Jack & Jill Page 11

  “How are you doing tonight?” The actor put out his hand and lightly touched the other man’s arm. He wanted “Jasper” to know that he was down-to-earth, unaffected, and most of all, a warm person. He truly was all that. USA Today had recently published a list of the “nicest” stars in Hollywood. He was on it, courtesy of his business agent and lawyer, who spoke exceedingly well of him.

  Jack unleashed his best smile as he entered Michael Robinson’s Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous hotel suite. He shut the door behind him. He figured he had about half an hour before the real escort arrived from the service. That would be enough time.

  At any rate, Jill was watching the lobby of the Willard, just in case the male prostitute arrived early. She would take care of things downstairs. Jill was excellent with the details, all the loose ends. Jill was excellent, period.

  “I’m a real fan,” Jack said to the big Hollywood star. “I’ve been following your career closely, actually.”

  Michael Robinson spoke in a near-whisper that would have shocked male and female fans of his action-romance films. “Oh, really, Jasper? That’s always so nice for me to hear. It’s kind of you to say, anyway.”

  “I swear to God, it’s true.” Sam Harrison continued his act. “My name is Jack, by the way. Jill is down in the lobby. Maybe you’ve heard of us?”

  Jack pulled out a Beretta with a silencer and aimed it between the actor’s startled deep-blue eyes. He fired. It fit the pattern of Jack and Jill. People in high places. Execution-style murder. Kinky touches and poem to follow.

  Jack and Jill came to The Hill.

  To kill, to kill, to kill.

  CHAPTER

  29

  ONE SPECIFIC, and particularly fascinating, detail about the murders was weighing heavily on my mind, troubling the hell out of me. I thought about it as I turned onto crowded Pennsylvania Avenue and double-parked in front of the Willard Hotel—the latest helter-skelter murder scene.

  I thought about the troubling detail as I marched inside and headed up to Michael Robinson’s suite.

  I thought about it as the smooth-riding elevator whooshed open on the seventh floor, where half a dozen uniforms were standing around, and rolls of crime-scene tape ribboned the hallway like a tangle of distasteful Christmas wrapping.

  There wasn’t much evidence of passion in the first two killings, I was thinking. Especially the second murder. The murders were so cold-blooded and efficient. The arrangement of the bodies of the victims seemed to have been art-directed. The kinkiness of the scenes seemed too directed and orderly. This is the exact opposite of the Sojourner Truth School murders, which were violent explosions of pent-up anger and pure rage.

  I didn’t get the full significance yet, and neither did anyone else I spoke to about the murder case. Not inside the D.C. police, and not at the Federal Bureau in Quantico. If, as a detective, I had one basic rule about premeditated murders, it was this: they were almost always based on passion. There usually had to be extreme love. Or hate. Or greed… but these killings seemed to have none of that. It kept bugging me.

  Why Michael Robinson? I wondered as I walked toward the hotel room where he had been murdered. What are these two bizarre psychopaths doing here in Washington? What sick and cruel game are they playing… and why do they crave millions of spectators for their sensational blood sport?

  I spotted Kyle Craig once again. The FBI senior agent and I talked for several moments outside the suite. All around us, usually sangfroid D.C. cops appeared in mild shock. A lot of them were probably disappointed Michael Robinson fans.

  “The medical examiner figures he’s been a famous corpse for about seven hours. So it happened around twelve last night,” Kyle told me, giving me the lay of the land. “Two shots fired to his head, Alex. Close range, just like the others. Take a look at the tattooing for yourself. Whoever did the shooting is a real heartless bastard.”

  I agreed with what Kyle was saying.

  Heartless.

  No passion.

  No rage.

  “How was Michael Robinson found?”

  “Oh, that’s another good part, Alex. A new wrinkle. They phoned it in to the Post. Told the newspaper where to pick up the trash this morning.”

  “Is that a quote?” I asked Kyle.

  “I don’t have the exact quote they used, but pick up the trash was definitely part of it,” Kyle said.

