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  A bosomy blond woman got out of the sedan, stretching her long legs like she was auditioning for the Rockettes. She was a former Miss Universe contestant, twenty-six years old, with some of the best moving parts money could buy. She was also a little too classy and hot for the mobster to have snagged without some cash having changed hands. Benny was a tough little weasel, but he wasn’t exactly a movie star, unless maybe you counted the guy who played Tony Soprano as one.

  The Butcher watched, mildly amused, from his own car parked half a block down the street. He guessed that the blonde was setting Benny back five hundred or so an hour, maybe two grand for the night if Mrs. Fontana happened to be out of town visiting their daughter, who was tucked away in school at Marymount Manhattan.

  Michael Sullivan checked his watch.

  Seven fifty-two. This was payback for Venice. The beginning of payback anyway. The first of several messages he was planning to send.

  At eight fifteen, he took his briefcase from the backseat, got out, and crossed the street, staying in the soft shadows of maple and elm trees. It didn’t take much waiting time for a blue-haired woman wrapped in a fur coat to come out of the apartment building. Sullivan held the door for her with a friendly smile and then let himself inside.

  Everything was more or less the way he remembered it. Apartment 4C had been in the Family for years, ever since opportunities had started opening up in Washington for the mob. The place was a perk for anyone in town who needed some extra privacy, for whatever reason. The Butcher had used it himself once or twice when he was doing jobs for Benny Fontana. This was before John Maggione took over from his father, though, and began to shut the Butcher out.

  Even the cheap Korean dead bolt on the front door was the same, or close enough. Another mistake. Sullivan jimmied it with a three-dollar awl from his workshop at home. He put the tool back into the briefcase and took out his gun and a surgical blade, a very special one.

  The living room was mostly dark. Cones of light spilled in from two directions—the kitchen on his left, a bedroom on his right. Benny’s insistent grunting told Sullivan it was somewhere past halftime. He swiftly padded across the living room rug to the bedroom door and looked inside. Miss Universe was on top—no surprise—with her slender back to him.

  “That’s it, baby. That’s what I like,” Benny said, and then, “I’m gonna put my finger—”

  Sullivan’s silencer popped softly, and just once. He shot the former Miss Universe contestant in the back of her hairdo, and the woman’s blood and brains splattered all over Benny Fontana’s chest and face. The mobster yelled out like he’d been shot himself.

  He managed to roll himself out from under the dead girl and then off the bed, away from the nightstand, also away from his own gun. The Butcher started to laugh. He didn’t mean to disrespect the mob boss, or disrespect the dead, but Fontana had done just about everything wrong tonight. He was getting soft, which was why Sullivan had come after him first.

  “Hi there, Benny. How you been?” the Butcher said as he flipped on the overhead light. “We need to talk about Venice.”

  He took out a scalpel that had a special edge for cutting muscle. “Actually, I need you to send a message to Mr. Maggione for me. Could you do that, Benny? Be a messenger boy? By the way, you ever hear of Syme’s operation, Ben? It’s a foot amputation.”

  Chapter 50

  MICHAEL SULLIVAN COULDN’T go right home to his family in Maryland, not after what he’d just done to Benny Fontana and his girlfriend. He was too riled up inside, his blood boiling. He was hot-flashing scenes from his old man’s shop in Brooklyn again—sawdust stored in a big cardboard barrel, the terra-cotta tile floor with white grout, handsaws, boning knives, meat hooks in the freezer room.

  So he wandered around Georgetown for a while, looking for trouble if he could find the right kind. The thing of it was, he liked his ladies tucked in a little. He especially liked lawyers, MBAs, professor-librarian types—loved their glasses, the buttoned-down clothes, the conservative hairstyles. Always so in control of themselves.

  He liked helping them lose some of that control, while blowing off a little steam of his own, relieving his stress, breaking all the rules of this dumbass society.

  Georgetown was a good pickup place for him. Every other chippie he spotted on the street was a little too tightly wound. Not that there were so many to choose from, not at this time of night. But he didn’t need that many choices, just one good one. And maybe he’d already spotted her. He thought so anyway.

