Double Cross - James Patterson [63]
It never happened.
The phone on my desk rang around two thirty. I picked up and heard a voice that I recognized.
“Detective Cross? It’s Jeanne Phillips at the Post. I’m wondering if you’ve seen the latest e-mail yet and if you’d care to comment on it?”
“Don’t know what e-mail you mean, Jeanne,” I said. Jeanne had funneled some pretty good information my way in the past, which was the reason I was willing to stay on the line with her.
“Trust me on this, you want to know. How about if I hold on while you check your in-box?”
Suddenly, I realized that whatever this was, I didn’t want to be on the phone with a reporter from the Washington Post when I saw it.
“I’ll call you back,” I said.
What I found moments later was another stunner. The message was from DCAK and had been sent to my e-mail, Bree’s, and what looked like just about every news desk, TV channel, and radio station in the DC metro area. He had authenticated it in his usual way, with an image of his latest calling card scanned right into the message. The image was of the postal ID from the Smithsonian, which we’d kept out of the press like the others before it.
The message was written in his familiar taunting style.
Detectives:
Does anyone besides me think you aren’t giving this case the attention it deserves? By my count, it’s DCAK six, cops zero. That’s right, I said six. Or maybe five and a half—since this one isn’t quite dead yet.
I’ve gone and found that piece of shit copycat, no thanks to any of you. It wasn’t hard—just took a little thought. More than you’ve given it, anyway; more than you’re capable of, I suspect.
But here’s what I’m going to do for you. In one hour, you’ll receive another message—with an address. That’s where you’ll find your copycat, and if you’re lucky, he’ll still be alive. I haven’t decided yet. My call, of course. Dead or alive? Dead or alive? We’ll have to see.
Now do you understand why the public is so scared of me? I’m better at this than you are, and they know it. That’s your problem. It will always be your problem. Time and time again. For years to come, since I plan to be at this for a long while. In the meantime, you can do what you do best. Sit on your asses and wait to see what I do next.
Until then . . .
Keep on living, fuckers.
Chapter 82
BREE SAW TO IT that just about every available cruiser in the entire city was put on standby. I called Sampson myself and told him to keep his line open. I tried Kitz to see if we could preemptively trace an incoming e-mail, but I got his voice mail—and the same thing when I tried his assistant. I fielded calls from Superintendent Davies, the chief’s office, the mayor’s office, and then Nana herself. DCAK’s story was already out there on the airwaves. Of course it was. He’d put it there to stoke all the fires that he possibly could.
Word from downstairs was that we had a growing press army waiting for us on the street too. It didn’t feel like anything was going our way, probably because it wasn’t, and that wasn’t likely to change anytime soon, from what I could tell.
Finally Bree and I stopped taking calls altogether. We holed up in the office, waiting, just like the bastard wanted us to. We put our energy into examining the latest e-mail, scanning for a hidden meaning, some indication of his state of mind, anything we might use—anything to keep us from spinning our wheels in another wrong direction.
The MO was basically the same. His online stuff was just another kind of disguise—electronic—but it all came from the same narcissistic mind. This was a deeply disturbed person, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t enjoying himself. He was organized and clever, and he knew it.
Three thirty came and went.
Then four o’clock.
Then five.
He was obviously toying with us, saying in no uncertain terms, I’m in control here. Bree and I eventually