  I was interested in any irreverence or cynicism Jack and Jill might use in describing the killings. They were obviously into wordplay. They were artistes. I also wondered if they might be out there on Pennsylvania Avenue, watching us again. Filming us as we bumbled and stumbled over one another inside the Willard. I wondered if they were preparing a second film, with their usual wide-release distribution method in mind. Surveillance had been posted outside, so if they were there, we had them.

  I entered the living room of the suite, and I was relieved to see that Chief of Detectives Pittman was nowhere on the scene. The film actor Michael Robinson was there, however. As they say, he had been born to play the role—perhaps his greatest.

  His naked body was in a sitting position on the floor, the head against the couch. It seemed as if the actor had been propped up to see anyone entering the room, and maybe that was the killers’ idea. His eyes stared out at me. To see, or to be seen? I wondered. He was not a pretty sight. I took note of the lividity. The blood had already pooled in the lowermost parts of his body, which now had an ugly purplish red color.

  Another celebrity had been exposed. Brought down to earth. Punished for some real or imagined sin? What connection was there with Fitzpatrick and Sheehan? Why a senator, a newswoman, and an actor?

  Three murders in such a short time. Celebrities are supposed to be safer than the rest of us, more protected at least, and above all this. It got to me, seeing Michael Robinson dead and violated. There was something visceral and system-shocking about what the killers were doing.

  What was the bizarre, complex message from Jack and Jill? That nobody was safe anymore? I rolled the outrageous thought around in my head. It was a good starting point, a concept to work with.

  Nobody is safe? Jack and Jill were telling us they could come for anyone, at any time. They knew how to get inside.

  There was another note with the body. Another Jack and Jill rhyme. It was on the night table, where the weird and ghoulish killers, or killer, had left it for us to find.

  Jack and Jill came to The Hill

  To do some deadly deeds.

  They weren’t far wrong

  To judge how long

  A bleeding liberal bleeds.

  One of Michael Robinson’s agents was in the room. He’d flown down from New York. He was a good-looking man, with silver-blond hair. He wore a long cashmere coat over an Armani suit. I noticed his eyes were red and swollen. He seemed to have been crying. Two medical examiners were working on the film actor’s body. I suppose you could call all that attention going out in style. Only the best for Michael Robinson.

  There were some other obvious connections to the Fitzpatrick and Sheehan murders. There was a tawdry, kinky side to all three killings. Each had been an execution. And maybe most important so far, they were all “bleeding liberals,” weren’t they? They had all been exposed for what they were.

  “Dr. Alex Cross? Excuse me, you’re Dr. Alex Cross, aren’t you?”

  I turned to a tall, rangy man who had spoken my name. He was clean-cut and his bearing was almost military. About forty, I guessed. He wore a black raincoat over a dark gray suit. A buttoned-down look. Definitely senior law enforcement of some kind, I figured.

  “Yes, I’m Alex Cross,” I said to him.

  “I’m Jay Grayer from the Secret Service,” he introduced himself formally. There was something about the very erect way that he held himself. Extreme confidence. Or was it moral certitude? A stiff pole up his behind?

  “I’m senior agent of the First Family detail.”

  “What can I do for you?” I aske
d Agent Grayer. Alarms were already sounding in my head. I felt I was about to get a much fuller understanding of why I had been put on the Jack and Jill investigation. By whom, and for exactly what reason.

  “You’re wanted at the White House,” he said. “I’m afraid it’s a command performance, Dr. Cross. It’s about the Jack and Jill investigation. There’s a problem we have to let you know about.”

  “I’ll bet it’s a big problem, too,” I said to Agent Grayer.

  “Yes, I’m afraid it is. It’s a very big problem, Dr. Cross. We have something we need to share with you.”

  I had suspected as much. I’d had a quiet fear way in the back of my mind. Now it was up front.

  I was being summoned to the White House.

  They wanted the dragonslayer there. Did they understand what that meant?

