Alex Cross 16 (17 page)

I was gassing up my rental at a 7-Eleven on L Street near home, mostly thinking about how I missed my own car. It was in the shop for new glass after the shootout in Alexandria, and I wanted it back —
yesterday
. There's just no substitute for familiarity, the old faithful comfort zone, even the cup holder in just that spot where you automatically reach.

When the cell phone rang, it was a blocked number, but I'd been answering everything since Nana went into the hospital. I didn't even think about it.

"Dr. Cross?" It was a woman's voice, a little formal, no one I knew. "Please hold for the White House chief of staff."

Before I could respond, I was put on hold. I was stunned — not just by the call itself but by the timing.
What
the hell was going on here? What now? The White House was
calling? Could this be for real?
It didn't take long for Gabriel Reese to come on the line. I recognized his distinctive voice right away, probably from seeing him on the news and the occasional Sunday morning show like
Meet the Press
.

"Hello, Detective Cross, how are you today?" he began in a chipper enough tone.

"I guess that depends, Mr. Reese. May I ask, how did you get my number?" He didn't answer, of course. "I'd like to meet with you as soon as possible. Here in my office would be best. It's all been cleared up the line. How soon could you be available?" I thought about Ned Mahoney and how agitated he had been the other day. How paranoid he had seemed about the records from the investigation getting out. Well — I guess they were out.

"Excuse me, Mr. Reese, but what is this about? Can I at least ask that?" There was a pause on the line, carefully chosen, maybe; I wasn't sure. Then Reese said, "I think you already know."

Well, I did now.

"I can be there in about fifteen minutes," I said.

Then Reese surprised me again.

"No. Tell me where you are. We'll pick you up."

page 67

We came in at the Northwest Appointment Gate, off Pennsylvania. I had to show my ID twice, to the sentry at the gate and then to the armed guard who greeted me at the West Wing turnaround. From there, a Secret Service agent walked me straight in through the entrance closest to the Rose Garden. I'd been to the White House enough times to know that I was on a fast track, leading straight to the chief of staff's office.

I also understood that they didn't want my visit to attract attention, the reason for the escort. Gabriel Reese had a reputation as a wonk more than a bulldog, but also for the kind of covert power he wielded here. He and President Vance went back years. More than a few pundits had labeled him the de facto vice president of the administration. What that meant to me was Reese had either initiated this meeting on his own or at the president's request. I didn't think I liked either possibility. My Secret Service escort delivered me to a woman whose voice matched the one from before, on the phone. She offered coffee, which I declined, and then walked me right in to meet Gabriel Reese.

"Detective Cross, thank you for coming." He shook my hand across his desk and motioned for me to sit in one of the tall wing chairs. "I'm so sorry about your niece. It must have been a horrible shock. I can't even imagine."

"It was, thank you," I said. "But I have to tell you, I'm a little uneasy with the amount of information you have about this case."

He looked surprised. "It would be much stranger if I didn't. Anything to do with the White House is the Secret Service's job to know."

I tried to cover my surprise.
What did my murder investigation
have to do with the White House? What was
going on?

"In that case, I would have thought I'd be meeting with them," I said. "The Secret Service."

"One thing at a time," he said. Fine — that was about all my nervous system could handle anyway. There was nothing aggressive about Reese's manner; he just seemed very sure of himself. Actually, he seemed younger in person, even a little preppy looking, with a button-down collar and conservative tie. You'd never know to see him that his thumbprint was on American policy all over the world.

"For now," he went on, "I'd like to hear about how the investigation is coming along. Bring me up to speed about the way you see things, what you've found out so far."

This interview was getting stranger by the minute.

"It's coming along fine, thanks."

"I meant —"

"I think I know what you meant. With all due respect, though, Mr. Reese, I don't report to the White House."
Not
yet anyway
.

"I see. Of course you're right. You're absolutely right. My apologies for overreacting." I'd already gone further than I meant to, but so had Reese. I decided to stay on the offensive with him.

"Have you ever heard the name Zeus in connection with any of this?" I asked. He considered the question for a second. "Not that I can recall. And I think I would, a name like Zeus." I was pretty sure he was lying, and it reminded me of something Lauren Inslee had said about her clients: Why would someone like Reese even answer my question,
except
to lie? When the phone on his desk buzzed, he picked it up right away. He watched me while he listened, then stood as soon as he hung up. "Would you excuse me for a minute? I'm sorry about this. I know how busy you are." As he walked out of the room, a Secret Service agent stepped into the open door with his back to me. I couldn't help wondering what would happen if I tried to leave. Instead, I just sat there and attempted to get my bearings. Why was the White House chief of staff involved with my case? How? Soon enough, there were voices outside, just a low murmur that I couldn't understand from where I was sitting.

The agent in the door stepped out and another one took his place. He came in and glanced quickly around the office. His eyes played right over me, the way they did the rest of the furniture. Then he moved aside to make way for the president, who walked into the room smiling.

"Alex Cross. I've heard so much about you. All of it good," she said. page 68

"I've read your book," she told me. "Years ago, but I remember it well. Very interesting stuff. And so very scary because it's all true."

"Thank you, Madam President."

I admired Margaret Vance. She'd done a lot to get both sides of the aisle talking to each other. She and her husband, Theodore Vance, were both powerful figures not only in Washington but around the world. All things being equal, I would have liked to work with the president. But things were definitely not equal right now.

