Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

by Patterson, James

  Sometimes, very late at night as I worked in the attic, I would stop for a while and remember something about Christine. The memories were painful and sad, but also soothing to me. I began to look forward to these times when I could think about her without any interruption. Some nights, I would wander down to the piano in the sun porch and play songs that had been important to us -'Unforgettable', 'Moonglow', 'Swonderful'. I could still remember how she looked, especially when I visited at her place - faded jeans, bare feet, T-shirt, or maybe a favorite yellow crewneck sweater she liked, a tortoiseshell comb in her long hair that always smelled of shampoo.

  I didn't want to feel sorry for myself, but I just couldn't help feeling miserably bad. I was caught in limbo, not knowing one way or the other what had really happened to Christine. I couldn't let her go.

  It was paralyzing me, crippling me, making me feel so damn sad and empty. I knew I needed to move on with my life, but I couldn't do it. I needed answers, at least a few of them. Is Christine part of the game? I kept wondering. I was obsessed with the game.

  Am I part of it?

  I believed that I was. And in a way I hoped she was, too. It was my only hope that she might still be alive.

  Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

  CHAPTER Eighty-One

  And so I found myself a player in a truly bizarre game that was habit-forming for all the wrong reasons. I began to make up my own rules. I brought in new players. I was in the game to win.

  Chuck Hufstedler from the FBI offices in DC continued to be helpful. The more I talked to him, the more I realized that he'd had a serious crush on Detective Hampton. His loss, and mine with Christine, had united us.

  I climbed up to the attic late on Friday night after watching The Mask of Zorro with Damon, Jannie, Nana, and Rosie the cat. I had a few more facts to check before going to bed.

  I booted up the computer, logged on and heard the familiar - you have mail. Ever since that night in Bermuda, the message gave me a terrible fright, a chill that tightened my body from head to toe.

  Sandy Greenberg from Interpol was returning one of my messages. She and I had worked together on the Mr. Smith case and had become friends. I'd given her several things to check for me.

  CALL ME ANY TIME TONIGHT, ALEX, AND I MEAN ANY TIME. YOUR IRRITATING DOGGED-NESS MAY HAVE PAID OFF. IT'S VITALLY IMPORTANT THAT YOU CALL. SANDY.

  I called Sandy in Europe and she picked up after the second ring. 'Alex? I think we found one of them. It was your bloody idea that worked. Shafer was playing a game with at least one of his old cronies from MI6. You were spot on.'

  'Are you sure it's one of the game-players?' I asked her.

  'Pretty sure,' she shot back. 'I'm sitting here now staring at a copy of Diirer's Four Horsemen, on my Mac. As you know, the Horsemen are Conqueror, Famine, War and Death. What a creepy bunch. Anyway, I did what you asked. I talked to some contacts from MI6 who found out that Shafer and this one chap regularly keep in touch on the computer. I have all your notes, too, and they're very good. I can't believe how much you figured out from back there in the colonies. You're a very sick puppy too.'

  'Thanks,' I said. I let Sandy ramble on for a few minutes. A while back I recognized that she was a lonely person, and, even though she sometimes put up a cantankerous front, craved company.

  'The name he uses in the game is Conqueror. Conqueror lives in Dorking, in England,' Sandy told me. 'His name is Oliver Highsmith, and he's retired from MI6. Alex, he was running several agents in Asia at the same time Shafer was there. Shafer worked under him. It's eight in the morning over here. Why don't you call the bastard?' she suggested. 'Send him an e-mail. I have a number for him, Alex.'

  I started to wonder about the other players in The Four Horsemen game. Were there four of them - or was that just the name of the game? Who were these players? How was the game actually played? Did all, or indeed any of them, act out their fantasies in real life?

  My message to Conqueror was simple and straightforward, and not too threatening, I hoped. I didn't see how he could resist answering me.

  DEAR MR. HIGHSMITH,

  I AM A HOMICIDE DETECTIVE IN WASHINGTON, DC, LOOKING FOR INFORMATION ABOUT COLONEL GEOFFREY SHAFER PERTAINING TO THE FOUR HORSEMEN. I UNDERSTAND THAT SHAFER WORKED FOR YOU IN ASIA. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE. I NEED YOUR HELP. PLEASE CONTACT DETECTIVE ALEX CROSS.

  Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

  CHAPTER Eighty-Two

  I was surprised when a message came right back. Oliver Highsmith, Conqueror, must have been online when my e-mail went through.

