She nodded in agreement, then held up her hands to be heard. “Ladies and Gentlemen, that’s all the questions we can take right now. We’ll work to keep you as informed as possible, as frequently as possible. Thank you for your patience.”
“My daughter is dead!” Alberto Ramirez was shouting from the rear. “My little girl died on your watch! My Lydia is dead!”
It was a terrible indictment, and I knew it rang true, at least for the press. Most of them knew that we were looking for a needle in a haystack, how impossible this kind of manhunt was, but they wouldn’t report it that way. They preferred their own bullshit act, sanctimonious and dumb.
Chapter 57
KYLE CRAIG WAS ON THE ROAD AGAIN, and he was excited to be moving fast through time and space and fantasy. For a while during the car ride east, he let the sameness of the farms and fields rush past him and cool his overheated brain. Then—finally—he arrived in Iowa City, which was surrounded by rolling hills and woods and which he knew to be a picturesque and much-loved college town. Just what he needed for the next step in his plan, or his “recovery program,” as he liked to call it.
It took him another half hour to find the main library building at the University of Iowa, which was situated east of the Iowa River on Madison Street. He had to show one of several IDs and then locate a computer that he could use for a while. A nice, quiet reading room would be perfect for his needs.
At this moment, Kyle knew two ways to get a message to DCAK. The more complicated involved the use of steganography, which would mean sending a message hidden in a picture or audio file. He didn’t think he needed to go to that much trouble just yet. Nobody seemed to know about his relationship to the killer in DC. Or, as he knew, the killers.
Instead, he chose a faster, low-tech method. He knew how and where to locate DCAK from Mason Wainwright, his former lawyer and loyal fan. He typed in www.myspace.com, then clicked on a name from “Cool New People.” Easy as that, actually.
He typed a message to DCAK, wanting to strike just the right tone.
It’s good to be free again, free in the way that only you and I can understand. The possibilities are endless now, don’t you think? I marvel at your art and your exquisitely complex mind. I have followed every event closely—that is, as closely as I could under the circumstances. Now that I’m out and around, I would like to meet with you in person. Leave me a message if this is as desirable to you as it is to me. I believe we could do even greater things together.
What Kyle Craig kept to himself were his true feelings about DCAK. The word he wanted to type and send out to the killer was amateur.
Or perhaps imitation, if he wanted to be kind.
Chapter 58
NO ONE WHO HADN’T spent time in a supermaximum-security prison could possibly understand his feelings now. That night in Iowa City—wearing another of his prosthetic masks—Kyle Craig roamed around, taking in the sights, savoring being there.
He checked out the campus, which was situated on both sides of the river. The school was nicely integrated into the downtown area, and there were lots of quaint clothing, jewelry, and bookstores, and an incredible number of places to eat and drink. He happened on something interesting called the Iowa Avenue Literary Walk, which featured the words of writers with “Iowa ties”—Tennessee Williams, Kurt Vonnegut, even Flannery O’Connor, one of his favorites because she was so wonderfully wrong in the head.
Just past nine, he stopped into a bar called the Sanctuary. It looked like it might actually cater to some adults, not just college students, so he wouldn’t stand out too much. There were oodles of wainscoting inside and booths that looked like old church pews. And, yes indeed, an older crowd.
“Yes, sir. What can I get you?” he heard the very instant he sat at the bar.
The bartender looked as if he’d probably been a student at the university and then had decided to stay in town, which seemed like a reasonable choice. White-blond hair cut short, with a contemporary flip in the front. Probably midtwenties. Depressingly dull from the look of his eyes and his broad, welcoming smile.
“How ya doing, buddy?” said Craig. No more or less than a cordial greeting. He asked about the wines, then ordered a Brunello di Montalcino that seemed to tower in quality above the other reds served in the restaurant.
“The Brunello is available only by the bottle. I don’t know if I made that clear, sir.”
“It’s not a problem. I’m not driving after I leave here,” Kyle Craig said, and affected a pleasant chuckle. “I’ll take the bottle. Uncork it and let it breathe for me, please. And I’d like the Brie-and-apple appetizer. Could they please cut a fresh apple?”
