Pop Goes the Weasel Read online

  “Colonel Shafer was clearly set up for this murder charge because the Washington police needed this terrible crime to be solved. This I will prove to you, and you will have no doubt of it. Mr. Shafer was framed because a particular homicide detective was going through some bad personal times and lost control of the situation.

  “Finally—and this is the most essential thing for you to remember—Colonel Shafer wants to be here. He isn’t here because he has to be; he has diplomatic immunity. Geoffrey Shafer is here to clear his good name.”

  Shafer nearly stood up in the courtroom and cheered.

  Chapter 80

  I PURPOSELY, and probably wisely, skipped the first day, then the second and the third day, of the courtroom circus. I didn’t want to face the world press, or the public, any more than I had to. I felt like I was on trial, too.

  A cold-blooded murderer was on trial, but the investigation continued more feverishly than ever for me. I still had the Jane Does to solve, and the disappearance of Christine, if I could open up any new leads. I wanted to make certain that Shafer would not walk away a free man, and most important, I desperately wanted finally to know the truth about Christine’s disappearance. I had to know. My greatest frustration was that because of the diplomatic shenanigans, I had never gotten to question Shafer. I would have given anything for a few hours with him.

  I turned the southern end of our attic into a war room. There was an excess of unused space up there, anyway. I moved an old mahogany dining table out from the shadows. I rewired an ancient window fan, which made the attic space almost bearable most days—especially early in the morning and late in the evening, when I did my best work up there—in my hermitage.

  I set up my laptop on the table, and I pinned different-colored index cards to the walls, to keep what I considered the most important pieces of the case before me at all times. Inside several bulky and misshapen cardboard boxes, I had all the rest of it: every scrap of evidence on Christine’s abduction, and everything I could find on the Jane Does.

  The murder cases formed a maddening puzzle created over several years, one that was not given to easy solutions. I was trying to play a complex game against a skillful opponent, but I didn’t know the rules of his game, or how it was played. That was Shafer’s unfair advantage.

  I had found some useful notes in Patsy Hampton’s detective logs, and they led me to interview the teenage boy, Michael Ormson, who’d chatted on-line with Shafer about the Four Horsemen. I continued to work closely with Chuck Hufstedler of the FBI. Chuck felt guilty about giving Patsy Hampton the original lead, especially since I’d come to him first. I used his guilt.

  Both the Bureau and Interpol were doing an active search of the game on the Internet. I’d visited countless chatrooms myself, but had encountered no one, other than young Ormson, who was aware of the mysterious game. It was only because Shafer had taken a chance and gone into the chatroom that he’d been discovered. I wondered what other chances he’d taken.

  Following Shafer’s arrest at the Farragut, we did a little search on his Jaguar, and I’d also spent nearly an hour at his home—before his lawyers knew I was there. I spoke to his wife, Lucy, and his son, Robert, who confirmed that he played a game called the Four Horsemen. He had been playing for seven or eight years.

  Neither the wife nor the son knew any of the other players, or anything about them. They didn’t believe that Geoffrey Shafer had done anything wrong.

  The son called his father the “straight arrow of straight arrows.” Lucy Shafer called him a good man, and she seemed to believe it.

  I found role-playing game magazines as well as dozens of sets of game dice in Shafer’s den, but no other physical evidence relating to his game. Shafer was careful; he covered his tracks well. He was in intelligence, after all. I couldn’t imagine him throwing dice to select his victims, but maybe that helped to account for the irregular pattern of the Jane Does.

  His attorney Jules Halpern complained loudly and vigorously about the invasion of Shafer’s home, and had I uncovered any useful evidence, it would certainly have been suppressed. Unfortunately, I didn’t have enough time, and Shafer was too clever to keep anything incriminating in his house, anyway. He’d made one big mistake; he wasn’t likely to make another. Was he?

  Sometimes, very late at night, as I worked in the attic, I would stop for a while and remember something about Christine. The memories were painful and sad, but also soothing to me. I began to look forward to these times when I could think about her without any interruption. Some nights, I would wander down to the piano in the sun porch and play songs that had been important to us—“Unforgettable,” “Moonglow,” “’S Wonderful.” I could still remember how she’d looked, especially when I visited at her place—faded jeans, bare feet, T-shirt or maybe her favorite yellow crewneck sweater, a tortoiseshell comb in her long hair that always smelled of shampoo.

  I didn’t want to feel sorry for myself, but I just couldn’t help feeling miserably bad. I was caught in limbo, not knowing one way or the other what had really happened to Christine. I couldn’t let her go.