  CHAPTER

  30

  THE ONLY THING anybody seems to share very readily in Washington these days is trouble.

  I could hardly argue with the command from on high, though. I dutifully accompanied Jay Grayer up the street to 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. Ask not what I can do for my country.

  The White House was only a short jaunt from the Willard Hotel. Despite the relative performance of some of the recent occupants, the White House continues to cast its spell over a lot of people, including me. I had been inside only twice, on canned guided tours with my kids, but even they had been larger-than-life and moving. I almost wished Damon and Jannie could be with me.

  We were quickly passed through the blue-canopied guardhouse on West Executive Drive. Agent Grayer was allowed to park his car in the garage under the White House. He seemed modestly proud of the perk. He explained that the garage was still considered a primary bomb shelter, but also an escape route in case of an attack.

  “Good to know,” I said and smiled. Grayer smiled back. It was forced conviviality, but at least we were both making an effort.

  “I’m sure you’re curious as to why you’ve been asked to come. I would be.”

  “I don’t think I’ve been invited to tea,” I said stiffly. “But, yes, I’m very curious.”

  “The reason is the Soneji and Casanova cases,” Grayer explained to me as we took an elevator one flight up from the garage. “Your reputation precedes you here. You’re aware that the FBI has never captured a single serial killer, for all their expertise? We want you on the team.”

  “What team is that?” I asked.

  “You’ll see in a few seconds. This is definitely the A team, though. Be ready for some crazy shit. The Bureau has staked out the hotel room where John Hinckley stayed. Just in case the killers might decide to stay there. Pay homage, or something like that.”

  “Not such a terrible idea,” I told Grayer. He looked at me as if I were crazy, too. “Not a particularly good idea, either,” I said. He cracked a grin.

  Half a dozen men and two women in business attire were gathered in the West Wing office of the White House chief of staff. I sensed a lot of tension in the room, but everyone was working hard to hide it. I was introduced as the representative of the Washington police. Welcome to the team. Say hello to the dragonslayer.

  The others at the table cordially introduced themselves. Two more senior agents from the Secret Service, a woman named Ann Roper and a youngish, good-looking man named Michael Fescoe; the director of intelligence from the FBI, Robert Hatfield; General Aiden Cornwall from the Joint Chiefs of Staff and the U.S. Army; the national security advisor, Michael Kane; the White House chief of staff, Don Hamerman. The other woman turned out to be a senior officer in the CIA. The inspector general. Her name was Jeanne Sterling. Her presence meant that a foreign power’s involvement in Jack and Jill was being considered. There was a twist I hadn’t considered before.

  It was fast company for a homicide detective from Southeast D.C., even for a deputy chief. But I figured I was pretty fast company, too. I had seen nasty things that none of them had, or would ever want to.

  Let the sharing begin.

  Glistening sweet rolls, butter in ice, and coffee in silver pots had been put out for our unusual breakfast club. It was obvious that some of the others had worked together before. I had learned a long time ago that if you can’t spot the pigeon in a poker game, then you’re probably it.

  The national security advisor called the gathering to order a minute or so past ten. Don Hamerman was a wiry, blond man in his mid-thirties who appeared to be tightly strung. That definitely fit the White House staff profile in recent years: very young and very uptight. On the move. On the make, get set, go.

  “I’m going to use overheads for this presentation, folks. That’s the way we do it here in the Big House,” Hamerman said and managed a thin, forced smile. He had an unsettling kinetic energy. He reminded me of high-flying D.C. public relations types, and even of Michael Robinson’s overwrought agent back at the Willard.

  I gathered from his remark that White House meetings were usually bureaucratic and somewhat formal, rather than loosy-goosy. Everyone seemed to enjoy the small joke, anyway.

  Actually, the forced cordiality disturbed me. I was still flashing on the death-mask expression of Michael Robinson. It wasn’t an image I liked bringing with me into the White House.

  Michael Robinson’s naked corpse was probably still in the Willard Hotel with the morgue team, ready to be tagged and bagged.