  DETECTIVE CROSS. I AM WELL AWARE OF YOU, SINCE THE ONGOING MURDER TRIAL IS A RATHER BIG STORY IN ENGLAND, AND IN THE REST OF EUROPE, FOR THAT MATTER. I HAVE KNOWN G.S. FOR A DOZEN YEARS OR MORE. HE DID WORK UNDER ME, BRIEFLY. HE IS MORE AN ACQUAINTANCE THAN A CLOSE FRIEND, SO I HAVE NO EXPERTISE OR BIAS ABOUT HIS GUILT OR INNOCENCE. I HOPE IT'S THE LATTER, OF COURSE.

  NOW, AS TO YOUR QUESTION ABOUT THE FOUR HORSEMEN. THE GAME, AND IT IS A FANTASY GAME, DETECTIVE, IS HIGHLY UNUSUAL IN THAT ALL OF THE PLAYERS ASSUME THE ROLE OF GAMEMASTER. THAT IS TO SAY, EACH OF US CONTROLS OUR OWN FATE, OUR OWN STORY. G.S'S STORY IS EVEN MORE DARING AND UNUSUAL. HIS CHARACTER, THE RIDER ON THE PALE HORSE - DEATH - IS DEEPLY FLAWED. ONE MIGHT EVEN SAY EVIL. THE CHARACTER IS SOMEWHAT LIKE THE PERSON ON TRIAL IN WASHINGTON, OR SO IT SEEMS TO ME.

  HOWEVER, I MUST MAKE A FEW IMPORTANT POINTS. THE APPEARANCE OF ANY MURDER FANTASIES IN OUR GAME ALWAYS OCCURRED DAYS AFTER REPORTS OF MURDERS IN THE NEWSPAPERS. BELIEVE ME, THIS WAS THOROUGHLY CHECKED BY US ONCE G.S. WAS ACCUSED. IT WAS EVEN BROUGHT TO THE ATTENTION OF INSPECTOR JONES AT THE SECURITY SERVICE IN LONDON, SO I'M SURPRISED YOU WEREN'T INFORMED BEFORE NOW. THE SERVICE HAS BEEN TO SEE ME ABOUT G.S. AND THEY WERE COMPLETELY SATISFIED I ASSUME, SINCE THEY HAVEN'T BEEN BACK.

  ALSO, THE OTHER PLAYERS - WHO HAVE BEEN CHECKED OUT BY SECURITY - ARE ALL REPRESENTED BY POSITIVE CHARACTERS IN THE GAME. AND AS I'VE SAID, AS POWERFULLY INVOLVING AS HORSEMEN IS - IT IS ONLY A GAME. BY THE WAY, DID YOU KNOW THAT BY SOME SCHOLARLY ACCOUNTS THERE IS A FIFTH HORSEMAN? MIGHT THAT BE YOU, DR. CROSS?

  FYI - THE CONTACT AT THE SERVICE IS MR. ANDREW JONES. I TRUST HE WILL VOUCH FOR THE VERACITY OF MY STATEMENTS. IF YOU WISH TO CONVERSE FURTHER, DO SO ATYOUR OWN RISK. I AM SIXTY-SEVEN YEARS OF AGE, RETIRED FROM INTELLIGENCE (AS I LIKE TO PUT IT), AND A RATHER FAMOUS WINDBAG. I WISH YOU MUCH LUCK IN YOUR SEARCH FOR TRUTH AND JUSTICE. I MISS THE CHASE MYSELF.

  CONQUEROR

  I read the message, then reread it. Much luck in your search? Was that as loaded a line as it sounded? And was I a player - the Fifth Horseman?

  Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

  CHAPTER Eighty-Three

  I went to court every day of the following week, and like so many other people, I got hooked on the trial. Jules Halpern was the most impressive orator I had ever watched in a courtroom; but Catherine Fitzgibbon was effective as well. It would depend on who the jury believed more. It was all theater, a game. I remembered that as a kid I used to regularly watch a courtroom drama with Nana called The Defenders. Every show began with a deep-voiced narration saying something to the effect that 'the American Justice System is far from perfect - but it is still the very best justice system in the world'.

  That might be true, but as I sat in the courtroom in Washington, I couldn't help thinking that the murder trial, the judge, the jury, the lawyers, and all the rules were just another elaborate game; and that Geoffrey Shafer was already planning his next foray, savoring every move that the prosecution made against him.

  He was still in control of the game board. He was the gamemaster. He knew it, and so did I.

