Alex Cross 16 (9 page)

Ned was a pretty big deal who had once headed the Hostage Rescue Team at the FBI training facility out in Quantico. Now he had an even bigger job, supervising field agents up and down the East Coast. We'd worked together when I was an agent at the Bureau, and again more recently, at a bizarre showdown with dirty cops from SWAT and some drug dealers in DC.

I sat down across from Ned at an orange plastic table with white plastic chairs, where he was gulping coffee.

"I'm pretty busy these days. The hell do you want?" I said, and grinned.

"Let's walk," he said, and we got right back up. "I'm busy too. Monnie Donnelley says hello, by the way."

"Hello back at Monnie. So, Ned, what's on your mind? Why the John le Carré cloak-and-dagger stuff?" I asked as we left the food court at a brisk pace.

"I know some interesting things about Caroline," he told me, point-blank. "Honestly, Alex, I wouldn't be talking to you if she wasn't your niece. This whole thing is getting hinkier and more dangerous every day." I stopped walking across from a store with David Sedaris books stacked up high in the window. "What
whole
thing? Ned, start me at the beginning." Mahoney is one of the smartest cops I've ever known, but information moves through his brain too fast sometimes.

He began walking again, eyes scanning the mall. He was starting to make me nervous. "We've had a surveillance team on a certain location in Virginia. Private club. Very heavy hitters. Alex, I'm talking about people who can go over both our heads — in more ways than one."

"Go on," I said. "I'm listening to every word."

"He looked at the ground. "You know that your niece was, um . . ."

"Yeah. I know the forensics, all the other details. I saw her at the medical examiner's." He threw the rest of his coffee into a garbage can. "It's possible, even probable, that Caroline was murdered by someone at that club."

"Hold on." We stopped again. I waited for a blond mother with three small towheads and an armful of Baby page 36

Gap bags to go by. "Why is the Bureau involved?"

"Technically, Alex? Because a body was transported across state lines." I thought of the mobster who'd been found and then lost: Johnny Tucci. "You're talking about the punk from Philly?"

"We have no interest in him. Chances are he's dead anyway. Alex, this club is frequented by some of the more important people in Washington. It's gotten heavy at the Bureau in the last couple of days.
Top
heavy."

"I assume you mean Burns is involved." Ron Burns was the Bureau's director, and a decent guy. Mahoney shook his head; he wouldn't answer that one directly, but I could figure it out for myself.

"Ned, whatever happens, I'm only going to help."

"I figured as much. But listen, Alex. You should assume you're being watched on this one. It's going to get nasty like you wouldn't believe."

"The nastier the better. Just means somebody cares. I'll take my chances with that."

"You already have." Ned clapped me on the shoulder and offered a grim smile. "You just didn't know it until now."

He was hunched over paperwork at his desk. The wall behind him was hung with some of his large collection of commendations, including MPD's Detective of the Year for 2002. I had the award for '04, but no big office to put a plaque up in. Actually, the certificate was in a drawer someplace at home; at least I thought it was. Davies nodded when he saw me. We weren't exactly friends, but we worked well together and there was respect on both sides. "Come in, and close the door."

As I sat down, I couldn't help noticing my own handwriting on some of the photocopied pages he was studying.

"Is that Caroline's file?" I asked.

Davies didn't answer at first. He sat back and eyeballed me for a few seconds. Then he said, "I had a call this morning from Internal Affairs."

There it was — just about the last thing I wanted to deal with right now. Internal Affairs used to be called the Office of Professional Responsibility. Before that, it was — Internal Affairs. MPD is nothing if not fluid that way.

"What did they want?" I asked.

"I think you know. Did you threaten that anchor asshole Ryan Willoughby at Channel Nine? He says you did. So does his assistant."

"I sat back and took a breath before I answered. "It's bullshit. Things got a little heated, that's all."

"Okay. I had another call yesterday, from a Congressman Mintzer. Want to guess what he was calling about?" I couldn't believe it — though it was typical enough Washington power-playing and outright bullying. "Both of their phone numbers were found in Caroline's apartment."

"I don't need you to give me the 101. Not yet anyway." "He held up the file to illustrate his point. "I just need to know that you've got a cool head on this."

"I do. But this isn't just another homicide investigation, and I don't mean because my niece was killed and cut up into pieces."

"Damn straight it's not, Alex. That's the whole point. These complaints could become a problem. For you and for the entire investigation."

I was talking to Davies, but I was also trying to think this thing through. Citizen complaints — when they're investigated — can end up at one of four conclusions. They can be sustained, determined unfounded, deemed unprovable for lack of evidence, or the officer can be exonerated because no regulation was broken. I felt confident that at worst, I was in the last category.

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Davies wasn't done with me, though. "I give you more leeway than just about any detective in this division," he said.

"Thank you. I'm handling it okay, right? Despite appearances." That got a microscopic grin. He studied me for another few seconds and then sat back. When he started putting away his notes, I knew we were over the hump. At least for right now.

"I want you on this investigation, Alex. But believe me when I say that the minute — and I mean the minute

— - anyone tries to take this over my head, I'm pulling you off."

He stood up then, my sign to get out of there while I still could. "Keep me in the loop. I don't want to have to call you again. You call me."

"Of course," I assured him, and then I left. If I stuck around longer, I'd have to tell him about my meeting with Ned Mahoney, and that was something I couldn't afford to do right now. Not if Davies was already considering reining me in.

I'd tell him everything later. Just as soon as I had some answers myself.

