Alex Cross, Run

by James Patterson

  “What’s the name?” Bree said.

  “Russell.”

  “Russell? Is that a first or a last name?”

  I smiled in spite of myself. “First, I think, but we should try it both ways.”

  “You’re joking, right?” Bree said. “Do you know how many records that’s going to turn up?”

  “I wish I was joking,” I said. “For whatever it’s worth, there’s probably going to be a Washington area address sometime in the last two years. This guy may be the father of Elizabeth Reilly’s baby. Maybe the guy who killed her, too.”

  “That’s a lot of maybe,” she said.

  “I know, I know,” I said.

  But at this point, maybe was better than nothing.

  CHAPTER

  26

  ELIJAH CREEM PICKED UP A SMALL HORSEHAIR BRUSH FROM HIS DESK AND added several dots of liver-colored pigment to his newest mask. The masks themselves came fully finished from the fabricator in Arkansas, but there was something to be said for putting on his own touches. Not a bad way to spend a Friday night, really, considering the pleasure it would get him in the long run. The older and uglier he could make these faces—which was to say, the more invisible on the street—the better.

  When the phone rang in his pocket, Creem ignored it. There were very few people he was interested in speaking with these days, much less the variety of scum who bothered to call anymore—lawyers, creditors, and the occasional reporter looking for a new angle on his now fast-fading scandal.

  Instead, he applied a thin layer of spirit gum to the mask’s upper lip, and spread a mesh-backed mustache carefully into place. Later, when it was fully dry, he’d thread it with silvery gray to go with the wig he’d picked out.

  It was only when the phone stopped ringing, then started right back up again that Creem even thought about checking the caller ID, which he did.

  It was Josh Bergman. Of course. So much for keeping their distance from each other.

  “Josh,” he answered. “To what do I owe the dubious pleasure?”

  “Hello, Dr. Creem, it’s Joshua Bergman. How are you today?”

  Bergman’s voice was stiff, and ridiculously bright at the other end of the line.

  “Ah,” Creem said. “I take it you’re not alone?”

  “Good, good. Glad to hear it. Listen, I have a young lady here in my office. I’m considering signing her at the agency, but I’d like her to have a quick consult with you first,” Bergman said. “If you’re up for it, of course. I know it’s a bit late.”

  Creem grinned broadly, even as he felt his own pulse start to rise.

  Referrals were nothing new between his office and Josh’s. Bergman had sent over a good million and a half in business in the past few years, including a handful of “prospects” who had found their way into Creem’s bed.

  But that was then. This was now. And everything had changed in the meantime.

  Josh wasn’t just upping his own game anymore, was he? Now he was trying to up Creem’s as well. Either that, or he was eager to move things along and get the ball back into his own court. It didn’t really matter which. The point was—Bergman knew exactly what Creem liked.

  “This is a surprise,” Creem said. “I assume she’s the right type?”

  “Yes, yes, lots of potential,” Bergman said breezily. “Almost perfect, in fact. But that’s where you come in, isn’t it, doctor? How about if we swing by your home office around eight o’clock?”

  And there it was. The tour de salaud. Josh’s dirty little twist.

  “I see,” Creem said. “You want to be here when it happens. What is that, your commission?”

  Bergman laughed. “This is why I like working with you, Elijah. You know me so well.” He seemed to put his hand over the phone then, and addressed the girl. “Dr. Creem says he can’t wait to meet you, sweetie.”

  It was a brilliant performance, really. There were few people as well trusted in the modeling world as gay men—and who else but Josh Bergman could play sister-friend with these Twiggies in one breath and offer them up for sport in the next?

  Creem looked at his watch. It was just after seven.

  “Make it eight thirty,” he said. “And don’t park in the street. I’ll leave the garage open. And, Josh?”

  “Yes?”

  “If you’re going to bring her here, you’re going to have to get rid of her. I’m not taking that on,” Creem said. “Are we clear?”

  “Crystal,” Bergman said. “Nice chatting, doctor. We’ll see you soon.”

