Alex Cross, Run Page 17

  Eventually, a middle-aged woman in braids came out from the back, drying her hands on a dish towel. The T-shirt over her enormous bosom had a portrait of James Baldwin, one of Nana’s favorites. I chose to take that as a good sign—our first one of the day.

  “Can I help you?” she said.

  “We’re here to see Ava Williams,” I told her.

  The woman threw the towel over her shoulder. “And you are?”

  “We’re her family,” Nana said. There was a little edge of stress in her voice.

  “Her foster family,” Bree added quietly.

  “Stephanie Gethmann from Child and Family Services said we could see her today after five,” I told her.

  The woman nodded and took a deep breath. I imagine she took a lot of deep breaths, in her job.

  “Ava’s had some issues today,” she finally said. “Now’s not a good time. Maybe you could come back tomorrow.”

  “Is she here?” Bree eyeballed the open staircase, where the loud phone talker was on her way down.

  “Damn, Lamar, what you want from me?” she said into her cell, but then stopped between us and the woman we were talking to. “Can I go to the store?”

  The woman held up five fingers, as in, you’ve got five minutes to be back. The girl continued out the door and down the steps, cursing Lamar the whole way.

  “Sorry,” the woman said. She stepped out of the foyer and into the empty dining room, which I guess was the closest thing to privacy around here. “Anyway—no. Ava’s not here right now.”

  “What kind of issues are we talking about?” Bree said. “Is she hurt?”

  “She’ll be fine,” the woman said.

  “Is she high?” Bree asked.

  At that the woman paused, and looked me in the eye instead of Bree. “I really can’t talk about it,” she said.

  “She’s high,” Bree said. “Unbelievable. Two days here and she’s using again.”

  I tried to step in before Bree’s or Nana’s temper got us into trouble.

  “We can help, if you’ll let us,” I said. “How about if we wait for her?”

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “Visiting hours are over at seven, and she won’t be back until later. You should really call first.”

  There didn’t seem to be anything more we could do. For a minute we all just stood there, not wanting to leave. It was incredibly disappointing.

  “Well, you give her this,” Nana said between clenched teeth. She handed over the tin she’d brought, filled with her homemade brownies and Ava’s favorite butterscotch candies. “I want every single one of those to get to Ava. Do you understand?”

  “Don’t worry, ma’am. I’ll make sure she gets them.”

  “Hey, lady, what’s that?” someone called out from the living room. “Something good?”

  “Shee-it, nobody be bringing me nothing. Who those people here to see, anyway?”

  Nana looked over her shoulder. “You watch your mouth, young lady,” she said. Then she reached over and took the tin out of the manager’s hands. “I changed my mind. We’ll bring these tomorrow,” she said.

  The manager was doing her best, she really was. I don’t know anyone in the child welfare system who isn’t overworked, underpaid, and underappreciated.

  Still, as we left the house, I’m pretty sure all three of us were thinking the same thing. If Ava was going to have any kind of chance, we had to get her out of there.

  CHAPTER

  73

  MY THIRD DAY OF DESK DUTY WENT PRETTY MUCH THE SAME AS THE FIRST two. I was starting to feel like some kid stuck with an in-school suspension.

  Then, late in the afternoon, another call came in.

  “Homicide,” I answered, for the hundredth time that day.

  “Yes, hello, this is Detective Penner from Palm Beach Police down here in Florida. I’m looking for Detective Cross.”

  “You’ve got him,” I said. I’ve done a fair amount of collaborating with departments all around the country. It’s not so unusual to get a call like this. My guess was that he wanted some kind of consult.

  “First of all, can I just say I’m a fan of your book?” Detective Penner told me. “I’m hoping you’re going to write something else one of these days.”

  “Sure, in my spare time,” I deadpanned. “How can I help you?”

  “We’ve got a double homicide investigation going on down here, from two nights ago. It’s a husband and wife, with all indications of a simple robbery. The reason I’m calling is we just heard from the caretaker at the house next door to this one. Looks like it was hit, too, when no one was home.”