  I watched Jules Halpern conduct smooth examinations that were designed to give the impression that his monstrous, psychopathic client was as innocent as a newborn baby. Actually, it was easy to drift off during the lengthy cross-examinations. I never really missed anything, though, since all the important points were repeated over and over ad nauseam.

  'Alex Cross
...'

  I heard my name mentioned and refocused my attention on Jules Halpern. He produced a blown-up photograph that had appeared in the Post on the day after the murder. The photo had been taken by another tenant at the Farragut and sold to the newspaper.

  Halpern leaned in close to the witness on the stand, a man named Carmine Lopes, a night doorman at the apartment building where Patsy Hampton was murdered.

  'Mr. Lopes, I show you Defendant's Exhibit “A”, a photograph of my client and Detective Alex Cross. It was taken in the tenth-floor hallway soon after the discovery of Detective Hampton's body.'

  The blow-up was large enough for me to see most of the detail from where I was sitting in the fourth row. The photo had always been a shocker to me.

  Shafer looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ. In comparison my clothes were tattered and dirty. I had just come off my crazy marathon run from the zoo; I had been down in the garage where I found poor Patsy.

  My fists were clenched tightly and I seemed to be roaring out anger at Shafer. Pictures do lie. We know that. The photograph was highly inflammatory, and I felt it could cause prejudice in the minds of the jurors.

  'Is this a fair representation of how the two men looked at ten thirty that evening?' Halpern asked the doorman.

  'Yes, sir. It's very fair. That's how I remember it.'

  Jules Halpern nodded as if he were receiving vital information for the first time. 'Would you now describe, in your own words, what Detective Cross looked like at that time?' he asked.

  The doorman hesitated and seemed slightly confused by the question. I wasn't. I knew where Halpern was going now.

  'Was he dirty?' Halpern jumped in and asked the simplest possible question.

  'Er, dirty... sure. He was a mess.'

  'And was he sweaty?' the defense lawyer asked.

  'Sweaty... yeah. We all were. From being down in the garage, I guess. It was a real hot night.'

  'Nose running?'

  'Yes, sir.'

  'Were Detective Cross's clothes ripped, Mr. Lopes?'

  'Yes, they were. Ripped and dirty.'

  Jules Halpern looked at the jury first, then at his witness. 'Were Detective Cross's clothes bloodstained?'

  'Yes... they sure were. That's what I noticed first, the blood.'

  'Was the blood anywhere else, Mr. Lopes?'

  'On his hands. You couldn't miss it. I sure didn't.'

  'And Mr. Shafer, how did Mr. Shafer look?'

  'He was clean, not mussed at all. He seemed pretty calm and collected.'

  'Did you see any blood on Mr. Shafer?'

  'No, sir. No blood.'

  Halpern nodded, then he faced the jury. 'Mr. Lopes, which of the two men looked more like someone who might have just committed a murder?'

  'Detective Cross,' the doorman said, without hesitation.

  'Objection!' the district attorney screamed, but not before the damage had been done.

  Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

  CHAPTER Eighty-Four

  That afternoon, the defense was scheduled to call Chief of Detectives George Pittman. The assistant district attorney, Catherine Fitzgibbon, knew that Pittman was on the docket and she asked me to meet with her for lunch. 'If you have an appetite before Pittman goes on,' she added.

  Catherine was smart, and she was thorough. She had put away nearly as many bad guys as Jules Halpern had set free. We got together over sandwiches at a crowded deli near the courthouse. Neither of us was thrilled about Pittman's upcoming appearance. My reputation as a detective was being ruined by the defense, and it was a hard thing to watch and do nothing.

  She bit down into a hefty Reuben sandwich that squirted mustard onto her forefinger and thumb. Catherine smiled. 'Sloppy, but worth it. You and Pittman are really at odds, right? More like you hate each other's guts?'

  'It's serious dislike, and it's mutual.' I told her. 'He's tried to do me in a couple of times. He thinks I'm a threat to his career.'

  Catherine was attacking her sandwich. 'Hmmm, there's a thought. Would you be a better chief of detectives?'

  'Wouldn't run, wouldn't serve if elected. I wouldn't be good cooped up in an office playing political ping-pong.'

  Catherine laughed. She's one of those people who can find humor almost anywhere. 'This is just fricking great, Alex. The defense is calling the chief of detectives as one of their goddamn witnesses. They've listed him as hostile, but I don't think he is.'

  Catherine and I finished off the rest of her sandwich. 'Well, let's find out what Mr. Halpern has up his sleeve today.'

