“How many are there?”
William looked at Michael, shrugged his broad shoulders, and they both laughed. “Legions! We’re everywhere.”
Suddenly, William roared and went for her throat. Jamilla couldn’t help it—she screamed.
He stopped inches away from her, still growling like an animal. Then William purred gently. His long tongue licked her cheek, her lips, her eyelids. She couldn’t believe what was happening.
“We’re going to hang you and drink every last drop. The most amazing thing—you’re going to enjoy it when you die. It’s ecstasy, Jamilla.”
Chapter 83
I HAD returned to Washington, and I was taking a much-needed day off. Why not? I hadn’t seen enough of the kids lately, and it was Saturday, after all.
Damon, Jannie, and I went to the Corcoran Gallery of Art that afternoon. The little creeps fiercely resisted the museum at first, but once they were inside the Palace of Gold and Light they were completely entranced. Then they didn’t want to leave. Typical of them.
When we eventually got home at around four, Nana told me I was to call Tim Bradley at the San Francisco Examiner. Give me a break. This case wouldn’t stop. Now I was supposed to call Jamilla’s buddy?
“It’s important that you call. That’s the message,” Nana said. She was baking two cherry pies. Reminding me how good it was to be home.
It was one o’clock in California. I called Tim Bradley at his office. He picked up right away. “Bradley.”
“It’s Detective Alex Cross.”
“Hi. I hoped you’d call. I’m a friend of Jamilla Hughes.”
I knew that much already. I interrupted. “Is she okay?”
“Why do you ask that, Detective? She went to Santa Cruz yesterday. Did you know about that?”
“She mentioned she might go. Did somebody go with her?” I asked. “I suggested she bring company.”
His answer was curt and defensive. “No. Like Jamilla always says, she’s a big girl. And she carries a big gun.”
I frowned and shook my head. “So what’s going on? Has something happened? Is something the matter?”
“No, not necessarily. She’s usually careful, precise. I just haven’t heard from her, and she promised to call. Last night. Now it’s been another four hours since I called you. I’m a little concerned. It’s probably nothing. But I thought you would know best . . . about this particular case.”
“Does she do things like this often?” I asked.
“Investigate a case on her day off? Yes. That’s Jam. But she would definitely call me if she promised to.”
I didn’t want to upset him any more than he was, but I was worried now. I thought of my last two partners. Both had died, and neither of the murders had been solved. The Mastermind claimed to have killed Betsey Cavalierre. And also Detective Maureen Cooke in New Orleans. So what about Inspector Jamilla Hughes?
“I’m going to call the local police in Santa Cruz. She gave me a name and a number. I think it was Conover. I have it written down in my notes. I’m going to call him right now.”
“All right. Thank you, Detective. Will you let me know?” Tim the reporter asked. “I’d appreciate it.”
I said that I would, then tried to reach Lieutenant Conover at police headquarters in Santa Cruz. He wasn’t working, but I made a fuss and dropped Kyle Craig’s name. The sergeant reluctantly gave me Conover’s home number.
Someone picked up at the number, and I heard loud music that I vaguely recognized as U2. “We’re having a party at the pool. C’mon over. Or call back on Monday,” said a male voice. “Bye-bye for now.”
The line went dead.
I redialed and said, “Lieutenant Conover, please. It’s an emergency. This is Detective Alex Cross. It’s about Inspector Jamilla Hughes of the San Francisco PD.”
“Aww, shit,” I heard, then—“This is Conover. Who is this again?”
I explained who I was and my involvement in the case in as few words as possible. I had the feeling that Conover was drunk, or close to it. It was his day off, but Jesus—it wasn’t even two in the afternoon his time.