Alex Cross, Run

“You can’t stop me, Elijah,” he said.

“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Creem said. “Jesus Christ!”

There was obviously only one way around this. He took Bergman by the shoulders again and stood him up. Then he pulled him in close. He even let it last a long time. It was a little disgusting, a little strange, and it smelled strongly of booze.

When they pulled apart, Bergman’s eyes were red and puffy, but he’d stopped crying, anyway. His mouth was smeared with his own blood.

“I know you didn’t feel anything,” he said. “But that’s okay. I also know you love me.”

“I do, Josh. But for God’s sake, enough with the histrionics. Let’s finish this with a little bit of dignity. Like men.”

Bergman gri

“Whatever you say, Elijah. Just tell me what to do.”

CHAPTER

88

NOW THAT WE HAD A PRIMARY SUSPECT, ELIJAH CREEM QUICKLY BECAME THE subject of MPD surveillance. Commander D’Auria was making the assignments at this point, and mine was to cover a shift at Creem’s house that night, whether he was home or not.

When I showed up to relieve the first shift at eight o’clock, word from command was that Creem had gone out in a tux around seven thirty. Hired car service had dropped him off at a private home on the 3000 block of Q Street, one of Georgetown’s highest-dollar neighborhoods. Intel on the event said that it was a juvenile diabetes fundraising di

That made sense. I didn’t really see “Dr. Creep” being welcomed into society circles anymore, unless he was buying his way in.

My partner for the night was a thick-necked detective from the Second District warrant squad, Jerry Doyle. According to Sampson, the guy’s nickname was The Mouth, and it didn’t take long to find out why. He was complaining within the first five minutes.

“What are we even doing?” he said. “Creem’s out for the night while we sit here getting kidney stones and he makes nice with the richies, eating caviar or whatever. Yeah, sure, that makes a lot of sense.”

“Well—” I said, but that was as far as I got.

“Not to mention, if they’re going to do this, they should be doing it right,” Doyle went on. “Management’s pulling all kinds of extra staff and overtime, and if you ask me, we still don’t have this guy covered good enough. I mean, if I were him and I wanted to give us the slip, I’m pretty sure I could do it.”

“No argument there,” I said. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the investigative units stretched so thin before.”

“Speaking of which, I thought you were out of commission,” Doyle went on. “I mean, no judgment. I’m just a little surprised to see you here, I guess.”

I wasn’t so keen on discussing my situation with The Mouth, so I mostly listened instead. For hours. Doyle didn’t seem to notice the difference.

Finally, around midnight, we got a radio call that Creem was on his way. He’d left the party with an unknown female and seemed to be heading home.

“You’ve got to be shittin’ me,” Doyle said. “I mean, he knows we’re all over him, right? And he’s going to bring a broad back here?”

I nodded. “I think it’s all part of the show.”

Creem didn’t do anything without a reason. He was trying to rub his own freedom in our faces, wasn’t he? Never mind that the pornography charges alone were enough to send him to jail. He was clearly milking this for all it was worth in the meantime.

Ten minutes later, a black town car pulled up the block and idled to a stop in Creem’s driveway. A uniformed driver got out, but Creem was a step ahead of him. He ducked around and helped his date out of the car himself. A faux gas lamp from the front porch threw just enough light to show me that she was tall, blond, and as far as I could tell, exactly Dr. Creem’s type.

That was as much as I could sit still for.

“What are you doing?” Doyle asked when I reached for my door handle.

“Whatever I can,” I said, and got out of the car. I headed straight across the lawn to cut the couple off as they came up Creem’s brick front walk.

“Excuse me,” I called out.

The woman started and clutched Creem’s arm.

“It’s all right,” he said to her. “This is one of the police officers I was telling you about. Sheila Bishop, I’d like you to meet Detective Cross. He’s here to make sure I don’t cut you up into little pieces.”

The woman actually rolled her eyes and kept her arm locked onto his. A pair of high-heeled sandals was dangling off one finger, and she had on a long, shimmery dress that pooled around her bare feet.

“I’m sorry to startle you, Ms. Bishop,” I said, “but I’m not at all comfortable with you going inside. I’d like to call you a cab, if that’s all right.”

“And I’d like you to mind your own damn business,” she snapped back at me.

Creem only smiled, as if he were leaving this up to the two of us.

“You should know the reason we’re here,” I told her. “Dr. Creem is the primary suspect in a series of murders in Georgetown. You’ve probably heard about them. I’d strongly suggest—”

But Ms. Bishop cut me off.

“Just inside, there’s an antique mahogany coatrack,” she said, pointing at the front door.

“Excuse me?”

“Upstairs, to the left, is the master bedroom. That’s where Elijah and Miranda keep their Rookwood pottery collection. There’s also a fantastic Lucien Freud hanging over the bed. Should I go on?”

I’d thought Ms. Bishop was embarrassed by my presence, but I was wrong. As far as I could tell now, Dr. Creem’s mistress was just pissed off and anxious to get inside.

He’d laid the bait, and I’d taken it, just like he wanted. Unbelievable.

“Don’t worry, detective,” Creem said ingratiatingly. “It’s an understandable mistake. For what it’s worth, I don’t imagine Sheila could be any safer, with you and your partner out here. Am I right?”

He didn’t wait for an answer, and keyed the door to let Ms. Bishop in ahead of him. As she led the way, Creem turned back to me and spoke low from the porch.

“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll leave the curtains open,” he said with a smile.

Then he went inside, closed the door, and turned off the lights behind him.

CHAPTER

89

THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS WERE THEIR OWN KIND OF TORTURE. I FELT MORE than a little burned by Creem, and I hated the way he was playing this.

To make things worse, Doyle kept his own personal monologue going pretty much the entire time. He knew a thing or two about surveillance and had some valid opinions about how these investigations ought to be structured, but most of that was bookended with one long, pointless story after another.

Around 3 a.m., a yellow cab pulled up in front of the house. A minute later, the porch light came on and Creem walked Ms. Bishop outside. She was carrying a shopping bag now and wearing street clothes that, for all I knew, came straight out of Mrs. Creem’s closet.

Neither of them even glanced our way, until Creem had put her into the cab and sent her off. Then he turned, gave us a friendly wave, and went back inside.

“What a tool,” Doyle said. “I don’t get it. What is it about hot women and rich assholes? Actually, never mind. I just answered my own question. But still—”

Bottom line, I don’t like to talk when I’m losing the game. I couldn’t stand the idea of five more hours of this.

 “Doyle, don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “but is there any chance we could finish out this shift with a little less conversation?”

It got him all huffy and cold-shouldered, but if that was the price of silence, I was ready to pay it. With any luck, this would be our first and last detail together.

After that it stayed pretty quiet, both in and outside the car. Creem kept the lights on and puttered around the house, doing whatever he was doing in there. At five, he took the paper off his front porch and went back in—upstairs, I think. I didn’t see him after that.