The water taxi docked at Rio di San Moisè, off the Grand Canal, and Sullivan made his way past narrow shops and museums to sprawling St. Mark’s Square. He was in radio contact with a spotter, and he’d learned that the Harrises were walking around the square, taking in the sights in a leisurely fashion. It was nearly eleven at night, and he wondered what would be next for them. A little clubbing? A late-night dinner at Cipriani? Drinks at Harry’s Bar?
Then he saw the couple—him, in a Burberry trench; her, in a cashmere wrap and carrying John Berendt’s City of Falling Angels.
He followed them, hidden in the midst of the festive, noisy crowd. Sullivan had thought it best to dress like an average Joe—khaki Dockers, sweatshirt, floppy rain hat. The pants, shirt, and hat could be discarded in a matter of seconds. Underneath, he wore a brown tweed suit, shirt and tie, and he had a beret. Thus, he would become the Professor. One of his favored disguises when he traveled in Europe to do a job.
The Harrises didn’t walk far from St. Mark’s, eventually turning onto Calle 13 Martiri. Sullivan already knew they were staying at the Bauer Hotel, so they were heading home now. “You’re almost making this too easy,” he muttered to himself.
Then he thought, Mistake.
Chapter 44
HE FOLLOWED MARTIN and Marcia Harris as they walked arm in arm through a dark, narrow, and very typical Venetian alleyway. They entered a gateway into the Bauer Hotel. He wondered why John Maggione wanted them dead, but it didn’t really matter to him.
Moments later, he was sitting across the bar from them on the hotel terrace. A nice little spot, cozy as a love seat, it overlooked the canal and the Chiesa della Salute. The Butcher ordered a Bushmills but didn’t drink more than a sip or two, just enough to take the edge off of things. He had a scalpel in his pants pocket, and he fingered it while he watched the Harrises.
Quite the lovebirds, he couldn’t help thinking as they shared a long kiss at the bar. Get a room, why don’t you?
As if he were reading the Butcher’s mind, Martin Harris paid the check, and then the couple left the crowded, subdued terrace lounge. Sullivan followed. The Bauer was a typical Venetian palazzo, more like a private home than a hotel, lavish and opulent at every turn. His own wife, Caitlin, would have loved it, but he could never take her here, or ever come back himself.
Not after tonight and the unspeakable tragedy that was going to happen here in a matter of minutes. Because that’s what the Butcher specialized in—tragedies, the unspeakable kind.
He knew that there were ninety-seven guest rooms and eighteen suites in the Bauer, and that the Harrises were staying in one of the suites on the third floor. He followed them up the carpeted stairs and immediately thought, Mistake.
But whose—mine or theirs? Important question to consider and be ready to answer.
He turned out of the stairwell—and it all went wrong in a hurry!
The Harrises were waiting for him, both with guns drawn, and Martin had a nasty smirk on his face. Most likely, they were going to take him to their room and kill him there. It was an obvious setup . . . by two professionals.
Not too shabby a job, either. An eight out of ten.
But who had done this to him? Who had set him up to die in Venice? Even more curious—why had he been targeted? Why him? And why now?
Not that he was thinking about any of that now, in the dimly lit corridor of the Bauer, with two guns pointed toward him.
Fortunately, the Harrises had committed several mistakes along the way: They’d made following them too easy; they’d been careless and unconcerned; and too romantic, at least in his jaded opinion, for a couple married twenty years, even one on holiday in Venice.
So the Butcher had come up the stairs with his own pistol drawn—and the instant he saw them with guns out, he fired.
No hesitation, not even a half second.
Chauvinist pig that he was, he took out the man first, the more dangerous opponent in his estimation. He got Martin Harris in the face, shattered the nose and upper lip. A definite kill shot. The man’s head snapped back, and his blond hairpiece flew off.
Then Sullivan dove, rolled to the left, and Marcia Harris’s shot missed him by a foot or more.
He fired again—and got Marcia in the side of her throat; then he put a second shot into her heaving chest. And a third in her heart.
The Butcher knew the Harrises were dead in the hallway, just lying there like sides of meat, but he didn’t run out of the Bauer.
Instead, he whipped out his scalpel and went to work on their faces and throats. If he’d had the time, he would have stitched up the eyes and mouths too—to send a message. Then he took a half dozen photographs of the victims, the would-be assassins, for his prized picture collection.
One day soon, the Butcher would show these photos to the person who had paid to have him killed and failed, and who was now as good as dead.
That man was John Maggione, the don himself.
Chapter 45
IN HIS MICHAEL SULLIVAN PERSONA, he had the habit of thinking things through several times, and not just his hit jobs. The lifelong habit included things about his family, small details like how and where they lived, and who knew about it. Also, images from his father’s butcher shop in the Flatlands were always with him: an awning of wide stripes with the orange, white, and green of the Irish flag; the bright whiteness of the shop on the inside; the loud electric meat grinder that seemed to shake the whole building whenever it was turned on.
For this new life of his, far away from Brooklyn, he had chosen affluent, and mostly white-bread, Montgomery County in Maryland.
Specifically, he had picked out the town of Potomac.
