James PATTERSON - Cross Fire

“You bugged our meeting? Jesus, Max, why the hell would you do something like that?”

“That’s your first good question,” he said. “How much time do you have for an answer?” But before she could say a word, he put a hand to her lips. “Wait, I’ll tell you myself. You have no time at all.”

The ice pick, his old favorite, was up and through her larynx before Patel could even scream. Still, her jaw dropped silently open with the effort.

He was on her now, his mouth covering hers, his hand over her nose – a literal kiss of death, but just an ordinary kiss between two lovers in a car to anyone who might have glanced out his window. Her strength, her desire to live, were nothing compared to his. Even the blood loss was minimal – Patel had been too polite to ask about the plastic seat covers in the car.

Or the raincoat Max Siegel was wearing on this dry night.

Once she’d stopped moving altogether, his excitement only grew. He would have loved to climb into the backseat with her while her lips were still warm and her belly still so soft to the touch. He wanted to be inside her right now. Hell, he owned her.

But it would have been a foolish risk, and an unnecessary one at that. He had decided hours ago that tonight was going to be an exception to the usual rules. He’d earned it after all, and this game was his to change. In fact, there were a lot of changes just around the corner.

But first, Anjali Patel was coming home with him – for a sleepover.

SAMPSON KNEW I was usually awake by five, or even earlier, but it wouldn’t have made a difference today. I could tell he was already at work from the street sounds in the background and the tension in his voice.

“I need a favor, Alex. Maybe a big one.”

Instinctively, I started eating my eggs a little faster while Nana gave me the hairy eyeball. Very early and very late calls in our house are never a good thing.

“Go ahead,” I said. “I’m listening. Nana is watching me listen. I can’t tell if her evil eye is for you, me, or both of us.”

“Oh, it’s for both of you,” Nana said in a low voice that could have been mistaken for a growl.

“We’ve got a homicide in Franklin Square. A John Doe. It looks a lot like that freaky one I had before, over in Washington Circle?”

My fork stopped in midair. “With the numbers?”

“That’s the one. Any chance I can get you over here for a consult before things heat up too much?”

“I’m on my way.”

John and I never keep track of who owes how many favors to who. Our unwritten rule is, if you need me, I’m there. But make sure you need me.

A few minutes later, I was knotting my tie on the way down the back stairs toward the garage. It was practically still dark out, but light enough to show a mass of slate-gray nothingness overhead – cloudy with a chance of a shit storm.

Based on what I remembered of Sampson’s earlier case, this was exactly the kind of thing MPD could not afford to be investigating right now.

Months ago, a young homeless man had been found beaten to death, with a series of numbers carved carefully across his forehead. It probably would have hit every headline inside the Beltway – if the poor man hadn’t been a street junkie. Even at the department, the case hadn’t generated much heat, which wasn’t exactly fair, but you could drive yourself crazy over “fair” in this capital city of ours.

Now it had happened again. This was a whole new ball game. With the sniper case raging, MPD brass were going to have a hair trigger on anything even remotely sensitive. They’d want to flip this thing up to Major Case Squad before the morning was out.

I figured that was why John called. If the case got transferred to my unit, I could say I was already consulting on it, ask to take the lead, and then put Sampson back in charge. Just our version of creative accounting, and God knows it wouldn’t have been the first time.

THE NUMBERS KILLER – Jesus God – not now.

When I got to Franklin Square, the entrances were already cordoned off. Additional units were parked on the longer K and I Street sides of the rectangular park, although the action seemed to be just off of Thirteenth, where Sampson was right now waving me over.

“Sugar,” he said when I came up close to him, “you’re a lifesaver. I know the timing sucks.”

“Let’s go take a look.”

Two crime-scene techs in blue Windbreakers were working inside the tape line, along with a medical examiner whom I easily recognized from behind.

Porter Henning’s unofficial nickname is “Portly,” and, widthwise, he makes “Man Mountain” Sampson look practically dainty. I’ve never been sure how Porter squeezes into some of those tighter crime scenes, but he’s also one of the most insightful MEs I’ve worked with.

“Alex Cross. Gracing us with your presence,” he said as I walked up.

“Blame this guy.” I thumbed at Sampson but then stopped short when I saw the victim.

People say the extreme stuff is my specialty, which it kind of is, but there is no getting used to human mutilation. The victim had been left faceup in a clump of bushes. The multiple layers of dirty clothes marked him as homeless, maybe even someone who slept right there in the park. And while there were signs of a severe beating, it was the numbers carved into his forehead that made the biggest impression. As in the previous murder, it was almost too bizarre.

2^30402457–1

“Are those the same numbers as the last time?” I asked.

“Similar,” Sampson told me, “but no, not the same.”

“And we don’t know who the victim is?”

John shook his head. “I’ve got guys asking around, but most of the bench crashers made themselves scarce as soon as we showed up. It’s not exactly a trust fest around here, you know?”

I knew, I knew. This was part of what made homeless deaths so hard to trace.

“There’s also the shelter just a few blocks up on Thirteenth Street,” John went on. “I’m going to head up there after this, see if anyone knows anything about this man.”

The scene itself was hard to interpret. There were fresh footprints in the dirt, flat soles as opposed to boots or sneakers. Also, some kind of grooved tracks, maybe a shopping cart, but that could have been completely unrelated. Homeless folks rolled through here all day, every day. All night, too.

“What else?” I asked. “Porter? You find out anything yet?”

“Yeah. Found out I’m not getting any younger. Other than that, I’d say cause of death is tension pneumothorax, although the first strikes were probably here, here, and here.”

He pointed at the crushed side of the dead man’s head, where a pink ooze had filled his ear. “Basal skull fracture, jawbone, zygomatic arch, the whole frickin’ works. If there’s any silver lining, the poor guy was probably out cold when it happened. There’s track marks all over him.”

“All just like the last time,” Sampson said. “Has to be the same perp.”

“What about the cutting on the forehead?” It was the cleanest knife work I’d ever seen. The digits were easily readable, the cuts shallow and precise. “Any initial thoughts about the cuts, Porter?”

“This is nothing,” he said. “Check out the real masterpiece.”

He reached down and rolled the young man onto his side, then lifted up the back of his shirt.

“You’ve got to be kidding.”

The math equation covered the whole area from his waistband to his shoulder blades. I’d never seen anything like it. Not in this context anyway. Sampson motioned the scene photographer over to get a shot.