Patterson, James - Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

At the start of the afternoon session, Jules Halpern did a careful and thorough setup of Pittman's credentials, which sounded reasonably impressive in the abstract. Undergrad at George Washington, then law school at American; twenty-four years on the police force, with medals for bravery and citations from three different mayors.

'Chief Pittman, how would you describe Detective Cross's record in the department?' asked Halpern.

I cringed in my seat. Felt my brow wrinkle, my eyes narrow. Here we go, I thought.

'Detective Cross has been involved in some high-profile cases that the department has solved,' he said, and left it at that. Not exactly praise, but at least he hadn't gone on the attack.

Halpern nodded sagely. 'What, if anything, has changed his performance recently?'

Pittman looked my way, then answered. 'A woman he was seeing disappeared while they were on a trip together in Bermuda. Since that time, he's been distracted and distant, quick to anger, not himself.'

Suddenly I wanted to speak up in the courtroom. Pittman didn't know the first thing about Christine and me.

'Chief Pittman, was Detective Cross ever a suspect in the disappearance of his girlfriend, Ms. Christine Johnson?'

Pittman nodded. 'That's standard police procedure. I'm sure he was questioned.'

'But his behavior on the job has changed since her disappearance?'

'Yes. His concentration isn't the same. He's missed days of work. It's all a matter of record.'

'Has Detective Cross been asked to seek professional help?'

'Yes.'

'Did you ask him to seek help yourself?'

'I did. He and I have worked together for a number of years. He was under stress.'

'He's under a lot of stress? Is that fair to say?'

'Yes. He hasn't closed a single case recently.'

Halpern nodded. 'A couple of weeks before the Hampton homicide, you suspended some detectives he was friendly with.'

Pittman's look was somber. 'Unfortunately, I did.'

'Why did you suspend the detectives?'

'The detectives were investigating cases outside the auspices of the department.'

'Is it fair to say they were making up their own rules, acting like vigilantes?'

Catherine Fitzgibbon rose to her feet and objected, but Judge Fescoe allowed the question.

Pittman answered. 'I don't know about that. Vigilantes is a strong word. But they were working without proper supervision. The case is still under investigation.'

'Was Detective Cross part of the group that was making up its own rules to solve homicides?'

'I'm not certain. But he was spoken to about the matter. I didn't believe he could handle a suspension at that time. I warned him and let it slide. I shouldn't have,' said Pittman.

'No further questions.'

None needed, I thought.

Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

CHAPTER Eighty-Five

That night after he left the courthouse, Shafer was flying high. He thought that he was winning the game. He was manic as hell, and it felt both good and bad. He was parked in the dark garage under Boo Cassady's building. Most manics aren't really aware that they're exhibiting signs of a manic episode, but Shafer knew. His 'spirals' didn't come out of nowhere, they built and built.

The irony, and the danger, of being back in her building wasn't lost on him. Scene of the crime and all that rot. He wanted to go to Southeast tonight, but that was too risky. He couldn't hunt - not now. He had something else in mind: the next few moves in his game.

It was unusual, though not unheard of, for the defendant in a first-degree homicide trial to be out roaming the streets, but that had been one of the prerequisites of dropping his immunity. What choice did the prosecution have? None at all. If they didn't agree, he had a free pass to keep him out of jail.

Shafer followed a tenant he'd seen several times into the lift from the garage and took it to Boo's apartment. He rang the doorbell. Waited. Heard her padding across the parquet floor. Yes, Act One of tonight's performance was about to begin.

He knew she was watching him through the door's peephole, just as he had watched Alex Cross there on the night Patsy Hampton got her just deserts. He had seen Boo a few times after his release, but then he cut her off.

When he stopped seeing her, she lost it. Boo called him at work, then at home - and constantly on his car phone until he changed the bloody number. At her worst, she reminded him of the nutcase Glenn Close had played in the movie Fatal Attraction.

He wondered if he could still push her buttons. She was a fairly bright woman - and that was a large part of her problem. She thought far too much, double and triple think. Most men, especially dull-witted Americans, didn't like that, which made her even crazier.

He put his face against the door, felt its cool wood on his cheek. He started his act.

'I've been petrified to see you, Boo. You don't know what it's been like. One slipup, anything they can use against me, and I'm finished. And what makes it worse is that I'm innocent. You know that. I talked to you the whole time from my house to yours that night. You know I didn't kill that detective. Elizabeth? Boo? Please say something. At least swear at me. Let the anger out... Doctor?'

There was no answer. Actually, he rather liked that. It made him respect her more than he had. What the hell, she was more screwed up than he was.

'You know exactly what I'm going through. You're the only one who understands my episodes. I need you, Boo. You know I'm manic-depressive, bipolar, whatever the hell you shrinks want to call my condition. Boo?'

Then Shafer actually started to cry, which nearly made him laugh. He uttered loud, wrenching sobs. He crouched on his haunches and held his head. He knew he was a far better actor than so many of the high-priced fakers he saw in movies.

The door to the apartment slowly opened. 'Boo hoo,' she whispered. 'Is poor Geoff in pain? What a shame.'

What a bitch, he thought, but he had to see her. She was testifying soon. He needed her tonight, and he needed her help in the courtroom.

'Hello, Boo,' he whispered.

Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel

CHAPTER Eighty-Six

Act Two of the evening's performance. She stared at him with huge dark-brown eyes that looked like amber beads, the kind she bought at her swanky shops. She'd lost weight, but that made her sexier to him, more desperate. She wore navy walking shorts and an elegant pink silk T-shirt - but she also wore her pain.

'You hurt me like no one ever has before,' she whispered.

He held himself under control, play-acting, a truly award-winning performance. I'm fighting for my life. I swear, all I think about is killing myself. Haven't you heard anything I've said? Besides, do you want your picture all over the tabloids again? Don't you see? That's why I've been staying away from you.'

She laughed, bitterly, haughtily. 'It's going to happen anyway, when I testify. The photographers will be everywhere I go.'

Shafer shut his eyes. 'Well, that will be your chance to hurt me back, darling.'

She shook her head and frowned. 'You know I wouldn't do that. Oh, Geoff, why didn't you at least call? You're such a bastard.'

Shafer hung his head, the repentant bad boy. 'You know how close I was to the edge before all this happened. Now it's worse. Do you expect me to act like a responsible adult?'

She gave a wry smile. He saw a book on the hallway table behind her, Man and His Symbols. Carl Jung. How fitting. 'No, I suppose not, Geoff. What do you want? Drugs?'

'I need you. I want to hold you, Boo. That's all.'

That night, she gave him what he wanted. They made love like animals on the gray velvet loveseat she used for her clients, then on the JFK-style rocking chair, where she always sat for her sessions. He took her body, and her soul.