Around three on the afternoon that he arrived back from Europe, he drove at exactly twenty-five miles an hour through Potomac Village, stopping like any other good citizen at the irritatingly long light at the corner of River and Falls Roads.
More time to think, or obsess, which he usually enjoyed.
So, who had put a hit out on him? Was it Maggione? And what did it mean to him and his family? Was he safe coming home now?
One of the general “appearances,” or “disguises,” that he had carefully selected for his family was that of the bourgeois bohemian. The ironies of the lifestyle choice gave him constant amusement: nonfat butter, for example, and NPR always on the radio of his wife’s trendy SUV; and bizarre foods—like olive-wheatgrass muffins. It was patently absurd and hilarious to the Butcher: the joys of Yuppie life that just didn’t stop.
His three boys went to the private Landon School, where they hobnobbed with the mostly well-mannered, but often quite devious, children of the middle rich. There were lots of rich doctors in Montgomery County, working for NIH, the FDA, and National Naval Medical Center. So now he headed out toward Hunt County, the ritzy subdivision where he lived, and what a private hoot that was—“Hunt County, home of the Hunter.”
And finally, there was his home, sweet home, purchased in 2002 for one point five million. Six large bedrooms, four and a half baths, heated pool, sauna, finished basement with media room. Sirius satellite radio was the latest rage with Caitlin and the boys. Sweet Caitlin, love of his straight life, who had a life coach and an intuitive healer these days—all paid for by his dubious labors on the Hunt.
Sullivan had called ahead on his cell, and there they were on the front lawn to meet and greet—waving like the big happy family that they thought they were. They had no idea, no clue that they were part of his disguise, that they were his cover story. That’s all it was, right?
He hopped out of the Caddy, grinning like he was in a fast-food commercial, and sang his theme song, the old Shep and the Limelites classic “Daddy’s Home.” “Daddy’s home, your daddy’s home to stay.” And Caitlin and the kids chorused, “He’s not a thousand miles a-waaay.”
His life was the best, wasn’t it? Except that somebody was trying to kill him now. And of course there was always his past, the way he grew up in Brooklyn, his
insane father, the Bone Man, the dreaded back room at the shop. But the Butcher tried not to think about any of that right now.
He was home again; he’d made it—and he took a nice big bow in front of his family, who, of course, cheered for their returning hero.
That’s what he was, yeah, a hero.
Part Three
THERAPY
Chapter 46
“ALEX! HEY, YOU! How you been? Long time no see, big guy. You’re looking good.”
I waved to a petite, pretty woman named Malina Freeman and kept on running. Malina was a fixture in the neighborhood, kind of like me. She was around the same age as I was and owned the newspaper store where the two of us used to spend our allowances on candy and soda when we were kids. Rumor had it that she liked me. Hey, I liked Malina too, always had.
My flapping feet kept me headed north on Fifth Street like they knew the way, and the neighborhood scrolled by. Toward Seward Square, I hung a right and took the long way around. It didn’t make logical sense to go that way, but I didn’t do it for logical reasons.
The news about Maria’s murderer was the one thing holding me back these days. Now I was avoiding the block where it had happened and, at the same time, working hard to remember Maria as I had known her, not as I had lost her. I was also spending time every day trying to track down her killer—now that I suspected he was still out there somewhere.
I turned right on Seventh, then headed toward the National Mall, pushing a little harder. When I got to my building at Indiana Avenue, I eked out just enough wind to take the four flights up, two steps at a time.
My new office was a converted studio apartment, one large room with a small bath and an alcove kitchen off to the side. Lots of natural light streamed in through a semicircle of windows in the turreted corner.
That’s where I’d set up two comfortable chairs and a small couch for therapy sessions.
Just being here got me pretty excited. I’d put out my shingle, and I was ready to see my first patient.
Three stacks of case files were waiting on my desk, two from the Bureau and another sent over from DCPD. Most of the files represented possible consulting jobs. A few crimes to solve? An occasional dead body? I guess that was realistic.
The first file I looked at was a serial case in Georgia, someone the media had dubbed “the Midnight Caller.” Three black men were dead already, with a successively shorter interval between each homicide. It was a decent case for me, except for the six hundred miles between DC and Atlanta.
I set the file aside.
The next case was closer to home. Two history professors at the University of Maryland, perhaps intimately involved, had been found dead in a classroom. The bodies had been hung from ceiling beams. Local police had a suspect but wanted to work up a profile before they went any further.
I put that file back on my desk with a yellow sticker attached.
Yellow, for maybe.
There was a knock on my door.
“It’s open,” I called out, and immediately became suspicious, paranoid, whatever it is that I am most of the time.
What had Nana said when I’d left the house earlier? Try not to get shot at.
Chapter 47
OLD HABITS DIE HARD. But it wasn’t Kyle Craig, or some other psychotic nutcase from my past come to visit.
It was my first patient.
The visitor took up most of the doorway where she now paused, as if scared to come in. Her face was turned down at the mouth, and her hand gripped the jamb while she tried to catch her breath, while keeping some dignity.
“You putting in an elevator anytime soon?” she asked between gasps.
