Another celebrity had been exposed. Brought down to earth. Punished for some real or imagined sin? What connection was there with Fitzpatrick and Sheehan? Why a senator, a newswoman, and an actor?
Three murders in such a short time. Celebrities are supposed to be safer than the rest of us, more protected at least, and above all this. It got to me, seeing Michael Robinson dead and violated. There was something visceral and system-shocking about what the killers were doing.
What was the bizarre, complex message from Jack and Jill? That nobody was safe anymore? I rolled the outrageous thought around in my head. It was a good starting point, a concept to work with.
Nobody is safe? Jack and Jill were telling us they could come for anyone, at any time. They knew how to get inside.
There was another note with the body. Another Jack and Jill rhyme. It was on the night table, where the weird and ghoulish killers, or killer, had left it for us to find.
Jack and Jill came to The Hill
To do some deadly deeds.
They weren’t far wrong
To judge how long
A bleeding liberal bleeds.
One of Michael Robinson’s agents was in the room. He’d flown down from New York. He was a good-looking man, with silver-blond hair. He wore a long cashmere coat over an Armani suit. I noticed his eyes were red and swollen. He seemed to have been crying. Two medical examiners were working on the film actor’s body. I suppose you could call all that attention going out in style. Only the best for Michael Robinson.
There were some other obvious connections to the Fitzpatrick and Sheehan murders. There was a tawdry, kinky side to all three killings. Each had been an execution. And maybe most important so far, they were all “bleeding liberals,” weren’t they? They had all been exposed for what they were.
“Dr. Alex Cross? Excuse me, you’re Dr. Alex Cross, aren’t you?”
I turned to a tall, rangy man who had spoken my name. He was clean-cut and his bearing was almost military. About forty, I guessed. He wore a black raincoat over a dark gray suit A buttoned-down look. Definitely senior law enforcement of some kind, I figured.
“Yes, I’m Alex Cross,” I said to him.
“I’m Jay Grayer from the Secret Service,” he introduced himself formally. There was something about the very erect way that he held himself. Extreme confidence. Or was it moral certitude? A stiff pole up his behind?
“I’m senior agent of the First Family detail.”
“What can I do for you?” I asked Agent Grayer. Alarms were already sounding in my head. I felt I was about to get a much fuller understanding of why I had been put on the Jack and Jill investigation. By whom, and for exactly what reason.
“You’re wanted at the White House,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s a command performance, Dr. Cross. It’s about the Jack and Jill investigation. There’s a problem we have to let you know about.”
“I’ll bet it’s a big problem, too,” I said to Agent Grayer.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is. It’s a very big problem, Dr. Cross. We have something we need to share with you.”
I had suspected as much. I’d had a quiet fear way in the back of my mind. Now it was up front.
I was being summoned to the White House.
They wanted the dragonslayer there. Did they understand what that meant?
CHAPTER
30
THE ONLY THING anybody seems to share very readily in Washington these days is trouble.
I could hardly argue with the command from on high, though. I dutifully accompanied Jay Grayer up the street to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Ask not what I can do for my country.
The White House was only a short jaunt from the Willard Hotel. Despite the relative performance of some of the recent occupants, the White House continues to cast its spell over a lot of people, including me. I had been inside only twice, on canned guided tours with my kids, but even they had been larger-than-life and moving. I almost wished Damon and Jannie could be with me.
We were quickly passed through the blue-canopied guardhouse on West Executive Drive. Agent Grayer was allowed to park his car in the garage under the White House. He seemed modestly proud of the perk. He explained that the garage was still considered a primary bomb shelter, but also an escape route in case of an attack.
“Good to know,” I said and smiled. Grayer smiled back. It was forced conviviality, but at least we were both making an effort.
“I’m sure you’re curious as to why you’ve been asked to come. I would be.”
“I don’t think I’ve been invited to tea,” I said stiffly. “But, yes, I’m very curious.”
