James Patterson - Cat & Mouse

Kyle nodded. “All right, all right. I hear you. I see the larger picture. I even understand and sympathize, to a degree. But since you’re here, with a little time on your hands, I do need to talk to you about Mr. Smith. Believe me, Alex, you’ve never seen anything like this. You’ve got to be a little curious.”

“I’m not. In fact, I’m going to leave now. Walk right out that door I came in.”

“We’ve got an unbelievably ugly problem on our hands, Alex. Just let me talk, and you listen. Just listen,” Kyle pleaded.

I relented, but just a litte. “I’ll listen. That’s all. I’m not getting involved with this.”

Kyle made a small, ceremonial bow in my direction. “Just listen,” Kyle said. “Listen and keep an open mind, Alex. This is going to blow your mind, I guarantee it. It’s blown mine.”

Then Kyle proceeded to tell me about an agent named Thomas Pierce. Pierce was in charge of the Mr. Smith case. What was intriguing was that Smith had brutally murdered Pierce’s fiancée some years back.

“Thomas Pierce is the most thorough investigator and the most brilliant person I’ve ever met,” Kyle told me. “At first, we wouldn’t let him anywhere near the Smith case, for obvious reasons. He worked it on his own. He made progress where we hadn’t. Finally, he made it clear that if he couldn’t work on Smith, he’d leave the Bureau. He even threatened to try and solve the case on his own.”

“You put him on the case?” I asked Kyle.

“He’s very persuasive. In the end, he made in case to the Director. He sold Burns. Pierce is logical, and he’s creative. He can analyze a problem like nobody I’ve ever seen. He’s been fanatical on Mr. Smith. Works eighteen-and twenty-hour days.”

“But even Pierce can’t crack this case,” I said and pointed at the Big Board.

Kyle nodded. “We’re finally getting close, Alex. I desperately need your input. And I want you to meet Thomas Pierce. You have to meet Pierce.”

“I said I’d listen,” I told Kyle. “But I don’t have to meet anyone.”

Nearly four hours later, Kyle finally let me out of his clutches. He had blown my mind, all right-about Mr. Smith and about Thomas Pierce-but I wasn’t getting involved. I couldn’t.

I finally made my way back to SAS to check on Rosie. Chet Elliott was able to see me right away. He was still wearing his lab coat, gloves, and the gold-tinted goggles. His slow-gaited walk toward me said bad news. I didn’t want to hear it.

Then he surprised me and grinned. “We don’t see anything wrong with her. Alex. I don’t think Soneji did anything to her. He was just mind-humping you. We checked her for volatile compounds-nada. Then for nonvolatile organic compounds that would be unusual in her system-also negative. Forensic serology took some blood. You ought to leave Red with us for a couple of days, but I doubt we’ll find anything. You can leave her here, period, if you like. She’s really cool cat.”

“I know.” I nodded and breathed a sigh of relief. “Can I see her?” I asked Chet.

“Sure can. She’s been asking for you all morning. I don’t know why, but she seems to like you.”

“She knows I’m a cool cat, too.” I smiled.

He took me back to see Rosie. She was being kept in a small cage, and she looked pissed as hell. I’d brought her here, hadn’t I? I might as well have administered the lab tests myself.

“Not my fault,” I explained as best I could. “Blame that nutcase Gary Soneji, not me. Don’t look at me like that.”

She finally let me pick her up and she even nuzzled my cheek. “You’re being a very brave good girl,” I whispered. “I owe you one, and I always pay my debts.”

She purred and finally licked my cheek with her sandpaper tongue. Sweet lady, Rosie O’Grady.

London, England

MR. SMITH was dressed like an anonymous street person in a ripped and soiled black anorak. The killer was walking quickly along Lower Regent Street in the direction of Piccadilly Circus.

Going to the Circus, oh boy, oh boy! he was thinking. His cynicism was as thick and heavy as the air in London.

No one seemed to notice him in the late-afternoon crowds. No one paid much attention to the poor in any of the large, “civilized” capitals. Mr. Smith had noticed that, and used it to his advantage.

He hurried along with his duffel bag until he finally reached Piccadilly, where the crowds were even denser.

His attentive eyes took in the usual traffic snarl, which could be expected at the hub of five major streets. He also saw Tower Records, McDonald’s, the Trocadero, far too many neon ads. Backpackers and camera hounds were everywhere on the street and sidewalks.

And a single alien creature-himself.

One being who didn’t fit in any way with the others.

Mr. Smith suddenly felt so alone, incredibly lonely in the middle of all these people in London town.

He set down the long, heavy duffel bag directly under the famous statue in the Circus-Eros. Still, no one was paying attention to him.

He left the bag sitting there, and he walked along Piccadilly and then onto Haymarket.

When he was a few blocks away, he called the police, as he always did. The message was simple, clear, to the point. Their time was up.

“Inspector Drew Cabot is in Piccadilly Circus. He’s in a gray duffel bag. What’s left of him. You blew it. Cheers.”

SONDRA GREENBERG of Interpol spotted Thomas Pierce as he walked toward the crime scene at the center of Piccadilly Circus. Pierce stood out in a crowd, even one like this.

Thomas Pierce was tall; his long blond hair was pulled back in ponytail; and he usually wore dark glasses. He did not look like your typical FBI agent, and, in fact, Pierce was nothing like any agent Greenberg had ever met or worked with.

“What’s all the excitement about?” he asked as he got up close. “Mr. Smith out for his weekly kill. Nothing so unusual.” His habitual sarcasm was at work.

Sondra looked around at the packed crowd at the homicide scene and shook her head. There were press reporters and television news trucks everywhere.

“What’s being done by the local geniuses? The police?” said Pierce.

“They’re canvassing. Obviously, Smith has been here.”

“The bobbies want to know if anyone saw a little green man? Blood dripping from his little green teeth?”

“Exactly, Thomas. Have a look?”

Pierce smiled and it was entirely captivating. Definitely not the American FBI’s usual style. “You said that like, spot of tea?…Have a look?”

Greenberg shook her head of dark curls. She was nearly as tall as Pierce, and pretty in a tough sort of way. She always tried to be nice to Pierce. Actually, it wasn’t hard.

“I guess I’m finally becoming jaded,” she said. “I wonder why.”

They walked toward the crime scene, which was almost directly under the towering, waxed aluminum figure of Eros. One of London ’s favorite landmarks, Eros was also the symbol for the Evening Standard newspaper. Although people believed the statue was a representation of erotic love, it had actually been commissioned as a symbol for Christian charity.

Thomas Pierce flashed his ID and walked up to the “body bag” that Mr. Smith had used to transport the remains of Chief Inspector Cabot.

“It’s as if he’s living a Gothic novel,” Sondra Greenberg said. She was kneeling beside Pierce. Actually, they looked like a team, even like a couple.

“Smith called you here, too-to London? Left a voice mail?” Pierce asked her.

Greenberg nodded. “What do you think of the body? The latest kill? Smith packed the bag with body parts in the most careful and concise way. Like you would if you had to get everything into a suitcase.”