Double Cross (Alex Cross 13)

“I’ll call you back,” I said.

What I found moments later was another stunner. The message was from DCAK and had been sent to my e-mail, Bree’s, and what looked like just about every news desk, TV channel, and radio station in the DC metro area. He had authenticated it in his usual way, with an image of his latest calling card scanned right into the message. The image was of the postal ID from the Smithsonian, which we’d kept out of the press like the others before it.

The message was written in his familiar taunting style.

Detectives:

Does anyone besides me think you aren’t giving this case the attention it deserves? By my count, it’s DCAK six, cops zero. That’s right, I said six. Or maybe five and a half—since this one isn’t quite dead yet.

I’ve gone and found that piece of shit copycat, no thanks to any of you. It wasn’t hard—just took a little thought. More than you’ve given it, anyway; more than you’re capable of, I suspect.

But here’s what I’m going to do for you. In one hour, you’ll receive another message—with an address. That’s where you’ll find your copycat, and if you’re lucky, he’ll still be alive. I haven’t decided yet. My call, of course. Dead or alive? Dead or alive? We’ll have to see.

Now do you understand why the public is so scared of me? I’m better at this than you are, and they know it. That’s your problem. It will always be your problem. Time and time again. For years to come, since I plan to be at this for a long while. In the meantime, you can do what you do best. Sit on your asses and wait to see what I do next.

Until then . . .

Keep on living, fuckers.

Chapter 82

BREE SAW TO IT that just about every available cruiser in the entire city was put on standby. I called Sampson myself and told him to keep his line open. I tried Kitz to see if we could preemptively trace an incoming e-mail, but I got his voice mail—and the same thing when I tried his assistant. I fielded calls from Superintendent Davies, the chief’s office, the mayor’s office, and then Nana herself. DCAK’s story was already out there on the airwaves. Of course it was. He’d put it there to stoke all the fires that he possibly could.

Word from downstairs was that we had a growing press army waiting for us on the street too. It didn’t feel like anything was going our way, probably because it wasn’t, and that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon, from what I could tell.

Finally Bree and I stopped taking calls altogether. We holed up in the office, waiting, just like the bastard wanted us to. We put our energy into examining the latest e-mail, scanning for a hidden meaning, some indication of his state of mind, anything we might use—anything to keep us from spinning our wheels in another wrong direction.

The MO was basically the same. His online stuff was just another kind of disguise—electronic—but it all came from the same narcissistic mind. This was a deeply disturbed person, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself. He was organized and clever, and he knew it.

Three thirty came and went.

Then four o’clock.

Then five.

He was obviously toying with us, saying in no uncertain terms, I’m in control here. Bree and I eventually began to wonder if another e-mail was coming at all.

Then at five thirty, it arrived.

The message we’d been waiting for was all of six words. He was efficient, wasn’t he?

19th SE and Independence Ave. Now.

Chapter 83

MY STOMACH HAD NEVER been tied in so many knots, not that I could remember, anyway. DCAK was bad enough, but now I was sure Kyle Craig had been added to the mix, and I couldn’t figure out why, or where this freight train could be headed. Nowhere I wanted to go.

The drive over to Nineteenth and Independence was a paparazzi nightmare of the sort that had probably killed Princess Diana and Dodi Al Fayed in a dark, scary tunnel in Paris. We cut diagonally through the city toward Southeast, sirens wailing and an unbelievable entourage following us the whole way. Hell, we were like the pied pipers of DC, with trailing rats that wanted nothing more than to take our picture and run it in the National Enquirer. If they were gambling we wouldn’t stop to issue traffic violations right now, they had that right.

Six MPD units were already at the scene when we got there, and they had closed off the main intersections to foot and vehicle traffic.

But what exactly was this scene? What had happened here?

No obvious clues. The neighborhood was a mix of residential and industrial. Two lines of newly refurbished row houses extended along both Nineteenth and Independence from the northwest corner. I remembered that I’d actually read about this project in the paper, all primary colors and funky angles. Just the extra touch of visual drama our killer would go for. The bastard was making a movie, wasn’t he? Shooting it all in his head.

The new St. Coletta School was across the street in one direction, and the Armory Building in the other. It was a huge area to cover—a giant haystack, with somebody’s body for a needle. Or, God willing, a living victim this time. Was that a possibility? Maybe DCAK wanted a change of pace.

More squad cars arrived, over a dozen of them, and then I stopped counting. I wondered when Kitz and his people would get here. We needed the FBI techies on this, all the help we could possibly get.