Patterson, James - Alex Cross 7 - Violets Are Blue

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'What is it?' I finally asked. 'What's on your mind, Peter? Is it that I'm not worthy to question you now?' He smiled - and there was even a hint of warmth in it. He could be charming, I knew. I'd found that out in the library in Santa Barbara. 'If I talked to you, ;/1 told you everything that I feel and believe, you wouldn't understand,'he said.'You would be even more lost and confused than you are now.' Try me,' I said. He smiled again, but said nothing. 'I know that you miss William and Michael. You don't show it, but you loved them,'! said.'I know that much about you. I know you feel things deeply.' Peter Westin nodded, almost imperceptibly. The gesture was regal. He did miss William and Michael. I was right about that. He was sad that they were dead. He finally spoke again. 'Yes, Detective Cross, I feel more deeply than you can begin to imagine. You have no idea. You have no clue how someone like me thinks.' Then he was quiet again. The Sire had nothing more to say. We mere mortals just wouldn't understand. I left him like that. It was over.

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PART FIVE

VIOLETS ARE BLUE

Alex Cross 7 - Violets Are Blue

Chapter Ninety-Three

I was feeling partially relieved, better anyway. The murder case seemed to be solved at least. Peter Westin was in jail. We'd done everything we could about his cult. The pressure had been eliminated. We'd stopped the bleeding. Jamilla had left the previous night; we promised to keep in touch and I knew we would. I was headed out to the airport that morning to catch a flight to San Francisco, and then another to DC. I was going home and that felt good. The details were still coming in, but I feared we would never know everything about the strange, murderous cult that had sprung up in California. It was usually that way in Homicide. You never knew as much as you wanted to. That's the basic truth about being a detective, and you never see it on TV or in the movies. I guess the endings wouldn't be as satisfying if they were closer to reality. Peter Westin had met Daniel and Charles when they had played in Los Angeles. Westin already had his own followers in Santa Cruz and Santa Barbara, but he feigned allegiance until he felt he was strong enough to be the Sire. Then he dispatched William and Michael Alexander to do his dirty work. Supposedly there were followers in nearly a hundred cities, especially now that the Internet had brought us all so close together. Something was still bothering me. I couldn't figure out exactly what it was, but it troubled me all the way to San Francisco. It was eating me from the inside out. Fear and dread. But about what? There was a forty-five-minute layover, and I got off the plane. A

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jumble of bad thoughts played through my brain. I felt wired, itchy. The original San Francisco vampire murders were still on my mind. And the fucking Mastermind. Jamilla was here in San Francisco. But that was a whole other subject. What was bothering me? Then I thought I knew what it was. Maybe I'd known all along. I called Jam at her office in the Hall of Justice. I was informed that she had the day off. I called her apartment, but there was no answer. Maybe she was out on one of the five-mile runs she bragged about. Or maybe she had a date with Tim Bradley from The Examiner, as if that was any of my business. But maybe not. Where was she? Had something happened to her, or was I just being paranoid beyond belief? I was definitely working too hard. I didn't need this. I really didn't need this. I couldn't take the chance. I hurried to the American Airlines counter and canceled my flight out of San Francisco. I called Nana and told her I had to stay in California for a few hours. I would be in later tonight. 'Someone out here might be in trouble,' I said. 'Yes, and that someone is you,' Nana said. 'Goodbye, Alex.' She hung up on me again. She was right to want me home; but I was right in not wanting anybody else to be hurt. I rented a car from Budget, and I was beginning to feel that I was completely losing it. Charles Manson's words came to mind: Total paranoia is just total awareness. I had always thought that Manson was wrong about everything, but maybe he wasn't; maybe he was dead-on right about paranoia. I had a powerful gut feeling that Jamilla Hughes was in danger right now. I couldn't shake it off. Couldn't ignore it, even if I wanted to. The vibrations in my head were too strong, overwhelming. It was one of my famous feelings, and I had to go with it. I thought about my former partner. Patsy Hampton - and her murder.

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I remembered Betsey Cavalierre - and her murder. And Detective Maureen Cooke in New Orleans. A long time ago as a homicide detective, I had just about stopped believing in coincidences. Still, I had no logical reason to believe that a psychopathic killer could be out here in California, possibly stalking Inspector Jamilla Hughes. I just felt it. Total awareness. The Mastermind was out here. It was the sense I had. I waited for his call. I was ready to nail him once and for all. I was so ready.

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Alex Cross 7 - Violets Are Blue

Chapter Ninety-Four

drove from the airport to Jamilla's apartment at several miles above the posted speed limit. On the way, I used my cell phone. There was still no answer at her place. I was already in a cold sweat. I had never followed a hunch quite like this one. I thought about what I could do right now. One possibility was to call in help from the SFPD, but I didn't like it. Police officers are logical creatures, and coldly suspicious of gut feelings. My track record with psychopaths might buy me some credibility in Washington, but not out here in California. I could call the FBI - but I chose not to. There were a couple of reasons why. More gut feelings that I wanted to keep to myself for a while longer. I decided to park a block over from Texas Street, where Jamilla lived. But I took a ride up the steep Potrero Hill first. I turned onto the street about half a dozen blocks south of her place, then I toured the connecting streets. There was a mixed style of row houses: the more charming wooden ones from the early 1900s, and the boxier three- and four-story ones with lots of aluminum detail. I could see the bay, the loading docks of Pier 84, and Oakland in the distance. I passed the New Potrero Market, J.J. Mac's, the North Star restaurant - Jamilla's home turf. But where was Jamilla? The traffic was fairly heavy. I hoped my rented sedan wouldn't be spotted easily. And that I'd see Jamilla lugging groceries, or jogging home from a nearby park where she'd worked out.

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But I didn't see her. Damn it, where was she? Not that she didn't have a right to a day off. I couldn't imagine anything happening to her, but that was the way I had felt about Patsy Hampton, and then about Betsey Cavalierre. Two dead partners in two years. I didn't believe in coincidences. Patsy Hampton had been murdered by a British diplomat named Shafer. I was almost certain of that. Betsey's murder remained unsolved, and that was the one that worried me. I kept thinking about the Mastermind. Somehow I had become a part of his story, his fantasy world. How? Why? I had received a late phone call from him one night that summer, just after I'd learnt of Betsey's murder: 'I'm the one you call Mastermind. That's a name I can live with. I am that good.' The killer had used a knife on her, everywhere, even between Betsey's legs. He hated women. That was clear. I had encountered only one other killer who hated women so much: Casanova in North Carolina. But I was sure Casanova was dead and couldn't have killed Betsey Cavalierre. Still... I felt some kind of strange link to what had happened in North Carolina. What was the connection? I found a spot and parked about two blocks from Jamilla Hughes's apartment on the hill near 18th. Her building was older, a remodeled yellow Victorian, with the familiar three-sided bay windows you often see in San Francisco. Very nice, very homey. There were neat little signs on the trees: 'Friends of the Urban Forest.' I called her again on the cell. Still no answer. My heart was pumping fast. The cold sweat continued. I had to do something. I went to the front door of the house, rang the bell, but no one answered. Damn it. Where was she? Safe Neighborhood signs were stuck in bright green patches of grass up and down the street. I hoped the street was very safe. I prayed to God that it was as safe as it looked. I went back and waited in the car. Fidgeted. Grew even more nervous and impatient. I thought about who the Mastermind might be, then about Betsey's murder. I thought about Casanova, the