Pop Goes the Weasel

by James Patterson

  Pittman smiled at her answer. The chief knew she was playing him a little, but he liked her anyway. He liked just being in a room with Patsy Hampton. She was such a doll, such a cutie. “What do you know about Cross, Patsy?”

  She sensed that the chief had vented enough. Now he wanted their talk to be more informal. She was certain that he liked her, had a crush on her, but he was too uptight to ever act on his desires, thank God.

  “I know Cross has been on the force for just over eight years. He’s currently the liaison between the department and the FBI, works with the Violent Criminal Apprehension Program. He’s a profiler with a good reputation, from what I hear. Has a Ph.D. in psych from Johns Hopkins. Private practice for three years before he came to us. Widower, two kids, plays the blues on the piano at his house. That enough background? What more do you want to know? I’ve done my homework. You know me,” Hampton said, and finally smiled.

  Pittman was smiling now, too. He had small teeth with spaces between them, and always made her think of Eastern European refugees, or maybe Russian gangsters.

  Detective Hampton smiled, though. She knew he liked it when she played along with him—as long as he thought she respected him.

  “Any other worthwhile observations at this point?” he asked.

  You’re such a soft, flabby dick, Patsy Hampton wanted to say, but she just shook her head. “He has some charm. He’s well connected in political circles. I can see why you’re concerned about him.”

  “You think Cross is charming?”

  “I told you, he’s slick. He is. People say he looks like the young Muhammad Ali. I think he likes to play the part sometimes: dance like a butterfly, sting like a bee.” She laughed again—and so did he.

  “We’re going to nail Cross,” Pittman said. “We’ll send him flying back to private practice. Wait and see. You’re going to help get it done. You get things done. Right, Detective Hampton? You see the bigger picture. That’s what I like about you.”

  She smiled again. “That’s what I like about me, too.”

  Chapter 16

  THE BRITISH EMBASSY is a plain, Federal-style building located at 3100 Massachusetts Avenue. Its immediate neighbors are the vice president’s house and the Observatory. The ambassador’s residence is a stately Georgian building with tall, flowing white columns; the Chancery is the actual office building.

  Geoffrey Shafer sat behind his small mahogany desk at the embassy and stared out onto Massachusetts Avenue. The embassy staff currently counted 415 people—soon to be cut to 414, he was thinking to himself. The staff included defense experts, foreign-policy specialists, trade, public affairs, clerks, and secretaries.

  Although the United States and Britain have an agreement not to spy on each other, Geoffrey Shafer was nonetheless a spy. He was one of eleven men and women from the Security Service, formerly known as MI6, who worked at the embassy in Washington. These eleven in turn ran agents attached to the consulates general in Atlanta, Boston, Chicago, Houston, Los Angeles, New York, and San Francisco.

  He was feeling restless as hell today, getting up from his desk frequently, pacing back and forth across the carpet that covered the creaking parquet floors. He made phone calls he didn’t need to make, tried to get some work done, thought about how much he despised his job and the everyday details of life.

  He was supposed to be working on a truly silly communiqué about the government’s absurd ongoing commitment to human rights. The foreign secretary had rather bombastically proclaimed that Britain would support the international condemnation of regimes that violate human rights; support international bodies involved in the cause; and denounce human-rights abuses, blah, blah, blah, ad nauseam.

  He glanced through a few of the computer games he enjoyed when he was uptight like this—Riven, MechCommander, Unreal, TOCA, Ultimate Soccer Manager. None of them appealed to him right now; nothing did.

  He was starting to crash, and he knew the feeling. I’m going down, and there is only one certain way to stop it: play the Four Horsemen.

  To make matters worse, it was raining and woefully grayskied outside. The city of Washington, and also the surrounding countryside, looked forlorn and depressing. It sucked. Christ, he was in a bad mood, even for him.

  He continued to stare east across Massachusetts Avenue, looking into the trees bordering a park dedicated to the pacifist bullshit artist Kahlil Gibran. He tried to daydream, mostly about fucking various attractive women currently working at the embassy.