  “And you’re calling me because . . .”

  “I’m having a hard time locating the owner of that second house. As it turns out, this guy is someone you arrested a while back. A doctor by the name of Elijah Creem. Ring any bells?”

  It sure did. There was no forgetting that name, just for the name’s sake. But beyond that, the night of Creem’s little underage sex party, and the bust we ran, was pretty hard to forget.

  He’d also made a few headlines in the meantime. They’d been calling him Dr. Creep in the rags. I was pretty sure he and his friend, Bergman, had a trial coming up, where Sampson was going to be testifying.

  “I was wondering if you might be able to send someone over to see if Dr. Creem is home, or even in town,” Penner said. “He hasn’t been answering any calls.”

  “Is he a suspect?” I said. The guy was such scum, I was prepared to believe anything about him.

  “Depends on where he was two nights ago,” Penner said. “At a minimum, I need to notify him of the robbery and ask a few questions.”

  Technically, it was a breach of my noncontact status to start interacting with the public. But everyone else was flat out, and truth be told, some part of me wanted to see how far this guy had fallen since the night I put the cuffs on him. If it turned into anything, I’d pass it on to Sampson. He worked out of Second District, where Creem lived, anyway.

  I waited until five, then clocked out and headed over to Creem’s house.

  CHAPTER

  74

  DR. CREEM LIVED IN AN IMPRESSIVE TUDOR ON A LITTLE CUL-DE-SAC IN Wesley Heights. The whole property butted up against Glover-Archbold Park, with plenty of privacy all around. From what little I knew of Creem’s situation, I assumed his next address was going to be something a bit more downscale, with guards and a roommate.

  Then again, money like his has been known to buy justice—and freedom—every once in a while. I hadn’t been planning on following the trial, but now that he was back on my radar, maybe I would.

  There was no answer at the front door when I rang, but the garage was open, with a midnight-blue Escalade parked inside. I let myself around through the side gate, toward the wooded back half of the property.

  That’s where I found him. He was standing with a cigar clenched in his teeth, bent over a putter on a big kidney-shaped green that had been worked into the patio at the back of the house. A small yellow flag stuck up from each of the three cups sunk into the fake turf.

  “Dr. Creem?”

  He didn’t seem to recognize me at first. I’m pretty sure all he saw was some black guy in a suit, standing there on his property.

  “Don’t you believe in ringing the bell?” he said.

  “I did,” I told him, and showed my badge. “I’m Detective Cross from MPD. We’ve actually met before.”

  A flash of recognition showed on his face then. I wondered if he remembered trying to bribe me, too.

  Either way, he played it off. He took a ball from the pocket of his sweats, dropped it on the green, and put both hands back on the putter. The guy just oozed arrogance. I tried not to take too much pleasure from the fact that I was here with bad news.

  “What exactly can I do for you?” he said.

  “We had a call from Palm Beach,” I said. “The police department’s been trying to reach you.”

  “Yeah? What did I do now?” he sa
id and executed a smooth, twenty-foot putt that just missed its mark.

  “Apparently there was a robbery at your house the other night. Your place and the one next door. Unfortunately your neighbors were both killed by the intruder.”

  “You don’t say.” Creem dropped another ball onto the ground. “Are we talking about the Wettigs or the Andersons?”

  “I’m sorry, but I don’t know.”

  “Jesus, I hope it’s the Wettigs,” he said. “No disrespect, but that guy’s an ass, and he plays his TV way too loud.”

  No disrespect? It was a little late for that. I knew I couldn’t stand this guy for a reason.

  I interviewed Creem a little bit and got his story. He’d been home the night of the Florida murders and said I could check it out with his friend, Josh Bergman, if necessary. I told him I’d pass it all on to the Palm Beach Police Department.

  “Now, if that’s all, I need to keep moving, detective. I’ve got a social engagement.” He stopped and looked me in the eye, with a familiar grin. “Believe it or not, there are still some people in this town who will associate with me.”