"I'd like to ask you a favor, Dr. Cross." She nodded at her agent to leave us alone, and I waited for him to close the door.

"Regarding my investigation?"

"That's right. I think you'll agree it's important this case not proceed in a way that could threaten innocent people, or especially national security, or even the everyday workings of our government. Allegations can be just as harmful as indictments if they're brought to light in the wrong way. You know that, of course."

"Yes," I agreed. "I have a bit of experience with that."

"So you can appreciate the delicacy here." She was talking more at me than to me, and seemed to think this was all already settled. "I'd like you to meet with one of our lead agents, Dan Cormorant, get him up to speed, and transition the case into his care."

"I'm not sure that I'm in a position to do that," I told her. "For several reasons."

"It won't be a problem. The Service's uniformed division has all the statutory authority of the Metropolitan Police."

I nodded. "Within the city limits, that's true."

It was like I wasn't even speaking anymore, the way she went on. "And of course, all the field resources any investigation could possibly need. We've got the best in the world working for us here." She stopped and looked at me over the top of her glasses. "Present company excluded, of course."
My, my, my
. It's a truly original feeling to have your ass kissed by the leader of the free world. Too bad I couldn't enjoy it for more than a few seconds. I've got a pretty good internal compass, but for all I knew, it was sending me right over an edge I'd never come back from.

"President Vance," I said. My heart might have been thudding, but my mind was still clear. "I'd like to take all of this under advisement and respond sometime in the next twenty-four hours, either in writing or in person, whichever you prefer."

She didn't try to hide how she felt about that. Two lines showed up around her mouth like parentheses.

"I'm not here to negotiate, Dr. Cross. This meeting is a courtesy, and an extraordinary one at that. I assumed someone like you preferred not to be walked over. That was obviously my mistake." She stood up and I followed suit. "Frankly, I'm surprised. I've been told you were a bright man and a patriot."

"A patriot in a very difficult position right now, Madam President." Vance didn't address me after that. The last thing I heard her say was to the agent on the other side of the door as she left.

"Show Dr. Cross out. We're done here."

BURNING DOWN THE HOUSE

Adam Petoskey sat up suddenly on the couch, all five foot four of him. His heart was kicking at the inside of his chest. Something besides a terrifying nightmare had just woken him, though there had been plenty of those lately too.

What was it?

What now?

His apartment was dark except for the TV. He'd been watching
The Daily Show
when he dropped off, finding solace in the droll humor of Jon Stewart.

Now there was an infomercial on, people laughing and screaming about some weight-loss thing. Maybe that's what woke him.

Paranoia was his roommate these days, and one hairy bitch to be cooped up with too. He hadn't left the apartment in a week. Literally a week. The phones were unplugged, the shades were drawn at all times, and garbage was piling up by the back door — ever since he'd nailed it shut on that first night when he couldn't sleep a wink.

There were things Adam Petoskey knew
— things he wished to hell he didn't know. Working for Tony Nicholson and his girlfriend, Mara, cooking the books and looking the other way, had been shitty enough.
Not
working for him, not hearing a word from him, as it turned out, was even worse. Like tonight, just to use a handy example. He stood up off the couch, still a little shaky. Halfway to the kitchen, he stopped. For the hundredth time that week, he felt almost sure someone was behind him.

And then, before he could even turn around —
someone
was
. A strong arm looped across his throat and pulled hard, until his feet nearly left the floor. Duct tape was pressed over his mouth. He heard it rip in the back and felt it stick and tighten.

"Don't fight, Mr. Petoskey. You fight — you lose — you die."

A hard finger pressed into the spot between his shoulder blades and moved him toward the bedroom door.

"Let's go. This way, my friend."

Petoskey's brain squirmed. He was a numbers man, after all. He could run equations and probabilities like a machine, and right now, everything he knew told him to do as this guy said. It was even a strange kind of relief, following someone's orders after seven days of solitude in this hellhole. In the bedroom, the man turned on a light. He was no one Petoskey recognized — tall and white, with grayflecked dark hair. His gun had one of those extensions on it, a silencer, if the ones on TV were any indication.

"Pack a bag," he said. "Don't leave anything out. Clothes, wallet, passport, whatever you need for a long trip." Petoskey didn't hesitate, but a whole new raft of questions floated into his crowded mind as he started to pack. Where was he going? What kind of long trip? And how could he possibly convince anyone of the truth, that he'd never had any intention of telling a soul what he knew?

One thing at a time, Petoskey. Clothes, wallet, passport . . .

"Now get in the bathroom," the man told him. "Pack everything you'll need in there."

"
Right,
he thought, clinging to the task at hand.
Don't
leave anything out. Toothbrush, toothpaste, shaver . . .
condoms?
Sure. Why not be positive?

The master bath was tiny, with barely enough room to stand between the pedestal sink, toilet, and shower. Petoskey opened the medicine cabinet, but then he felt another poke between his shoulder blades.

"Get in the tub and lie down, little man."

It made no sense, but nothing did right now. Was he going to be tied up in the tub? Robbed? Left behind after all?

"No," the man said. "The other way, with your head down by the drain." And suddenly it all became horribly clear. For the first time, Petoskey screamed — and he heard just how tiny his voice was from behind the tape. This was it. This was really it. Tonight, he disappeared forever. page 70

He knew too much — the famous names, all their dirty secrets.