Alex Cross 16 (7 page)

Two scheduling assistants and another Secret Service agent trailed behind. The usual kind of entourage, trappings of power and arrogance.

Tillman looked surprised to see Reese standing there, holding his trademark fedora in one hand.

"Gabe, you're coming to this thing?"

"Yes, sir. Wouldn't miss it. Not a word. Not an arching eyebrow."

"Okay. Okay. Let's go, then."

They continued outside, where the vice president's Cadillac limo, two black Suburbans, and three motorcycle police waited with motors running. As the vice president stepped into his car, Reese put a hand on Cormorant's shoulder.

"We need some privacy, Dan."

"The senior agent squinted in annoyance, then turned to his number two. "Bender, take the staff car. I've got this covered."

"Yes, sir."

"You know that has to go into the log," Cormorant said as soon as the other agent was out of earshot. page 28

"No, it doesn't," Reese told him. There was more than enough precedent for this kind of request, even from Reese himself. Once Reese and the vice president were in the car, Cormorant got in. Then he radioed the goahead, and the motorcade pulled out toward 15th Street.

Reese took a quick breath, then he started right in on what he'd found out. For one thing, the FBI and Metro police were both pursuing the case — at least as a murder investigation. Apparently prostitutes were involved, male and female. Zeus hadn't been indentified yet.
If
there actually was a Zeus.

"I just heard that we've got another problem." He turned to face the Secret Service agent on the jump seat.

"Dan, do you know who Alex Cross is?"

"MPD detective, specializes in major cases — homicides, serials. He's working on a certain murder in question?" Cormorant hadn't missed a beat. "We're aware of Cross's involvement. We're watching him."

"And I'm finding out about this on my own,
why?
"

Cormorant ticked off the vice president's wishes on two fingers. "No phone, no e-mail, remember? I'll get information to you when I can get it to you, Gabe. We're talking about one homicide detective here."

"Hang on," the vice president cut in. "Where are we on Zeus, Dan?"

"Quickly, please," Reese added. They were already coming up on K Street, which was less crowded than usual

— unfortunately.

"It's complicated. There are a lot of avenues to go down. We've had some SIGINT on a private club out in Virginia. Very discreet place for meetings. It's a sex club, sir. It's possible that Zeus has been there. It's likely he has. The White House, actually the Cabinet, keeps coming up, but that might be because of the code name,
Zeus
. I hope it's no more than that."

Tillman's expression darkened as he leaned in toward the Secret Service man. "And that's it? That's all you have?"

"This is a murder investigation. They usually don't solve themselves. The club is called Blacksmith Farms. We have the names of several clients. The owners are mob."

Tillman snapped. "Why can't
we
find out who Zeus is?"

"I'm sorry, sir, but I can't turn over too many rocks without attracting more attention than we want. We're not even sure if Zeus actually used the club in question. There are all these swirling rumors but nothing solid." Reese didn't like Cormorant's tone with the vice president any more than he did with himself. "Swirling rumors. Who else knows about this?" he asked.

"Two senior agents in the Joint Operations Center, one intelligence officer, but it's all being contained. No links to the OVP at all."

Cormorant gave Reese another one of his squints. "You need to calm down. It's not helping. We're moving as fast as we can and there's lots to check. The circumstances couldn't be worse." The words
fuck you
ran through Reese's mind, but he was too savvy to lose it in front of Tillman. Still, this situation had the makings of one of the biggest bombshells to hit Washington in years. A serial killer involved with the Cabinet — or attached to the White House?

"Sir, I'm going to recommend you designate all Secret Service logs from your detail as sensitive compartmented information — until further notice."

"Sir, any SCI order puts your thumbprint right where you don't want it," Cormorant interjected.

"But simultaneously puts that information completely out of reach," Reese answered back. Tillman had the authority to bypass not just the White House Security Office on this one, but the Freedom of Information Act.

"Okay." Tillman nodded agreement with the chief of staff. It was done. Then he asked, "What about this detective, Cross? How worried do we need to be about him?"

Cormorant thought for a moment. "It's hard to know until he turns something up.
If
he does. I'm keeping my eye on it, and if anything changes at all, I'll update you —"

"Not me."
Tillman said firmly. "Go through Gabe. Everything goes through Gabe from now on."

"Of course."

Reese found he was repeatedly running a hand through his hair without even realizing it. They were just page 29

arriving at the Convention Center; the pressure was on to wrap this discussion up somehow. Quickly he said, "Anything else I should know? Anything else that you've been keeping to yourself?
Like who
the hell Zeus is?
"

Cormorant's face reddened, but all he said was "We're here, sir."

When they finally wheeled her out, it was a gift just to look into her eyes. She'd been unconscious when we arrived, and there had been no guarantee I would ever see her alive again. But here she was, and she was talking.

"Gave you a little scare there, did I?" Her voice was weak and wheezy, and she looked even tinier than usual sitting up on the gurney, but she was alert.

"More than a little scare," I said. It was all I could do to keep from squeezing the life right back out of her. I settled for a lingering kiss on the cheek.

"Welcome back, old woman," I whispered in her ear — just to make her smile, which it did.

"Good to be back. Now, let's get out of here!"

She worked off Nana's chart while she spoke.

"Mrs. Cross, your general diagnosis is congestive heart failure. Specifically, your heart isn't pumping enough blood into your system. That means you're not getting enough oxygen or nutrients, and that's most likely why you collapsed this morning."

Nana nodded, not showing any emotion. The first thing she asked was "How soon can I leave the hospital?"

"The average stay for something like this is four or five days. I'd like to adjust your blood pressure medication and see where we are in a few days."

"Oh, I'll be at home, Doctor. Where will you be?"