“The reason is the Soneji and Casanova cases,” Grayer explained to me as we took an elevator one flight up from the garage. “Your reputation precedes you here. You’re aware that the FBI has never captured a single serial killer, for all their expertise? We want you on the team.”
“What team is that?” I asked.
“You’ll see in a few seconds. This is definitely the A team, though. Be ready for some crazy shit. The Bureau has staked out the hotel room where John Hinckley stayed. Just in case the killers might decide to stay there. Pay homage, or something like that.”
“Not such a terrible idea,” I told Grayer. He looked at me as if I were crazy, too. “Not a particularly good idea, either,” I said. He cracked a grin.
Half a dozen men and two women in business attire were gathered in the. West Wing office of the White House chief of staff. I sensed a lot of tension in the room, but everyone was working hard to hide it. I was introduced as the representative of the Washington police. Welcome to the team. Say hello to the dragonslayer.
The others at the table cordially introduced themselves. Two more senior agents from the Secret Service, a woman named Ann Roper and a youngish, good-looking man named Michael Fescoe; the director of intelligence from the FBI, Robert Hatfield; General Aiden Cornwall from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the U.S. Army; the national security advisor, Michael Kane; the White House chief of staff, Don Hamerman. The other woman turned out to be a senior officer in the CIA. The inspector general. Her name was Jeanne Sterling. Her presence meant that a foreign power’s involvement in Jack and Jill was being considered. There was a twist I hadn’t considered before.
It was fast company for a homicide detective from Southeast D.C., even for a deputy chief. But I figured I was pretty fast company, too. I had seen nasty things that none of them had, or would ever want to.
Let the sharing begin.
Glistening sweet rolls, butter in ice, and coffee in silver pots had been put out for our unusual breakfast club. It was obvious that some of the others had worked together before. I had learned a long time ago that if you can’t spot the pigeon in a poker game, then you ‘re probably it.
The national security advisor called the gathering to order a minute or so past ten. Don Hamerman was a wiry, blond man in his mid-thirties who appeared to be tightly strung. That definitely fit the White House staff profile in recent years: very young and very uptight. On the move. On the make, get set, go.
“I’m going to use overheads for this presentation, folks. That’s the way we do it here in the Big House,” Hamerman said and managed a thin, forced smile. He had an unsettling kinetic energy. He reminded me of high-flying D.C. public relations types, and even of Michael Robinson’s overwrought agent back at the Willard.
I gathered from his remark that White House meetings were usually bureaucratic and somewhat formal, rather than loosy-goosy. Everyone seemed to enjoy the small joke, anyway.
Actually, the forced cordiality disturbed me. I was still flashing on the death-mask expression of Michael Robinson. It wasn’t an image I liked bringing with me into the White House.
Michael Robinson’s naked corpse was probably still in the Willard Hotel with the morgue team, ready to be tagged and bagged.
“I have about an hour’s worth of briefing material—tops. With full discussion, let’s say we’re at two ho
urs,” Hamerman continued. “That will take us close to noon, but I believe the unfortunate circumstances warrant a tight briefing up front.”
What unfortunate circumstances, exactly? I wanted to interrupt Hamerman, but I kept my cool. It was neither the time nor the place.
Cups of coffee and several cigarette packs were already laid out on the worktable. Everyone was prepared for a tough siege. I guessed that was the way it was done at the Big House.
Hamerman placed his first overhead on the gently purring machine. The display screen said Jack and Jill Investigation.
Not much to argue about so far.
“As you know, there have been three brutal celebrity murders in Washington in the past week. The latest was the shooting sometime last night of the actor Michael Robinson at the Willard. The stalkers call themselves Jack and Jill. They leave artsy mash notes at their murder scenes. They like to play games with the media. They seem to relish the spotlight a lot.
“They also seem to know what they’re doing. They’ve successfully committed three high-profile murders and haven’t left us squat to work with. They appear to be signature or serial killers, though of a particularly high order. That’s debatable, or so I’m led to understand. But it’s one theory.
