About half an hour into the meeting, Agent Cavalierre introduced me to the other agents.
“Some of you already know Alex Cross from the D.C. police. He’s Homicide, with a Ph.D. in psychology. Dr. Cross is a forensic psychologist. He is a very good friend of Kyle Craig, by the way. The two of them are tight. So whatever you might think of the Metro police, or ADIC Craig, you’d better keep it to yourself.”
She looked over at me. “Actually, Dr. Cross discovered the bodies of Brianne and Errol Parker in D.C. That’s as close as we have to a break in the case. Notice how I’m careful to kiss Dr. Cross’s butt.”
I stood up and looked around the conference room as I spoke to the agents. “Well, I’m afraid the Parkers have gone underground, too,” I said, and got a few laughs. “Brianne and Errol were small-timers, but had served time for bank jobs. We’re checking on anyone they knew at Lorton Prison. So far, nothing has come of it. Nothing much has come of anything we’ve done, and that’s disturbing.
“The Parkers were competent thieves, but not as organized as whoever brought them in — and then decided to kill them. The Parkers were poisoned, by the way. I think the killer watched them die, and the deaths were gruesome. The killer may have had sex with Brianne Parker after she was dead. This is just a guess right now, but I don’t think this mess is just about bank robberies.”
Chapter 34
THE MASTERMIND COULDN’T SLEEP! Too many unwelcome thoughts were buzzing around like a swarm of angry wasps invading his already overwrought brain. He had been severely victimized, driven to this intolerable state. He needed revenge. He’d dedicated his life to it — every waking moment of the past four years.
The Mastermind finally rose up from bed. He sat slumped over his desk, waiting for the waves of nausea to pass, waiting for his goddamn hands to stop trembling. This is my pitiful life, he thought. I despise it. I despise everything about it, every breath I take.
Finally, he began to write the hate mail that had been on his mind as he lay in bed.
Attention of the Chairman, Citibank
This is a wake-up call, and it’s serious. The consequences to Citibank are dire.
You think that you’re safe from the little people, but you’re not safe.
My hand is shaking as I write this. My whole body trembles with outrage.
My banker is asleep at the switch. For a “personal banker” she is about as impersonal as one of the gray partitions in her cubicle office. I had always thought bankers were smart, and buttoned-up. How is it possible, then, that on numerous occasions I have had annoying, insane, egregious errors made on my account?
I requested a simple transfer of money between Funds: IMMA to checking. It didn’t get done in a timely manner.
When I recently moved, my change of address was not handled properly. Three months have passed, and I still haven’t received any of my statements. It turns out the address was never changed and my statements are going to the wrong address.
After all of these insults, after all of these mistakes by your busy-doing-nothing employees, your bank has the nerve, the gall, to deny me a personal loan. The most intolerable part is to have to sit there and listen to little Miss Princeton Priss turning me down with insincerity and condescension dripping in her voice.
I judge service organizations on a ten scale. I expect 9.9999 out of 10. Your bank fails miserably.
The little people will have their day.
He reread the letter and thought it wasn’t too bad — not for two-something in the morning. No, actually the letter was good.
He would do an edit, then sign, and finally deposit it in his file cabinet — as he did with all the other letters. They were far too dangerous and incriminating to actually send through the federal mail system.
Goddamnit, he hated the banks with a passion! Insurance companies! Self-import
ant investment houses! Cheeky Internet firms! The government! The big boys and girls had to go down. And they would. The little people would finally have their day.
Chapter 35
I HAD PROMISED JANNIE something when I left her that morning. My most solemn oath was that I would stop at Big Mike Giordano’s for pizza takeout.
I was juggling a hot box in my hands when I entered her room at the hospital. She wouldn’t be able to eat much, but Dr. Petito said a slice would be fine.
“Delivery,” I said as I waltzed into the room.
“Hoo-ray! Hoo-ray!” she cheered from her bed. “You saved me from this awful, dreadful hospital food. Thank you, Daddy. You are the greatest.”
Jannie didn’t look sick; she didn’t look as if she needed to be at St. Anthony’s. I wished that were so. I already had the essential information on her operation. The total time for prep and the surgery would be between eight and ten hours. The surgeon would dissect the tumor and a piece would be used for a biopsy. Until the surgery, her condition was stabilized with Dilantin. The operation was set for 8:00 A.M. tomorrow.
“You wanted olives and anchovies, right?” I teased her as I opened the pizza box.