James Patterson - Double Cross

“In one way, that’s good news, isn’t it? We wanted to make sure we were in the same communication stream as the killer. I think we’re there.”

“Ya think?” Bree’s mind was racing with all kinds of questions. “When was this posted?”

“Eleven twenty last night. It’s already burning up the chat rooms. It’s everywhere, and I mean everywhere.”

“That might explain these calls.” She picked up the stack of pink message slips already in her in-box. The top one was from Channel Seven news. “Listen, I need a name to work with. Something solid. Whose site is this?”

“Still working on that. I’ve got an IP address, and I’m checking all the major registries. With any luck, I’ll have a name for you soon. Operative word- luck .”

“I hear you. Soon is good, though. Thanks, Kitz. We need you on this one.”

“Yeah, I agree. You definitely do. I wonder who he ‘models’ himself after? You got any ideas?”

“No, but I bet Alex will.”

Bree hung up, then tried Alex and Sampson. She reached voice mail for both of them and left the same message: “Hey, it’s me. Something just came up. Another posted message from our Audience Killer, now signing off with the shortened form ‘DCAK.’ I’m moving on it as soon as I have an address. I hope one of you will get this before then, but I’m lining up a backup unit in the meantime. Call me ASAP.”

Bree knew she’d work better with her partners than with a couple of uniformed cops, but the second she had a name and address, it would be go time .

DCAK wanted to know her better-well, he just might get his wish soon.

I SAW THE LIGHT on my phone flashing, but I didn’t answer calls during therapy sessions. So I let it go for the moment, and then I worried about it.

“Who was that I saw on my way in here?” Anthony Demao was asking. I had to juggle my clients’ schedules around some to accommodate my new lifestyle. “Another cuckoo clock like me?”

I smiled at Anthony’s usual irreverence. “Neither of you is cuckoo. Well, maybe a little.”

“Well, she may be crazy, a little crazy, but she sure is good-looking. She gave me a smile. I think it was a smile. She’s shy, right? I can tell.”

He was talking about Sandy Quinlan, my schoolteacher patient. Sandy was attractive, a good lady, maybe a little cuckoo, but who wasn’t these days?

I changed the subject. Anthony certainly wasn’t here to talk about my other patients. “Last time, you started to tell me about your army unit’s push toward Basra,” I said. “Can we talk about that today?”

“Sure.” He shrugged. “That’s what I’m here for, right? You fix cuckoo clocks.”

After Anthony Demao left, I checked my voice mail. Bree . I caught up with her on her cell.

“Good timing,” she said. “I’m in the car with Sampson. We’ll come get you. Guess what? It looks like you were right again. Must get boring.”

“What was I right about?”

“Copycat. On the G.W. Parkway with those kids. That’s what DCAK says, anyway. Says he did FedExField but not the two murders on the overpass.”

“Well, he would probably know.”

I met Bree and Sampson on Seventh Street and climbed into the back of her Highlander. “Where are we going?” I asked as she pulled out in a hurry.

Bree explained as she drove, but I had to interrupt her halfway through. “Hold on, Bree. He used your name? He knows about you too? What are we doing with that?”

“Nothing, for now,” she said. “I’m feeling pretty special , though. How ’bout you? You feeling honored?”

Sampson shrugged at me in a way that said he’d already had the same conversation with her and obviously with the same result. Bree showed no fears, at least I’d never seen any.

“By the way,” Bree said, “he claims he models himself after people. Any ideas on that?”

“Kyle Craig,” I said. It just came out. “Let me think about it some.”

Kitzmiller had provided Bree with the name Braden Thompson, a systems analyst with a firm called Captech Engineering. We double-parked outside Captech’s dull, modern-looking building, then took the elevator up to the fourth floor.

“Braden Thompson?” Bree asked the receptionist, and held up her MPD badge and card.

The woman picked up her phone, her eyes still on Bree’s creds. “I’ll see if he’s available.”

“No, no. He’s available, trust me. Just point the way. We’ll find him. We’re detectives .”

We walked calmly and quietly through the bustling office but didn’t make any less of a scene for it. Secretaries’ heads turned, office doors opened, and workers checked us out as if we were here with the take-out food.

A white plastic plaque etched with Thompson’s name marked a windowed office on the north side of the building. Bree opened the door without knocking.

“Can I help you?” Braden Thompson was about what you’d expect for somebody working here: paunchy, fortysomething white guy in a short-sleeved shirt and tie, possibly a clip-on.

“Mr. Thompson, we’d like to talk with you,” Bree said. “We’re Metro Police.”

He looked past her at me and Sampson. “All three of you?”

“That’s right.” Bree was inscrutable. And the truth was, none of us wanted to miss this interview. “You’re an important guy.”

“BRADY, IS EVERYTHING OKAY ?” a high-pitched female voice asked Thompson from behind us.

“It’s fine, Ms. Blanco. I don’t need any help. Thank you, Barbara.” He motioned for us to come inside. “Close the door, please.”

As soon as we were alone with him, his voice went up a step too. “What are you people doing? This is my place of business.”

“Do you know why we’re here?” Bree asked.

“I know exactly why you’re here. Because I exercised my First Amendment rights. I didn’t break any laws, and I’d like you to leave. Now . You all remember the way to the door?”

Sampson stepped forward. “ Brady , is it?” He looked over the things on Thompson’s desk as he continued. “I was just wondering how your bosses here might feel about that creepy little Web site of yours. You think they’ll be cool with it?”

Thompson pointed an index finger at him. “I haven’t done anything illegal. I’m well within my rights.”

“Yeah,” Sampson said. “That really wasn’t my question, though. I just wondered how your employer might feel about SerialTimes.net.”

“You have no right to use that information if I haven’t broken the law.”

“In fact, we do,” I put in. “But we’re assuming we won’t have to, because we’re assuming you’re going to tell us where that message came from.”

“First of all, Detective, I couldn’t tell you if I wanted to. DCAK’s not an idiot, okay? Haven’t you figured that out for yourselves by now? And second, I’m not fifteen years old. You’ll have to do better than you’re doing. A lot better.”

“Do you mean like a subpoena for your home system?” Bree asked. “We can do that.”

Thompson adjusted his glasses and sat back now, beginning to like the position he was in. I could see why. I wasn’t sure that we could get a subpoena for his home system, much less arrest him. “Actually, no. Assuming you don’t have your subpoena with you-probably because you were just too damn eager to get over here-I can make sure that my server doesn’t have anything more than Peanuts cartoons on it by the time you get there. And I don’t even have to leave this chair to do it.”

He looked up at us, calm as could be now. “You obviously don’t know much about information transfer.”