Alex Cross 03 - Jack & Jill

by James Patterson

  Then I began thinking about Mrs. Johnson for a moment or two. That was a better place to be. She’s even tougher than you are. Daddy. What a glowing recommendation from my little man. It was almost a dare. Everybody likes Mrs. Johnson, Damon had said.

  I wondered what her first name was. I made a wild guess— Christine. The name just came to me. Christine. I liked the sound of it in my head.

  I finally nodded off to sleep. I slept with the kids in the pile of blankets and pillows on the bedroom floor. No monsters visited us that night. I wouldn’t let them.

  The dragonslayer was on guard. Tired and sleepy and over-sentimental, but ever so watchful.

  CHAPTER

  17

  THIS WAS REALLY NUTS, insane, demented. It was so great! The killer wanted to go for it again, right now. Right this minute. He wanted to do the two of them. What a gas that would be. What a large charge. A real shockeroo.

  He had watched them from afar—father and son. He thought of his own father, the totally worthless prick.

  Then he saw the tall, pretty schoolteacher wave and get into her car. Instinctively, he hated her, too. Worthless black bitch. Phony teacher smile spread all over her face.

  POW! POW! POW!

  Three perfect headshots.

  Three exploding head melons.

  That’s what they all deserved. Summary executions.

  A really rude thought was forming in his mind as he watched the scene near the school. He already knew a lot of things about Alex Cross. Cross was his detective, wasn’t he? Cross had been assigned to his case, right? So Cross was his meat. A cop, just like his own father had been.

  The really interesting thing was that nobody had paid much attention to the first killing. The murder had almost gone unnoticed. The papers in Washington had barely picked it up. Same with TV. Nobody cared about a little black girl in Southeast. Why the hell should they?

  All they cared about was Jack and Jill. Rich white people afraid for their lives. Scar-y! Well, fuck Jack and Jill. He was better than Jack and Jill, and he was going to demonstrate it.

  The school principal drove past his hiding place in a cluster of overgrown bushes. He knew who she was, too. Mrs. Johnson of the Truth School. The Whitney Houston of Southeast, right? Screw, her, man.

  His eyes slowly drifted back to Alex Cross and his son. He felt anger rising inside him, steam building up. It was as if his secret button had been pushed again. The hair on his neck was standing at attention. He was beginning to see red, feeling spraying mists of red in his brain. Somebody’s blood, right? Cross’s? His son’s? He loved the idea of them dying together. He could see it, man.

  He followed Alex Cross and his kid home—in his rage state—but keeping a safe distance. He was thinking about what he was going to do next.

  He was better than Jack and Jill. He’d prove it to Cross and everyone else.

  CHAPTER

  18

  THE FESTIVE charity gala for the Council on Mental Health was being held at the Pension Building on F Street and Fourth on Friday night. The grand ballroom was three stories, with huge marble columns everywhere, and more than a thousand guests noisily seated around a glistening working fountain. The waiters and waitresses wore Santa Claus hats. The band broke into a lively swing version of “Winter Wonderland.” What great fun.

  The guest speaker for the evening was none other than the Princess of Wales. Sam Harrison was there as well. Jack was there.

  He observed Princess Di closely as she entered the guttering, stately ballroom. Her entourage included a financier rumored to be her next husband, the Brazilian ambassador and his wife, and several celebrities from the chic American fashion world. Ironically, two of the models in the group appeared to suffer from anorexia nervosa—the flip side of bulimia, the nervous disorder that had plagued Diana for the previous dozen years.

  Jack moved a few steps closer to Princess Di. He was intrigued, and had serious questions about the quality of her security arrangement. He watched the Secret Service boys make a discreet sweep, then remain on duty nearby, earphones at the ready.

  A formal toastmaster had been brought all the way from England to properly salute the queen—the council’s president—and host Walter Annenberg. The ambassador spoke briefly, then a lavish, though overcooked and underspiced, dinner followed: baby lamb with sauce Niçoise and haricots verts.

