“Don’t you admire my self-control?” Kate smiled and said.

“Yes and no,” I told her.

I pulled on my hair shirt again. It took some effort, and produced hellacious pain. I would definitely go for X rays tomorrow. Kate started to cry and buried her face in the pillow. I turned toward her and put my hand on her shoulder.

“You okay? Hey?”

“I’m sorry. Shoot,” she whispered, trying to stop the tears. “I just… I know I don’t seem like it most of the time, but I’m freaking out, Alex. I’ve been freaking out. I’ve seen so many horrible things. Is this case as bad as your last one—the child kidnappings in D.C.?” she asked me.

I held Kate very gently in my arms. I hadn’t seen her quite so vulnerable, so open about it, anyway. Everything suddenly became more relaxed between us.

I whispered into her hair. “This case is as bad as anything I’ve seen. It’s actually worse because of Naomi, and because of what happened to you. I want him more than I wanted Gary Soneji. I want both of these monsters.”

“When I was a very little girl back home,” Kate said, still in a whisper, “I was just learning to talk. I was probably four months old.” She smiled at the exaggeration. “No, I was around two. When I would get cold, and I wanted to be held, I’d combine the two ideas. I used to say, ‘Cold me.’ It meant, ‘Hold me, I’m cold.’ Friends can do that. Cold me, Alex.”

“Friends should,” I whispered back.

We cuddled on top of the covers and kissed a little more, until we both finally fell asleep. Merciful sleep.

I was the one who woke up first. It was 5:11 A.M. on the hotel room clock.

“You awake? Kate?” I whispered.

“Mmm hmmm. I’m awake now.”

“We’re going back to the Gentleman’s apartment,” I told her.

I called ahead and talked to the FBI agent in charge. I told him where to look, and what to look for.

CHAPTER 75

DR. WILL RUDOLPH’S once orderly and pristine penthouse apartment had ceased to exist as such. The three-bedroom penthouse looked like a state-of-the-art crime lab. It was a little past six when Kate and I arrived back there. I was pumped about my hunch.

“Did you dream about the Gentleman?” Kate wanted to know. “Your hunch?”

“Uh huh. I was processing information. It’s all processed now.”

A half-dozen or so FBI techies and LAPD homicide detectives were still on the scene. The latest Pearl Jam played from somebody’s radio. The lead singer seemed to be in terrible pain. Dr. Rudolph’s wide-screen Mitsubishi TV was on, but with the sound turned off. One of the techies was eating an egg sandwich off greasy paper.

I went searching for an agent named Phil Becton, the FBI’s suspect profiler. The Man. He had been called down from Seattle to gather all the available information on Rudolph, then match it against known data on other psychopaths. A profiler, if he or she is good, is actually invaluable in an investigation of this kind. I’d heard from Kyle Craig that Becton was “spooky good.” He had been a sociology professor at Stanford before he joined the Bureau.

“You fully awake? Ready for this?” Becton asked when I finally located him in the master bedroom. He was at least six four, with another three inches of wiry red hair. Plastic evidence pouches and manila evidence envelopes were spread all around the bedroom. Becton wore one pair of eyeglasses, and had another pair on a chain around his neck.

“I’m not sure if I’m awake,” I told Becton. “This is Dr. Kate McTiernan.”

“Nice to meet you.” Becton shook hands with her, studying Kate’s face at the same time. She was data for him. He seemed a weird man, perfect for his job.

“See there,” he said, pointing across the bedroom. The FBI had already taken apart the Gentleman’s clothes closet. “You were right on the money. We found a fake wall that Dr. Rudolph Hess built behind his skinny clothes closet. There’s about a foot and a half of extra space in there.”

The clothes closet for his suits had been too skinny and peculiar. I’d made the connection in that strange region of the edge of sleep. The closet had to be his hiding spot. It was a shrine, but not to his expensive suits.

“That’s where he kept his souvenirs?” I made an educated guess.

“You got it. Little waist-high refrigerator-freezer back there. It’s where he kept the body parts he collected.” Becton pointed to the sealed containers. “Sunny Ozawa’s feet. Fingers. Two ears with different earrings, two separate victims.”

“What else was in his collection?” I asked Phil Becton. I wasn’t in a hurry to look at feet, ears, fingers. His trophies from the murders of young girls around L.A.

“Well, as you’d expect from reading the murder-scene briefs, he liked to collect their underwear as well. Freshly worn panties, bras, pantyhose, a woman’s T-shirt that says Dazed and Confused and still smells of Opium perfume. He likes to keep photographs, a few locks of auburn hair. He’s so neat. He kept each specimen in its own plastic bag. One through thirty-one. He’s labeled them with numbers.”

Tags: James Patterson Alex Cross Mystery
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