James Patterson - I, Alex Cross

"Go on," I said. "I'm listening to every word."

"He looked at the ground. "You know that your niece was, um…"

"Yeah. I know the forensics, all the other details. I saw her at the medical examiner's."

He threw the rest of his coffee into a garbage can. "It's possible, even probable, that Caroline was murdered by someone at that club."

"Hold on." We stopped again. I waited for a blond mother with three small towheads and an armful of Baby Gap bags to go by. "Why is the Bureau involved?"

"Technically, Alex? Because a body was transported across state lines."

I thought of the mobster who'd been found and then lost: Johnny Tucci. "You're talking about the punk from Philly?"

"We have no interest in him. Chances are he's dead anyway. Alex, this club is frequented by some of the more important people in Washington. It's gotten heavy at the Bureau in the last couple of days. Top heavy."

"I assume you mean Burns is involved." Ron Burns was the Bureau's director, and a decent guy. Mahoney shook his head; he wouldn't answer that one directly, but I could figure it out for myself.

"Ned, whatever happens, I'm only going to help."

"I figured as much. But listen, Alex. You should assume you're being watched on this one. It's going to get nasty like you wouldn't believe."

"The nastier the better. Just means somebody cares. I'll take my chances with that."

"You already have." Ned clapped me on the shoulder and offered a grim smile. "You just didn't know it until now."

THE METING WITH Ned was useful, but it had also given me a headache, so I was playing a little Brahms in the car on the way back to Judiciary Square. I picked up a voice mail from Ramon Davies's secretary as I sped along the streets of DC. The superintendent wanted to see me as soon as possible. That didn't sit too well on top of Ned's warning at the mall. The last time Davies called, it was to tell me that Caroline had been killed.

When I got to the Daly Building, I bypassed the elevator and jogged up the stairs to the third floor. Davies's office door was open, and I rapped two knuckles on the frame.

He was hunched over paperwork at his desk. The wall behind him was hung with some of his large collection of commendations, including MPD's Detective of the Year for 2002. I had the award for '04, but no big office to put a plaque up in. Actually, the certificate was in a drawer someplace at home; at least I thought it was.

Davies nodded when he saw me. We weren't exactly friends, but we worked well together and there was respect on both sides. "Come in, and close the door."

As I sat down, I couldn't help noticing my own handwriting on some of the photocopied pages he was studying.

"Is that Caroline's file?" I asked.

Davies didn't answer at first. He sat back and eyeballed me for a few seconds. Then he said, "I had a call this morning from Internal Affairs."

There it was – just about the last thing I wanted to deal with right now. Internal Affairs used to be called the Office of Professional Responsibility. Before that, it was – Internal Affairs. MPD is nothing if not fluid that way.

"What did they want?" I asked.

"I think you know. Did you threaten that anchor asshole Ryan Willoughby at Channel Nine? He says you did. So does his assistant."

"I sat back and took a breath before I answered. "It's bullshit. Things got a little heated, that's all."

"Okay. I had another call yesterday, from a Congressman Mintzer. Want to guess what he was calling about?"

I couldn't believe it – though it was typical enough Washington power-playing and outright bullying. "Both of their phone numbers were found in Caroline's apartment."

"I don't need you to give me the 101. Not yet anyway." "He held up the file to illustrate his point. "I just need to know that you've got a cool head on this."

"I do. But this isn't just another homicide investigation, and I don't mean because my niece was killed and cut up into pieces."

"Damn straight it's not, Alex. That's the whole point. These complaints could become a problem. For you and for the entire investigation."

I was talking to Davies, but I was also trying to think this thing through. Citizen complaints – when they're investigated – can end up at one of four conclusions. They can be sustained, determined unfounded, deemed unprovable for lack of evidence, or the officer can be exonerated because no regulation was broken. I felt confident that at worst, I was in the last category.

Davies wasn't done with me, though. "I give you more leeway than just about any detective in this division," he said.

"Thank you. I'm handling it okay, right? Despite appearances."

That got a microscopic grin. He studied me for another few seconds and then sat back. When he started putting away his notes, I knew we were over the hump. At least for right now.

"I want you on this investigation, Alex. But believe me when I say that the minute – and I mean the minute – - anyone tries to take this over my head, I'm pulling you off."

He stood up then, my sign to get out of there while I still could. "Keep me in the loop. I don't want to have to call you again. You call me."

"Of course," I assured him, and then I left. If I stuck around longer, I'd have to tell him about my meeting with Ned Mahoney, and that was something I couldn't afford to do right now. Not if Davies was already considering reining me in.

I'd tell him everything later. Just as soon as I had some answers myself.

TONY NICHOLSON RECALLED a particular short story that had been popular when he was a schoolboy. He thought it was called "The Most Dangerous Game." Well, he was playing such a game now, only in real life, and it was much more dangerous than some story in an anthology.

Nicholson stared at the monitors on his desk – watching and waiting, forcing himself to go slowly on the scotch. Zeus was due any minute, at least he was scheduled to appear, and Nicholson had a decision to make.

For months now, it had been the same game with this madman. Nicholson kept the carriage barn apartment vacant at all times, booked escorts whenever Zeus demanded it, and then tortured himself wondering if it would be suicide to record one of these little parties of his.

Nicholson had seen plenty in the few sessions he'd watched, but he had no idea exactly what Zeus was capable of, or even who he was. The man definitely played rough, though. In fact, some of the escorts he'd had sessions with had completely disappeared; at least they'd never come back to work after seeing Zeus.

Just after 12:30, a black Mercedes with tinted windows pulled up to the front gate. No one buzzed; Nicholson admitted the car remotely, then sat back, waiting for it to show up at the top of the drive.

His fingers played compulsively back and forth over the keyboard's touchpad. Record, don't record, record, don't record.

Soon enough, the Mercedes passed in front of the house, then continued around toward the carriage barn in back – its destination. As always, the car's plates were covered.

Before Zeus, the apartment had been a private VIP suite for any preapproved client who could afford it. The fees started at twenty thousand a night, and that was just for room and board. The suite was outfitted with the finest liquors and wines, a fully stocked gourmet kitchen, a marble steam room and Swiss shower, two fireplaces, and a full complement of electronics, including separately wired phone lines with routing software and multifrequency voice scramblers to make outgoing calls untraceable.

Nicholson pulled up the living room view – where two girls were waiting, as ordered. All they knew was that it would be a "party of one" and they'd been promised time and a half for the evening, a minimum of four thousand each.