  She looked like she could be a trial attorney, dressed to impress in that smart tweed outfit of hers. The heels ticktocked a steady rhythm on the sidewalk—this way, that way, this way, that way.

  In contrast, Sullivan’s Nikes didn’t make much noise at all. With a hooded sweatshirt, he was just another Bobo jogger out for a late-night run in the neighborhood. If someone peeked from their window, that’s what they’d see.

  But no one was looking, least of all Miss Tweedy. Tweedy Bird, he thought with a grin. Mistake. Hers.

  She kept her stride city-fast, her leather purse and briefcase tucked like the key to the Da Vinci Code under one arm, and she stayed to the outside edge of the sidewalk—all smart moves for a woman alone on the street late at night. Her one mistake was not looking around enough, not taking in the surroundings. Not spotting the jogger who was walking behind her.

  And mistakes could kill you, couldn’t they?

  Sullivan hung back in the shade as Tweedy passed under a streetlamp. Nice pipes and a great ass, he noted. No ring on the left hand.

  The high heels kept their rhythm steady on the sidewalk for another half block; then she slowed in front of a redbrick townhouse. Nice place. Nineteenth-century. From the look of it, though, one of those buildings that had been butchered into condos on the inside.

  She pulled a set of keys from her purse before she even got to the front door, and Sullivan began to time his approach. He reached into his own pocket and took out a slip of paper. A dry-cleaning ticket? It didn’t really matter what it was.

  As she put her key into the door, and before she pushed it open, he called out in a friendly voice. “Excuse me, miss? Excuse me? Did you drop this?”

  Chapter 51

  NO DUMMY, THAT TWEEDY BIRD—her mama didn’t raise any foolish daughters. She knew she was in trouble immediately, but there was nothing much she could do about it in the next few seconds.

  He hit the stoop fast, before she could close the glass door between them and let it lock her safely inside.

  A faux gaslight on the foyer wall showed off the panic in her very pretty blue eyes.

  It also illuminated the blade of the scalpel in his hand, extended out toward her face.

  The Butcher wanted her to see the sharp edge so she’d be thinking about it, even more than about him. That’s how it worked, and he knew it. Nearly 90 percent of people who were attacked remembered details about the weapon rather than the person wielding it.

  An awkward stumble was about all Tweedy managed before he was inside the foyer door with her. Michael Sullivan positioned his back to the street, shielding her from view in case somebody happened to walk by outside. He kept the scalpel visible in one hand and snatched away her keys with the other.

  “Not one word,” he said, with the blade up near his lips. “And try to remember—I don’t administer anesthesia with this. Don’t even use topical Betadine. I just cut.”

  She stood on her tiptoes as she backed up against an ornately carved newel post. “Here.” She thrust her small designer purse at him. “Please. It’s yours. Go now.”

  “Not going to happen. I don’t want your money. Now, listen to me. Are you listening?”

  “Yes.”

  “You live alone?” he asked. It had the effect he wanted. Her pause gave him his answer.

  “No.” She tried to cover herself too late.

  There were three mailboxes on the wall. Only number two had a single name: L. Brandt.


  “Let’s go upstairs, Miss Brandt.”

  “I’m not—”

  “Yes, you are. No reason to lie. Now move it, before you lose it.”

  In less than twenty seconds, they were inside her second-floor condo. The living room, like L. Brandt herself, was neat and organized. Black-and-white photos of kissing scenes were up on the walls. Movie posters—Sleepless in Seattle, An Officer and a Gentleman. The girl was a romantic at heart. But in some ways, so was Sullivan—at least he thought so.

  Her body went stiff as a two-by-four as he picked her up. She was a tiny thing; it took all of one arm to get her into the bedroom, then down on her bed, where she lay without moving.

  “You’re a very beautiful girl,” he said. “Just lovely. Like an exquisite doll. Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to see the rest of the package.”

  He used the scalpel to cut the buttons off that pricey tweed suit of hers. L. Brandt came undone right along with her clothes; she went from paralyzed to limp, but at least he didn’t have to remind her to keep quiet.

