Pop Goes the Weasel (21 page)

Sampson tossed me a pair of gloves, and I examined the cab’s backseat. I saw what could be bloodstains in the fabric of the
seat cushion. The stains would be easy enough to check out.

John and I finally climbed upstairs into the apartment above the garage. It was dusty, grimy, without much furniture. Eerie
and unpleasant on the eyes. It didn’t look as if anyone lived there, but if someone did, he was really weird. The landlady
had said as much.

The kitchen was mostly empty. An expensive juicer was the only personal indulgence. Not a low-end model—
expensive
. I took out my handkerchief and opened the refrigerator. There was nothing in it but bottled water and some aging fruit.
The fruit was rotting, and I hated to think of what else we might find here in the apartment.

“Health nut,” Sampson offered.

“Nut, anyway,” I said. “There’s a sense of animal fear in here. He gets very tense, excited, when he comes to this place.”

“Yeah,” Sampson said. “I know the feeling.”

We entered the bedroom, which was furnished with only a small cot, a couple of stuffed chairs, nothing else. The sense of
fear was here, too.

I opened the closet door, and what I saw stopped me dead. There was a pair of khaki pants, a blue chambray shirt, a blue blazer
—and something else.

“John, come here,” I called. “John!”

“Oh, shit. Do I have to? Not more bodies.”

“Just come here. It’s him. This is the Weasel’s place. I’m sure of it. It’s worse than a body.”

I opened the closet door wider and let Sampson see what I’d found there.

“Shit,” he groaned.
“Goddamn
it, Alex.”

Someone had put up pictures. Half a dozen black-and-white photographs were taped to the wall of the closet. It wasn’t a killer’s
shrine; it was meant to be found.

There were pictures of Nana, Damon, Jannie, me, and Christine. Christine almost seemed to be smiling at the camera, that incredible
smile of hers, those big, welcoming eyes.

The pictures had been taken in Bermuda. Whoever had rented this apartment had taken them. Finally, I had something to link
Christine’s abduction to the murders in Washington. I knew who had taken her.

“Back off
.

“Before you lose everything.”

I sensed fear again. It was my own.

PATSY HAMPTON had decided that she wasn’t ready to confide in Chief George Pittman just yet. She didn’t want The Jefe interfering
or crowding her. Also, she flat out didn’t trust or like the bastard.

She still hadn’t made up her mind what to do about Alex Cross. Cross was a complication. The more she checked him out, the
better he looked. He seemed to be a very good, dedicated detective, and she felt bad about keeping Chuck Hufstedler’s information
away from him. Chuck had been Cross’s source first, but she’d used the techie’s crush on her to gain an advantage. She didn’t
like herself for doing that.

She drove her Jeep to the British Embassy late that afternoon. She had Geoffrey Shafer under limited surveillance—hers.
She could get more teams, but that would mean going to Pittman now, and she didn’t want anyone to know what she had. She didn’t
want to be crowded.

She had done her preliminary homework on Shafer. He was in the Security Service, which meant he was British intelligence,
operating outside England. Most likely he was a spy working out of the embassy on Massachusetts Avenue. His reputation was
okay—good, actually. His current assignment supposedly had to do with the British Government’s human-rights program, which
meant the assignment was bullshit. He lived in Kalorama, a high-rent district, one he couldn’t afford on his salary. So who
the hell
was
this Shafer chap?

Hampton sat parked in her vehicle outside the embassy on California Street. She smoked a Marlboro Light and started to think
things through. She really ought to talk to Cross about where he was with his investigation. Did he know anything that could
help? Maybe he was onto Shafer, too? It was almost criminal for her not to contact Cross and share what she’d gotten from
Chucky Cheese.

Pittman’s dislike for Cross was well known; he considered him competition. She didn’t know Cross that well, but he got too
many headlines. Still, she wished she knew what Cross had in his files, and especially whether Geoffrey Shafer had appeared
on Cross’s radar.

There was too much fricking noise on the fricking street near the British Embassy. Workers were doing construction on the
Turkish Chancery across California Street. Hampton already had a headache—her life was one big headache—and she wished
they would stop pounding and hammering and battering and sawing. For some reason or other, there was a crowd of people swarming
all over the National Mosque today.

