Pop Goes the Weasel

by James Patterson

  Hampton figured that was part of his act, though. Everybody had one these days, especially in Washington. Cross’s was obviously his charisma and charm.

  Hell, she had an act herself. Hers was to appear nonthreatening and “feminine,” then perform contrary to the expectations of the males on the force. She usually caught them off guard. As she’d risen in the department, the men had learned that she could be tough. Surprise, surprise. She worked longer hours than anyone else; she was a hell of a lot tougher than the men; and she never socialized with other cops.

  But she made one big mistake. She broke into a homicide suspect’s car without a warrant, and was caught by another detective, a jealous older male. That was how Pittman got his hooks into her, and now he wouldn’t let go.

  At around a quarter to three, she walked to her forest-green Explorer, noting that it needed a wash. She already had a few ideas about the dead man in the street. There was no doubt in her mind that she would beat Cross.

  Book Two

  DEATH RIDES A PALE HORSE

  Chapter 24

  GEORGE BAYER was Famine among the Four Horsemen. He’d been playing the fantasy game for seven years, and he loved it. At least he had until recently, when Geoffrey Shafer started to go out of control.

  Famine was physically unimpressive at around five-eight, a hundred ninety pounds. He was paunchy, balding, wore wirerim glasses, but he also knew that his appearance was deceiving, and he’d made a living off those who underestimated him. People like Geoffrey Shafer.

  He had reread a forty-page dossier on Shafer during his long plane ride from Asia to Washington. The dossier told him everything about Shafer, and also about the character he played, Death. At Dulles Airport he rented a dark-blue Ford sedan, under a false name. He was still detached and introspective during his thirty-minute drive into the city.

  But he was also anxious: he was nervous for all of the Horsemen, but especially for himself. He was the one who would have to confront Shafer, and he was worried that Shafer might be going mad, that he might blow up in all of their faces.

  George Bayer had been an M man—MI6—and he’d known Shafer in the service. He had come to Washington to check out Shafer firsthand. It was suspected by the other players that Geoffrey might have gone over the edge, that he was no longer playing by the rules and was a grave danger to them all. Since Bayer had once been stationed in Washington, and knew the town, he was the one to go there.

  Bayer didn’t want to be seen at the British Embassy on Massachusetts Avenue, but he had spoken to a few friends who he knew would keep silent about having been contacted. The news about Shafer was as bad as he’d suspected. He was seeing women outside his marriage, and he wasn’t being discreet. There was a psychologist who was also a sex therapist, and he had been observed going over to her place several times a week, often during working hours. It was rumored that he was drinking heavily and possibly taking drugs. Bayer suspected the latter. He and Shafer had been friends and they had done their share of drugs while posted in the Philippines and Thailand. Of course, they were younger and more foolish then—or at least that was true of Bayer.

  The D.C. police had recently put in a complaint to the embassy about a reckless-driving incident. Shafer might have been high at the time. His current assignments at the embassy were minimal, and he would have been dismissed, or sent back to England, if it weren’t for his wife’s father, General Duncan Cousins. What a terrible mess Shafer had made of his life.

  But that’s not the worst of it, is it, Geoffrey? George Bayer was thinking as he drove into the Northeast section of Washington known as Eckington Place. There’s more, isn’t there, dear boy? It’s much worse than the embassy thinks. It’s probably the biggest scandal in the long history of the Security Service, and you’re right at the heart of it. But of course, so am I.

  Bayer locked the doors of his car as he pulled up to a traffic light. The area looked highly suspicious to him, like so much of Washington these days. What a sad, totally insane country America had become. What a perfect refuge for Shafer.

  Famine took in the sights on the mean streets as he continued through the decidedly lower-class neighborhood. There was nothing to compare with this in London. Row upon row of two-storied redbrick garden apartments, many of them in dreadful disrepair. Not so much urban decay as urban apathy.