  CHAPTER

  27

  AT EIGHT THIRTY EXACTLY, THE ELECTRIC CHIME OUTSIDE DR. CREEM’S LOWER-level waiting room rang. Bergman was almost always hyper-punctual, and tonight was no exception. When Creem opened the door, Bergman was standing there with a statuesque blond beauty on his arm.

  He wore a simple two-button blazer over a white shirt, open at the collar. His “uniform,” he called it. The young woman wore an LBD—the sort of little black dress that said, I’m a serious model, but I’m not opposed to giving a hand job or two on my way to the top.

  “Was I right, or was I right?” Josh said.

  “You were right,” Creem said, gesturing them both inside. “You’re a lovely girl, Miss . . . ?”

  “Larissa Swenson, Dr. Elijah Creem,” Bergman said, making the introductions, even as his eyes darted around the room. “I don’t suppose you have anything to drink down here, Elijah?”

  “Thank you so much for seeing me,” the girl said. Her hand was warm in his, her skin perfectly soft. “Mr. Bergman tells me you’re the best there is.”

  “Mr. Bergman is a smart man,” Creem said, his eyes locked on hers. “Joshua, try the console in the media room down the hall.”

  He’d already forgotten the girl’s name, but she was, in fact, perfect. He could feel that creeping sense of adrenaline up his spine, and in the tension of his jaw. It was the feeling of coming back to life, he now knew. He’d felt the same way on the night of Darcy Vickers.

  “My receptionist is off this week,” he told the girl. “We’ll worry about paperwork later, if it’s all the same.”

  “Fine, fine,” Bergman answered for her, coming back into the room with three glasses clutched in one hand and a cut crystal decanter in the other. “Larissa? Elijah? A little drink?”

  “No, thank you,” the girl answered politely.

  “Maybe afterward,” Creem said.

  “Suit yourself.” Bergman poured himself a two-finger shot and turned toward the examination room door. “In here, I assume?” He wasn’t even trying to contain his excitement anymore. It was a little funny, and a little infectious, too.

  “Are you . . . both coming in?” the girl asked. She seemed suddenly wary, but Creem gave her his best professional smile. Worked every time.

  “It’s really in your own best interest,” he said. “Josh will be handling the cost of any procedures, as I’m sure he told you. But if you’d rather decline the consult, now would be a good time to say so.”

  “No,” the girl said quickly. “It’s fine.” She sounded as if she were convincing herself as much as anything. Talk about blind ambition!

  “You’re sure?” Creem asked, more for fun than anything. He knew he had her now.

  Within a few minutes, all three of them were inside the examination room. Creem stood waiting with a clipboard in hand, as the girl stepped out from the changing cubicle in a thin blue hospital gown, while Josh watched expectantly from the rolling chair in the corner.

  “So,” Creem said, looking down at the blank intake form in front of him. “What are we thinking about here?”

  “Breast augmentation, for sure,” Bergman piped up. “We want to be able to book Larissa for print, runway, editorial—all of it. Isn’t that right, sweetie?”

  “Sure,” the girl answered, with another determined smile.

  Creem set the clipboard down behind her and took the stainless-steel pointer out of his pocket.

  “All
right, stand up nice and tall for me, with your hands on your hips,” he said. He untied the gown in front and stepped back to take a look, playing out the charade to its fullest.

  “Nice symmetry. Good elasticity of the skin,” he said. “All I’d really need to do is make a small incision, right along here.”

  He used the pointer to indicate a line under the girl’s breast to illustrate. Not for the girl, though. For Bergman. Josh had been nice enough to arrange this little home delivery. Might as well give him a good show.

  “That’s where I’d like to cut. Do you see?” Creem said.

  “I see,” Bergman said. The girl only nodded.

  “But let’s not limit ourselves,” Creem went on. “Should I keep going?”

  “Definitely,” Bergman said, pouring himself another drink. “Tell me what you’re thinking about, Elijah.”

  Creem stood to the side and used the pointer again, pressing the tip of it into the girl’s well-toned obliques.