“I could help you with that Brunello. If you need help?”
A voice—female—came from Kyle’s right. He turned and saw a woman seated a few stools away. She was by herself. Smiling pleasantly at him. Police? he wondered. Then—No. Then—Unless she’s very good at what she does.
“I’m Camille Pogue,” she said, and smiled in a manner that struck him as both shy and slightly sly. Dark hair, petite, probably no more than five feet in her stockings. Mid-to-late thirties, he guessed. Obviously lonely, though she shouldn’t be, given her looks, which interested him somewhat. He was drawn to people who had a little complexity to them, at least until he had them figured out.
“I think I’d enjoy the company,” Kyle said, and cast a smile back her way. Nothing too aggressive. “I’m Alex . . . Cross. Nice to meet you.”
“Hello, Alex.”
Kyle moved down the bar and sat beside Camille, and they talked rather easily for the next half hour or so. She turned out to be bright and only mildly neurotic on the face of things. She taught art history at the university, specializing in the Italian Renaissance. She had lived in Rome, Florence, and Venice, and now she was back in the United States but not sure if she wanted to stay here, meaning in America, not just Iowa City.
“Because America isn’t as you remembered it or because it is exactly as you remembered it?” Kyle asked.
She laughed. “I think it’s a little of both, Alex. The political naïveté and indifference in the States just drives me crazy sometimes. But what bothers me most is the conformity. It’s a cancer, and it appears to be spreading, especially in the media. Everybody seems afraid to have an opinion of their own.”
Kyle nodded. “You might accuse me of the latter for saying this, Camille, but I couldn’t agree more.”
She leaned in close but not in a way that could be off-putting or threatening. “So, are you different, Alex?” she asked.
“I’m different, I think. No, I’m sure that I am. In a good way, of course.”
“Of course.”
They walked around the town square after they finished off the Brunello. Then she took him home to a pretty gray-and-white Colonial on a side street off Clinton, with window boxes bursting with colorful flowers. The teacher had the entire ground floor, which was decorated with European furniture and art, and was quite spacious and open and welcoming. Another side of her revealed, a nice side too. Homey? Homespun?
“Have you eaten, Alex? Other than your apple and cheese? Your freshly cut apple,” she said, swinging toward him, a bit more forward inside her own place. She had soft breasts, but the rest of her seemed firm. Very nice and desirable, and suddenly Kyle knew exactly how he wanted her. Actually, he felt an incredible rush of lust.
But first, he yanked off his mask—and her eyes went wide with wonder and fear. “Oh no!” she said.
Not wishing to waste any more time, Kyle thrust forward the ice pick that he had palmed in his right hand. The point passed through the front of Camille’s throat and slid all the way out the back. Her blue eyes went to the size of silver dollars, then seemed to roll back into her forehead. Then she was no more, submitting to his waiting arms.
“That’ll do it. Now let’s make love, shall we?” Kyle said to the dead professor. “I told you I was different, didn’t I?”
Before he depa
rted from Camille Pogue’s apartment, he left another clue for whoever might come to collect the body. The clue was a small figurine representing a somewhat famous Midwestern statue called The Scout. It would be out of place in the art professor’s apartment, but he doubted that anyone would get it.
That was fine with Kyle—he got it. As Kevin Bacon had so eloquently said in the magnificent movie Diner, it was “a smile.”
Chapter 59
THE NEXT DAY HELD two very nasty surprises for me, as surprises so often are. The first was news that Kyle Craig had murdered his mother out in Colorado. And he had left a Hallmark greeting card—unsigned—for us to find. That meant either he was getting confidential information from a source inside the MPD or somehow he was communicating with the killer, with DCAK. Was that possible? And if it was, what the hell was the relationship between the two of them?
This wasn’t the first time Kyle had communicated with other killers, I knew. There had been Casanova and the Gentleman Caller, possibly Mr. Smith. And now DCAK? Maybe even the lawyer in Colorado had been a killer. Or was he just a follower? A devotee?