Nicholson stared at the monitors on his desk — watching and waiting, forcing himself to go slowly on the scotch. Zeus was due any minute, at least he was scheduled to appear, and Nicholson had a decision to make. For months now, it had been the same game with this madman. Nicholson kept the carriage barn apartment vacant at all times, booked escorts whenever Zeus demanded it, and then tortured himself wondering if it would be suicide to record one of these little parties of his.

Nicholson had seen plenty in the few sessions he'd watched, but he had no idea exactly what Zeus was capable of, or even who he was. The man definitely played rough, though. In fact, some of the escorts he'd had sessions with had completely disappeared; at least they'd never come back to work after seeing Zeus. Just after 12:30, a black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up to the front gate. No one buzzed; Nicholson admitted the car remotely, then sat back, waiting for it to show up at the top of the drive. His fingers played compulsively back and forth over the keyboard's touchpad.
Record, don't record, record,
don't
record.

Soon enough, the Mercedes passed in front of the house, then continued around toward the carriage barn in back — its destination. As always, the car's plates were covered.

Before Zeus, the apartment had been a private VIP suite for any preapproved client who could afford it. The fees started at twenty thousand a night, and that was just for room and board. The suite was outfitted with the finest liquors and wines, a fully stocked gourmet kitchen, a marble steam room and Swiss shower, two fireplaces, and a full complement of electronics, including separately wired phone lines with routing software and multifrequency voice scramblers to make outgoing calls untraceable.

Nicholson pulled up the living room view — where two girls were waiting, as ordered. All they knew was that it would be a "party of one" and they'd been promised time and a half for the evening, a minimum of four thousand each.

When the door from the parking bay below opened, both of them stood up at once and started to primp. Nicholson's body tensed as he watched Zeus stride into the room, looking like any other client with his crisp blue suit, briefcase in hand, and a tan overcoat on his arm.

Except for one thing — Zeus wore a mask. Always. Black. Like an executioner.

"Hello, ladies. Very pretty. Very nice. Are you ready for me?" he asked.
That
was what he always said too.

And in the voice he always used — too deep to be his real speaking voice. Another element of disguise.

So who was this creepy, powerful, rich bastard?

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They had obviously been instructed not to ask about the mask, or who he might be, or anything of a personal nature.

This was good — his mood couldn't have been any better.

"I think we're going to have a good time tonight," he said. That was all they needed to know for now, and actually, he had no idea how tonight might go, only that it was completely in his control. He was, after all, Zeus. They took his words as a cue to speak and introduced themselves as Katherine and Renata. "Can I take your coat?" Katherine asked, and somehow managed to make it sound seductive. "Get you something to drink? What would you like? We have it all."

"No, thank you. I'm fine for now." He was polite, but definitely reserved, even strange. For one thing, he never touched anything outside the bedroom. His people knew as much and would work accordingly.

"Let's go on in," he said. "You're the most beautiful girls I've seen here, by the way. I don't know which of you is prettier."

Everything in the bedroom was laid out as it should be. The windows were curtained; there was a bottle of Grey Goose vodka, a new box of latex gloves on the dresser, and nothing else — no knickknacks, no carpets, no bedding except for a fitted rubber sheet covering the mattress.

"This is interesting." Katherine sat down and ran her hand over it. "Decor by Rubbermaid." Zeus made no comment.

He had the two girls undress first, then took off his own clothes, except the mask, folding everything onto the dresser so he could leave the club just as neat and pressed as when he'd arrived. Finally, he opened his briefcase.

"I'm going to tie you girls up," he said. "Nothing too scary. They told you about this, correct? Good. Have either of you been handcuffed before?"

The shy one, Renata, shook her head no. The other, Katherine, put a come-fuck-me look into her eyes and nodded. "Once or twice," she said. "And you know what? I still haven't learned to be a good girl."

"Don't do that, Katherine," he told her. She looked at him as if she didn't know what he was talking about.

"Don't ever playact for me. Please. Just be yourself. I can tell the difference." Before there could be any more nonsense, he tossed a pair of cuffs onto the bed. "Put those on, please. What I'd like — I want you to share them. One cuff for each of you."

While the girls clipped the cuffs on, he slipped his hands into a pair of gloves and took out the rest of his gear: two more pairs of cuffs, a new skein of hardware store rope, two red rubber ball gags with black leather straps.

"Just lie back now," he said, and went over to Renata first. He could see something interesting now, mounting concern in her eyes, the beginning of fear.

"Give me your free hand," he said. Then he cuffed her wrist to the bedpost. "Thank you, Renata. You're very sweet. I like compliant women. It's my vice."

As he walked around to the other side, Katherine arched her back a little and widened her eyes, more vacant than scared.

"Please don't hurt us. We'll do anything you want; I promise," Katherine said. She was getting him pissed — already. Like some cockteasing little wife. Doing her coital duty. He slapped on the last cuff and secured it to the other bedpost and started fitting the gag into her mouth before she could say any more and ruin tonight.

"I can tell you're still acting, and you're not good at it," he told her. "Now you're making me a little angry. I'm sorry. I don't like myself when I get like this. You won't either." He tightened the strap at the back of her head. He used all of his strength, and he was a powerful man. The girl tried to say something, but it came out as a muted grunt. He'd caused her pain. Good. She deserved it. When he stepped back, the look on Katherine's face had changed completely. She was afraid of him now. That wasn't something you could fake.

"Much better," he said. "Now, let's see if I can think of anything else to improve that performance of yours. Oh, how about these?"

He reached into his black briefcase and pulled out a Taser gun. And pliers.

"Katherine, that's wonderful. Your improvement is just outstanding. It's all in the eyes." page 39