“Here’s the first kicker,” Hamerman said and arched his thin, blond eyebrows. “What some of you don’t know is that ‘Jack and Jill’ is also the Secret Service code name used for President and Mrs. Byrnes. It has been since the President took office. We are not comfortable accepting this fact as mere coincidence.”
The blond woman from the CIA lit a cigarette. I remembered her name. Jeanne Sterling. She blew out a pale gust of smoke. I heard her mutter “shit.” My sentiments exactly. This was the worst news we’d had so far. Also, I didn’t appreciate the fact it had been kept from us until this moment.
“We believe it is a very real possibility that an assassination attempt could be made on either President Byrnes or Mrs. Byrnes. Or perhaps on both of them,” Hamerman said.
The words were absolutely chilling to hear. I glanced around the table and saw the frozen expressions of concern.
“We have taken, or are taking, every precaution that we can think of. The President’s exposure outside the White House will be extremely limited for the time being. He’s been told everything about the unfortunate situation, and so has Mrs. Byrnes. They’re taking it well. They’re both very smart, very impressive people. They will not panic. I can promise you that. I’ll do the panicking for both of them.
“Let me talk about some facts we don’t have about the so-called stalkers Jack and Jill. Actually, there are several thousand investigators assigned to the case, and we know surprisingly little. Jack and Jill may be heading toward the White House next, and we don’t have the foggiest idea why. Or who they might be. Or what the hell is in this for them.”
Don Hamerman peered around the table. He was definitely wired. The other word to describe him, the one that came to my mind anyway, was supercilious.
“Please feel free to correct me on any point I make. Feel free to add any updated information you might have,” he said with a tiny sneer.
Except for a few sighs, no one spoke. No one seemed to know any more than I did. No one had a worthwhile clue so far. That was the scariest thing of all.
The possibility existed that the President and First Lady were the ultimate targets for Jack and Jill… or maybe not even the ultimate targets?
Jack and Jill came to The Hill. What in the name of God for? To wipe out all the bleeding liberals? To punish sinners? Was the President a sinner in their minds?
“Jay, do you want to say something now?” Hamerman asked Secret Service Agent Grayer.
Grayer nodded and stood up at the worktable. He leaned against it with his hands. He looked a little pale. “There’s a very tough problem here,” he said to us. “The danger is real, believe me. This is as scary as anything I’ve seen in my time at the White House. You see, I was the first one inside Senator Fitzpatrick’s apartment after the killing. I was there, alone, at six o’clock that morning. I called the Metro police… the same is true for Ms. Sheehan and for Michael Robinson. Each time Jack and Jill has called the Secret Service first. They’ve contacted us right here at the White House. They told us… that they’re practicing for the big one.”
CHAPTER
31
ON FRIDAY NIGHT Jack and Jill checked into a high-priced suite at the Four Seasons Hotel, one of the Washington area’s best. No one was scheduled to die at the exclusive hotel. Not that they knew of, anyway. Actually, the killers were taking the weekend off—while everyone else in Washington, the police geniuses especially, stewed in their own juices.
What a fabulous treat the weekend was. What a delicious notion. The six-hundred-dollar-a-night suite overlooked a corner of Georgetown, and they never left it for a moment. A masseuse came Friday night for a double Shiatsu session. Sara had a facial and a manicure on Saturday morning. Room service sent up a personal chef Saturday night, and he prepared their meal in their room. Sam had also provided for four dozen white roses to be delivered when they arrived. It was paradise regained. They felt they deserved it for what they had accomplished so far.
“This is so unbelievably decadent. It’s a postmodern, grossly socially incorrect fairy tale,” Sara said at a luxurious high point late on Sunday night. “I love every minute of it”
“But do you love every inch of it?” Sam asked her. Only he could get away with a touchy line like that—and he did.
Sara smiled and felt a rush of heat inside her body. She looked at him with warm and inquiring eyes. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
He was deep inside her, thrusting slowly and gently, and she was wondering if he truly loved her. She wished for it with all her being, but she didn’t believe it, couldn’t believe it. She was, after all, Sara the gimp, Sara the drudge, Sara the drone.
