs will be met in the end.”
“Meaning the need to kill and get away with it?” somebody asked from way in the back.
“I was going to say, the need to beat our brains in at any cost, show us up. That’s what he’s done so far.”
Chapter 102
LATE THAT NIGHT, as if to underscore everything that had happened so far, I got a direct reply from DCAK that seemed to say, Ready or not, here I come—right in your face!
I was home, doing online research. On account of the Michael and Tyler Bell connection, I was particularly curious about sibling relationships in serial-murder cases. I’d found out about Danny and Larry Ranes, who had gone on separate sprees in the ’60s and ’70s. And there was a case in Rochester, the identical-twin Spahalski brothers. One twin had confessed to two murders and was suspected in at least two others, while his brother was serving time for a single, much earlier, homicide.
Other than blood relation, neither instance showed any additional level of connection—no hookup to my role with the Bell brothers. And most of what I found involved two or more family members partnering for concurrent work.
There was also the ongoing mystery about the woman in Baltimore. Who the hell was she? And what had happened to her after the car chase? Did DCAK have an accomplice? And possibly a mentor in Kyle Craig?
I logged on to my department e-mail to send around some of what I’d learned.
When it opened, I found a new message waiting for me. Not a nice one either.
What do I want, Detective Cross? That’s it? Frankly, I’m surprised you have to ask. But let me spell it out for you as clearly as I can.
I WANT you to pay for what you did to my brother. That’s reasonable, don’t you think?
I WANT you to think about how you never really tried to understand him before you killed him. Just like you don’t understand me, and never will.
I WANT to show you that you’re not nearly as good at this game as you think you are. None of you forensic shrinks ever are. Or the profilers, who are such incredible frauds, as even you probably know.
And I WANT you to understand one more thing: this is never going to be on any terms but mine.
That’s how it will end. The way I want it to, when I decide.
Any more questions?
—T.B. . . . or not T.B.?
The first thing I did was forward the message to Anjali Patel with a request for a fast turnaround, which she said wouldn’t be a problem, despite the hour. She was working on nothing but DCAK.
Then I called Bree and read her the note twice.
“So, do you buy it?” she asked after I finished. “The payback thing?”
“No, not really. You?”
“Why should we? Everything else he’s done is a lie. And what about the way he signed it?”
That kept coming up, the way we didn’t really know which parts of DCAK were Tyler Bell and which parts were some kind of theater. Who was Tyler Bell? Specifically, who had he been before all this started, or at least before we got into the loop?
“I’d sure like to see that cabin of his,” I said, my mind latching on to the idea as I said the words out loud. “Snoop around.”
“I was thinking the same thing, but there’s no way, is there? We’ve got this case slamming right now. But I agree with you—I’d like to look around that cabin.”
“We could leave Friday,” I said. “Be back by Sunday.”
Bree didn’t answer. I think she felt I might be joking at fir
st. Then she laughed. “Are you going to tell me this is how we get a weekend away together?”
Chapter 103
KYLE CRAIG WAS FINALLY BACK in Washington. Was this great, or what? He was all rested and ready to go too. Everything was on a collision course, and he couldn’t wait for the final crash to happen. Or, rather, the crashes.
What would the Vegas odds have been against him when he was put away in that Colorado hellhole? Well, he’d beaten all the odds, all the predictions; he’d been doing it his entire life.
He had bought a used car in Maryland before he got to DC. The Buick was a surprisingly quick little whip too. Plus, it had the advantage of not sticking out in a crowd. DC’s car thieves wouldn’t particularly covet it, which was worth something.
For a couple of hours in the early morning, four to six to be exact, he drove around the capital, played the sightseer, the tourist, remembered being an agent in this town. He went down First Street, past the Supreme Court Building, the House and Senate, the Capitol Building, even giving a salute to the Statue of Freedom on its dome. Glorious city! Still one of his favorites, though not quite up to the standards of Paris. At least, not in his opinion. He had always admired the French and their justifiable disdain for Americans, for everything about us.
Finally Kyle drove over to Pennsylvania Avenue and went right past the Hoover Building—FBI headquarters. Here was the scene of so many of his triumphs when he was an agent, then a director in charge—chasing down dastardly murderers, with an emphasis on pattern killers. Ironically, no one had a better closure record than him, not even Alex Cross.
And here he was again, ready to do some damage, feeling the old venom coursing through his body, ready to rip up the town again. Just like in the old days.
He had a small Sony VAIO computer, and he could get on the Internet right from his car. A lot of interesting things had happened in the tech world while he’d been wasting away in ADX Florence. He’d missed out on it, thanks to Cross and a few others from the Bureau who had helped betray him.
Kyle booted up the Sony.
Then he typed, I’m in town. Kind of emotional for me. If you don’t have a prior commitment, remember our meeting on Saturday night. I do believe we can be great together. X marks the spot.
He didn’t bother to add, It’s you versus me now. Kyle thought that should be obvious to DCAK.
“We’ll have to see, though. We’ll just have to see.”
Chapter 104
THE WORST IS YET TO COME! Kyle remembered the catchphrase from a long time ago, from before he was captured by Alex Cross. He had just murdered a most disrespectful crime reporter from the Washington Post and the arrogant fucker’s wife as well. He had planned to outdo the great minds of his time—Gary Soneji; Geoffrey Shafer; Casanova, whom he had worked with as a coauthor, so to speak. Most of all, most important to him, Kyle planned to top himself—to grow, to evolve, to achieve greatness in his field, to follow his dream.
Suddenly, he remembered something else, something very painful from the time of his arrest. Alex Cross had knocked out his two front teeth! That’s how he had looked when he was finally captured. In photographs that appeared in newspapers and magazines all over the world. On every single TV broadcast.
The Mastermind!