  “Let’s say we wanted to go for a little tummy tuck, while we were at it,” he said. “In that case, I might try coming in right here, or maybe even here. . . .” Now he plied the lower abdominals under her navel. There was more resistance there, but that meant more payoff—more purchase for his blade when it went in.

  “Something like that?” Creem said, ostensibly for the girl, but again it was Bergman who answered.

  “Yes,” he said, his voice a little smaller than before. “Something like that.”

  “And how about the thighs?” Creem went on, turning his attention south. “It wouldn’t be much to take those down a little.” He drew another line, along the psoas, and came to a stop just over the femoral artery. His favorite. “That’s where I’d like to cut. Right there.”

  “Mm-hm,” Bergman said. The girl blinked a few times. She seemed confused by now, which was fine.

  “I’m just going to make some notes,” Creem said, and indicated the gown again. “You can close up there, Justine.”

  “It’s Larissa,” she said.

  “Right. Sorry. It’s just that . . . you look so much like my daughter. Almost exactly, really.”

  He put away his pointer and stepped over to the clipboard on the counter behind her. There, he opened a drawer and took out a number eighteen blade. It was perfect for deep cutting, and the custom handle made it feel like an extension of his own arm.

  He probably should have stuck with the same cheap steak knife as before, he knew. In fact, it was right there in the drawer where he’d left it half an hour ago. But with skin like this girl had, that would have been like taking a chain saw to porcelain.

  He’d just have to go back and rough up his work a bit afterward, to cover his tracks.

  “So, what do you think, Josh?” Creem turned to face his friend. “Have you heard enough, or should I keep going?”

  “Keep going,” Bergman said right away. His eyes were focused on the scalpel in Dr. Creem’s hand. He was sitting perfectly still by now, and his voice was little more than a hoarse whisper. “By all means, Elijah. Keep going. Please.”

  “Are you okay to keep going, too, Justine?” Creem asked.

  “Um . . . Larissa,” the girl said again.

  “Shh,” Creem told her. “It doesn’t matter, Justine. Just stand nice and still for me like a good girl. We’ll be done here before you know it.”

  CHAPTER

  28

  WHEN IT WAS OVER, CREEM AND BERGMAN HAD NO TROUBLE GETTING THE GIRL wrapped up and ready to go. They used latex gloves and a white nylon disaster bag to move her down the hall, a straight shot into the garage and then Bergman’s waiting trunk.

  It really was like spring break, 1988, all over again, Creem thought. One of those sweet little fillips of time, where the normal rules of the world didn’t apply.

  Not that they’d been better off with their piece of shit cars and four-digit bank accounts, trawling Fort Lauderdale for thrills. But it had, in fact, been a golden time.

  “What’s better than gold?” Creem said.

  “Platinum, I guess,” Bergman said. “Why?”

  “That’s what this is, Josh. These are our platinum days.”

  He held up his glass in a toast. They were leaning against the hood of Bergman’s Audi now, drinking sixteen-year-old Hirsch Reserve, while Creem enjoyed a cigar.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Bergman said.

  “You’ll drink to anything,” Creem said, and his friend shrugged at the truth of it. “What are you going to do with her, anyway?”

  “Rock Creek Park,” he said. “I know a place.”

  Creem tapped the ash of his Romeo y Julieta, watching it float down like snow onto the concrete garage floor. He felt calm and contemplative, not at all worked up the way Josh was. It pleased him to see Bergman so happy, but it made him a bit nervous, too, the way he seemed to enjoy this. Almost too much, if there were such a thing.

  “Just be careful,” Creem said. “We’re not twenty-two anymore, Josh. We’re better than that.”

  “I’m always careful,” Bergman said.

  “No,” Creem said. “In fact, you’re not.”

  “That’s true,” Bergman said, and they both laughed. “But I will be, Elijah. Cross my heart. We started this together, and when it’s time, we’ll end it together. That’s a promise.”

