“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 awhile,” 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 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 sec?”
“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.
“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.
Natalie Sheehan frowned, her blue eyes widening in disbelief. She seemed to deflate, to depress, right before his eyes.
“Is this some kind of 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.”
CHAPTER
20
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 maintained; 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.
&nbs
p; 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—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 I 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 I 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.
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 Ray, 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 watched 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 their 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 random, 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 they freak-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?
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.
CHAPTER
21
“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 compadres. 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.
The one and only Chief George Pittman was in the bedroom with a man in a gray suit. Probably a foren
sics 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 horse’s ass. 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.