  He had called his psychiatrist, Boo Cassady, at her home-office, but she was about to start a session and couldn’t talk for long. They agreed to meet after work: a nasty quickie at her place before he went home to face Lucy and the sniveling brood.

  He didn’t dare play Horsemen again tonight. It was too soon after the nurse. But God Almighty, he wanted to play. He wished he could take somebody out in some very imaginative way, right there inside the embassy.

  He did have one excellent thing to do today—saving it until now—three in the afternoon. He had used the dice already, played a bit of Horsemen, just to help him make a personnel decision.

  He had called Sarah Middleton just before lunch and told her they needed to have a chat and could she stop by his office, say at three?

  Sarah was obviously tense on the phone and told him she could do it earlier, anytime, at his convenience. “Not busy, then, nothing much to do today?” Shafer asked. Three o’clock would be fine, she answered hastily.

  His secretary, the bestial Betty formerly from Belgravia, buzzed him promptly at three. At least he’d finally gotten through to her about punctuality.

  Shafer let her buzz him several times, then picked up the phone abruptly, as if she’d interrupted him at something vital to security.

  “What is it, Ms. Thomas? I’m extremely busy with this communiqué for the secretary.”

  “I’m sorry to disturb you, Mr. Shafer, but Ms. Middleton is here. You have a three-o’clock appointment with her, I understand.”

  “Hmmm. Do I? Yes, you’re right. Can you ask Sarah to wait? I’ll need a few more minutes. I’ll buzz when I’m ready to see her.”

  Shafer smiled contentedly and picked up a copy of The Red Coat, the embassy’s employee newsletter. He knew Betty hated it when he used Ms. Middleton’s Christian name: Sarah.

  He fantasized about Sarah for the next few moments. He’d wanted to have a go at Mzzz Middleton from their first interview, but he was too careful for that. God, he hated the bitch. This was going to be such fun.

  Schafer watched the rain hammer down on the traffic crossing Massachusetts Avenue for another ten minutes. Finally he snatched up the phone. He couldn’t wait a minute longer. “I’ll see her now. Send Sarah in.”

  He fingered his twenty-sided dice. This could be fun, actually. Terror at the office.

  Chapter 17

  THE LOVELY SARAH MIDDLETON entered his office and managed a cordial look, almost a smile. He felt like a boa constrictor eyeing a mouse.

  She had naturally curly red hair, a moderately pretty face, a superior figure. Today she wore a very short suit, a red V-necked silk blouse, black stockings. It was obvious to Shafer that she was out to catch a husband in Washington.

  Shafer’s pulse was beating hard. He was aroused by her, always had been. He thought about taking her, and very much liked that phrase. She didn’t look as nervous and unsure of herself as she had recently, so that probably meant she was really scared and trying not to show it. He tried his best to think like Sarah. That made it more fun, though he found it a real challenge to be as squirrelly and insecure as she would surely be.

  “We certainly needed the rain,” Sarah said, and then cringed before the sentence was even finished.

  “Sarah, please sit down,” he said. He was trying to keep a straight business face. “Personally, I loathe the rain. It’s one of the many reasons I’ve never been stationed in London.”

  He sighed theatrically behind the rigid tent he’d made with his
fingers. He wondered if Sarah noticed the length of his fingers and if she ever thought about how large he was elsewhere. He would bet anything that she did. It was how people’s minds worked, though women like Sarah would never admit to it.

  She cleared her throat, then put her hands on her knees. The knuckles of her fingers were white. Christ, he was enjoying her obvious discomfort. She looked ready to jump out of her skin. How about out of her tight little skirt and blouse?

  He began to stretch the fingers on his right hand, playing his part as dominator to the hilt. “Sarah, I think I have some bad news—quite unfortunate, really, but can’t be avoided.”

  She sat nervously forward in her chair. She really was nicely built up top. He was getting hard now. “What is it, Mr. Shafer? What do you mean? You think you have bad news? You do or you don’t?”

