Jack & Jill (Alex Cross 3)

“Not such a terrible idea,” I told Grayer. He looked at me as if I were crazy, too. “Not a particularly good idea, either,” I said. He cracked a grin.

Half a dozen men and two women in business attire were gathered in the West Wing office of the White House chief of staff. I sensed a lot of tension in the room, but everyone was working hard to hide it. I was introduced as the representative of the Washington police. Welcome to the team. Say hello to the dragonslayer.

The others at the table cordially introduced themselves. Two more senior agents from the Secret Service, a woman named Ann Roper and a youngish, good-looking man named Michael Fescoe; the director of intelligence from the FBI, Robert Hatfield; General Aiden Cornwall from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the U.S. Army; the national security advisor, Michael Kane; the White House chief of staff, Don Hamerman. The other woman turned out to be a senior officer in the CIA. The inspector general. Her name was Jeanne Sterling. Her presence meant that a foreign power’s involvement in Jack and Jill was being considered. There was a twist I hadn’t considered before.

It was fast company for a homicide detective from Southeast D.C., even for a deputy chief. But I figured I was pretty fast company, too. I had seen nasty things that none of them had, or would ever want to.

Let the sharing begin.

Glistening sweet rolls, butter in ice, and coffee in silver pots had been put out for our unusual breakfast club. It was obvious that some of the others had worked together before. I had learned a long time ago that if you can’t spot the pigeon in a poker game, then you’re probably it.

The national security advisor called the gathering to order a minute or so past ten. Don Hamerman was a wiry, blond man in his mid-thirties who appeared to be tightly strung. That definitely fit the White House staff profile in recent years: very young and very uptight. On the move. On the make, get set, go.

“I’m going to use overheads for this presentation, folks. That’s the way we do it here in the Big House,” Hamerman said and managed a thin, forced smile. He had an unsettling kinetic energy. He reminded me of high-flying D.C. public relations types, and even of Michael Robinson’s overwrought agent back at the Willard.

I gathered from his remark that White House meetings were usually bureaucratic and somewhat formal, rather than loosy-goosy. Everyone seemed to enjoy the small joke, anyway.

Actually, the forced cordiality disturbed me. I was still flashing on the death-mask expression of Michael Robinson. It wasn’t an image I liked bringing with me into the White House.

Michael Robinson’s naked corpse was probably still in the Willard Hotel with the morgue team, ready to be tagged and bagged.

“I have about an hour’s worth of briefing material—tops. With full discussion, let’s say we’re at two hours,” Hamerman continued. “That will take us close to noon, but I believe the unfortunate circumstances warrant a tight briefing up front.”

What unfortunate circumstances, exactly? I wanted to interrupt Hamerman, but I kept my cool. It was neither the time nor the place.

Cups of coffee and several cigarette packs were already laid out on the worktable. Everyone was prepared for a tough siege. I guessed that was the way it was done at the Big House.

Hamerman placed his first overhead on the gently purring machine. The display screen said Jack and Jill Investigation.

Not much to argue about so far.

“As you know, there have been three brutal celebrity murders in Washington in the past week. The latest was the shooting sometime last night of the actor Michael Robinson at the Willard. The stalkers call themselves Jack and Jill. They leave artsy mash notes at their murder scenes. They like to play games with the media. They seem to relish the spotlight a lot.

“They also seem to know what they’re doing. They’ve successfully committed three high-profile murders and haven’t left us squat to work with. They appear to be signature or serial killers, though of a particularly high order. That’s debatable, or so I’m led to understand. But it’s one theory.

“Here’s the first kicker,” Hamerman said and arched his thin, blond eyebrows. “What some of you don’t know is that ‘Jack and Jill’ is also the Secret Service code name used for President and Mrs. Byrnes. It has been since the President took office. We are not comfortable accepting this fact as mere coincidence.”

The blond woman from the CIA lit a cigarette. I remembered her name. Jeanne Sterling. She blew out a pale gust of smoke. I heard her mutter “shit.” My sentiments exactly. This was the worst news we’d had so far. Also, I didn’t appreciate the fact it had been kept from us until this moment.

“We believe it is a very real possibility that an assassination attempt could be made on either President Byrnes or Mrs. Byrnes. Or perhaps on both of them,” Hamerman said.

The words were absolutely chilling to hear. I glanced around the table and saw the frozen expressions of concern.

“We have taken, or are taking, every precaution that we can think of. The President’s exposure outside the White House will be extremely limited for the time being. He’s been told everything about the unfortunate situation, and so has Mrs. Byrnes. They’re taking it well. They’re both very smart, very impressive people. They will not panic. I can promise you that. I’ll do the panicking for both of them.

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“Let me talk about some facts we don’t have about the so-called stalkers Jack and Jill. Actually, there are several thousand investigators assigned to the case, and we know surprisingly little. Jack and Jill may be heading toward the White House next, and we don’t have the foggiest idea why. Or who they might be. Or what the hell is in this for them.”

Don Hamerman peered around the table. He was definitely wired. The other word to describe him, the one that came to my mind anyway, was supercilious.

“Please feel free to correct me on any point I make. Feel free to add any updated information you might have,” he said with a tiny sneer.

Except for a few sighs, no one spoke. No one seemed to know any more than I did. No one had a worthwhile clue so far. That was the scariest thing of all.

The possibility existed that the President and First Lady were the ultimate targets for Jack and Jill… or maybe not even the ultimate targets?

Jack and Jill came to The Hill. What in the name of God for? To wipe out all the bleeding liberals? To punish sinners? Was the President a sinner in their minds?