  He saw Shafer’s lair up ahead and pulled over to the curb. He knew the exact location of the hideaway from the elaborate fantasy tales Shafer had spun for his fellow players. He knew the address. Now he needed to know one more thing: were the murders that Geoffrey claimed he’d committed fantasies, or were they real? Was he actually a cold-blooded killer, operating here in Washington?

  Bayer walked to the garage door. It took him only a moment to pick the lock and let himself in.

  He had heard so much about the “Nightmare Machine,” the purple and blue taxi that Shafer used for the murders. He was looking at it. The taxi was as real as he was. Now he knew the truth. George Bayer shook his head. Shafer had killed all of those people. This was no longer a game.

  Chapter 25

  BAYER TRUDGED UPSTAIRS to the hideaway apartment. His arms and legs felt heavy, and he had a slight pain in his chest. His vision was tunneled. He pulled down the dusty blinds and began to look around.

  Shafer had boastfully described the garage and taxi several times during the game. He had flaunted the existence of the hideaway and sworn to the other players that it was real and not just some fantasy in a role-playing game. Geoffrey had openly dared them to see it for themselves, and that was why Bayer was in Washington.

  Well, Geoffrey, the hideaway is real, he agreed. You are a stonecold killer. You weren’t bluffing, were you?

  At ten o’clock that night Bayer took Shafer’s taxi out. The keys were there, almost as a dare. Was it? He figured he had a night to experience exactly what Shafer had experienced. According to Geoffrey, half the fun of the game was foreplay—checking out the possibilities, seeing the whole game board before you made a move.

  From ten o’clock until half past eleven, Bayer explored the streets of D.C., but he didn’t pick up a fare. He kept his off-duty sign on. What a game, Bayer kept thinking as he drove. Is this how Geoffrey does it? Is this how he feels when he’s prowling the city?

  He was pulled out of his daydream by an old tramp with a crushed hat who wheeled a cart filled with cans and other recyclables right in front of him. He didn’t seem to care whether he got run over or not, but Bayer braked hard. That made him think of Shafer. The line between life and death had faded to nothing for Geoffrey, hadn’t it?

  Bayer cautiously moved on. He drove past a church. The service was over, and a crowd of people was leaving.

  He stopped the cab for an attractive black woman in a blue dress and matching high heels. He needed to see what this must be like for Shafer, for Death. He couldn’t resist.

  “Thank you so much,” the woman said as she slid into the rear of his taxi. She seemed so proper and respectable. He checked her furtively in the mirror. She didn’t have much to offer up top. Pretty enough face, though. Long brown legs encased in sheer stockings. He tried to imagine what Shafer might do now, but he couldn’t.

  Shafer had boasted that he was killing people in the poorer sections of Washington, since nobody cared about them anyway. Bayer suspected he was telling the truth. He knew things about Shafer from when they were in Thailand and the Philippines. He knew Shafer’s deepest, darkest secrets.

  Bayer drove the attractive and well-spoken black woman to her apartment and was amused when she gave him a sixty-cent tip for the four-dollar ride. Fifteen percent to the penny. He took the money and thanked her graciously.

  “An English cabdriver,” she said. “That’s unusual. Have a nice evening.”

  He continued to drive until past two in the morning. He drank in the sights, played the dizzying game. And then he had to stop again. Two young girls were hailing for a taxi on the corner. The area was called Shaw
, and Howard University was very close according to several signs.

  The girls were slender, delectable in stacked heels and shiny clothes that glowed in the dark. One of them wore a microskirt, and he could see the tops of black or navy thigh-highs as he stopped to pick them up. They must be hookers—Shafer’s favorite prey, Bayer thought to himself.

  The second prostitute was even prettier and sexier than the first. She wore white stacked bath sandals, side-striped white athletic pants, a teeny tank top in blue camouflage.

  “Where are we going?” Bayer asked as they scampered over to the taxi.

  The girl in the microskirt did the talking. “We’re going to Princeton Place. That’s Petworth, darlin’. Then you’re going away,” she said. She tossed her head back and issued a taunting laugh. Bayer snickered to himself. He was beginning to get into this now.

