Alex Cross, Run (Alex Cross 20)

“What kind do you think?” Creem told him. “You can do it however you like. Shoot her, cut her up, I don’t care. I just want it done. After that, we can call it quits.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

Creem pointed at the tall front window overlooking the lawn. “Did you see the car parked outside? They’re all over me, Josh. If they were on you, too, you’d know it. Please—one last favor. That’s all I’m asking.”

Bergman got to the bottom of his glass one more time before he finally answered.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “But you have to do something for me, too.”

“What’s that?” Creem asked.

Looking him right in the eye, Bergman said, “I want you to kiss me, Elijah.”

Creem laughed before he realized how serious Josh was. Of course he was. It was like the longest-running inside joke they had—the kind that grows around a kernel of truth. Josh had wanted him since college.

And clearly, this was going to be his last chance to do anything about it.

“I’m not going to kiss you, Josh,” Creem said.

“Fine, then.”

In one fast gesture, Josh dropped his glass to the carpet and raised the pistol to his own wide-open mouth.

“No!”

Creem lunged and knocked his hand away. Josh stumbled, weeping, and came to rest against the back of a slipcovered dining room chair. One of his front teeth was chipped and his lip was bleeding, but he didn’t seem to notice.

“You can’t stop me, Elijah,” he said.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Creem said. “Jesus Christ!”

There was obviously only one way around this. He took Bergman by the shoulders again and stood him up. Then he pulled him in close. He even let it last a long time. It was a little disgusting, a little strange, and it smelled strongly of booze.

When they pulled apart, Bergman’s eyes were red and puffy, but he’d stopped crying, anyway. His mouth was smeared with his own blood.

“I know you didn’t feel anything,” he said. “But that’s okay. I also know you love me.”

“I do, Josh. But for God’s sake, enough with the histrionics. Let’s finish this with a little bit of dignity. Like men.”

Bergman grinned, looking more tired than anything now. Spent.

“Whatever you say, Elijah. Just tell me what to do.”

CHAPTER

88

NOW THAT WE HAD A PRIMARY SUSPECT, ELIJAH CREEM QUICKLY BECAME THE subject of MPD surveillance. Commander D’Auria was making the assignments at this point, and mine was to cover a shift at Creem’s house that night, whether he was home or not.

When I showed up to relieve the first shift at eight o’clock, word from command was that Creem had gone out in a tux around seven thirty. Hired car service had dropped him off at a private home on the 3000 block of Q Street, one of Georgetown’s highest-dollar neighborhoods. Intel on the event said that it was a juvenile diabetes fundraising dinner.

That made sense. I didn’t really see “Dr. Creep” being welcomed into society circles anymore, unless he was buying his way in.

My partner for the night was a thick-necked detective from the Second District warrant squad, Jerry Doyle. According to Sampson, the guy’s nickname was The Mouth, and it didn’t take long to find out why. He was complaining within the first five minutes.

“What are we even doing?” he said. “Creem’s out for the night while we sit here getting kidney stones and he makes nice with the richies, eating caviar or whatever. Yeah, sure, that makes a lot of sense.”

“Well—” I said, but that was as far as I got.