Alex Cross, Run (Alex Cross 20)

“Not to mention, if they’re going to do this, they should be doing it right,” Doyle went on. “Management’s pulling all kinds of extra staff and overtime, and if you ask me, we still don’t have this guy covered good enough. I mean, if I were him and I wanted to give us the slip, I’m pretty sure I could do it.”

“No argument there,” I said. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the investigative units stretched so thin before.”

“Speaking of which, I thought you were out of commission,” Doyle went on. “I mean, no judgment. I’m just a little surprised to see you here, I guess.”

I wasn’t so keen on discussing my situation with The Mouth, so I mostly listened instead. For hours. Doyle didn’t seem to notice the difference.

Finally, around midnight, we got a radio call that Creem was on his way. He’d left the party with an unknow

n female and seemed to be heading home.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me,” Doyle said. “I mean, he knows we’re all over him, right? And he’s going to bring a broad back here?”

I nodded. “I think it’s all part of the show.”

Creem didn’t do anything without a reason. He was trying to rub his own freedom in our faces, wasn’t he? Never mind that the pornography charges alone were enough to send him to jail. He was clearly milking this for all it was worth in the meantime.

Ten minutes later, a black town car pulled up the block and idled to a stop in Creem’s driveway. A uniformed driver got out, but Creem was a step ahead of him. He ducked around and helped his date out of the car himself. A faux gas lamp from the front porch threw just enough light to show me that she was tall, blond, and as far as I could tell, exactly Dr. Creem’s type.

That was as much as I could sit still for.

“What are you doing?” Doyle asked when I reached for my door handle.

“Whatever I can,” I said, and got out of the car. I headed straight across the lawn to cut the couple off as they came up Creem’s brick front walk.

“Excuse me,” I called out.

The woman started and clutched Creem’s arm.

“It’s all right,” he said to her. “This is one of the police officers I was telling you about. Sheila Bishop, I’d like you to meet Detective Cross. He’s here to make sure I don’t cut you up into little pieces.”

The woman actually rolled her eyes and kept her arm locked onto his. A pair of high-heeled sandals was dangling off one finger, and she had on a long, shimmery dress that pooled around her bare feet.

“I’m sorry to startle you, Ms. Bishop,” I said, “but I’m not at all comfortable with you going inside. I’d like to call you a cab, if that’s all right.”

“And I’d like you to mind your own damn business,” she snapped back at me.

Creem only smiled, as if he were leaving this up to the two of us.

“You should know the reason we’re here,” I told her. “Dr. Creem is the primary suspect in a series of murders in Georgetown. You’ve probably heard about them. I’d strongly suggest—”

But Ms. Bishop cut me off.

“Just inside, there’s an antique mahogany coatrack,” she said, pointing at the front door.

“Excuse me?”

“Upstairs, to the left, is the master bedroom. That’s where Elijah and Miranda keep their Rookwood pottery collection. There’s also a fantastic Lucien Freud hanging over the bed. Should I go on?”

I’d thought Ms. Bishop was embarrassed by my presence, but I was wrong. As far as I could tell now, Dr. Creem’s mistress was just pissed off and anxious to get inside.

He’d laid the bait, and I’d taken it, just like he wanted. Unbelievable.

“Don’t worry, detective,” Creem said ingratiatingly. “It’s an understandable mistake. For what it’s worth, I don’t imagine Sheila could be any safer, with you and your partner out here. Am I right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, and keyed the door to let Ms. Bishop in ahead of him. As she led the way, Creem turned back to me and spoke low from the porch.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll leave the curtains open,” he said with a smile.