“Should it?” said Bree.
“Not necessarily. Just thought I’d throw it out there. The phone DCAK used was likely stolen.”
Patel started to turn back to her computer.
“Hold on a second,” I said.
I was looking at the Verizon statement. “That last name—Bell. I had a case a while ago when I was still with the Bureau. Happened out in LA. It was coded ‘Mary Smith.’ Or ‘Mary, Mary.’ ”
“Sure, I know it.” Patel nodded. “The Hollywood murders. Actors, producers, and such. That’s when I first heard of you, actually.”
“The perp on that case was a Bell. Michael Bell.” He had killed several innocent people—and then nearly killed me.
“How fast can you find out about known living relatives of Michael Bell’s?” I asked Anjali. “I know that he has daughters.”
“Shouldn’t be hard.”
“And we should get someone over to this Tyler Bell’s house in Montana. See if he’s home,” Bree contributed.
“Why do I think he won’t be?” Sampson said.
Bree was already dialing her cell phone. “Maybe because Tyler Bell is here in Washington.”
Anjali set us up at a few empty desks, and Sampson and I each picked up a different thread. He quickly found five Tyler Bells listed in the general DC area, three of them right in the city. It was a long shot that he was listed here, but these leads would have to be checked out.
I did a run through the Uniform Crime Report. There was no record of Tyler Bell, or Ty Bell, at least for the last five years.
That’s as far as I got before Bree came back over, still holding her phone against one ear.
“I’ve got Montana State Police on the line. Guess who disappeared three months ago? Hint, hint. Last name rhymes with hell.”
Part Four
COLLISION COURSE
Chapter 98
NOW THIS WAS GLORIOUS. Truly.
The last place Kyle Craig expected to be—ever again—was on the Champs-Elysées, but here he was in Paris, probably his favorite city in the world. Top three, for sure. With Rome and Amsterdam. Maybe London. He supposed it was that intense yearning he had for freedom that he was feeling now, the need to do the unexpected, to follow his every whim, ultimately to kill again. To torture. To express his rage in new ways.
Over the last few nights, he’d dined at some of the finest restaurants in the world—Taillevent, Le Cinq inside the George V, right next to the Prince de Galles, where he was staying. None of the meals cost him less than four hundred Euros, about five bills American, but he didn’t care, not in the least. He had more than enough money, and wasn’t that what “vacations” were about? Get away from the job, the rat race, all the killing. Give himself time to think, to plan.
The Prince de Galles was a good spot for him in all regards. It was on the scenic Avenue George V, just a few blocks from the Champs-Elysées. The hotel was gorgeous—Art Deco for the most part, gilded—with the most beautiful chandeliers everywhere you looked. But he particularly enjoyed the Regency Bar, which was English in style, lots of leather, dark wood, and velvet. Elvis Presley had once stayed at the Prince de Galles, and now so had Kyle Craig.
There had been museums to visit in the mornings—the Musée d’Orsay and Musée de l’Orangerie were his two favorites—the Impressionists. Maybe he’d go to the Louvre today as well, but just to see the Mona Lisa. And he’d taken long walks along the Seine, where he’d done a lot of thinking—and some more planning.
There was one decision he’d made for sure: he wasn’t going to let DCAK have Alex Cross as his trophy. No, Alex Cross belonged to him, and so did the Cross family—Nana, Janelle, Damon, and little Alex Jr. That had always been the plan. He’d obsessed on it for years.
And maybe, just maybe, he’d do a little wet work before he left Paris. That was his art, which was just as beautiful, and important, as anything created by the so-called old masters. He was a new master, wasn’t he? Perfect for this barbaric age. Right for the times. No one had ever done it better, certainly not DCAK.
He spotted a pretty young woman in a tight gray blouse, black skirt, and high boots, with long hair that was almost auburn in color. She was sweeping the sidewalk in front of a small art gallery. Back and forth, back and forth—very efficient woman. And so attractive to be behind a broom.
So Kyle stopped at the gallery—went inside—and she left him to look around for the first few minutes. So independent—so very French. No wonder he adored them so.
Finally she appeared at his elbow. “You wish some help?”
Kyle smiled, and his eyes went bright. He spoke to her in French. “You are a detective? My clothes, my haircut—they gave me away.”