  When the princess finally rose to speak during dessert, an orange almond tart with orange sauce and Marsala cream, Jack was less than thirty feet away from her. She wore an expensive gold sheath of taffeta with sequins, but he found her somewhat gawky, at least to his taste. Her large feet made him think of the cartoon character Daisy Duck. Princess Daisy, that was his moniker for Di.

  Diana’s speech at the gala was very personal, if familiar, to those who had followed her life closely. A troubled childhood and adolescence, a debilitating search for perfection, feelings of self-revulsion and low personal esteem. All this had led to what she spoke of as her “shameful friend,” bulimia.

  Jack found the speech strangely off-putting and cloying. He wasn’t at all touched by Diana’s self-pity, or the near hysteria that seemed to reside just below the surface of her performance—perhaps her entire life.

  The audience clearly had a different reaction, even the usually cool-as-ice Secret Service guards seemed to react emotionally to the popular Di. The applause when she had finished speaking was thunderous and seemed heartfelt and sincere.

  Then the entire room stood up, Jack included, and continued the warm, noisy tribute. He could almost have reached out and touched Di. Here’s to bulimina, he wanted to call out. Here’s to worthwhile causes of all kinds.

  It was time for him to move into action again. It was time for number two in the Jack and Jill story. Time for a lot of things to begin.

  It was also his turn to be the star tonight—to solo, as it were. He had been watching another well-known personality that evening at the party. He had watched her, studied her habits and mannerisms on a few other occasions as well.

  Natalie Sheehan was physically striking, much more so than Di, actually. The much-admired TV newswoman was blond, about five eight in heels. She wore a simple, classic, black silk dress. She oozed charm, but especially class. First class. Natalie Sheehan had been aptly described as “American royalty,” “an American princess.”

  Jack started to move at a little past nine-thirty. Guests were already dancing to an eight-piece band. The breezy chitchat was flowing freely: Marion Gingrich’s business dealings, trade problems with China, John Major’s problems du jour, planned ski trips to Aspen, Whistler, or Alta.

  Natalie Sheehan had downed three margaritas—straight up, with salt around the rim. He had watched her. She didn’t show it, but she had to be feeling something, had to be a little high.

  She’s an extremely good actor, Jack was thinking as he came up beside her at one of the complimentary bars. She’s a master of the one”-night stand and the one-weekend affair. Jill had researched the hell out of her. I know everything about you, Natalie.

  He took two sidelong steps, and suddenly they were face to face. They nearly collided, actually. He could smell her perfume. Flowers and spices. Very nice. He even knew the delightful fragrance’s name—ESCADA acte 2. He’d read that it was Natalie’s favorite.

  “I’m sorry. Excuse me,” he said, feeling his cheeks redden.

  “No, no. I wasn’t looking where I was going. Clumsy me,” Natalie said and smiled. It was her killer TV close-up smile. Really something to experience firsthand.

  Jack smiled back, and suddenly his eyes communicated recognition. He knew her. “You never forgot a name, or a face, not in eleven years of broadcasting,” he said to Natalie Sheehan. “That’s an accurate quote, I believe.”

  Natalie didn’t miss a beat. “You’re Scott Cookson. We met at the Meridian. It was in early September. You’re a lawyer with … a prestigious D.C. law firm. Of course.”

  She laughed at her small joke.
Nice laugh. Beautiful lips and perfectly capped teeth. The Natalie Sheehan. His target for the evening.

  “We did meet at the Meridian?” she said, checking her facts like the good reporter she was. “You are Scott Cookson?”

  “We did, and I am. You had another affair to attend after that, at the British embassy”

  “You seem never to forget a face or factoid, either,” she said. The smile remained fixed. Perfect, glowing, almost effervescent The TV star in real life, if this was real life.

  Jack shrugged, and acted shy, which wasn’t so hard to do with Natalie. “Some faces, some factoids,” he said.

  She was classically beautiful, extremely attractive at any rate, he couldn’t help thinking. The warm heartland smile was her trademark, and it worked very well for her. He had studied it for hours before tonight. He wasn’t completely immune to her charms—not even under the circumstances.