  He used his hands on her bra and panties, which were black and lacy. On a weekday, too. She didn’t wear pantyhose, and her legs were just great, slender and lightly tanned. Toenails painted bright red. When she tried to squeeze her eyes shut, he slapped her just enough to get her full attention.

  “Stay with me, L. Brandt.”

  Something on her dresser caught his eye. Lipstick. “You know what, put some of that on. And a nice perfume. You pick something out.” L. Brandt did as she was told. She knew she had no choice.

  He held his cock in one hand, the scalpel in the other—a visual she would never, ever forget. Then he forced himself inside her. “I want you to play along,” he said. “Fake it if you have to. I’m sure you’ve done that before.” She did her best, arching her pelvis, moaning once or twice, just not looking at him.

  “Now, look at me,” he commanded. “Look at me. Look at me. Look at me. That’s better.” Then it was over for him. For both of them.

  “A quick chat before I go,” he said. “And, believe it or not, I am planning to leave. I’m not going to hurt you. No more than I already have.”

  He found her purse on the floor. Inside was what he was looking for—a driver’s license and a black address book. He held the license under the bedside lamp.

  “So it’s Lisa. Very nice picture for government-issue. Of course, you’re even prettier in real life. Now let me show you a few pictures of my own.”

  He hadn’t brought many, just four of them, but some of his personal favorites. He fanned them out in the palm of one hand. Lisa was back to frozen again. It was almost funny, like if she was still enough, he might not notice her there.

  He held up the photos for her to see—one at a time. “These are all people I’ve met twice. You and I, of course, have only met once. Whether or not we meet again is entirely up to you. Do you follow? Am I making myself clear?”

  “Yes.”

  He stood up and walked around to her side of the bed, gave her a few seconds to process what he was saying. She covered herself with a sheet. “Do you understand me, Lisa? Truly? I know it can be a little hard to concentrate right now. I imagine it would be.”

  “I won’t say—anything,” she whispered. “I promise.”

  “Good, I believe you,” he said. “Just in case, though, I’m going to take this, too.”

  He held up the address book. Flipped it open to B. “Here we go. Tom and Lois Brandt. Is that Mom and Dad? Vero Beach, Florida. Supposed to be very nice down there. The Treasure Coast.”

  “Oh, God, please,” she said.

  “Entirely up to you, Lisa,” he said. “Of course, if you ask me, it would be a shame after all this for you to end up like those others in the photographs. You know—in parts, sewn up. Whatever I was in the mood to do.”

  He lifted up the sheet and looked her over one more time. “They’d be pretty parts in your case, but parts all the same.”

  And with those last words, he left Lisa Brandt alone with her memories of him.

  Chapter 52

  “THIS IS WHY I DON’T WEAR TIES.”

  John Sampson pulled at the constricting knot around his neck and ripped the damn thing off. He tossed it and what remained of his coffee into the trash. Immediately, he wished he hadn’t thrown away the coffee. He and Billie had been up half the night with little Djakata and her flu. A truckload of caffeine was exactly what he needed right now.

  When the phone on his desk rang, he was in no mood to talk to anybody about anything. “Yeah, what?”

  A woman’s voice came on the other end. “Is this Detective Sampson’s line?”

  “Sampson here. What?”

  “This is Detective Angela Susan Anton. I’m with the Sex Assault Unit, assigned to the Second District.”

  “Okay.” He waited for her to connect some dots for him.

  “I was hoping to pull you in on a disturbing case, Detective. We’re running into some serious dead ends over here.”

  Sampson fished in the wastebasket for the coffee container. All right! It had landed right-side up.

  “What’s the case?”

  “A rape. Happened in Georgetown last night. The woman was treated at GUH, but all she’ll say is that she was attacked. She won’t ID the guy. Won’t describe him at all. I was with her all morning and got nowhere. I’ve never seen anything quite like it, Detective. The level of fear the woman is exhibiting.”