  “We have to let you go. I have to let you go. Budget cuts, I’m afraid,” he said. “I know you must find this immensely unfair, and unexpected as well. Particularly when you moved halfway across the world from Australia to take this job, and you’ve been living in Washington for less than six months. Suddenly, the ax falls.”

  He could tell she was actually fighting back tears. Her lips were trembling. Obviously, she never expected this. She had no idea. She was a reasonably smart and controlled woman, but she couldn’t help herself now.

  Excellent. He had succeeded in breaking her down. He wished he had a movie camera this minute to record the look on her face and play it back countless times in private.

  He saw the very instant that she lost it, and treasured it. He watched her eyes moisten, saw the large tears roll over her cheeks, streaking her working-girl makeup.

  He felt the power, and it was as good as he’d hoped it would be. A small insignificant game, certainly, but a delicious one. He loved being able to instill such shock and pain.

  “Poor Sarah. Poor, poor dear,” he murmured.

  Then Shafer did the cruelest, most unforgivable thing. Also the most outrageous and dangerous. He got up from his desk and came around to comfort her. He stood behind her, pressing himself against her shoulders. He knew it was the last thing she wanted, to be touched by him, to feel that he was aroused.

  She stiffened and pulled away from him as if he were on fire. “Bastard,” she said, between clenched teeth. “You are a consummate prick!”

  Sarah left his office, shaking and in tears, running in that stumbling way women often do in heels. Shafer loved it. The sadistic pleasure, not only of hurting someone but of destroying this innocent woman. He memorized the stunning image for all time. He would play it back, over and over.

  Yes, he was a prick. Consummate indeed.

  Chapter 18

  ROSIE THE CAT was perched on the windowsill, watching me dress for my date with Christine. I envied the simplicity of her life: Love to eat those mousies, mousies what I love to eat.

  I finally headed downstairs. I was taking the night off from work, and I was more nervous, distracted, and fidgety than I had been in a long time. Nana and the kids knew something was up, but they didn’t know what, and it was driving my three favorite busybodies crazy.

  “Daddy, tell me what’s going on, please?” Jannie clasped her hands in prayer and begged.

  “I told you no, and no is no. Not even if you get down on your bony little knees,” I said, and smiled. “I have a date tonight. It’s just a date. That’s all you need to know, young lady.”

  “Is it with Christine?” Jannie asked. “At least you can tell me that much.”

  “That’s for me to know,” I said as I knotted my tie in the mirror beside the stairs. “And you not to find out, my overinquisitive girlfriend.”

  “You’re wearing your fancy blue-striped suit, your fancy dancing shoes, that fancy tie you like. You’re so fancy.”

  “Do I look good?” I turned and asked my personal clothier. “For my date?”

  “You look beautiful, Daddy.” My girl beamed, and I knew I could believe her. Her eyes were shiny little mirrors that always told the truth. “You know you do. You know you’re handsome as sin.”

  “That’s my girl,” I said, and laughed again. Handsome as sin. She got that one from Nana, no doubt.

  Damon mimicked his sister. “You look beautiful, Daddy. What a little brownnoser. What do you want from Daddy, Jannie?”

  “Do I look good?” I turned to Damon.

  He rolled his eyes. “You look all right. How come you’re all duded up? You can tell me. Man to man. What’s the big deal?”

  “Answer the poor children!” Nana finally said.

  I looked her way and offered up a wide grin. “Don’t use the ‘poor children’ to try to get your gossip quotient for the day. Well, I’m off,” I announced. “I’ll be home before sunrise. Mooha-ha-ha.” I did my favorite monster imitation, and all three of them rolled their eyes.

  It was a minute or so before eight, and as I stepped onto the porch, a black Lincoln Town Car pulled up in front of the house. It was right on time, and I didn’t want to be late.

  “A limousine?” Jannie gasped, and nearly swooned on the front porch. “You’re going out in a limousine?”

  “Alex Cross!” Nana said. “What is going on?”

  I practically danced down the steps. I got into the waiting car, shut the door, told the driver to go. I waved out the back window and stuck out my tongue as the car smoothly pulled away from our house.

