James Patterson - Double Cross

“How ya doing, buddy?” said Craig. No more or less than a cordial greeting. He asked about the wines, then ordered a Brunello di Montalcino that seemed to tower in quality above the other reds served in the restaurant.

“The Brunello is available only by the bottle. I don’t know if I made that clear, sir.”

“It’s not a problem. I’m not driving after I leave here,” Kyle Craig said, and affected a pleasant chuckle. “I’ll take the bottle. Uncork it and let it breathe for me, please. And I’d like the Brie-and-apple appetizer. Could they please cut a fresh apple?”

“I could help you with that Brunello. If you need help?”

A voice-female-came from Kyle’s right. He turned and saw a woman seated a few stools away. She was by herself. Smiling pleasantly at him. Police ? he wondered. Then- No . Then- Unless she’s very good at what she does .

“I’m Camille Pogue,” she said, and smiled in a manner that struck him as both shy and slightly sly. Dark hair, petite, probably no more than five feet in her stockings. Mid-to-late thirties, he guessed. Obviously lonely, though she shouldn’t be, given her looks, which interested him somewhat. He was drawn to people who had a little complexity to them, at least until he had them figured out.

“I think I’d enjoy the company,” Kyle said, and cast a smile back her way. Nothing too aggressive. “I’m Alex… Cross. Nice to meet you.”

“Hello, Alex.”

Kyle moved down the bar and sat beside Camille, and they talked rather easily for the next half hour or so. She turned out to be bright and only mildly neurotic on the face of things. She taught art history at the university, specializing in the Italian Renaissance. She had lived in Rome, Florence, and Venice, and now she was back in the United States but not sure if she wanted to stay here, meaning in America, not just Iowa City.

“Because America isn’t as you remembered it or because it is exactly as you remembered it?” Kyle asked.

She laughed. “I think it’s a little of both, Alex. The political naïveté and indifference in the States just drives me crazy sometimes. But what bothers me most is the conformity. It’s a cancer, and it appears to be spreading, especially in the media. Everybody seems afraid to have an opinion of their own.”

Kyle nodded. “You might accuse me of the latter for saying this, Camille, but I couldn’t agree more.”

She leaned in close but not in a way that could be off-putting or threatening. “So, are you different, Alex?” she asked.

“I’m different, I think. No, I’m sure that I am. In a good way, of course.”

“Of course.”

They walked around the town square after they finished off the Brunello. Then she took him home to a pretty gray-and-white Colonial on a side street off Clinton, with window boxes bursting with colorful flowers. The teacher had the entire ground floor, which was decorated with European furniture and art, and was quite spacious and open and welcoming. Another side of her revealed, a nice side too. Homey? Homespun?

“Have you eaten, Alex? Other than your apple and cheese? Your freshly cut apple,” she said, swinging toward him, a bit more forward inside her own place. She had soft breasts, but the rest of her seemed firm. Very nice and desirable, and suddenly Kyle knew exactly how he wanted her. Actually, he felt an incredible rush of lust.

But first, he yanked off his mask-and her eyes went wide with wonder and fear. “Oh no!” she said.

Not wishing to waste any more time, Kyle thrust forward the ice pick that he had palmed in his right hand. The point passed through the front of Camille’s throat and slid all the way out the back. Her blue eyes went to the size of silver dollars, then seemed to roll back into her forehead. Then she was no more, submitting to his waiting arms.

“That’ll do it. Now let’s make love, shall we?” Kyle said to the dead professor. “I told you I was different, didn’t I?”

Before he departed from Camille Pogue’s apartment, he left another clue for whoever might come to collect the body. The clue was a small figurine representing a somewhat famous Midwestern statue called The Scout . It would be out of place in the art professor’s apartment, but he doubted that anyone would get it.

That was fine with Kyle- he got it. As Kevin Bacon had so eloquently said in the magnificent movie Diner , it was “a smile.”

THE NEXT DAY HELD two very nasty surprises for me, as surprises so often are. The first was news that Kyle Craig had murdered his mother out in Colorado. And he had left a Hallmark greeting card-unsigned-for us to find. That meant either he was getting confidential information from a source inside the MPD or somehow he was communicating with the killer, with DCAK. Was that possible? And if it was, what the hell was the relationship between the two of them ?

This wasn’t the first time Kyle had communicated with other killers, I knew. There had been Casanova and the Gentleman Caller, possibly Mr. Smith. And now DCAK? Maybe even the lawyer in Colorado had been a killer. Or was he just a follower? A devotee?

Late in the day, I received the second jolt, and it came from Brian Kitzmiller, who called and asked me to check out something on the Internet. He directed me to the site in question. Great news-somebody had set up a blog for me. I began to read and felt a little sick as I did.

You call yourself the Dragon Slayer? What’s that about? Fantasy role-playing games? Are you a gamer, Cross? What excites you? Moves you? You’ve piqued my curiosity. After all, you are the one who caught the great Kyle Craig.

Let’s say I’m watching you and your family a great deal these days. And I notice you’re spending a lot of “alone time” in little Ali’s bedroom late at night. Am I wrong about that? I don’t think so, but feel free to defend yourself from all accusations and rumors.

And Bree Stone-what are we to make of her? Who was the last female you managed to see for any length of time?

You’re an insomniac, right? Of course I’m right. Well, wait until you see what’s coming soon. And the day after that. And the day after that.

Sweet dreams, Dr. Detective Cross.

And then there were photographs.

Of the house on Fifth Street.

The cars in the driveway.

Nana Mama leaving the house with Ali.

Bree, Sampson, and I at FedExField after we were called over there.

He was watching us- we were the ones under surveillance .

NO ONE EXACTLY GETS why Sampson and I like Zinny’s, not even us, which is probably one of the reasons we’re attracted to it. It’s a long black box of a joint in Southeast, just a bar and some booths, with a floor that’s never even close to being clean. Sampson, Bree, and I brought Brian Kitzmiller there late that night for a little Southeast initiation, but mostly because none of us could stop working this case.

Things were crazier than ever. There was the possibility that Kyle Craig was involved in some strange way, and maybe DCAK was watching us. Maybe even tonight ?

Some pieces were starting to come together. Tess Olsen had been writing a book about Craig called The Mastermind. Was Kyle behind any of this? Or all of it? It fit his pattern. He had contacted killers before-and used them. If he was the brain, then what were the roles of DCAK and the lawyer Mason Wainwright? And were there any others in on the game ?

Bree brought over the first round of drinks. “This one’s on me, guys. Thanks for everything so far. I owe you. You especially,” she said, and kissed the side of my head. I have no idea why, but just that got me horny for Bree. I wished the two of us were alone now. At her place, in my car, anywhere at all would be just fine.