Englefield laughed politely, as if she thought Nana was joking. As soon as she was gone, though, Nana turned to me.

"You need to speak with someone else, Alex. I'm ready to go home."

"Is that so?" I asked, trying to keep it light.

"Yes, that's so." She wagged her hand, trying to shoo me out of the room. "Go on. Make it happen." This was starting to get uncomfortable for me. I'd never called any shots for Nana before, and now, suddenly, I had to do just that.

"I think we should go with the doctor on this one," I said. "If a few nights in the hospital means we don't have to repeat this morning, then I'm all for it."

"You're not listening to me, Alex." Her voice had changed in a beat, and she grabbed my wrist. "I am not going to spend another day in a hospital bed, do you hear me? I
refuse
. It's my right to do so."

"Nana —"

"No!" She let go and pointed at me with a shaking finger. "I will not have that tone, either. Now, are you going to respect my wishes or not? I'll get right up and do it myself if I have to. You know I will, Alex." It was an awful feeling, standing there on the other end of that finger of hers. Nana was insisting, but she was page 30

also pleading with me to listen to her wishes.

I sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned in so that my head was right next to hers. When I spoke, it was with my eyes closed.

"Nana, I need for you to get serious about this recovery. Slow down a few miles an hour here and let this happen. You must. So be smart." The latter was something that Nana had been saying to me since I was ten years old.
Be smart.

It was totally quiet in the room except the sound of her leaning back against the pillow. When I opened my eyes, there were tears on her cheeks. "That's it, then? This is where I die?" I pulled up a chair and sat down next to the bed. Later, I'd sleep in that same chair. "Nobody's dying in here tonight," I said.

"Yes?" a woman's voice answered. Cultured. British. His assistant, Mary Claire.

"It's me, M.C."

"Good evening, Mr. Nicholson. You're a bit late."
No shit,
Sherlock,
Nicholson thought but didn't say out loud. The gate swung open and closed again behind his Cayman S as he pulled in. The long driveway cut across nearly a mile of open field, then through a swath of forest, mostly hickory and oak, before coming out in view of the main house. Nicholson parked his Cayman in the old carriage barn and came in through the patio French doors.

"I'm here, I'm here. Sorry."

His hostess for the evening, a Trinidadian beauty by the name of Esther, was arranging leather guest folios on a Chippendale table in the foyer.

"Any issues for me?" he asked. "Any unanticipated problems for tonight?"

"None, Mr. Nicholson. Everything is perfect." Esther had a wonderfully serene manner that Nicholson loved. It slowed him down right away. "The Bollinger is iced, we have the Flor de Farach coronas in the humidors, the girls are all beautiful and properly briefed, and you have" — she pulled a watch out of her pocket; there were no clocks in the house — " at least twenty minutes before our first guests are scheduled to arrive. They called ahead. They are right on time. They sound very . . .
enthusiastic
."

"Right, then. Excellent job. You know where to find me if you need me." Nicholson made a quick pass through the first floor before heading upstairs. The foyer and lounges on this level evoked an English gentlemen's club more than anything, with their mahogany paneling, brass fixtures on the bars, and lots of ridiculously expensive antiques. It looked like the kind of place his father could have only dreamed of joining, given England's obscene class system. Nicholson was a working-class Brighton boy by page 31

birth, but he'd left all of that dreary shit behind long ago. Here, he was king. Or at least a crown prince. He took the main stairs up to the second floor, where several of the girls were already dressed and waiting for the first rush of guests, the "early buggers."

Stunningly beautiful girls, elegant
and
sexy, they sat chatting on the low sofas in the mezzanine, which also had comfortable floor cushions all around and layers of soft drapes that could be pulled for more or less privacy, depending on the desires of the party.

"Evening, ladies," he said, looking them over with an expert eye. "Yes, yes, very nice. You're all gorgeous. Perfect, every one of you, in every way."

"Thank you, Tony," one of them said a little louder than the others. This was Katherine, of course, whose gray blue eyes always lingered over his Nordic features a little longer than the others. She would have loved to have a go at the boss, and for all the wrong reasons, he understood.
Like
replacing his wife in his life.
Nicholson leaned down to whisper in her ear, fingering the hem of her white lace mini as he did. "A different dress, though, I think, Kat. Can't have the whores looking like whores, now, can we?" He watched the beautiful girl struggle to keep the brilliant smile on her face — as if he'd just said something charming and sweet. Without another word, she got up and left the room. "I have to use the little girls' room," she whispered.

Once he'd been satisfied that everything else was in superb working order, Nicholson continued up to his locked office on the third floor. This was the one area of the house he kept off limits to both the guests and the help.

Inside, he poured a glass of seven-hundred-dollar-a-bottle Bollinger — a gift to himself from the client's stock — and sat down. It had been a hectic day; now he could finally relax.
Well, not really relax, but at least there was the Bollinger.

Two large flat-screen monitors dominated the desk in front of him. He powered up the system and typed in a long password.

Rows of thumbnail images tiled open like dominos across one of the two screens. At first glance, they looked like miniature still lifes, each one from a different area of the house — foyer, mezzanine, guest suites, massage rooms, dungeon, screening rooms. There were thirty-six in all. Nicholson stopped for just a moment to watch the duplicitous Katherine in one of the changing rooms, wearing just a thong, breasts heaving, fussing at her runny eye makeup in the mirror. Beautiful though she might be, Katherine was a mistake — too ambitious, too cunning — but she was not his real priority right now. He clicked on an image of the driveway in front of the house and dragged it so that it jumped screens to open full-size on the other monitor. A time signature began to count out at the bottom. He clicked once more, on a red triangular button in the border, for "record." The first cars were just pulling in. The party was about to start.

"Let the fucking begin — mind and otherwise. Whatever their little hard-ons desire."