How could he have fallen in love with her? And yet sometimes it seemed that he had. Is this part of the game for him, too? Sara wondered.
Her fingers ran all over his chest, played with individual hairs. She touched him everywhere: his beautiful face, his throat, stomach, buttocks, his dangling testicles, which seemed as large as a bull’s. Sara arched up toward him, wanting to be as close as she possibly could, wanting every inch, yes, wanting everything of him that there was. Even his real name, which he wouldn’t tell her.
“We’ve earned this weekend,” Sam said. “It’s also necessary, Sara. Rest and relaxation are a real part of war, an important part. Jack and Jill is going to get progressively harder from here on. Everything escalates now.”
Sara couldn’t help smiling as she stared up at Sam’s face. God she loved being with him. Under him, over him, sideways, upside down. She loved his touch—sometimes strong, sometimes so surprisingly gentle. She loved, yes, every inch of him.
She’d never felt like this before, never thought that she would. She would have bet anything against its happening. In a way, she had bet everything, hadn’t she? For the cause, but also for Sam, for this.
Sam was such a closet romantic, too. It was so unexpected from The Soldier, from any man she had known before. The suite at the Four Seasons was his idea, just because she had mentioned—mentioned it once—that it was her favorite hotel in Washington.
“Say,” she said to him now, whispering during their love-making, “do you want to know my favorite hotel in the whole wide world?”
He got the joke—he got all of her humor and twisted ironies. His large blue eyes sparkled. He grinned. He had brilliantly white teeth, and such a shy, disarming smile. She thought he was much better looking than Michael Robinson had been. Sam was a real-life action hero. The Soldier. In a real war for survival, the most important war of our times. They both believed that to be the truth.
“Please, don’t tell me the answer,” he said with a laugh. “Don’t you dare tell me your favorite hotel in the world. You know I’ll have to take you there somehow if you
do. Don’t tell me, Sara!”
“The Cipriani in Venice,” Sara blurted out, laughing.
She had never actually been there, but she’d read so much about it. She had read about everything, but experienced so little until recently. Sara the hopeless bookworm, Sara the bibliophile, Sara the cipher. Well, no more. Now she lived as almost no one had before. Sara the gimp lives!
“Okay, then. When this is all over—and this will end— we’ll go to Venice, for a holiday. I promise you. The Cipriani it is.”
“And Sunday brunch at the Danieli,” she whispered against his cheek. “Promise?”
“Of course. Where else but the Danieli for brunch? That’s a given. As soon as this is finished.”
“It’s going to get worse, isn’t it?” she said, hugging his powerful body a little tighter.
“Yes, I’m afraid so. But not tonight, Jilly. Not tonight, my love. So let’s not ruin this by thinking too much about tomorrow. Don’t make a wonderful weekend into a bad Monday.”
Sam was right, of course. He was a wise man, too. He started to move again on top of her. He flowed like a fast river current over the top of her. He was such a generous and beautiful lover; he was both teacher and student; he knew how to give and take in bed. Most important, Sam knew how to bring her out of herself. God, she had needed that—forever, it seemed. To get outside of herself. Not to be the gimp anymore. Not ever again. She promised herself that.
Sara pursed her lips tightly. In pleasure? In pain? She wasn’t even sure anymore. She shut her eyes, then quickly opened them. She wanted to look.
He held himself over her, as if he were pausing during a push-up. “So you’ve never been to the Cipriani, Monkey Face?” he asked. His cheeks weren’t even flushed. He effortlessly held himself over her. His body was so beautiful, strong and agile, rock-solid. Sara was in good shape also, but Sam was superb.
He called her “Monkey Face,” from Hitchcock’s Suspicion. It wasn’t really such a great movie, but it had hit the spot for them, hit their spot. Ever since they’d seen it, she’d been the Joan Fontaine character, Lena. He was Johnny, who had been played by Cary Grant Johnny had called Lena “Monkey Face.”
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