  “Well,” Natalie said to him. “I don’t have another party after this one. Actually, I’m cutting back on parties. Believe it or not. This is a good cause, though.”

  “I agree. I believe in good causes.”

  “Oh, and what’s your favorite cause, Scott?”

  “Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals,” he said. “That’s my pet cause.”

  He tried to look pleasantly surprised that she would remain talking with him. He could play parlor games as well as anyone—when he had to, when he wanted to.

  “If I might be just a little bold,” he said, “would you consider the two of us cutting back together?” His very natural and unassuming smile undercut the forward-sounding line. It was a come-on just the same. There was no disguising that. Natalie Sheehan’s answer was tremendously important, to both of them.

  She stared at him, slightly taken aback. He’d completely blown it, he thought. Or maybe she was acting now.

  Then Natalie Sheehan laughed. It was a hearty laugh, almost raucous. He was sure that no one in America had ever heard it in her prim and proper role as a network television reporter.

  Poor Natalie, Jack thought. Number two.

  CHAPTER

  19

  NATALIE TOOK another margarita for the trip home. “A roadie,” she told him and laughed that deep, wonderful laugh of hers again.

  “I learned how to party a little bit at St. Catherine’s Academy in Cleveland. Then at Ohio State,” she confided as they walked to the garage under the Pension Building. She was trying to show him that she was different from her television persona. Looser, more fun. He got that much, got the message. He even liked her for it. He was noticing that her usually crisp and exact enunciation was just a little off now. She probably thought it was sexy, and she was right. She was actually very nice, very down-to-earth, which surprised him a little.

  They took her car, as Jill had accurately predicted. Natalie drove the silver-blue Dodge Stealth a little too fast All the while she talked rapid-fire, too, but kept it interesting: GATT, Boris Yeltsin’s drinking problems, D.C. real estate, campaign-financing reform. She showed herself to be intelligent, informed, high-spirited, and only slightly neurotic about the ongoing struggle between men and women.

  “Where are we going?” he finally thought he should ask. He already knew the answer, of course. The Jefferson Hotel. Natalie’s honey trap in D.C. Her place.

  “Oh, to my laboratory,” she said. “Why, are you nervous?”

  “No. Well, maybe a little nervous,” he said and laughed. It was the truth.

  She brought him upstairs to her private office in the Jefferson Hotel on Sixteenth Street. Two beautiful rooms and a spacious bath overlooked downtown. He knew that she also had a house in Old Town Alexandria. Jill had visited there. Just in case. Just to be thorough. Measure twice. Measure five times, if necessary.

  “This place is my treat for myself. A special spot where I can work right here in the city,” she told him. “Isn’t the view breathtaking? It makes you feel as if you own the whole city. It does for me, anyway.”

  “I see what you mean. I love Washington myself,” Jack said. For a moment he was lost, peering off into the distance. He did love this city and what it was supposed to represent— at least, he had once upon a time. He still remembered his very first visit here. He had been a marine private, twenty years old. The Soldier.

  He quietly surveyed her workspace. Laptop computer, Canon Bubblejet, two VCRs, gold Emmy, pocket OAG. Fresh-cut flowers in a pink vase beside a black ceramic bowl filled with foreign pocket change.

  Natalie Sheehàn, this is your life. Kind of impressive; kind of sad; kind of over.

  Natalie stopped and looked at him closely, almost as if she were seeing him for the first time. “You’re very nice, aren’t you? You strike me as being a very genuine person. The genuine article, as they say, or used to say. You’re a nice guy, aren’t you, Scott Cookson?”

  “Not really,” he shrugged. He rolled his sparkling blue eyes and an engaging little half-smile appeared. He was good at this: getting the girl—if it was necessary. Actually, though, under normal circumstances, he never ran around. He was at heart a one-woman guy.

  “Nobody’s really nice in Washington, right? Not after you’ve lived here for a while,” he said and continued to smile.