Toothless.
Like some kind of bloody fool.
Like a street person, a derelict.
And that woman! She had mocked him publicly too. Said to his face that he would never see the sun again. Boasted and bragged about it in front of all kinds of witnesses. She had even written a turgid book that the equally uninspired Washington Post had hailed as a “masterpiece on criminal justice.”
So this dreary redbrick Colonial was where Judge Nina Wolff lived in the City of Fairfax. The wages of sanctimony weren’t worth so much, were they?
Kyle began to walk toward the house—and as he did, he took out a small canister. He started to shake it furiously. He was furious, and he had every damn right to be. Judge Nina Wolff had taken four years of his life.
No doubt about it anymore—it was his time now.
DCAK was yesterday’s news.
Starting.
Right.
Now.
He was the man again.
Just him.
He aimed the canister and wrote his message.
Chapter 105
MONNIE DONNELLEY, a research analyst and a good friend out at Quantico, was the one who called me—probably because Monnie knew I was close to Judge Nina Wolff. The two of us had worked together at the time of Kyle Craig’s trial. Then I had helped with her book. Nina was the doting mother of three teenage girls; her husband, George, was sweet-natured but also funny enough to do stand-up comedy. George was the perfect match for the sober-looking judge.
And now—this outrage, this abomination at their home. Of course, I knew who Nina Wolff’s killer had to be, though I almost wanted to be wrong. I figured there was a slim possibility it could have been DCAK rather than Kyle Craig who had killed the judge, but that was a stretch of the imagination.
I arrived out in the City of Fairfax at two in the morning. I found dozens of cars and vans and trucks, most with garish lights revolving on the tops of their roofs. The suburban neighborhood was up too—every house I passed, just about every window was glowing brilliantly, like fearful, vigilant eyes.
So sad—a neighborhood like this. Peaceful and pretty. People just trying to live their lives with some kind of harmony and dignity. Was that too much to ask? Apparently it was.
I climbed out of the R350 at the end of a cul-de-sac, and I started to walk. Then I began to jog, probably because I needed to run. Maybe I even wanted to run away—in some saner part of my brain—but I was moving toward the Wolff house, just like I always did, drawn to danger, to chaos, to death and disaster.
Suddenly I stopped. A chill knifed through me. I hadn’t even gotten to the house, but I had the first awful image. It was right before my eyes.
He’d known I would come here and see it myself, hadn’t he?
A bright-red X was painted on top of the Wolffs’ car, a black S-Class Mercedes.
A second red X was painted across the front door, almost top to bottom.
Except I knew they weren’t Xs. They were crosses! And they were meant just for me.
The press was shouting questions from behind the police lines and also taking countless photographs of the house and car. It was all a blur for me right then.
“It’s DCAK, isn’t it?” I heard. “What’s he doing out here in Virginia? Is he going wide?”
No, I thought, but I kept it to myself. Kyle Craig isn’t going wide. Actually, he’s homing in now. And he has his target all picked out.
No—his targets. Kyle always did think big.
Chapter 106
KYLE HAD SPARED George Wolff and the three children, and I wondered why. Maybe because he was so focused now. He’d wanted Judge Nina Wolff . . . and only her. So what would he do next? And how long would I have to wait before he appeared on my doorstep? Or maybe inside the house?
My eight o’clock session that morning was with Sandy Quinlan. But she didn’t show up. Which only helped to make me more uncomfortable about everything that was going on. Now my practice was blowing up too, going to hell before my eyes.
I was also concerned. Sandy had never missed before, so I waited in the office until past nine. Then, Anthony Demao didn’t come to his session either. What was going on with those two? Were they together now? What else could go wrong today?
I waited as long as I could, then called Bree to tell her I was on my way to pick her up. We were heading off later that afternoon to Montana via Denver to check out Tyler Bell’s cabin. It was something we felt we had to do. See his place firsthand, go through whatever he’d left there.
As I was leaving my building, I nearly bumped into Sandy Quinlan. She was standing outside the front door on the sidewalk. Sandy was dressed all in black, covered with sweat, and out of brea
th.
“Sandy, what’s going on?” I asked, trying to keep my composure. “Where were you today?”
“Oh, Dr. Cross. I was afraid I’d miss you. I’m sorry I didn’t call.” She squinted up at me and motioned me over to the curb. “I had to come tell you . . . I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” I asked.
“Going back to Michigan. I don’t belong here in Washington, and frankly I came for the wrong reason. I mean, even if I did meet someone, what’s the point if I hate the city, right?”
“Sandy, can we schedule one more appointment before you go? First thing on Monday?” I asked. “I’m traveling, or I’d see you over the weekend.”
She smiled, looking as confident as I’d ever seen her. Then she shook her head. “I just came to say good-bye, Dr. Cross. My mind’s all made up. I know what I have to do.”
“Well, all right, then,” I told Sandy. I put out my hand, but she opened her arms and hugged me instead. Strange, forced, almost theatrical, it seemed to me.
“I’ll tell you a secret,” she whispered against my shoulder. “I wish I’d met you somewhere else. Not as my therapist.”
Then Sandy went up on her tiptoes and gave me a kiss on the lips. Her eyes flew wide; I think mine did too, and she blushed. “I can’t believe I just did that,” she gushed like a teenage girl.
“Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything,” I said. I could have been angry, but what was the point? She was going back to Michigan, and maybe that was for the best.
After a short, awkward silence, Sandy pointed with her thumb over her shoulder. “Walk me to my car?”
“I’m parked the other way,” I told her.
Her head tilted coyly. “Walk you to your car, then?”
I laughed and took it as a compliment. “Good-bye, Sandy. And good luck in Michigan.”
She finger-waved, then gave me a little wink. “Good luck to you, Dr. Cross.”