Alex Cross, Run

Creem was seated on an aluminum chair bolted to the interview room floor. His body language was open, with his hands at his sides and his legs wide. If anything, it looked studied to me. Arrogant, even, as if he were enjoying this—or at least, wanted us to think so.

Valente had pulled in a folding chair of his own and sat with his back against the door. The wedge-shaped table in the corner was empty, and the only pop of color in the room was the red panic button on the wall.

“Dr. Creem, do you recognize this signature?” Valente asked. He’d just taken a sheet out of an accordion file on the floor and turned it around to show Creem.

“That would be one of my intake forms,” he said.

“Yes. For Darcy Vickers,” Valente said.

“I can see that.”

Valente took the form back and stowed it. He wanted Creem looking at him, not the page.

“Her most recent procedure with you was a neck lift,” he said. “Eleven months before she was murdered.”

“A platysmaplasty, yes,” Creem said. “It’s unfortunate. I did some of my best work on her.”

I didn’t know what his exact goal was here, but he’d played the same game with me while he took putts in his backyard. The last thing Elijah Creem wanted us to think was that he cared about anything but himself. He was going out of his way to make the point.

Valente sat back and crossed his arms. I could tell his patience was ru

“It’s a lot of coincidences, don’t you think?” he said. “Your former patient. Your neighbors in Palm Beach—”

“Now, you see there?” Creem said, suddenly more animated. “Why would you need to ask that question, unless you were short on information? I’m no detective, detective, but even I know that you don’t prosecute on coincidences.”

To my mind that sounded a lot like Yes, I’m guilty, but you can’t prove it. One of the most important aspects of any interview is what isn’t said. And Creem seemed to be not saying a lot. He liked us knowing what he’d done, didn’t he? Just as long as he stayed on the right side of that very thin line he was treading. It was a game of thrills for him—the killing itself, but this part, too.

“Okay,” Valente said. He got up and folded his chair against the wall. “Let me ask you a different question. Did you kill Darcy Vickers?”

“Let’s say I wish I’d gotten to her first,” Creem said. “That’s not illegal, is it?”

“Did you kill Roger and A

Creem seemed to consider it. “Same answer.”

“So, you did kill them,” Valente pressed. “That’s what I’m hearing.”

All at once, Creem jumped onto his feet. The two of them were suddenly inches apart. I jumped up, too, but D’Auria held out a hand for me to wait.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Valente said.

“You see this?” Creem held his hands up between them. “No cuffs. Not like the first time you people came after me. That means I haven’t been arrested, and that means I don’t have to be here.”

“Sit down!” Valente barked at him.

“No, I don’t think I will,” Creem said. “I’m ready to speak to my attorney. So you can either give me your phone, or you can let me out of this ridiculous little closet of yours. Either way, this conversation is over.”

The fact of the matter was, Creem knew the score. We were onto him, but every piece of evidence we had was circumstantial. All we could do now was keep peeling the layers away until we found a little more blood on the doctor’s hands.

In the meantime, he was about to walk out of here, and there was nothing we could do to stop him.

CHAPTER

87

BY SIX O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT, ELIJAH CREEM WAS HOME AGAIN, AND GETTING ready to go out for the evening. When the doorbell rang, he was tying a godforsaken bow tie around his neck for the first time in months.

From the bedroom window, he saw Josh standing outside, looking as strung out as some kind of junkie. It was tempting to ignore the bell, but probably ill advised.

When he went down to answer, Bergman walked right past him and made his usual beeline for the bar. The pits of his wrinkled linen blazer were stained right through with sweat.

“Josh?” Creem said, following him inside.

Bergman’s hands trembled as he dropped a couple of ice cubes into a glass, and a few on the custom Oriental carpet, too. He didn’t seem to notice.

“They came to my house, Elijah! Asking all kinds of questions.”

“Who did?”

“The police! Who do you think?”

“What did you tell them?” Creem asked.

“Nothing! I told them I wanted to speak to my goddamn attorney.”

Bergman threw the first shot down his throat and poured another. He was probably on a Klonopin or two as well. Not that it seemed to be helping.

“First of all, just calm down,” Creem said.

“Calm down?” Bergman turned on him, wild-eyed. “I’m lucky to be here at all. If I’d known they were coming…well, it all happened too fast, and my gun was in the safe—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Creem said. He walked over and put both hands on Bergman’s quivering shoulders. “Believe me, I know how you feel. I was with the police all morning.”

“What? Why didn’t you warn me?”

“It was the same,” Creem said. “I didn’t see it coming, and frankly, I’ve been afraid to call. I know they’re watching me now.”

Bergman searched his face, before he turned away to take another swig.

“Can you get us out of the country?” he asked.

“No,” Creem admitted. “Not anymore. It’s too late for that.”

His best friend laughed then, a little maniacally, and completely without humor. “Well that’s it then,” he said. “Game over. I guess we knew it was coming.”

When Josh pulled the small black and silver pistol from the back of his waistband, Creem’s eyes went wide. The gun shook in Bergman’s hand, but he pulled it out of reach when Creem tried to take it.

“Don’t you dare try to talk me out of this!” Bergman said. “Not now!”

“I’m not,” Creem said. “I even have my own gun upstairs. And I’m not afraid, Josh.”

“So? What are you waiting for?” Bergman looked toward the foyer, where the main staircase wound up to the second floor. He was crying, too. Tears ran down from the corners of his eyes and over the cheekbones he’d always been so proud of.

“I need one more night,” Creem told him. “And…I need a favor.”

That was worth another few fingers of Scotch, apparently. Josh was back at the bar now, and he set the pistol down to pick up a crystal decanter.

“You are unbelievable,” he said. “A favor? What kind of favor?”

“What kind do you think?” Creem told him. “You can do it however you like. Shoot her, cut her up, I don’t care. I just want it done. After that, we can call it quits.”

“Why can’t you do it yourself?”

Creem pointed at the tall front window overlooking the lawn. “Did you see the car parked outside? They’re all over me, Josh. If they were on you, too, you’d know it. Please—one last favor. That’s all I’m asking.”

Bergman got to the bottom of his glass one more time before he finally answered.

“Okay, fine,” he said. “But you have to do something for me, too.”

“What’s that?” Creem asked.

Looking him right in the eye, Bergman said, “I want you to kiss me, Elijah.”

Creem laughed before he realized how serious Josh was. Of course he was. It was like the longest-ru

And clearly, this was going to be his last chance to do anything about it.

“I’m not going to kiss you, Josh,” Creem said.

“Fine, then.”

In one fast gesture, Josh dropped his glass to the carpet and raised the pistol to his own wide-open mouth.

“No!”

Creem lunged and knocked his hand away. Josh stumbled, weeping, and came to rest against the back of a slipcovered dining room chair. One of his front teeth was chipped and his lip was bleeding, but he didn’t seem to notice.