Patterson, James - Alex Cross 3 - Jack and Jill

I didn't get the full significance yet, and neither did anyone else I spoke to about the murder case. Not inside the D.C. police, and not at the Federal Bureau in Quantico. If, as a detective, I had one basic rule about premeditated murders, it was this: they were almost always based on passion. There usually had to be extreme love. Or hate. Or greed... but these killings seemed to have none of that. It kept bugging me.

Why Michael Robinson ? I wondered as I walked toward the hotel room where he had been murdered. What are these two bizarre psychopaths doing here in Washington? What sick and cruel game are they playing... and why do they crave millions of spectators for their sensational blood sport?

I spotted Kyle Craig once again. The FBI senior agent and I talked for several moments outside the suite. All around us, usually sangfroid D.C. cops appeared in mild shock. A lot of them were probably disappointed Michael Robinson fans.

“The medical examiner figures he's been a famous corpse for about seven hours. So it happened around twelve last night,” Kyle told me, giving me the lay of the land. “Two shots fired to his head, Alex. Close range, just like the others. Take a look at the tattooing for yourself. Whoever did the shooting is a real heartless bastard.”

I agreed with what Kyle was saying.

Heartless.

No passion.

No rage.

“How was Michael Robinson found?”

“Oh, that's another good part, Alex. A new wrinkle. They phoned it in to the Post. Told the newspaper where to pick up the trash this morning.”

“Is that a quote?” I asked Kyle.

“I don't have the exact quote they used, but 'pick up the trash' was definitely part of it,” Kyle said.

I was interested in any irreverence or cynicism Jack and Jill might use in describing the killings. They were obviously into wordplay They were artistes. I also wondered if they might be out there on Pennsylvania Avenue, watching us again. Filming us as we bumbled and stumbled over one another inside the Willard. I wondered if they were preparing a second film, with their usual wide-release distribution method in mind. Surveillance had been posted outside, so if they were there, we had then.

I entered the living room of the suite, and I was relieved to see that Chief of Detectives Pittman was nowhere on the scene. The film actor Michael Robinson was there, however. As they say, he had been born to play the role -- Perhaps his greatest.

His naked body was in a sitting position on the floor, the head against the couch. It seemed as if the actor had been propped up to see anyone entering the room, and maybe that was the killers' idea. His eyes stared out at me. To see, or to be seen? I wondered.

He was not a pretty sight. took note of the lividity The blood had already pooled in the lowermost parts of his body, which now had an ugly purplish red color.

Another celebrity had been exposed. Brought down to earth.

Punished for some real or imagined sin ? What connection was there with Fitzpatrick and Sheehan? Why a senator, a newswoman, and an actor?

Three murders in such a short time. Celebrities are supposed to be safer than the rest of us, more protected at least, and above all this. It got to me, seeing Michael Robinson dead and violated.

There was something visceral and system-shocking about what the killers were doing.

What was the bizarre, complex message from Jack and Jill?

That nobody was safe anymore? I rolled the outrageous thought around in my head. It was a good starting place, a concept to work with.

Nobody is safe?Jack and Jill were telling us they could come for anyone, at any time. They knew how to get inside.

There was another note with the body Another Jack and Jill rhyme. It was on the night table, where the weird and ghoulish killers, or killer, had left it for us to find.

Jack and Jill came to The Hill To do some deadly deeds.

They weren't far wrong To judge how long A bleeding liberal bleeds.

One of Michael Robinson's agents was in the room. He'd flown down from New York. He was a good-looking man, with silver-blond hair. He wore a long cashmere coat over an Armani suit. I noticed his eyes were red and swollen. He seemed to have been crying. Two medical examiners were working on the film actor's body I suppose you could call all that attention going out in style.

Only the best for Michael Robinson.

There were some other obvious connections to the Fitzpatrick and Sheehan murders. There was a tawdry, kinky side to all three killings. Each had been an execution. And maybe most important so far, they were all “bleeding liberals,” weren't they? They had all been exposed for what they were.

“Dr. Alex Cross ? Excuse me, you're Dr. Alex Cross, aren't you ?”

I turned to a tall, rangy man who had spoken my name. He was clean-cut and his bearing was almost military. About forty, I guessed. He wore a black raincoat over a dark gray suit. A buttoned-down look. Definitely senior law enforcement of some kind, I figured.

“Yes, I'm Alex Cross,” I said to him.

“I'm Jay Grayer from the Secret Service,” he introduced himself formally There was something about the very erect way that he held himself. Extreme confidence. Or was it moral certitude? A stiff pole up his behind?

“I'm senior agent of the First Family detail.”

“What can I do for you?” I asked Agent Grayer. Alarms were already sounding in my head. I felt I was about to get a much fuller understanding of why I had been put on the Jack and Jill investigation. By whom, and for exactly what reason.

“You're wanted at the White House,” he said. “I'm afraid it's a command performance, Dr. Cross. It's about the Jack and Jill investigation. There's a problem we have to let you know about.”

“I'll bet it's a big problem, too,” I said to Agent Grayer.

“Yes, I'm afraid it is. It's a very big problem, Dr. Cross. We have something we need to share with you.”

I had suspected as much. I'd had a quiet fear way in the back of my mind. Now it was up front.

I was being summoned to the White House.

They wanted the dragonslayer there. Did they understand what that meant?

THE ONLY THING anybody seems to share very readily in Washington these days is trouble.

I could hardly argue with the command from on high, though.

I dutifully accompanied Jay Grayer up the street to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Ask not what I can do for my country.

The White House was only a short jaunt from the Willard Hotel.

Despite the relative performance of some of the recent occupants, the White House continues to cast its spell over a lot of people, including me. I had been inside only twice, on canned guided tours with my kids, but even they had been larger-than-life and moving. I almost wished Damon and Jannie could be with me.

We were quickly passed through the blue-canopied guardhouse on West Executive Drive. Agent Grayer was allowed to park his car in the garage under the White House. He seemed modestly proud of the perk. He explained that the garage was still considered a primary bomb shelter, but also an escape route in case of an attack.

“Good to know,” I said and smiled. Grayer smiled back. It was forced conviviality, but at least we were both making an effort.

"I'm sure you're curious as to why you've been asked to come.

I would be."

“I don't think I've been invited to tea,” I said stiffly. “But, yes, I'm very curious.”

“The reason is the Soneji and Casanova cases,” Grayer explained to me as we took an elevator one flight up from the garage.

"Your reputation precedes you here. You're aware that the FBI has never captured a single serial killer, for all their expertise?

We want you on the tean:."

“What team is that?” I asked.