  It was paralyzing me, crippling me, making me feel so damn sad and empty. I knew I needed to move on with my life, but I couldn’t do it. I needed answers, at least a few of them. Is Christine part of the game? I kept wondering. I was obsessed with the game.

  Am I part of it?

  I believed I was. And in a way, I hoped she was, too. It was my only hope that she might still be alive.

  Chapter 81

  AND SO I FOUND MYSELF a player in a truly bizarre game that was habit-forming for all the wrong reasons. I began to make up my own rules. I brought in new players. I was in this game to win.

  Chuck Hufstedler from the FBI offices in D.C. continued to be helpful. The more I talked to him, the more I realized that he’d had a serious crush on Detective Hampton. His loss, and mine with Christine, united us.

  I climbed up to the attic late Friday night after watching The Mask of Zorro with Damon, Jannie, Nana, and Rosie the cat. I had a few more facts to check before going to bed.

  I booted up the computer, logged on, and heard the familiar message: You have mail. Ever since that night in Bermuda, those words had given me a terrible fright, a chill that tightened my body from head to toe.

  Sandy Greenberg from Interpol was replying to one of my e-mails. She and I had worked together on the Mr. Smith case and had become friends. I’d asked her to check on several things for me.

  CALL ME ANYTIME TONIGHT, ALEX, AND I MEAN ANYTIME. YOUR IRRITATING DOGGEDNESS MAY HAVE PAID OFF. IT’S VITALLY IMPORTANT THAT YOU CALL. SANDY.

  I called Sandy in Europe, and she picked up after the second ring. “Alex? I think we’ve found one of them. It was your bloody idea that worked. Shafer was playing a game with at least one of his old cronies from MI-Six. You were spot on.”

  “Are you sure it’s one of the game players?” I asked her.

  “Pretty sure,” she shot back. “I’m sitting here now staring at a copy of Dürer’s Four Horsemen, on my Mac. As you know, the Horsemen are Conqueror, Famine, War, and Death. What a creepy bunch. Anyway, I did what you asked. I talked to some contacts from MI-Six, who found out that Shafer and this one chap regularly keep in touch on the computer. I have all your notes, too, and they’re very good. I can’t believe how much you figured out from back there in the colonies. You’re a very sick puppy, too.”

  “Thanks,” I said. I let Sandy ramble on for a few minutes. A while back I’d recognized that she was a lonely person, and that even though she sometimes put up a cantankerous front, she craved company.

  “The name this chap uses in the game is Conqueror. Conqueror lives in Dorking, Surrey, in England,” Sandy told me. “His name is Oliver Highsmith, and he’s retired from MI-Six. Alex, he was running several agents in Asia at the same time Shafer was there. Shafer worked under him. It’s eight in the morning over here. Why don’t you call the bastard?” Sandy suggested. “Or send him an e-mail. I ha
ve an address for him, Alex.”

  I started to wonder about the other players in the Four Horsemen game. Were there really four of them, or was that just the name of the game? Who were these players? How was the game actually played? Did all, or indeed any, of them act out their fantasies in real life?

  My message to Conqueror was simple and straightforward and not too threatening, I hoped. I didn’t see how he could resist answering me.

  DEAR MR. HIGHSMITH, I AM A HOMICIDE DETECTIVE IN WASHINGTON, D.C., LOOKING FOR INFORMATION ABOUT COLONEL GEOFFREY SHAFER PERTAINING TO THE FOUR HORSEMEN. I UNDERSTAND THAT SHAFER WORKED FOR YOU IN ASIA. TIME IS OF THE ESSENCE. I NEED YOUR HELP. PLEASE CONTACT DETECTIVE ALEX CROSS.

  Chapter 82

  I WAS SURPRISED when a message came right back. Oliver Highsmith—Conqueror—must have been on-line when my e-mail went through.

  DETECTIVE CROSS. I AM WELL AWARE OF YOU, SINCE THE ONGOING MURDER TRIAL IS A RATHER BIG STORY IN ENGLAND, AND IN THE REST OF EUROPE, FOR THAT MATTER. I HAVE KNOWN G.S. FOR A DOZEN YEARS OR MORE. HE DID WORK UNDER ME, BRIEFLY. HE IS MORE AN ACQUAINTANCE THAN A CLOSE FRIEND, SO I HAVE NO EXPERTISE OR BIAS ABOUT HIS GUILT OR INNOCENCE. I HOPE IT’S THE LATTER, OF COURSE.

