Alex Cross, Run (Alex Cross 20)

“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?”