Late in the day, I received the second jolt, and it came from Brian Kitzmiller, who called and asked me to check out something on the Internet. He directed me to the site in question. Great news—somebody had set up a blog for me. I began to read and felt a little sick as I did.
You call yourself the Dragon Slayer? What’s that about? Fantasy role-playing games? Are you a gamer, Cross? What excites you? Moves you? You’ve piqued my curiosity. After all, you are the one who caught the great Kyle Craig.
Let’s say I’m watching you and your family a great deal these days. And I notice you’re spending a lot of “alone time” in little Ali’s bedroom late at night. Am I wrong about that? I don’t think so, but feel free to defend yourself from all accusations and rumors.
And Bree Stone—what are we to make of her? Who was the last female you managed to see for any length of time?
You’re an insomniac, right? Of course I’m right. Well, wait until you see what’s coming soon. And the day after that. And the day after that.
Sweet dreams, Dr. Detective Cross.
And then there were photographs.
Of the house on Fifth Street.
The cars in the driveway.
Nana Mama leaving the house with Ali.
Bree, Sampson, and I at FedExField after we were called over there.
He was watching us—we were the ones under surveillance.
Chapter 60
NO ONE EXACTLY GETS why Sampson and I like Zinny’s, not even us, which is probably one of the reasons we’re attracted to it. It’s a long black box of a joint in Southeast, just a bar and some booths, with a floor that’s never even close to being clean. Sampson, Bree, and I brought Brian Kitzmiller there late that night for a little Southeast initiation, but mostly because none of us could stop working this case.
Things were crazier than ever. There was the possibility that Kyle Craig was involved in some strange way, and maybe DCAK was watching us. Maybe even tonight?
Some pieces were starting to come together. Tess Olsen had been writing a book about Craig called The Mastermind. Was Kyle behind any of this? Or all of it? It fit his pattern. He had contacted killers before—and used them. If he was the brain, then what were the roles of DCAK and the lawyer Mason Wainwright? And were there any others in on the game?
Bree brought over the first round of drinks. “This one’s on me, guys. Thanks for everything so far. I owe you. You especially,” she said, and kissed the side of my head. I have no idea why, but just that got me horny for Bree. I wished the two of us were alone now. At her place, in my car, anywhere at all would be just fine.
She sat down beside me and lifted her glass high. “Here’s to a really shitty couple of days. I’d have gone home, but I know Mr. Ramirez would still be in my dreams. And his dead daughter too—and her three sisters. And Mrs. Olsen.”
“There’s a madman running around out there. Couple of them, maybe. It happens,” Sampson said. “Not your fault, Bree. I feel for the man, but Ramirez was out of line.”
“Listen,” Kitz said, “here’s an idea. Maybe a little crazy. So it must be good, right? Have you guys ever heard of the Unhinged Tour?”
I lowered my beer. “I’ve seen a few mentions online. What about it? Speaking of crazies . . .”
“It’s one of the touring shows about serial killers. But the point is it’s in Baltimore in a couple of days.”
“Show?” Sampson asked. “Like onstage?”
“More like a convention,” Kitz said. “They call it a ‘gathering for people with an interest in forensic psychology.’ ”
“Meaning serial-killer freaks. And, let me guess, comic-book geeks too?” Sampson said.
Kitz nodded, smiled, sipped his beer. “You got it right. That’s the demo.” He went on, “We’d have to scramble a little, but I don’t think they’d say no to a groundbreaking lecture on an open serial case, especially this one. Dr. Alex Cross could probably headline if he wanted to. At a minimum, it would draw a roomful of ideal field witnesses. That alone would get us a broader-based investigation. Maybe open up a few new channels.”
Bree started to laugh. “You are crazy, Kitz. Couldn’t hurt, though. And if we’re lucky, really fortunate, we’ll draw in DCAK himself. He says he likes to watch us, after all.”
