Cat & Mouse

I shook my head. “They’ll want to talk to me about it anyway. They’ll find out who I am. Let’s get the silly shit over with.”

Kyle frowned, but then he nodded slowly. I tried to control my impatience as I walked toward the horde of reporters.

I waved my hands over my head and that quieted some of them. The media is extremely visual, I’ve learned the hard way, even the print journalists, the so-called wordsmiths. They all watch far too many movies. Visual signals work best with them.

“I’ll answer your questions,” I volunteered and served up a thin smile, “as best I can anyway.”

“First question, who are you?” a man with a scraggly red beard and Salvation Army store taste in clothes hollered from the front of the pack. He looked like the reclusive novelist Thomas Harris, and maybe he was.

“That’s an easy one,” I answered, “I’m Thomas Pierce. I’m with BSU.”

That quieted the reporters for a moment. Those who didn’t recognize my face knew the name. The fact that I’d been brought in on the Cross case was news in itself. Camera flashes exploded in front of me, but I was used to them by now.

“Is Alex Cross still alive?” Someone called out. I had expected that to be the first question, but there’s no way to predict with the press corps.

“Dr. Cross is alive. As you can see, I just got here, so I don’t know much. So far, we have no suspects, no theories, no leads, nothing particularly interesting to talk about,” I said.

“What about the Mr. Smith case,” a woman reporter shouted at me. She was a dark-haired anchorperson type, perky as a chipmunk. “Are you putting Mr. Smith on hold now? How can you work two big cases? What’s up, Doc?” the reporter said and smiled. She was obviously smarter and wittier than she looked.

I winced, rolled my eyes, and smiled back at her. “No suspects, no theories, no leads, nothing interesting to talk about,” I repeated. “I have to go inside. The interview’s over. Thanks for your concern. I know it’s genuine is this god-awful case. I admire Alex Cross, too.”

“Did you say admire or admired?” another reporter shouted at me from the back.

“Why did they bring you in on this, Mr. Pierce? Is Mr. Smith involved?”

I couldn’t help arching my eyebrows at the question. I felt an unpleasant itch in my brain. “I’m here because I get lucky sometimes, all right? Maybe I’ll get lucky again. I have to go into the trenches now. I promise that I’ll tell you if and when we have anything. I sincerely doubt that Mr. Smith attacked Alex Cross last night. And I said admire, present tense.”

I pulled Kyle Craig out of there with me, holding on to his arm for support as much as anything. He grinned as soon as we had our backs to the horde.

“That was pretty goddamn good,” he said. “I think you managed to confuse the hell out of the, even beyond the usual blank stares.”

“Mad dogs of the Fourth Estate,” I shrugged. “Smears of blood on their lips and cheeks. They couldn’t care less about Cross or his family. Not one question about the kids. Edison said, ‘We don’t know a millionth of one per cent about anything!’ The press doesn’t get that. They want everything in black-and-white. They mistake simplicity, and simplemindedness, for the truth.”

“Make nice with the D.C. police,” Kyle cajoled, or maybe he was giving me a friendly warning. “This is an emotional time for them. That’s Detective John Sampson on the porch. He’s a friend of Alex. Alex’s closest friend, in fact.”

“Great,” I muttered. “Just who I don’t want to see right now.”

I glanced at Detective Sampson. He looked like a bad storm about to happen. I didn’t want to be here, Didn’t want or need any of this.

Kyle patted my shoulder. “We need you on this one. Soneji promised this would happen,” he suddenly told me. “He predicted it.”

I stared at Kyle Craig. He’d delivered his stunning thunderbolt of news in his usual deadpan, understated way, sort of like Sam Shepard on Quaalude.

“Say again? What was that last bit?”

“Gary Soneji warned Alex that he’d get him, even if he died Soneji said he couldn’t be stopped. It looks like he made good on his promise. I want you to tell me how. Tell me how Soneji did it. That’s why you’re here, Thomas.”

Chapter 74

MY NERVES were already on edge. My awareness was heightened to a level I found almost painful. I couldn’t believe I was here in Washington, involved in this case. Tell me how Gary Soneji did this? Tell me how it could have happened. That’s all I had to do.

The press had one thing right. It’s fair to say that I am the FBI’s current hotshot profiler. I should be used to graphic, violent crime scenes, but I’m not. It stirs up too much white noise, too many memories of Isabella. Of Isabella and myself. Of another time and place, another life.