At a few minutes past five, Shafer got into his Jaguar in a parking lot outside the glass-walled Rotunda.

She’d seen him twice before. He was in very good shape, and attractive, too, though not a physical type she herself responded
to. Shafer sure didn’t hang around long after the workday ended. Hampton figured he either had someplace to go or really hated
his day job. Possibly both.

She stayed a safe distance behind the black Jag, following it along crowded Massachusetts Avenue. Shafer didn’t seem to be
heading home, and he wasn’t going to Southeast, either.

Where are we going tonight?
she wondered as she tailed him.
And what does it have to do with the Four Horsemen? What game are you really playing? What are your fantasies?

Are you a bad man, a murderer, Geoffrey? You don’t look like it, blondie. Such a nice, spiffy car for a scumbag killer
.

AFTER WORK, Geoffrey Shafer joined the clogged artery of rush-hour traffic inching along Massachusetts. Turning out of the
embassy, he had spotted the black Jeep behind him.

The tail was still there as he drove down Massachusetts Avenue.

Who’s in the Jeep? One of the other players? D.C. police? Detective Alex Cross? They’ve found the garage in Eckington. Now
they’ve found me. It has to be the bloody police
.

He watched the black Jeep as it trailed four cars behind him. There was only one person inside, and it looked like a woman.
Could it possibly be Lucy? Had she discovered the truth about him? God, had she finally figured out who and what he was?

He picked up his mobile phone and made a call home. Lucy picked up after a couple of rings.

“Darling, I’m coming home, after all. There’s a bit of a lull at the office. We can order in or something—unless you and
the children already have plans.”

She blathered on in her usual maddening way. She and the twins had been going to catch a movie,
Antz
, but they’d rather stay home with him. They could order from Pizza Hut. It would be fun for a change.

“Yes, what fun,” Shafer said, and cringed at the thought. Pizza Hut served indigestible cardboard drenched with very bad tomato
soup. He hung up, then took a couple of Vicodin and a Xanax. He thought he could feel cracks slowly opening up in his skull.

He made a dangerous U-turn on Massachusetts Avenue and headed toward home. He passed the Jeep going in the opposite direction
and was tempted to wave. A woman driver. Now, who was she?

The pizza got to the house at around seven, and Shafer opened an expensive bottle of Cabernet. He washed down another Xanax
with the wine in the downstairs bathroom. Felt a little confused, fuzzy around the edges. That was all right, he supposed.

Jesus Christ, he couldn’t stand being with his family, though; he felt as if he were going to crawl out of his skin. Ever
since he was a boy in England he’d had a repetitive fantasy that he was actually a reptile and could shed his own skin. He’d
had the dream long before he read any Kafka; he
still
had the disturbing dream.

He rolled three dice in his hand as he sipped his wine, played the game at the dinner table. If the number seventeen came
up, he would murder them all tonight. He swore he would do it. First the twins, then Robert, and then Lucy.

She kept prattling on and on about her day. He smiled blithely as she told him about her shopping trip to Bloomingdale’s and
Bath & Body Works and Bruno Cipriani at the mall. He considered the supreme irony of his taking truckloads of antidepressants
and only becoming more depressed. Jesus, he was cycling down again. How low could he go?

“Come, seventeen,” he finally said aloud.

“What, darling?” Lucy suddenly asked. “Did you just say something?”

“He’s already playing tonight’s game,” said Robert, and snickered. “Right, Daddy? It’s your fantasy game. Am I right?”

“Right, son,” Shafer replied, thinking,
Christ, I am mad!

He let the dice gently fall on the dining table, though. He
would
kill them—if their number came up. The dice rolled over and over, then banked off the greasy pizza box.

“Daddy and his games,” Lucy said, and laughed. Erica and Tricia laughed. Robert laughed.

Six, five, one
, he counted.
Damn, damn
.

“Are the two of us going to play tonight?” Robert asked.

Shafer forced a smile. “Not tonight, Rob Boy. I’d like to, but I can’t. I have to go out again.”