  Sampson crooked the phone to his ear and scribbled some notes on a tablet that said “Dad Pad” at the top, a Father’s Day knickknack from Billie. “Okay so far. But I’m curious why you’re calling me, Detective.”

  He sipped the bad coffee again, and suddenly it seemed not so bad.

  Anton took a beat before answering. “I understand that Alex Cross is a friend of yours.”

  Sampson set down his pen and leaned back in his desk chair. “Now I see.”

  “I was hoping you could—”

  “I hear you loud and clear, Detective Anton. You want me to pimp the deal for you?”

  “No,” she said quickly. “Rakeem Powell tells me you two are seriously good when you work serials together. I’d like to have you both in on this. Hey, I’m just being honest.”

  Sampson stayed quiet, waiting to see if she’d get out of this one or hang herself some more.

  “We left messages for Dr. Cross last night and this morning, but I have to imagine everyone and their uncle want a piece of his time. Now that he’s freelancing.”

  “Well, you’re right about that, everybody wants a piece of him,” he said. “But Alex is a big boy. He can take care of himself and make his own decisions. Why don’t you keep trying his phone?”

  “Detective Sampson, this perp is a particularly sick bastard. I don’t have the luxury of wasting anyone’s time on this case, including my own. So if I’ve stepped on your toes in any way, maybe you can get the hell over it, cut through the bullshit, and tell me if you’ll help me or not.”

  Sampson recognized the tone, and it made him smile. “Well, since you put it that way—yeah, okay. I can’t make any commitments for Alex. But I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Great. Thank you. I’ll send over the files now. Unless you want to pick them up here.”

  “Hold on. Files? Plural?”

  “Am I going too fast for you, Detective Sampson? The whole reason I’m calling is your and Dr. Cross’s experience with serial cases.”

  Sampson rubbed the telephone receiver against his temple. “Yeah, I guess you are going too fast for me. Are we talking homicide here, too?”

  “Not serial murder,” Anton said tightly. “Serial rape.”

  Chapter 53

  “THIS ISN’T A CONSULT,” I told Sampson. “It’s a favor. To you, personally, John.”

  Sampson raised his eyebrows knowingly. “In other words, you promised Nana and the kids no more fieldwork.”

  I waved him off. “No, I didn’t promise anybody anything. Just drive a
nd try not to hit anyone on the way. At least no one that we like.”

  We were in McLean, Virginia, to interview Lisa Brandt, who had left her Georgetown apartment to go stay with a friend in the country. I had her case file on my lap, along with three others, women who had been raped but wouldn’t say anything to help the investigation and possibly stop the rapist. The serial rapist.

  This was my first chance to look the papers over, but it hadn’t taken me long to agree with the originating detective’s conclusion. These attacks were all committed by one man, and the perp was definitely a psycho. The known survivors were of a type: white women in their twenties or early thirties, single, living alone in the Georgetown area. Each of them was a successful professional of some kind—a lawyer, an account executive. Lisa Brandt was an architect. These were all smart, ambitious women.

  And not one of them was willing to say a word against or about the man who had attacked her.

  Our perp was clearly a discerning and self-controlled animal who knew how to put the fear of God into his victims and then make it stick. And not just once, but four times. Or maybe more than four. Because chances were very good he had other victims, women too afraid to even report they had been attacked.

  “Here we are,” Sampson said. “This is where Lisa Brandt is hiding herself.”

  Chapter 54

  I LOOKED UP from the heap of detective files on my lap as we pulled in through a giant hedgerow onto a long crescent-shaped driveway paved with broken seashells. The house was a stately Greek revival, with two-story white columns in front, and looked like a suburban fortress. I could see why Lisa Brandt might come here for refuge and safety.

  Her friend Nancy Goodes answered the door and then stepped outside the house to speak with us in private. She was a slight blonde and looked to be about Ms. Brandt’s age, which the file put at twenty-nine.

  “I don’t have to tell you that Lisa has been through hell,” she said in a whisper that really wasn’t necessary out here on the porch. “Can you please keep this interview as brief as possible? I wish you could just leave. I don’t understand why she has to talk to more police. Can either of you explain that to me?”