  NOW, AS TO YOUR QUESTION ABOUT THE FOUR HORSEMEN. THE GAME—AND IT IS A FANTASY GAME, DETECTIVE—IS HIGHLY UNUSUAL IN THAT ALL OF THE PLAYERS ASSUME THE ROLE OF GAMEMASTER. THAT IS TO SAY, EACH OF US CONTROLS HIS OWN FATE, HIS OWN STORY. G.S.’S STORY IS EVEN MORE DARING AND UNUSUAL. HIS CHARACTER, THE RIDER ON THE PALE HORSE—DEATH—IS DEEPLY FLAWED. ONE MIGHT EVEN SAY EVIL. THE CHARACTER IS SOMEWHAT LIKE THE PERSON ON TRIAL IN WASHINGTON, OR SO IT SEEMS TO ME.

  HOWEVER, I MUST MAKE A FEW IMPORTANT POINTS. THE APPEARANCE OF ANY MURDER FANTASIES IN OUR GAME ALWAYS OCCURRED DAYS AFTER REPORTS OF MURDERS IN THE NEWSPAPERS. BELIEVE ME, THIS WAS THOROUGHLY CHECKED BY US ONCE G.S. WAS ACCUSED. IT WAS EVEN BROUGHT TO THE ATTENTION OF INSPECTOR JONES AT THE SECURITY SERVICE IN LONDON, SO I’M SURPRISED YOU WEREN’T INFORMED BEFORE NOW. THE SERVICE HAVE BEEN TO SEE ME ABOUT G.S. AND WERE COMPLETELY SATISFIED, I ASSUME, SINCE THEY HAVEN’T BEEN BACK.

  ALSO, THE OTHER PLAYERS—WHO HAVE THEMSELVES BEEN CHECKED OUT BY SECURITY—ARE ALL REPRESENTED BY POSITIVE CHARACTERS IN THE GAME. AND AS I’VE SAID, AS POWERFULLY INVOLVING AS HORSEMEN IS, IT IS NEVERTHELESS ONLY A GAME. BY THE WAY, DID YOU KNOW THAT BY SOME SCHOLARLY ACCOUNTS THERE IS A FIFTH HORSEMAN? MIGHT THAT BE YOU, DR. CROSS?

  FYI—THE CONTACT AT THE SERVICE IS MR. ANDREW JONES. I TRUST HE WILL VOUCH FOR THE VERACITY OF MY STATEMENTS. IF YOU WISH TO CONVERSE FURTHER, DO SO AT YOUR OWN RISK. I AM 67 YEARS OF AGE, RETIRED FROM INTELLIGENCE (AS I LIKE TO PUT IT), AND A RATHER FAMOUS WINDBAG. I WISH YOU MUCH LUCK IN YOUR SEARCH FOR TRUTH AND JUSTICE. I MISS THE CHASE MYSELF.

  CONQUEROR

  I read the message, then reread it. “Much luck in your search?” Was that as loaded a line as it sounded?

  And was I now a player—the fifth Horseman?

  Chapter 83

  I WENT TO COURT EVERY DAY the following week, and like so many other people, I got hooked on the trial. Jules Halpern was the most impressive orator I had ever watched in a courtroom, but Catherine Fitzgibbon was effective as well. The verdict would depend on whom the jury believed more. It was all theater, a game. I remembered that as a kid I used to regularly watch a courtroom drama with Nana, called The Defenders. Every show began with a deep-voiced narrator’s saying something to the effect of, “The American justice system is far from perfect, but it is still the very best justice system in the world.”

  That may be true, but as I sat in the courtroom in Washington, I couldn’t help thinking that the murder trial, the judge, the jury, the lawyers, and all the rules were just another elaborate game, and that Geoffrey Shafer was already planning his next foray, savoring every move that the prosecution made against him.

  He was still in control of the game board. He was the gamemaster. He knew it, and so did I.

  I watched Jules Halpern conduct smooth examinations that were designed to give the impression that his monstrous, psychopathic client was as innocent as a newborn baby. Actually, it was easy to drift off during the lengthy cross-examinations. I never really missed anything, though, since all the important points were repeated over and over, ad nauseam.

  “Alex Cross…”

  I heard my name mentioned and refocused my attention on Jules Halpern. He produced a blown-up photograph that had appeared in the Post on the day after the murder. The photo had been taken by another tenant at the Farragut and sold to the newspaper.

  Halpern leaned in close to the witness on the stand, a man named Carmine Lopes, a night doorman at the apartment building where Patsy Hampton had been murdered.

