Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

by Patterson, James

  She 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 was an extremely good actor, Jack was thinking as he came up beside her at one of the complimentary bars. She 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 acre 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.

  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 silverblue 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 Sheehan, 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 see?”

  "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 arousa
l 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.

  “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.

  Jack had to remind himself that he was stalking Natalie. Nothing must stop this from happening now. The final decision had been made. The die was cast. Literally.

  He forced himself not to be sentimental. Just like that! He could be so cold, and so good at this.

  He thought about throwing the high-spirited and beautiful newswoman through the plate glass window of her bedroom. He wondered if she would crash through or just bounce back off the glass.

  Instead, he set Natalie down gently on a bed covered with an Amish quilt. He pulled out handcuffs from his jacket pocket.

  He let her see them.

  Natalie Sheehan frowned, her blue eyes widening in disbelief.

  She seemed to deflate, to depress, right before his eyes.

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?” She was angry with him, but she was also hurt. She figured he was a freak, and she was right beyond her wildest nightmares.

  His voice was very low. “No, this isn't a joke. This is very serious, Natalie. You might say that it's newsworthy.”

  There was a sudden and very sharp knock at the door to the demi-apartment. He held up a finger for Natalie to be quiet, very quiet.

  Her eyes showed confusion, genuine fear, an uncustomary loss of her cool demeanor.

  His eyes were cold. They showed nothing at all.

  “That's Jill,” he told Natalie Sheehan. “I'm Jack. I'm sorry. I really am.”

  I EASED MY WAY inside the Jefferson Hotel just before eight in the morning. A little Gershwin was rolling through my head, trying to soothe the savage, trying to smooth out the jagged edges.

  Suddenly, I was playing the bizarre game, too. Jack and Jill. I was part of it now.

  The cool dignity of the hotel was being scrupulously main-rained; at least, it was in the elegant front lobby It was difficult to grasp the reality that a bizarre and unspeakable tragedy had struck here, or that it ever could.

  I passed a fancy grillroom and a shop displaying couture fashion. A century-old clock gently chimed the hour; otherwise, the room was hushed. There was no sign, not a hint, that the Jefferson m indeed the entire city of Washington -- was in shock and chaos over a pair of grisly, high-profile murders and threats of still more to come.

  I am continually fascinated by facades like the one I encountered at the Jefferson. Maybe that's why I love Washington so much. The hotel lobby reminded me that most things aren't what they appear to be. It was a perfect representation for so much that goes on in D.C. Clever facades fronting even morfrom his jacket pocket.

  He let her see them.

  Natalie Sheehan frowned, her blue eyes widening in disbelief.

  She seemed to deflate, to depress, right before his eyes.

  “Is this some kind of sick joke?” She was angry with him, but she was also hurt. She figured he was a freak, and she was right beyond her wildest nightmares.

  His voice was very low. “No, this isn't a joke. This is very serious, Natalie. You might say that it's newsworthy.”

  There was a sudden and very sharp knock at the door to the demi-apartment. He held up a finger for Natalie to be quiet, very quiet.

  Her eyes showed confusion, genuine fear, an uncustomary loss of her cool demeanor.

  His eyes were cold. They showed nothing at all.

  “That's Jill,” he told Natalie Sheehan. “I'm Jack. I'm sorry. I really am.”

  I EASED MY WAY inside the Jefferson Hotel just before eight in the morning. A little Gershwin was rolling through my head, trying to soothe the savage, trying to smooth out the jagged edges.

  Suddenly, I was playing the bizarre game, too. Jack and Jill. I was part of it now.

  The cool dignity of the hotel was being scrupulously main-rained; at least, it was in the elegant front lobby It was difficult to grasp the reality that a bizarre and unspeakable tragedy had struck here, or that it ever could.

  I passed a fancy grillroom and a shop displaying couture fashion. A century-old clock gently chimed the hour; otherwise, the room was hushed. There was no sign, not a hint, that the Jefferson m indeed the entire city of Washington -- was in shock and chaos over a pair of grisly, high-profile murders and threats of still more to come.

  I am continually fascinated by facades like the one I encountered at the Jefferson. Maybe that's why I love Washington so much. The hotel lobby reminded me that most things aren't what they appear to be. It was a perfect representation for so much that goes on in D.C. Clever facades fronting even more clever facades.

  Jack and Jill had committed their second murder in five days. In this serene and very posh hotel. They had threatened several more murders -- and no one had a clu
e why, or how to stop the celebrity stalking.

  It was escalating.

  Clearly, it was.

  But why? What did Jack and Jill want? What was their sick game all about?

  I had already been on the phone very early that morning, talking to my strange friends in abnormal psych at Quantico. One of the advantages I have is that they all know I have a doctorate in psych from Johns Hopkins and they're willing to talk with me, even to share theories and insights. So far, they were stumped.

  Then checked in with a contact of mine at the FBI's evidence analysis labs. The evidence hounds didn't have much of anything to go on, either. They admitted as much to me. Jack and Jill had all of us chasing our tails in double time.

  Speaking of which, I had been ordered by the chief of detectives to work up “one of your famous psych profiles” on the homicidal couple, if that's what they really were. I felt the task was futile at this point, but hadn't been given a choice by The Jefe. Working at home on my PC, I ran a wide swath through the available Behavioral Science Unit and Violent Criminal Apprehension Program data. Nothing obvious or very useful popped up, as I suspected it wouldn't. It was too early in the chase, and Jack and Jill were too good.

  For now at least the correct steps were (1) gather as much information and data as possible; (2) ask the right questions, and plenty of them; (3) start collecting wild hunches on index cards that I would carry around until the end of the case.

  I knew about several stalker cases, and I ran the information down in my head. One inescapable fact was that the Bureau now had a database of more than fifty thousand potential and actual stalkers. That was up from less than a thousand in the 1980s. There didn't seem to be any single stalker profile, but many of them shared traits: first and foremost, obsession with the media; need for recognition; obsession with violence and religion; difficulty forming loving relationships of their own. I thought of Margaret Ry, the obsessed fan who had broken into David Letterman's home in Connecticut numerous times. She had called Letterman “the dominant person in my life.” I watch Letterman sometimes myself, but he's not that good.