  The girls climbed in, and Bayer couldn’t resist checking them out in the mirror. The foxy one in the microskirt caught him looking. He felt like a schoolboy, found it intoxicating, didn’t avert his eyes from hers.

  She casually flipped him the finger. He didn’t stop looking. Couldn’t. So this was how it felt to Shafer. This was the game of games.

  He couldn’t take his eyes off the girls. His heart was pounding. Microskirt wore a tightly fitted ribbed tank top. Her long fingernails were airbrushed in kiwi and mango colors. She had a pager on her belt. Probably a gun in her handbag.

  The other girl smiled shyly in his direction. She seemed more innocent. Was she? A necklace that read BABY GIRL dangled between her young breasts.

  If they were going to Petworth, they had to be hooking. They were certainly young and foxy; sixteen, seventeen years old. Bayer could see himself having sex with the girls, and the image was beginning to overpower his imagination. He knew he ought to be careful. This could get completely out of hand. He was playing Shafer’s game, wasn’t he? And he liked it very much.

  “I have a proposition for you,” he said to Microskirt.

  “All right, darlin’,” she said. “Be one hundred for the half. Plus our ride to Petworth. That’s my proposition for you.”

  Chapter 26

  SHAFER LIKED TO KNOW when any of the other players traveled, especially if they came to Washington. He had gone to a lot of trouble to hack his way into their computers to keep track of them. Famine had recently bought plane tickets, and now he was here in D.C. Why?

  It wasn’t hard to follow George Bayer once he got to town. Shafer was still reasonably good at it; he’d had plenty of practice in tracking and surveillance during his years in the Service.

  He was disappointed that Famine had decided to “intersect” with his fantasy. Intersection happened occasionally in the game, but it was rare. Both players were supposed to agree beforehand. Famine was clearly breaking the rules. What did he know, or think he knew?

  Then Bayer genuinely surprised him. Not only did he visit Shafer’s hideaway, but he actually took the taxi for a ride. What the hell was he doing?

  At a little past two in the morning, Shafer watched the gypsy cab pick up two young girls in Shaw. Was Bayer copycatting? Was he setting some kind of trap for Shafer? Or was it something else altogether?

  Bayer took the girls to S Street, which wasn’t far from the pickup point. He followed the girls up the darkened stairs of an aging brownstone, and then they all disappeared inside.

  He had a blue anorak thrown over his right arm and Shafer suspected that a pistol was under the coat. Christ! He’d taken two of them. He could have been seen by anyone on the street. The cab could have been spotted.

  Shafer parked on the street. He waited and watched. He didn’t like being in this part of Shaw, especially without his disguise, and driving the Jaguar. There were some old crumbling brownstones and a couple of boarded-up, graffiti-covered shacks on the street. No one was outside.

  He saw a light blink on the top floor and figured that was where Bayer had taken the two girls. Probably their flat.

  He watched the brownstone from two until close to four. He couldn’t take his eyes away. While he waited, he imagined dozens of scenarios that might have brought Famine here. He wondered if the others were in Washington, too. Or was Famine acting alone? Was he playing the Four Horsemen right now?

  Shafer waited and waited for Bayer to come out of the brownstone. But he didn’t come down, and Shafer grew more impatient and worried and angry. He fidgeted. His breathing became labored. He had lurid, paranoid fantasies about what Bayer might have done up there. Had he killed the two girls? Taken their identification? Was this a trap? He thought so. What else could it be?

  Still no George Bayer.

  Shafer couldn’t stand it any longer. He climbed out of the Jaguar. He stood on the street and stared up at the windows of the flat. He wondered if he, too, was being watched. He sensed a trap, wondered if he should flee.

  Christ, where the hell is Bayer? What game is Famine playing? Was there a back way out of the building? If so, why had he left the taxi as evidence? Evidence! Damn him!

  But then he saw Bayer finally leave the building. He quickly crossed S Street, got into the cab, and drove away.

  Shafer decided to go upstairs. He jogged over to the building and found the wooden front door unlocked. He hurried up the steep, winding stairs. He had a flashlight in one hand, and turned it on. His semiautomatic was in the other.

