I, Alex Cross (Alex Cross 16)

I passed open, empty parlors on either side, then came to a glass-walled smoking room at the end of the house. It stank of cigars and sex, but nobody was inside at the moment.

When I doubled back, I could hear shouting from near the entrance. Somebody was objecting to our presence—and loudly.

“Get your hands off me! Don’t touch me, you wanker!” A tall blond man with an English accent was attempting to come down the big main staircase while two FBI agents held him back.

“This is an illegal search, goddamnit!” The Englishman had some spine; I could see that much. They finally had to put him down on the marble landing just to get a zip tie around his wrists.

I took the stairs two at a time, to where Mahoney was trying to question the guy. “Are you in charge here? You’re Nicholson, right?”

“Piss off! I’ve already called my attorney. You’re trespassing, every one of you.” He was well over six feet and didn’t seem to be losing steam. “You’re breaking the law just being here. This is private property. Goddamnit, let me up! This is an outrage. This is a private party in a private house.”

“Keep him separated from the others,” Mahoney told the agents. “I don’t want Mr. Nicholson talking to anyone else.”

We quickly established a couple of holding areas on the first floor and started working through the house, culling the paying customers from the staff, taking names as best we could.

“Yes, my name is Nicholson—very soon you won’t be able to forget it!” I heard from one of the rooms. “Nicholson, like the moving-picture star.”

Chapter 46

IT WAS AS bizarre a raid as I’d seen since I’d been on the force. Pretty funny, actually, if you have a sense of humor like mine.

We pulled one joker out of a concrete-block room, where he was still manacled to the wall in his thong underwear, presumably ditched there by his dominatrix. In fact, most of the people I saw were in one state of undress or another—completely naked, satin underwear, skimpy see-through robes—and one soaking-wet couple in towels, including turbans, the male smoking a cigar.

The men were a mix of Saudi and American. From what I gleaned, one was a billionaire by the name of Al-Hamad. He was having a birthday party that night. And a very happy fiftieth to you. One you won’t forget.

We kept the English manager—if that was what he was—in a small study downstairs. By the time I got back to him, he’d settled into a stubborn silence. When I asked about the bruise on his cheek, Mahoney told me he’d taken to spitting at the arresting officer. Never a good idea.

I stood in the doorway, watching him sulk on an antique settee, surrounded by high shelves of books I couldn’t imagine anyone had ever read. He was obviously a nasty sonofabitch and presumably a pimp. But was he also a killer? And why was he acting so arrogant about the raid?

His lawyer got there less than an hour later, wearing suspenders and a bow tie in the middle of the night. If I’d seen him on the street, I’d never have expected he was tied into something like this. He was Dilbert, minus the pocket protector.

Unfortunately, his paperwork was very good.

“What’s this?” Mahoney asked, as the lawyer handed it over to him.

“Motion to quash. As of this moment, your ex parte’s void, and this raid is illegal. My client will generously allow you five minutes to clear out. After that, we’re looking at contempt of court and criminal trespassing.”

Mahoney did a slow double take between the lawyer’s little bug eyes and the motion to quash. Whatever he saw seemed to have the intended effect. He dropped the pages to the floor and walked away as they fluttered. Then I heard him shouting orders and shutting everyone down, the entire raid.

I picked up the motion and started scanning. “Who the hell’s your judge at one in the morning?” I asked the lawyer.

He actually reached up and flipped the page for me, pointed. “The Honorable Laurence Gibson.”

Of course, I thought. Senators, congressmen, billionaires for clients—why not a judge?

Part Three

WITH OR WITHOUT YOU

Chapter 47

I GOT HOME early Sunday morning, somewhere between the newspaper delivery trucks and the overzealous joggers heading to the park.

Whoa! What was this?

I found Nana on the sunporch, fast asleep in one of the wicker chairs. Other than her ancient pink terry slippers, she was already dressed for church in a gray flannel skirt and white sweater set. This would be Nana’s first service since the hospital visit, and the whole family was going.

I put a hand on her shoulder, and she woke with a shrug. All it took was one quick look at my face. “Bad night?” she asked.