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No blood was found inside the house, at least none that mattered. Kitz’s throat had been cut right here on the roof, not long before the police arrived. The killer probably could have timed it any way he wanted.
The bastard chose the close call, didn’t he? He pla
Bree pressed her knuckles into the back of her neck. The pulsing headache she’d woken up with was turning into an all-day event. And the dark shirt she was wearing was a really bad call. It was already soaked through with sweat.
She walked toward the scaffold, past a litter of cigarette butts and half-crushed tall boys that hadn’t been there before, which meant that somebody had been. “Psychotourists,” Alex liked to call them, pathetic creeps drawn by a serial-crime scene. And hell, this was probably the most sensational case in the last ten years, unfortunately for everyone involved.
Bree looked straight down from the roof. The parking area below was mostly empty at this time of day. That’s where Kitz’s white Camry had been found in one of the resident spaces.
The killer either left on foot or had another vehicle waiting for him.
That is… if he left the scene at all.
Had he?
Or had he stayed awhile to watch and collect memories?
Did he always hang around afterward?
The actual murder had taken place in private, an interesting departure for DCAK. The audience was bigger but also more abstract-out there in TV land somewhere. Bree wondered if he’d wanted-needed-to check out the “live” crowd gathered on Nineteenth Street. She’d be willing to bet her shield that’s exactly what the bastard had done.
And what about the woman who’d been his accomplice in Baltimore? Had she been here too? Was she part of everything from the start? What was the deal with the two of them? Lovers? Former inmates at some asylum? And what co
Bree sat on the edge of the roof, then finally let herself down the scaffold, carefully, because she was feeling a little shaky right now-too much stress, not enough sleep, not enough Alex either. Seconds later, she was on the ground.
From there, she forced herself to follow the killer’s most likely path, up the alley to A Street and back around to Nineteenth.
It was quiet now, especially compared to two days ago. A single MPD cruiser was parked in front of the house. Howie Pearsall, the officer she’d brought with her, was leaning against the passenger side. Howie was a good man, a friend of hers, just not the most ambitious guy in the world.
Bringing him was a safety precaution but not one that Bree took seriously. She was more likely to protect Howie than the other way around. He stood up straight and brushed something off his shirt when he saw her coming.
“At ease, soldier. Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Sorry I took so long, Howie.”
“How’d it go in there?” he wanted to know.
“Howie, it didn’t. Hold on, I’ll be right back.” She went up the front walk and tore the police notice off the door. So much for the crime scene.
“Excuse me. Detective?” The guy behind her on the lawn seemed to have come out of nowhere. What the hell was his deal?
“I’m Neil Stephens with the AP. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”
Chapter 94
NEIL STEPHENS, OR RATHER DCAK, wanted to shoot Bree Stone full of holes right there in front of the house. Pull the.357 out of his vest. Bam. Dumb cop dead on the front walk. Get the uniform sloppily moping around by the squad car too.
But no. This wasn’t even a rehearsal, much less a performance. Maybe it was groundwork for later on, though. And a little bit of fun too. Detective Stone was, after all, a stone-cold fox. And she was Alex Cross’s girlfriend, wasn’t she? That made this very cool. Gave it stature and importance in his mind.
Stone kept moving toward the cruiser. “No comment,” she said, not even making eye contact with him.
So she was a bitch on wheels as well as a mediocre detective! Figured. Cops weren’t much of a challenge. Maybe collectively they were.
He pulled the Leica around on its strap. “Just a quick photo, then?”
Like he cared about the picture. What he wanted was for Stone to see him-to have seen the character he was playing today, Neil Stephens.
Detective Bree Stone was his audience right now. But she didn’t even look. She held up a palm and got into the car-Talk to the hand puppet. “Let’s go,” she said to the cop at the wheel, and they pulled away from the curb. End of interview.
Neil Stephens called out to her, “Having a bad day, Detective Stone?”
It was meant to be in character, the parting shot of a pushy journalist. He wasn’t even sure she’d heard it-until the police cruiser suddenly braked. Then the car backed up several feet to where he was standing.
Bree Stone climbed out and gave him a quick once-over. Now he had her attention. But was that a good thing?
“What did you say your name was?” she asked. “I didn’t catch the name.”
“Stephens. Out of Chicago. Associated Press.” The worst thing he could do right now was flinch. So he stepped closer instead. That’s what Neil would do-get the story. “I left you a voice mail this morning.” He hadn’t. “Actually, I was hoping to do a piece on your team while I was here in Washington.”
He was handling this pretty well, but his position still wasn’t good. The logic wasn’t quite right, didn’t feel solid to him.
Stone must have thought so too. “Could I see some ID?” she asked next.
So what did he do now? He stepped closer again and handed the identification to her. He could see the other cop out of the corner of his eye-both hands still on the wheel. Stone’s gun was holstered on her right hip, next to her badge. He had her-no doubt about it in his mind. He could take her out right here, right now. He knew that he should too.
She looked at him again, her face more relaxed than before. “Yeah, okay. We could do a quickie back at the office. I’ll introduce you to whoever’s around. How’s that sound?”
She was almost convincing. Almost fooled me, Detective. But her tone told DCAK everything he needed to know, including that he had to act now or he was toast.
His fist flew up and struck Bree Stone in the temple. Christ, she had a hard head for a woman. He grabbed her Glock and shot the other cop right through the open window. DCAK fired into the crumpled form again to make sure. Then he turned back to Stone.
She was still down, obviously hurt but not unconscious. One hand was pressed against her forehead, blood dripping between the fingers. She tried to reach for him. He hooked her with his foot and flipped her on her back.
“Don’t move!” he screamed in her face.
He put the gun inches from her eyes. “Look at me, Bree. Remember my fucking face. And every time you do, you’ll know what a total screwup you are. You and your main mount, Alex Cross. Hey, you just met DCAK.”