  Shafer made his way to the fourth floor. He immediately knew which of the two flats was the one. A poster for Mary J. Blige’s What’s the 411? album was on the splintered and scarred door to his right. The girls lived here.

  He turned the handle and carefully pushed the door open. He pointed his gun inside, ready.

  One of the young girls came out of the bathroom wearing a fluffy black towel on her head, nothing else. She was a hot number with pert little titties. Christ, Famine must have paid for it. What a fool! What a wanker!

  “Who the hell are you? What are you doing in here?” the girl shouted angrily.

  “I’m Death,” he grinned, then announced, “I’m here for you and your pretty friend.”

  Chapter 27

  I HAD GOTTEN HOME from the John Doe murder scene at a little past three-thirty in the morning. I went to bed but set my alarm for six-thirty. I managed to get myself up before the kids went off to school.

  “Somebody was out very, very, very late last night.” Jannie started her teasing before I had made it all the way downstairs and into the kitchen. I continued down and found her and Damon in the breakfast nook with Nana.

  “Somebody sure looks like he had a late night,” Nana said from her customary catbird’s seat.

  “Somebody’s cruising for a bruising,” I said to quiet them. “Now, there’s something important I need to tell you before you head out to school.”

  “Watch our manners. Always pay attention in class, even if the teacher’s boring. Lead with our left if it ever comes to a fight in the schoolyard,” Jannie offered with a wink.

  I rolled my eyes. “What I was going to say,” I said, “is that you should be especially nice to Mrs. Johnson today. You see, last night Christine said that she’d marry me. I guess that means she’s marrying all of us.”

  At that point, everything became hugging and loud celebrating in the kitchen. The kids got chocolate milk and bacon grease all over me. I’d never seen Nana happier. And I felt exactly the same. Probably even better than they did.

  I eventually made it to work that morning. I had made some progress on the John Doe homicide, and early on Tuesday morning, I learned that the man whose body had been dumped on Alabama Avenue was a thirty-four-year-old research analyst named Franklin Odenkirk. He worked at the Library of Congress for the Congressional Research Service.

  We didn’t release the news to the press, but I did inform Chief Pittman’s office as soon as I knew. Pittman would find out anyway.

  Once I had a name for the victim, information came quickly, and as it usually is, it was sad. Odenkirk was married and had t
hree small children. He had taken a late flight back from New York, where he’d given a talk at the Rockefeller Institute. The plane landed on time, and he deboarded at National around ten. What happened to him after that was a mystery.

  For the remainder of the week, I was busy with the murder case. I visited the Library of Congress and went to the newest structure, the James Madison Building, on Independence Avenue. I talked to nearly a dozen of Frank Odenkirk’s coworkers.

  They were courteous and cooperative, and I was told repeatedly that Odenkirk, while haughty at times, was generally well liked. He wasn’t known to use drugs or drink to excess; wasn’t known to gamble, either. He was faithful to his wife. He hadn’t been involved in a serious argument at the office for as long as he’d been there.

  He was with the Education and Public Welfare Division and spent long days in the spectacular Main Reading Room. There was no apparent motive for his murder, which was what I had feared. The killing roughly paralleled the Jane Does so far, but of course the chief of detectives didn’t want to hear that. There was no Jane Doe killer, according to him. Why? Because he didn’t want to shift dozens of detectives to Southeast and begin an extensive investigation on the basis of my instincts and gut feelings. I had heard Pittman joke that Southeast wasn’t part of his city.

  Before I left the Madison Building, I was compelled to stop and see the Main Reading Room once again. It was newly renovated, and I hadn’t been there since the work had been done.

  I sat at a reader’s table and stared up at the amazing dome high over my head. Around the room were stained-glass representations of the seals of forty-eight states, along with bronze statues of famous figures, including Michelangelo, Plato, Shakespeare, Edward Gibbon, and Homer. I could imagine poor Frank Odenkirk doing his work here, and it bothered me. Why had he been killed? Had it been the Weasel?