  In a strange way, it made me think of Ava, the way Creem deflected any and all sense of real emotion—about himself, or anyone else for that matter. In his own way, the man was shut up tight against the world. Just like Ava.

  The difference being that I wished Ava well.

  CHAPTER

  75

  CREEM HAD BEEN EXPECTING SOME KIND OF NOTIFICATION FROM PALM BEACH PD. He just hadn’t expected it to come from someone like Detective Cross. It was more disarming than actually alarming. A nasty little coincidence that he chose not to share that evening.

  Supposedly, this was make-it-up-to-Josh night, for the imagined little infraction of running off to Florida without him. Whatever big surprise Josh had planned—and Creem was fairly sure he knew what it was—there was no sense in muddying the waters with paranoia. At least not beforehand.

  Still, some cover was in order. He waited until they were halfway through dinner, and then brought it up as casually as he could.

  “By the way, if anyone asks, you and I were at my place on Friday night,” he said. “We grilled a couple of steaks, just like the ones we’re having right now, and watched a movie. Let’s say Taxi Driver. You left just before twelve.”

  Josh grinned. He liked this part of the game. It also helped that he was in such a good mood tonight—maybe even a little too hyped. Creem poured him another draught of cabernet, and dug back into his own excellent Montana wagyu. There was no better place for beef in Georgetown than Bourbon Steak, at the Four Seasons. Josh had picked the place, but he knew Elijah loved it.

  “So, what’s the big surprise, anyway?” Creem asked. “Where are we headed from here?”

  Josh set down his fork and leaned in. “Elijah, I need you to stay open-minded about this, okay? It’s nothing we haven’t done before. It’s just been a while. Like . . . twenty-five years.”

  Creem looked him in the eye, holding back for the moment, as the understanding settled silently between them.

  “I don’t ask for much,” Josh said. That was debatable, but whatever. He was putting on the puppy dog’s eyes now. Obviously, he’d already settled on what he needed Creem’s answer to be.

  “Please don’t say no. They’re meeting us upstairs. I gave them a wad of cash, and they booked the room themselves. All very high-end.” Josh leaned a little closer and lowered his voice again. “I even had them pick up a rubber mattress cover for the session. They probably think I’m totally kinky, but that’s okay. The point is—it’s all taken care of, Elijah. Every last detail.”

  Creem let him hang for another few seconds, but then shrugged nonchalantly. “What am I going to say?” he asked.

  Josh fairly beamed, and sat back with his glass in his hand. “You won’t be sorry,” he said.

  “Of course, I do have to ask—”

  “Actually, you don’t. This is me, remember? She’s absolutely perfect,” Josh told him. “So is he, if you care.”

  Creem nodded, and sniffed his wine. The bouquet in the glass was almost enough to get drunk on. He’d go slow. He wanted to stay sharp, no pun intended.

  “What time?” he said.

  “Ten o’clock.”

  It was nine thirty now. “We’ll have to skip dessert,” he said.

  Bergman signaled to the waiter from across the room. He playfully twirled the wine in his glass with his finger, then licked it clean and downed the rest before he threw a white napkin over the half-finished meal in front of him.

  “Hardly,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  76

  UPSTAIRS IN THE SUITE, JOSH INTRODUCED ELIJAH TO THE ATTRACTIVE YOUNG couple waiting for them.

  “This is Richie. And this,” he said, with a barely contained laugh, “is Miranda.”

  Creem looked twice at the girl. “Is that your real name?” he asked, but she only stared awkwardly over at Josh. “Never mind,” he said. She was more of a Chloe than a Miranda, but he appreciated the sick little gesture, anyway. Josh was trying to make this special for him, and in any case, she was tall, lithe, blond, and yes, perfect.

  It looked like Richie and “Miranda” had started in without them. A bottle of tequila was open on the bedside table, and even though there were no loose tabs in sight, the ready-to-ball looks on their faces told Creem they were all X’d up and good to go.

  He poured himself a small shot of the tequila and settled into a comfortable chair by the bed. A stolen knife from the steakhouse downstairs was in the breast pocket of his blazer. To his own surprise, he was starting to feel quite into this. Maybe Josh knew him even better than he realized.