  Chapter 19

  MY LAST IMAGE was of the three of them—Jannie, Damon, and Nana—all mugging and sticking out their tongues at me. We do have some fabulously good times together, I was thinking as the car headed over to Prince Georges County, where I had once confronted a homicidal twelve-year-old during the halcyon days of the Jack and Jill killers, and where Christine Johnson lived.

  I had my mantra all set for tonight: Heart leads head. I needed to believe that was so.

  “A private car? A limousine?” Christine exclaimed when I picked her up at her house in Mitchellville.

  She looked as stunningly beautiful as I’ve ever seen her, and that’s saying a lot. She wore a long, sleeveless black shift, black satin pumps with straps, and had a floral brocade jacket draped over her arm. The heels made her a little over six feet tall. God, how I loved this woman, everything about her.

  We walked to the car and got inside.

  “You haven’t told me where we’re going tonight, Alex. Just that it was fancy. Someplace special.”

  “Ah, but I’ve told our driver,” I said. I tapped the partition window, and the Town Car moved off into the summer night. Alex the mysterious.

  I held Christine’s hands as we drove along on the John Hanson Highway, back toward Washington. Her face tilted toward mine, and I kissed her in the cozy darkness. I loved the sweetness of her mouth, her lips, the softness and smoothness of her skin. She was wearing a new perfume that I didn’t recognize, and I liked that, too. I kissed the hollow of her throat, then her cheeks, her eyes, her hair. I would have been happy to do just this for the rest of the night.

  “It is unbelievably romantic,” she finally said. “It is special. You are something else… sugar.”

  We cuddled and hugged all the way into Washington. We talked, but I don’t remember the subject. I could feel her breasts rising and falling against me. I was surprised when we arrived at the intersection of Massachusetts and Wisconsin avenues. We were getting close to the surprise.

  True to her word, Christine hadn’t asked any more questions. Not until the car eased up in front of Washington National Cathedral, and the driver got out and held the door open for us.

  “The National Cathedral?” she said. “We’re going in here?”

  I nodded and stared up at the stunning Gothic masterpiece that I’d admired since I was a boy. The cathedral crowns over fifty acres of lawns and woods and is Washington’s highest point, even higher than the Washington Monument. If I remembered correctly, it was the second-largest church in the United States, and possibly the prettiest
.

  I led the way, and Christine followed me inside. She held my hand lightly. We entered the northwest corner of the nave, which extends nearly a tenth of a mile to the massive altar.

  Everything felt special and very beautiful, spiritual, just right. We walked up to a pew under the amazing Space Window at midnave. Everywhere I looked there were priceless stained-glass windows, over two hundred in all.

  The light inside was exquisite; I felt blessed. There was a kaleidoscope of changing colors on the walls: reds, warm yellows, cool blues.

  “Beautiful, isn’t it?” I whispered. “Timeless, sublime, all that good Gothic stuff Henry Adams used to write about.”

  “Oh, Alex, I think it’s the prettiest spot in Washington. The Space Window, the Children’s Chapel—I’ve always loved it here. I told you that, didn’t I?” she asked.

  “You might have mentioned it once,” I said. “Or maybe I just knew it.”

  We continued walking until we entered the Children’s Chapel. It is small, beautiful, and wonderfully intimate. We stood under a stained-glass window that depicts the story of Samuel and David as children.

  I turned and looked at Christine, and my heart was beating so loud I was sure she could hear it. Her eyes were sparkling like jewels in the flickering candlelight. The black dress shimmered and seemed to flow over her body.

  I knelt on one knee and looked up at her.

  “I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you at the Sojourner Truth School,” I whispered, so that only she could hear me. “Except that when I saw you the first time, I had no way of knowing how incredibly special you are on the inside. How wise, how good. I didn’t know that I could feel the way I do—whole and complete—whenever I’m with you. I would do anything for you. Or just to be with you for one more moment.”

  I stopped for the briefest pause and took a deep breath. She held my eyes, didn’t pull away.