“Sorry about all the stairs,” I said. “You must be Kim Stafford. I’m Alex Cross. Please, come in. There’s coffee, or I can get you water.”
The very first patient of my new practice finally lumbered into my office. She was a heavyset woman, in her late twenties, I guessed, though she could have passed for forty. She was dressed very formally, in a dark skirt and white blouse that looked old but well made. A blue-and-lavender silk scarf was carefully tied under her chin.
“You said on the machine that Robert Hatfield referred you?” I asked. “I used to work with Robert on the police force. Is he a friend of yours?”
“Not really.”
Okay, not a friend of Hatfield’s. I waited for her to say more, but nothing came. She just stood in the middle of the office, seeming to quietly appraise everything in the room.
“We can sit over here,” I prompted. She waited for me to sit first, so I did.
Kim finally sat down herself, perched tentatively on the forward edge of the chair. One of her hands fluttered nervously around the knot in her scarf. The other was clenched into a fist.
“I just need some help trying to understand someone,” she began. “Someone who gets angry sometimes.”
“Is this someone close to you?”
She stiffened. “I’m not giving you his name.”
“No,” I said. “The name isn’t important. But is this a family member?”
“Fiancé.”
I nodded. “How long have you two been engaged? Is that all right to ask?”
“Four years,” she said. “He wants me to lose some weight before we get married.”
Maybe it was force of habit, but I was already working up a profile on the fiancé. Everything was her fault in the relationship; he took no responsibility for his own actions; her weight was his escape hatch.
“Kim, when you say he gets angry a lot—can you tell me a little more about that?”
“Well, it’s just . . .” She stopped to think, although I’m sure it was embarrassment and not a lack of clarity that held her back. Then tears pearled at the corners of her eyes.
“Has he been physically violent with you?” I asked.
“No,” she said, a little too quickly. “Not violent. It’s just . . . Well, yes. I guess so.”
With one shaky breath, she seemed to give up on words. Instead, she untied the scarf around her neck and let it float down into her lap.
I hated what I saw. The welts were easy enough to make out. They ran like blurred stripes around her throat.
I’d seen those kinds of striated markings before. Usually they were on dead bodies.
Chapter 48
I HAD TO REMIND MYSELF—the murders are behind you now; this is just a therapy session.
“Kim, how did you get those marks on your neck? Tell me whatever you can.”
She winced as she tied the scarf back on. “If my cell phone rings, I have to answer it. He thinks I’m at my mother’s house,” she said.
A terrible look crossed her face, and I realized it was too early to ask her about specific incidences of abuse.
Still not looking at me, she unbuttoned the sleeve of her blouse. I wasn’t sure what she was doing until I saw the angry red sore above the wrist on her forearm. It was just beginning to heal.
“Is that a burn mark?” I asked.
“He smokes cigars,” she said.
I breathed in. She’d answered so matter-of-factly. “Have you called the police?”
She laughed bitterly. “No. I haven’t.”
Her hand went up to her mouth, and she looked away again. This man had obviously scared her into protecting him, no matter what.
A cell phone chirped inside her purse.
Without a word to me, she took out the phone, looked at the number, and answered.
“Hey, baby. What’s up?” Her voice was soft and easygoing, and totally convincing. “No,” she said. “Mom went out to get some milk. Of course I’m sure. I’ll tell her you said hi.”
It was fascinating to watch Kim’s face as she spoke. She wasn’t just acting for him. She was playing this part for herself. That’s how she was getting by, wasn’t it?
When she finally hung up, she looked at me with the most incongruous smile, as though no conversation had taken place at all. It lasted less than a few seconds. Then she
broke up, all at once. A low moan turned into a sob that racked her body; she rocked forward, clutching herself around the middle.
“Th-this is too hard,” she choked out. “I’m sorry. I can’t do it. I can’t . . . be here.”
When the cell phone rang a second time, she jumped in her seat. These surveillance calls were the thing that made it hardest for her to be here—trying to juggle awareness and denial at the same time.
She wiped at her face as though her appearance mattered, then answered in the same soft voice as before.
“Hey, baby. No, I was washing my hands. Sorry, baby. It took me a second to get to the phone.”
I could hear him shouting about something as Kim nodded patiently and listened.
Eventually, she held up a finger to me and let herself out into the hall.
I used the time to go through a few of my provider directories and to calm down my own anger. When Kim came back in, I tried to give her the names of some shelters in the area, but she refused them.
“I’ve got to go,” she said suddenly. The second call had sealed her up tight. “How much do I owe you?”
“Let’s call this an initial consult. Pay me for the second appointment.”
“I don’t want charity. I don’t think I can come back anyway. How much?”
I answered reluctantly. “It’s one hundred an hour on a sliding scale. Fifty would be good.”
She counted it out for me, mostly fives and singles that she had probably stashed away over time. Then she left the office. My first session had ended.
Chapter 49
MISTAKE. BAD ONE.
A New Jersey mob boss and former contract killer named Benny “Goodman” Fontana was whistling a bouncy Sinatra tune as he strolled around to the passenger side of his dark-blue Lincoln; then he opened the door with a flourish and a one-hundred-kilowatt smile that would have made Ol’ Blue Eyes proud.
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