THIS WAS GETTING VERY INTERESTING. Patsy Hampton watched Shafer leave the large and expensive house in Kalorama at around
eight-thirty. He was off on another of his nightly jaunts. The guy was a regular vampire.

She knew that Cross and his friends called the killer the Weasel, and it certainly fit Shafer. There was something uncomfortable
about him, something bent.

She followed the black Jag, but he didn’t head toward Southeast, which disappointed her. He drove to a trendy supermarket,
Sutton on the Run, just off Dupont Circle. Hampton knew the pricey store and called it Why Pay Less.

He parked the sports car illegally, then jogged inside.
Diplomatic immunity
. That pissed her the hell off. What a weasel he was, real Euro-trash.

While he was in the market, Hampton made a command decision. She was pretty sure she was going to talk to Alex Cross. She
had thought a lot about it, the pros and cons. Now she figured that she might be endangering lives in Southeast by not sharing
at least some of what she knew. If someone died, she wouldn’t be able to bear it. Besides, Cross would have gotten the information
if she hadn’t interceded with Chuck Hufstedler.

Shafer shuffled back out of Sutton on the Run and glanced around crowded Dupont Circle. He had a small bag of overpriced groceries
clutched in one arm. Groceries for whom, though? He didn’t look in the direction of her Jeep, which was just peeking around
the corner.

She followed the black Jag at a safe distance in the light traffic. He got onto Connecticut Avenue. She didn’t think he’d
spotted her, though he was an MI6 man, so she needed to be careful.

Shafer wasn’t far from Embassy Row. He wouldn’t be going back to work now, would he? Why the groceries if he was headed to
the embassy?

The Jaguar eventually turned into the underground garage of a prewar building in Woodley Park. T
HE
F
ARRAGUT
was engraved on a brass sign in front.

Patsy Hampton waited a few minutes, then pulled into the garage behind the Jag. She needed to look around, check things out
if she could.

The garage was public-private, so it wasn’t any big deal. She walked over to the attendant in the small kiosk and identified
herself.

“The Jag that came in before me, ever see it here before?” she asked.

The man nodded. He was around her age, and she could tell he wanted to impress her if he could. “Sure. I don’t know him to
talk to, though. Comes here to visit a lady on ten. Dr. Elizabeth Cassady. She’s a shrink. I assume he’s a patient. He’s got
a funny look in his eyes,” the attendant said, “but so do most people.”

“How about me?” Hampton asked.

“Nah. Well, maybe a little,” the attendant said, and grinned.

Shafer stayed upstairs with Dr. Cassady for nearly two hours. Then he came down and went straight back to the house in Kalorama.

Patsy Hampton followed him, then watched the house for another half hour. She thought that Shafer was probably in for the
night. She drove to a nearby diner but didn’t go inside right away. She picked up her mobile phone before she had too many
second thoughts. She knew Cross’s street and got the phone number through information. Was it too late to call? Screw it,
she was going through with this.

She was surprised when the phone was picked up on the first ring. She heard a pleasant male voice. Nice. Strong.

“Hello. Alex Cross.”

She almost hung up on him. Interesting that he’d intimidated her for a moment. “This is Detective Patsy Hampton. I’ve been
doing some work on the Jane Does. I’ve been following a man who is a suspect. I think we should talk.”

“Where are you, Patsy?” Cross said, without hesitation. “I’ll come to you. Just tell me where.”

“I’m at the City Limits diner on Connecticut Avenue.”

“I’m on my way,” said Cross.

I WASN’T TOTALLY SURPRISED that Pittman had assigned someone to the Jane Does. Especially after Zach Taylor’s article in the
Washington Post
. I was interested in any leads Detective Hampton might have turned up.

I had seen Patsy Hampton around, and she obviously knew who I was. She was supposed to be on a fast track; she was a smart
and effective senior homicide detective, though from what I’d heard, she was also a lone wolf. She didn’t have any friends
in the department, as far as I knew.

She was much prettier than I remembered. She was in very trim, athletic shape, probably early thirties, short blond hair,
piercing blue eyes that cut through the diner haze.

She’d put on bright-red lipstick for our meeting, or maybe she wore it all the time. I wondered what was on her mind and what
her motives were. I didn’t think I could trust her.