  At the start of the afternoon session, Jules Halpern did a careful and thorough setup of Pittman's credentials, which sounded reasonably impressive in the abstract. Undergrad at George Washington, then law school at American; twenty-four years on the police force, with medals for bravery and citations from three different mayors.

  'Chief Pittman, how would you describe Detective Cross's record in the department?' asked Halpern.

  I cringed in my seat. Felt my brow wrinkle, my eyes narrow. Here we go, I thought.

  'Detective Cross has been involved in some high-profile cases that the department has solved,' he said, and left it at that. Not exactly praise, but at least he hadn't gone on the attack.

  Halpern nodded sagely. 'What, if anything, has changed his performance recently?'

  Pittman looked my way, then answered. 'A woman he was seeing disappeared while they were on a trip together in Bermuda. Since that time, he's been distracted and distant, quick to anger, not himself.'

  Suddenly I wanted to speak up in the courtroom. Pittman didn't know the first thing about Christine and me.

  'Chief Pittman, was Detective Cross ever a suspect in the disappearance of his girlfriend, Ms. Christine Johnson?'

  Pittman nodded. 'That's standard police procedure. I'm sure he was questioned.'

  'But his behavior on the job has changed since her disappearance?'

  'Yes. His concentration isn't the same. He's missed days of work. It's all a matter of record.'

  'Has Detective Cross been asked to seek professional help?'

  'Yes.'

  'Did you ask him to seek help yourself?'

  'I did. He and I have worked together for a number of years. He was under stress.'

  'He's under a lot of stress? Is that fair to say?'

  'Yes. He hasn't closed a single case recently.'

  Halpern nodded. 'A couple of weeks before the Hampton homicide, you suspended some detectives he was friendly with.'

  Pittman's look was somber. 'Unfortunately, I did.'

  'Why did you suspend the detectives?'

  'The detectives were investigating cases outside the auspices of the department.'

  'Is it fair to say they were making up their own rules, acting like vigilantes?'

  Catherine Fitzgibbon rose to her feet and objected, but Judge Fescoe allowed the question.

  Pittman answered. 'I don't know about that. Vigilantes is a strong word. But they were working without proper supervision. The case is still under investigation.'

  'Was Detective Cross part of the group that was making up its own rules to solve homicides?'

  'I'm not certain. But he was spoken to about the matter. I didn't believe he could handle a suspension at that time. I warned him and let it slide. I shouldn't have,' said Pittman.

  'No further questions.'

  None needed, I thought.

  Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

  CHAPTER Eighty-Five

  That night after he left the courthouse, Shafer was flying high. He thought that he was winning the game. He was manic as hell, and it felt both good and bad. He was parked in the dark garage under Boo Cassady's building. Most manics aren't really aware that they're exhibiting signs of a manic episode, but Shafer knew. His 'spirals' didn't come out of nowhere, they built and built.

  The irony, and the danger, of being back in her building wasn't lost on him. Scene of the crime and all that rot.
He wanted to go to Southeast tonight, but that was too risky. He couldn't hunt - not now. He had something else in mind: the next few moves in his game.

  It was unusual, though not unheard of, for the defendant in a first-degree homicide trial to be out roaming the streets, but that had been one of the prerequisites of dropping his immunity. What choice did the prosecution have? None at all. If they didn't agree, he had a free pass to keep him out of jail.

  Shafer followed a tenant he'd seen several times into the lift from the garage and took it to Boo's apartment. He rang the doorbell. Waited. Heard her padding across the parquet floor. Yes, Act One of tonight's performance was about to begin.

  He knew she was watching him through the door's peephole, just as he had watched Alex Cross there on the night Patsy Hampton got her just deserts. He had seen Boo a few times after his release, but then he cut her off.

  When he stopped seeing her, she lost it. Boo called him at work, then at home - and constantly on his car phone until he changed the bloody number. At her worst, she reminded him of the nutcase Glenn Close had played in the movie Fatal Attraction.

  He wondered if he could still push her buttons. She was a fairly bright woman - and that was a large part of her problem. She thought far too much, double and triple think. Most men, especially dull-witted Americans, didn't like that, which made her even crazier.

  He put his face against the door, felt its cool wood on his cheek. He started his act.

  'I've been petrified to see you, Boo. You don't know what it's been like. One slipup, anything they can use against me, and I'm finished. And what makes it worse is that I'm innocent. You know that. I talked to you the whole time from my house to yours that night. You know I didn't kill that detective. Elizabeth? Boo? Please say something. At least swear at me. Let the anger out... Doctor?'