  “I suppose that’s true. I guess that’s basically accurate,” she snorted out a raucous laugh, then laughed again. At herself? He could see that Natalie was disappointed a little in his answer. She wanted, or maybe she needed, something genuine in her life. Well, so did he; and this was it. The game was exquisite, and it was definitely the genuine article. It was so important. It was history. And it was happening right now in this Jefferson Hotel suite.

  This irresistible, dangerous game he was playing, this was his life. It was something with meaning, and he felt fulfilled. No, he felt, for the first time in years.

  “Hi there, Scott Cookson. Did we lose you for a sec?”

  “No, no. I’m right here. I’m a here-and-now kind of person. Just admiring the wonderful view you have here. Washington in the wee hours.”

  “It’s our view for tonight. Yours and mine.”

  Natalie made the first physical move, which was also as he had predicted and was therefore reassuring to him.

  She came up close to him, from behind. She placed her long slender arms around his chest, bracelets jangling. It was extremely nice. She was highly desirable, almost overpoweringly so, and she knew it. He felt himself become aroused, become extremely hard down the left side of his trousers. That kind of arousal was like a small itch compared to everything else he was feeling now. Besides, he could use it. Let her feel your excitement. Let her touch you.

  “Are you okay with this?” she asked. She actually was nice, wasn’t she? Thoughtful, considerate. It was too bad, really. Too late to change the plan, to switch targets. Bad luck, Natalie.

  “I’m very okay with this, Natalie.”

  “Can I take your tie off, tasteful as it is?” she asked.

  “I think that ties should be done away with altogether,” he answered.

  “No, ties definitely have a place. First Communions, funerals, coronations.”

  Natalie was standing very close to him. She could be so sweetly, gently seductive—and that was sad. He liked her more than he’d thought he would. Once upon a time, she had probably been the simple Midwestern beauty she now half pretended to be. He had felt nothing but revulsion for Daniel Fitzpatrick, but he felt a great deal tonight. Guilt, regret, second thoughts, compassion. The hardest thing was killing up close like this.

  “How about white pima cotton shirts? Are you a white-shirt man?” Natalie asked.

  “Don’t like white shirts at all. White shirts are for funerals and coronations. And charity balls.”

  “I agree a thousand percent with that sentiment,” Natalie said as she slowly unbuttoned his white shirt. He let her fingers do the walking. They trailed down to his belt. Teasing. Expert at this. She rubbed her palm across his crotch, then quickly took her hand away.r />
  “How about high heels?” Natalie asked.

  “Actually, I like those on the right occasion, and on the right woman,” he said. “But I like going barefoot, too.”

  “Nicely put Give a girl her choice. I like that.”

  She kicked off just one black slingback, then laughed at her joke. A choice—one shoe on, one off.

  “Silk dresses?” she whispered against his neck. He was rock-hard now. His breathing was labored. So was Natalie’s. He considered making love to her first Was that fair game? Or was it rape? Natalie had managed to confuse the issue for him.

  “I can do without those, depending on the occasion, of course,” he whispered back.

  “Mmm. We seem to agree on a lot of things.”

  Natalie Sheehan slid out of her dress. Then she was in her blue lacy underwear, one shoe, black stockings. Around her neck was a thin gold chain and cross that looked as if it had come with her all the way from Ohio.

  Jack still had his trousers on. But no white shirt, no tie. “Can we go in there?” she whispered, indicating the bedroom. “It’s really nice in there. Same view, only with a fireplace. The fireplace even works. Something actually works in Washington.”

  “Okay. Well, let’s start a fire, then.”

  Jack picked her up as if she weighed nothing, as if they were both elegant dancers, which in a way they were. He didn’t want to care about her, but he did. He forced the thought out of his mind. He couldn’t think like that, like a schoolboy, a Pollyanna, a normal human being.

  “Strong, too. Hmmm,” she sighed, finally kicking off the other shoe.

  The picture window in the bedroom was astonishing to behold. The view was north up Sixteenth Street The streets and Scott Circle below were like a lovely and expensive necklace, jewelry by Harry Winston or Tiffany. Something Princess Di might wear.