Kitz nodded, then grinned mischievously. “Who the hell knows how his mind works? Something like this could be irresistible to someone like him. Or his copycat. So what do you say?”
We looked at one another, trying to think of a good reason why we shouldn’t go ahead with Kitz’s idea.
“This isn’t really a Cyber thing, is it?” Bree finally said. “How do you know so much?”
“Oh, you know. Word gets around.” Kitz sounded almost breezy.
Sampson’s face lit up. He slapped the table and pointed at Kitzmiller. “You go to these freaky things, don’t you? On your own time.”
“No, no.” Kitz picked up his drink again, then added quietly, “Not anymore.”
The three of us started to laugh, which was a good thing, real good, a necessary release.
Bree leaned into him and purred, “Ohh, Kitzy, you’re a full-blown geek, aren’t you?”
“And he cleans up so nice,” I said.
“What about you guys?” Kitz asked. “Anyone remind you lately what you do for a living? Just because you don’t go to the public shows doesn’t mean you aren’t cut from the same cloth as the people who do.”
We gave him about five seconds of respectful silence before we laughed in his face again.
But then I added, “Folks, I do believe we have an op to run.”
“But not tonight,” Bree said, hooking her arm into mine, then escorting me out of Zinny’s. “All this freaking talk,” she whispered to me, “it’s got me going. Besides, like I said—I owe you.”
“And I plan to collect.”
“With interest, I hope.”
We lasted all the way over to her place, but just barely, and not to the bedroom.
Chapter 61
INCOMING! AGAIN. I got the shock of my relatively new private-practice life early the next morning, and I hadn’t even made it to my first appointment before it happened. An earlier cancellation had me at the office a little later than usual, just after seven thirty, sipping coffee from Starbucks as I came in through the front door, still thinking about Bree and last night, and what I hoped would be many nights to come.
I’d be starting my sessions with Sandy Quinlan at eight; then the Desert Storm vet Anthony Demao; followed by Pentagon worker Tanya Pitts, who was having recurring suicidal thoughts and who needed to see me five days a week, maybe seven, but could only afford one, so I comped her an extra session each week.
As I turned into the waiting area from the outside hallway, I was surprised to see that Sandy Quinlan was already there.
So was Anthony. He wore a black muscle-T unders
hirt and had another long-sleeved shirt draped over his lap.
What the hell was going on here?
For the few seconds before they realized I was standing there in the room with them, Sandy’s hand was playing underneath the shirt on Anthony’s lap.
She was giving him a hand job in the waiting room!
“Hey.” I interrupted the action. “Hey, hey. That’s enough of that. What do you think you’re doing?”
“Oh, my God.” Sandy jumped up and shielded her eyes with both hands. “I’m so sorry. I’m so embarrassed. I have to go. I have to go now, Dr. Cross.”
“No. Just stay right there,” I told her. “You too, Anthony. Nobody goes anywhere. We need to talk.”
Anthony’s expression was somewhere between neutral and, for lack of a better word, interrupted. But he wouldn’t actually look at me. “Sorry about that,” he mumbled into his goatee.
“Sandy, would you come on into my office?” I said. “Anthony, I’ll see you when I’m finished with Sandy.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he answered. “I get it.”
Once I had her in my office, it took a while for the two of us to recover somewhat.
“Sandy, I don’t even know what to say to you,” I finally said. “You knew I’d come in and catch the two of you, didn’t you?”
“I know. Of course. I’m so sorry, Dr. Cross.” Her voice shook as she squeezed out the words. I almost felt sorry for her, but not quite.
“Why do you think that happened in there?” I continued. “It’s not like you, is it?”
“It is totally unlike me.” Sandy rolled her eyes at herself. “I know how this will sound, Dr. Cross, but he’s . . . cute. I told you I was sexually frustrated. Oh God.” Her eyes welled up. “I am such an idiot. This is my pattern. Acting out for attention. Here we go again.”
I decided to try another tack and got up to top off my coffee from the second cup in my bag. “Let me ask you this. What was in it for you?”
Double Cross Page 11