  “Mr. Lopes, I show you Defendant’s Exhibit J, a photograph of my client and Detective Alex Cross. It was taken in the tenthfloor hallway soon after the discovery of Detective Hampton’s body.”

  The blowup was large enough for me to see most of the detail from where I was sitting in the fourth row. The photo had always been a shocker to me.

  In it, Shafer looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of GQ. In comparison, my clothes were tattered and dirty. I had just come off my crazy marathon run from the zoo, and I had been down in the garage with poor Patsy’s body. My fists were clenched tightly, and I seemed to be roaring out anger at Shafer. Pictures do lie. We know that. The photograph was highly inflammatory, and I felt it could instill prejudice in the minds of the jurors.

  “Is this a fair representation of how the two men looked at ten-thirty that evening?” Halpern asked the doorman.

  “Yes, sir. It’s very fair. That’s how I remember it.”

  Jules Halpern nodded as if he were receiving vital information for the first time. “Would you now describe, in your own words, what Detective Cross looked like at that time?” he asked.

  The doorman hesitated and seemed slightly confused by the question. I wasn’t. I knew where Halpern was going now.

  “Was he dirty?” Halpern jumped in and asked the simplest possible question.

  “Er, dirty… sure. He was a mess.”

  “And was he sweaty?” the defense lawyer asked.

  “Sweaty… yeah. We all were. From being down in the garage, I guess. It was a real hot night.”

  “Nose running?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Were Detective Cross’s clothes ripped, Mr. Lopes?”

  “Yes, they were. Ripped and dirty.”

  Jules Halpern looked at the jury first, then at his witness. “Were Detective Cross’s clothes bloodstained?”

  “Yes… they sure were. That’s what I noticed first, the blood.”

  “Was the blood anywhere else, Mr. Lopes?”

  “On his hands. You couldn’t miss it. I sure didn’t.”

  “And Mr. Shafer, how did Mr. Shafer look?”

  “He was clean, not mussed at all. He seemed pretty calm and collected.”

  “Did you see any blood on Mr. Shafer?”

  “No, sir. No blood.”

  Halpern nodded, then faced the jury. “Mr. Lopes, which of the two men looked more like someone who might have just committed a murder?”

  “Detective Cross,” the doorman said without hesitation.

  “Objection!” the district attorney screamed, but not before the damage was done.

  Chapter 84

  THAT AFTERNOON, the defense was scheduled to call Chief of Detectives George Pittman. The assistant district attorney, Catherine Fitzgibbon, knew that Pittman was on the docket, and she asked me to meet her for lunch. “If you have an appetite before Pittman goes on,” she added.

  Catherine was smart, and she was thorough. She had put away nearly as many bad guys as Jules Halpern had set free. We got together over sandwiches at a crowded deli near the courthouse. Neither of us was thrilled about Pittman’s upcoming appearance. My reputation as a detective was being ruined by the defense, and it was a hard thing to watch and do nothing.

  She bit down into a hefty Reuben
sandwich that squirted mustard onto her forefinger and thumb. Catherine smiled. “Sloppy, but worth it. You and Pittman are really at odds, right? More like you hate each other’s guts?”

  “It’s serious dislike, and it’s mutual,” I told her. “He’s tried to do me in a couple of times. He thinks I’m a threat to his career.”

  Catherine was attacking her sandwich. “Hmmm, there’s a thought. Would you be a better chief of detectives?”

  “Wouldn’t run, wouldn’t serve if elected. I wouldn’t be good cooped up in an office playing political Ping-Pong.”

  Catherine laughed. She’s one of those people who can find humor almost anywhere. “This is just fricking great, Alex. The defense is calling the chief of detectives as one of its goddamn witnesses. He’s listed as hostile, but I don’t think he is.”

  Catherine and I finished off the rest of her sandwich. “Well, let’s find out what Mr. Halpern has up his sleeve today,” she said.

  At the start of the afternoon session, Jules Halpern did a careful and thorough setup of Pittman’s credentials, which sounded reasonably impressive in the abstract. Undergrad at George Washington, then law school at American; twenty-four years on the police force, with medals for bravery and citations from three different mayors.

  “Chief Pittman, how would you describe Detective Cross’s record in the department?” asked Halpern.

  I cringed in my seat. Felt my brow wrinkle, my eyes narrow. Here we go, I thought.

  “Detective Cross has been involved in some high-profile cases that the department has solved,” he said, and left it at that. Not exactly praise, but at least he hadn’t gone on the attack.

  Halpern nodded sagely. “What, if anything, has changed his performance recently?”