Alex Cross, Run

“One round fired, subject is down. Self-inflicted GSW,” he said. When the sergeant shook his head, Valente added, “No signs of life.”

Bergman’s gun had dropped onto the bloodstained comforter, and his phone was on the floor. That’s what I focused on. I was pretty sure I knew who he’d been talking to, but I needed to confirm it if I could.

I went straight to the phone, picked it up, and hit redial. On the first ring, it sent me right into voice mail.

“Hello,” I heard in a familiar voice. “You’ve reached Dr. Elijah Creem. I can’t take your call right now, but please leave a message. Thank you, and have a pleasant day.”

CHAPTER

95

THIS WASN’T THE END OF ANYTHING. WE WERE RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF IT ALL.

Up until now, with only circumstantial evidence against Creem, it was all we could do to put a surveillance detail on him. Legally speaking, it’s one thing to watch someone at home, from the street. It’s another to go inside. The courts are jumpy about that kind of thing.

So it was ironic to get the push we needed, not from Creem but from Bergman, our presumed River Killer. The fact that he’d called Creem’s cell and home numbers multiple times in the hours before he killed himself was enough to put us over the top. Within an hour of Bergman’s death, we had a warrant number for secreted evidence in Creem’s house and a one-sheet for Creem himself, circulating up and down the Eastern Seaboard. The special note on this one was that Creem might have been traveling in disguise. The one-sheet included his DMV photo alongside the clearest image we had of the old man mask he’d been using, but we weren’t cutting off any possibilities. He could have easily switched up his look by now—and probably had.

My guess was that Creem had been pla

If so, it had worked. We’d already lost between five and nine hours on Creem, depending on what time he’d slipped away from us.

To search the house in Wesley Heights, Valente and I brought a team of three other detectives, plus four from mobile crime. It’s a slow, methodical process—aggravatingly so when your perp is already on the move. We spread out over the home’s three floors when we got there, to cover as much area as we could.

I started on the lower level, where Creem had an office, an examination room, and a waiting area with its own separate entrance. There was also a TV room and a garage down there—plenty of places to look.

As it turned out, there were a few things Creem hadn’t even tried to hide. Within the first few minutes, I found a makeup kit in his top desk drawer. There were tinting pigments, a dozen different small brushes, a bottle of spirit gum, and several items I didn’t recognize. Maybe he’d even worked on his latest mask right there at the desk, while I’d been sitting outside on the curb, watching his house the night before.

The other thing I did while I searched was to keep dialing Creem’s number. I didn’t really expect him to pick up, but I figured it was worth trying. He was the type who might like to take a parting shot at the cops, given the opportunity.

For the first hour, I got the same response, over and over—straight to voice mail. He’d probably shut the phone down to keep it from pinging off of cell towers and leaving a trail behind him.

But that doesn’t mean I was wrong about Creem. He must have tracked my incoming calls somehow, because the next time my phone rang, it was him, calling me back.

On his terms, of course.

CHAPTER

96

I DIDN’T RECOGNIZE THE NUMBER ON THE ID AS I PICKED UP.

“Detective Cross,” I answered.

“It’s me,” Creem said. “The man of the hour.”

I banged my knee on his desk as I jumped up. Valente was just coming into the room, and I snapped my fingers to grab his attention.

“Dr. Creem,” I said pointedly. “I’m a little surprised to hear from you.”

Right away, Valente took out his own phone and started making a call, presumably to try to run a trace.

“I wanted to ask about Josh,” Creem told me.

“What about him?” I asked.

“Is he dead?”

Valente motioned at me to take my time and go slow with him.

“I’m not going to discuss that with you over the phone,” I said. “Tell me where you are. I’ll meet you anywhere you like. No other cops.”

Creem paused, maybe even just to smile to himself. He was enjoying this, no doubt.

“Don’t bother with this phone, by the way,” he said. “I bought it an hour ago and I’m throwing it away after this call.”

He was probably using a convenience store burner, or something like it. From a cop’s perspective, those are the worst. They can be impossible to track down.

I figured the best way to keep Creem talking would be to feed that oversize ego of his. It was the only language he seemed to speak.

“You know, there’s a massive manhunt going on right now,” I said. “You’ve given us quite the slip.”

“Any luck so far?” he asked.

“If there were—”

“Of course. We wouldn’t be having this conversation,” Creem said.

I also knew better than to condescend to him. One thing about Creem—he wasn’t stupid. If I lost him now, something told me that would be it.

“I’d love to know how you pulled this off,” I said. “It’s been a fascinating case. You, Bergman, all of it. I assume you were in it together from the start.”

This time Creem sighed, almost nostalgically. “All the way back to college, in fact. We got a bit of a taste for it then, just like old Jack Sprat and his wife.”

“Excuse me?”

“He liked the boys, I liked the girls. And between the two of us, we licked the platter clean.”

His calm, collected pride in the whole thing gave me the creeps. Wherever he was headed, I didn’t think for a second he’d be able to stop himself from killing again.

“So what now?” I said. “You disappear, never to be heard from?”

“That’s the idea,” he said.

“Are you leaving the country?” I asked, but Creem demurred.

“I called because I wanted to know about Josh,” he told me. “If you don’t have anything to say about that, I’m hanging up.”

When I looked at Valente, he just shook his head and raked his fingers through his hair. It wasn’t going well.

“What do you want to know?” I asked.

“Is he dead or not?”

“Yes,” I told him. It would all be in the news soon enough anyway.

“Where did he do it?” Creem asked.

“In his loft, on M Street,” I said, stalling.

“No. I mean, it sounded to me like he shot himself. Was it in the mouth?”

“Under the chin,” I said.

“Lord. Must have been a terrible mess.”

“It was,” I said. “Is that hard for you? He was your friend, after all.”

Creem paused again. I listened hard for any kind of telltale background noise, but there was nothing.

“Are you a doctor, Alex?” he asked then.

“I am. A psychologist,” I said.

“Ah. One for the books, then.”

“Now, I told you about Josh. Give me something in return,” I said. “Are there other victims we should know about? Tell me how many you’ve killed over the years.”

“I’m sorry,” Creem said, “but we’re out of time for today. Isn’t that what you shrinks always say?”

“Hang on. One more question.”

“It was fun while it lasted, detective, but I think we both know I’m already well beyond your reach. I wouldn’t go to too much trouble if I were you.”

“Creem, wait!” I said, but it was too late. He’d already hung up.

When I set down my phone, I could see on Valente’s face that he hadn’t gotten anywhere. Also that he was good and pissed by now. We’d just had a decent shot at Creem, and once again he’d slipped through our fingers.