  “I have about an hour’s worth of briefing material—tops. With full discussion, let’s say we’re at two hours,” Hamerman continued. “That will take us close to noon, but I believe the unfortunate circumstances warrant a tight briefing up front.”

  What unfortunate circumstances, exactly? I wanted to interrupt Hamerman, but I kept my cool. It was neither the time nor the place.

  Cups of coffee and several cigarette packs were already laid out on the worktable. Everyone was prepared for a tough siege. I guessed that was the way it was done at the Big House.

  Hamerman placed his first overhead on the gently purring machine. The display screen said Jack and Jill Investigation.

  Not much to argue about so far.

  “As you know, there have been three brutal celebrity murders in Washington in the past week. The latest was the shooting sometime last night of the actor Michael Robinson at the Willard. The stalkers call themselves Jack and Jill. They leave artsy mash notes at their murder scenes. They like to play games with the media. They seem to relish the spotlight a lot.

  “They also seem to know what they’re doing. They’ve successfully committed three high-profile murders and haven’t left us squat to work with. They appear to be signature or serial killers, though of a particularly high order. That’s debatable, or so I’m led to understand. But it’s one theory.

  “Here’s the first kicker,” Hamerman said and arched his thin, blond eyebrows. “What some of you don’t know is that ‘Jack and Jill’ is also the Secret Service code name used for President and Mrs. Byrnes. It has been since the President took office. We are not comfortable accepting this fact as mere coincidence.”

  The blond woman from the CIA lit a cigarette. I remembered her name. Jeanne Sterling. She blew out a pale gust of smoke. I heard her mutter “shit.” My sentiments exactly. This was the worst news we’d had so far. Also, I didn’t appreciate the fact it had been kept from us until this moment.

  “We believe it is a very real possibility that an assassination attempt could be made on either President Byrnes or Mrs. Byrnes. Or perhaps on both of them,” Hamerman said.

  The words were absolutely chilling to hear. I glanced around the table and saw the frozen expressions of concern.

  “We have taken, or are taking, every precaution that we can think of. The President’s exposure outside the White House will be extremely limited for the time being. He’s been told everything about the unfortunate situation, and so has Mrs. Byrnes. They’re taking it well. They’re both very smart, very impressive people. They will not panic. I can promise you that. I’ll do the panicking for both of them. />
  “Let me talk about some facts we don’t have about the so-called stalkers Jack and Jill. Actually, there are several thousand investigators assigned to the case, and we know surprisingly little. Jack and Jill may be heading toward the White House next, and we don’t have the foggiest idea why. Or who they might be. Or what the hell is in this for them.”

  Don Hamerman peered around the table. He was definitely wired. The other word to describe him, the one that came to my mind anyway, was supercilious.

  “Please feel free to correct me on any point I make. Feel free to add any updated information you might have,” he said with a tiny sneer.

  Except for a few sighs, no one spoke. No one seemed to know any more than I did. No one had a worthwhile clue so far. That was the scariest thing of all.

  The possibility existed that the President and First Lady were the ultimate targets for Jack and Jill… or maybe not even the ultimate targets?

  Jack and Jill came to The Hill. What in the name of God for? To wipe out all the bleeding liberals? To punish sinners? Was the President a sinner in their minds?

  “Jay, do you want to say something now?” Hamerman asked Secret Service Agent Grayer.

  Grayer nodded and stood up at the worktable. He leaned against it with his hands. He looked a little pale. “There’s a very tough problem here,” he said to us. “The danger is real, believe me. This is as scary as anything I’ve seen in my time at the White House. You see, I was the first one inside Senator Fitzpatrick’s apartment after the killing. I was there, alone, at six o’clock that morning. I called the Metro police… the same is true for Ms. Sheehan and for Michael Robinson. Each time Jack and Jill has called the Secret Service first. They’ve contacted us right here at the White House. They told us… that they’re practicing for the big one.”