  “So, Miranda,” Creem said. “Tell me what turns you on.”

  With a little prodding, the prelubricated couple-for-hire got right into the swing of things. They sat perched on the edge of the king-size bed while Creem and Bergman directed them, and watched.

  Soon, the boy was running his hand up the girl’s skirt. The girl, in turn, put a well-manicured hand over the boy’s crotch.

  “Not too fast,” Josh told her. “Just unsnap his pants, and then leave them like that for a while.”

  There was no need for cross talk. They’d been here before. Josh told the girl what to do to the boy, and Creem told the boy what to do to the girl.

  “Put your finger in her. That’s it. Very nice.”

  After a while, Creem started to wish they’d brought a camera. The little beauty didn’t seem to have a single hair below her neck. He recorded it with his eyes instead, watching from the side while Bergman sat on the upholstered bench at the foot of the bed.

  Over the course of several minutes, the two were undressed, and then eventually going at it, flagrante delicto. The girl reached up, pressing her hands against the headboard with her back arched and her eyes closed, while the boy did his thing.

  When Creem had seen enough, he gave Josh a nod, to let him know he was ready.

  Josh held up a finger. He wanted to see the boy finish. But he did take a pistol out of the briefcase he’d carried in, and laid it flat on his own bulging lap. The two little bunny rabbits on the mattress didn’t even notice.

  It wasn’t such a bad way to go, actually.

  Slowly, Josh got onto his feet. The thousand-volt look in his eyes was unmistakable. It was his killing face. Creem had only seen it once before—twenty-five years ago, in Fort Lauderdale. That was the last time they’d killed together.

  “That’s it, kids,” Josh told them. “Exactly like that. Don’t stop now. Please, whatever you do, don’t stop.”

  The boy probably couldn’t have if he wanted to. He thrust a few more times and then ground furiously into the girl, as she squealed underneath him. He squeezed his eyes shut, and threw his head back.

  That’s when Josh went for it.

  With a muffled pop, he fired one bullet straight into the crown of the boy’s head. It sent him collapsing back onto the girl, like a
naked rag doll, already dead. She didn’t even seem to notice what had happened at first.

  By the time she did, Creem’s knife was out and it was far too late for her to do anything about it.

  CHAPTER

  77

  IT WAS COMING UP ON THREE IN THE MORNING WHEN CREEM AND BERGMAN decided to call it a night. They sat parked in the deserted lot next to Fletcher’s Cove, looking out toward the river.

  Both Richie and “Miranda” were on their way downstream by now. The bottle of tequila sat mostly empty on the car seat. Josh had even smoked a cigar with Elijah, though he’d clearly just pretended to enjoy it. Still posing, after all these years.

  “There’s something you should know,” Creem told him. “I didn’t want to say anything before, and it’s not as bad as it sounds, but a detective came to see me today.”

  Josh kept his cool, which surprised Creem a little. “A detective?”

  “Cross. One of the ones who arrested us that night. He came to tell me my place in Palm Beach had been burgled. The neighbors are dead, too. Imagine that.”

  “Why him?” Josh said.

  “I have no idea, but it was all about the robbery. I’m not too concerned.”

  “Whatever you say, Elijah.”

  Creem was relieved to hear Josh speaking like this. Of course, he was also half-drunk, and still riding the high of the evening. He lolled back against the headrest and closed his eyes as the silence stretched on in the car.

  “What would you do if the police were onto us?” Creem said finally. “If you knew they were coming after you?”

  Bergman shrugged. “Whatever I had to.”

  “Would you run?”

  “If I could, sure. I hear Vietnam is nice. Cute boys, good food. Or Argentina.”

  “And what if you couldn’t get away? What then?” Creem asked. “There’s still the trial to consider.”

  “Believe me, I’ve considered it,” Bergman said. “And in the words of my alcoholic mother”—he stopped and put on a shaky, Katharine Hepburn voice—“always leave the party before the party’s over, darling.”