Violets are Blue

The food was good, the coffee even better. The company was nice too. She and I got along well, maybe even better than that. Even the lulls in our conversation weren't too uncomfortable, and they were infrequent. A friend of mine once defined love as finding someone you can talk to late into the night. Pretty good.

"Nothing on the beeper," she said while we loitered over our coffee after the meal. I had heard there were lines outside the Camellia during lunch and di

"I wonder what the two of them do inside that big, eerie house, Alex? What do psycho murderers do in their spare time?"

I had studied enough of them. There was no set pattern. "Some are married, even happily if you ask the spouses. Gary Soneji had a little girl. Geoffrey Shafer had three children. That's probably the scariest thing I can imagine — when a husband, or the person next door, or a dad turns out to be a stone-cold killer. It happens. I've seen it."

She sipped her coffee refill. "The neighbors seem to like Daniel and Charles. They consider them eccentric but pleasant and, I love this, civic minded. Daniel owns the house. He inherited it from his father, who was also eccentric — a portrait painter. Rumor has it that the magicians are gay, but they're often seen in the company of young, attractive women."

"Vampires aren't restricted by gender. I learned that from Peter Westin," I said. "These two are equal-opportunity killers, males and females. Something still isn't matching up for me, though. There's a logic hole I keep trying to fill. A few of them, actually."

"Their magical mystery tour sure matches up with a lot of the murders, Alex," she said.

"I know. I can't dispute the evidence we've collected so far."

"But you have one of your famous feelings."

"I don't know about famous, but something feels wrong to me. This thing isn't tracking right. The other shoe hasn't dropped. That's what worries me. Why did they get sloppy all of a sudden? They went undetected for years, and now several dozen FBI agents are watching their house."

We drank our coffee and lingered in the restaurant, which was only half full but would be humming again when the bars closed. Nobody pressured us to leave, and we weren't in a hurry to get back to the boredom of the stakeout.

Jamilla was interesting to me for a lot of reasons, but the main one was probably that I saw so much of my own experience in hers. We were both committed to police work. We had full lives — friends and family — and yet, in a way, we were loners. Why was that?

"You okay?" she asked. Her eyes communicated concern. I usually can intuit good people, and she was one of them. No doubt about it.

"I just went away for a minute," I said. "I'm back now."

"Where do you go when you take these little mind excursions?"

"Florence," I said. "It's probably the most beautiful city on earth. My favorite, anyway."

"And you were just in Florence, Italy?"

"Actually, I was thinking about some of the similarities in our lives."

She nodded. "I've thought about it too. What the heck is to become of us, Alex? Are we both doomed to repeat the same mistakes?"

"Well, hopefully we're going to catch two real bad killers here in New Orleans. How's that?"

Jamilla reached over and patted my cheek, then she said ruefully, "That's what I think too. We aredoomed."

Chapter 65

The Mastermind watched Alex Cross get out of the car. He had him in his sights.

Cross and the lovely Inspector Jamilla Hughes had returned from a di

But now Cross was out of the car again.

Something is bothering the great Cross. Maybe he needs to walk a little after the meal. Or maybe he needs to think about the case some more and wants to be alone. He is a loner, just like I am.

This was amazing; this was no good.

He followed Cross down a dark side street filled with modest homes of two styles — the double shotgun and the Creole cottage; both were staples in this part of New Orleans.

The fragrance of honeysuckle, jasmine, and gardenias was heavy in the air. He sucked in a breath. Pleasant. A hundred years before, the scents had masked the odors of the nearby slaughterhouses. The Mastermind knew his history, knew lots about most things, and the facts flowed easily through his mind as he continued to follow Cross at a safe distance. He retained information and knew how to use it.

He could hear the rattle and hum of the St. Charles Avenue streetcar as it raced along its tracks a few blocks away. It helped to cover any slight sound of his own footsteps.

He was enjoying this walk with Cross immensely, and he thought that maybe this would be the night. Just the idea sent adrenaline pumping through him.

He continued to move closer to Cross. Yes, this was it. Right here, right now.

He partly expected Cross to spin around and look at him. That would be good, so rich, ironic, fitting. Proof of Cross's instincts, and that he was a worthy adversary.

He ducked into some lurks and he circled. He was only a few yards away from Cross now. He could close the distance in an instant.

Cross came to a stop at the old Lafayette Cemetery, the so-called City of the Dead. Inside the gates were lavish above-ground vaults, multi-burial graves.

The Mastermind stopped as well. He savored this, second by second.

A New Orleans Police Department sign was posted on the gates: PATROLLED.

The Mastermind doubted that was true, though. And it didn't really matter, did it? He could eat the NOPD for lunch.

Cross looked around, but he didn't see the Mastermind in the shadows. Should he jump him now? Would they fight hand to hand? It didn't matter — he knew he would win. He watched Alex Cross breathe. His last breaths on earth? What a thought.

Cross turned away from the cemetery and started down another side street. He was heading back to the surveillance car, to Inspector Hughes.

The Mastermind started forward, but then he turned away. This wasn't the night that Cross would die. He had taken mercy, spared him.

The reason: It was too dark on this street. He wouldn't be able to see Cross's eyes when he died.

Chapter 66

Something surprising happened the next morning; it was an event I don't think any of us was expecting. I wasn't, and it threw me for a complete loop. We had gathered at the FBI's New Orleans office for the morning briefing. There were about thirty of us in a large and sterile room that looked out on the muddy brown Mississippi River.

At nine o'clock, Kyle addressed the surveillance team that had been on the watch during the previous twenty-four hours. He finished with them and went on to the day's assignments. He handed them out and was very specific. It was a typical Craig performance: clear, to the point, efficient, never a mistake or the hint of one.

When he was finished, or thought that he was, a hand shot into the air. "Excuse me, Mr. Craig, you didn't mention me. What am I supposed to do today?"

It was Jamilla Hughes and she didn't sound happy. Kyle was already collecting his notes, shuffling a few papers into his thick black briefcase. He barely glanced up as he said, "That's up to Dr. Cross, Inspector Hughes. Please see him."

The remark and its delivery were u

"This is complete bullshit!" Jamilla rose from her seat. "It's unacceptable, Mr. Craig. Especially that irritating tone of yours."