  Creem wasn’t entirely sure what Bergman meant. Maybe it was the bourbon talking. Or maybe it meant nothing at all. But for reasons of his own, he let it lie where it was. When the time was right, he’d pick it back up again.

  In the meantime, he finished his drink and stood up, indicating it was time for Josh to leave. He was tired. He wanted to go to bed.

  And tonight, he was going to sleep like a baby.

  CHAPTER

  29

  WHEN THE PHONE RINGS AT TWO IN THE MORNING IN MY HOUSE, THERE’S A better than average chance that someone’s dead. The only question is whose phone—mine or Bree’s. She’s with the Violent Crimes Branch at MPD, and I’m with Major Case Squad.

  On this particular night, the wake-up call came from my side of the bed. I got the details from Sergeant Huizenga before I was even fully awake. Another body had turned up, in Rock Creek Park this time. White. Female. Multiple stab wounds. Hair all cut off.

  Another Darcy Vickers.

  “I’ll be right there,” I told Huizenga, and stood up with a Gordian knot in my stomach. If this homicide was what it sounded like, we’d just opened up a whole new dimension on an already-complicated case.

  As I headed down the stairs a few minutes later, I was surprised to see the light of the TV, flashing into the hall from the living room. Nana had her own set in her room, and as far as I knew, the kids were all tucked in.

  What I found was Ava, asleep on the couch. She was slumped in a sitting position, with the remote in her hand, and her chin on her chest. The TV was muted while an episode of Hoarders played silently on the screen. She was still dressed, too, including the new suede boots Bree had just bought her.

  Or maybe she was dressed again. Had she snuck out in the night?

  “Ava, you need to go to bed,” I said, with a hand on her shoulder from behind.

  She didn’t move.

  “Ava?” I came around and gave her a shake. “Ava!” She stirred then, but barely. Her eyes opened halfway, and she looked at me like I was some kind of stranger.

  “Wassup?” she said in a half slur that sent my heart sinking.

  “Ava, are you high?” I said. When I turned on the lamp next to the couch, she put a hand up to shield her face. “Let me see your eyes.”

  “I ain’t high,” she said, and turned farther away.

  But I wasn’t messing around now. I sat down and squared her off by the shoulders to face me. “Look at me,” I said. “Right now.”

  Her eyes weren’t bloodshot, like I expected, but her pupils looked small, which was maybe even worse.

  “Ava, what did you take?” I said.

  “Nothin’.”


  “Was it Oxy? Something else?”

  OxyContin is expensive, but there are also plenty of cheap, and more dangerous, knockoff drugs floating around out there. Ava was fourteen now, more than old enough to cross paths with any number of controlled substances on the street, especially considering her background. The few friends I knew about were street kids, who she used to crash with around Seward Square. Was that where she’d been tonight?

  “What’s going on in here?” Nana said, suddenly appearing in the archway from the hall. Her room is on the first floor of the house, and she’s also the world’s lightest sleeper.

  Ava scooted away from me, to the far end of the couch. “He’s saying I done something I didn’t do. Why he’s always gotta think I’m doing something bad? Damn!”

  “Watch your mouth,” Nana said. She parked herself on the cushion between us and turned to face Ava. “What is it you didn’t do, honey?”

  “He’s saying I’m high, but I ain’t.”

  “I’m not,” Nana corrected her, probably because she couldn’t help herself.

  “And why are you up this late?” I asked. “Did you sneak out?”

  “See?” Ava said, pointing at me. “I can’t do nothing right for him.”

  I looked at Nana, feeling more than a little frustrated. I had a crime scene to get to, and it couldn’t wait.

  “I’m going to get Bree,” I said.

  “No. Let her sleep. I’ll put Ava to bed in my room and keep an eye on her,” she said, eyeballing the keys and necktie in my hand. “You obviously have somewhere to be.”

  Nana hates my job, a lot of the time. But why was I suddenly feeling like the bad guy here?

  “Nana,” I said.

  “Just go.”

  I looked Ava over one more time. Was she just sleepy—or something else?