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So far, no big surprises. Other than that he had the apartment in the first place.

“Szabo, are you him?” I finally asked out loud. “Are you the Mastermind? What the hell is your game, man?”

I quickly searched the living room, a small bedroom, then a claustrophobic den that obviously served as an office.

Szabo, is this where you plotted everything out?

An unfinished handwritten letter was lying on the desk in his den. It seemed he’d been working on it recently. I began to read.

Mr. Arthur Lee

A. Lee Laundry

This is a warning, and if I were you, I’d take it very seriously.

Three weeks ago, I dropped off some dry cleaning to you. Before I send out my cleaning, I always enclose a list of all articles in the dry cleaning bag, and a brief description of each article.

I keep a copy for myself!

The list is orderly and efficient.

The letter went on to say that some clothes of Szabo’s were missing. He’d spoken to someone at the laundry and been promised the clothing would be sent right over. It wasn’t.

I march right down to your cleaners. I meet with YOU. I am enraged that YOU too can stand there and tell me you don’t have my clothes. Then for the final insult. You tell me my doorman probably stole them.

I don’t have a fucking doorman! I live in the same building you do!

Consider yourself warned.

Frederic Szabo

What the hell was this? I wondered as I finished reading the odd, crazy, and seemingly inconsequential letter.

I shook my head back and forth. Was the A. Lee Laundry his next target? Was he planning something against Lee? The Mastermind?

I opened the drawers in a small credenza and found more letters, written to other companies: Citibank, Chase, First Union Bank, Exxon, Kodak, Bell Atlantic, scores of others.

I sat down and skimmed through the letters. All of it was hate mail. Crazy stuff. This was Frederic Szabo as he’d been described in his hospital workups. Paranoid, angry at the world, a curmudgeonly fifty-one-year-old who had been fired from every job he’d had.

I was getting more confused rather than clearer about Szabo. I ran my fingers along the top of a tall filing cabinet. There were papers up there. I pulled them down and took a look.

There were blueprints of the banks that had been robbed!

And a layout of the Renaissance Mayflower Hotel!

“Christ, it is him,” I muttered out loud. What were the blueprints doing here, though?

I don’t remember exactly what happened next. Maybe it was shifting light or motion in the room that I caught out of the corner of my eye.

I turned away from Szabo’s work desk. My eyes went wide with surprise, then total shock. My heart skipped.

A man was coming at me with a hunting knife clasped in his hand. He was wearing a President Clinton mask. He was screaming my name!

Chapter 114

“CROSS!”

I reached out both hands to try and stop the arm chopping down toward me. It held a hunting knife much like the ones on display in the other room. My hands wrapped around the powerful arm. If this was Szabo, he was stronger and a lot more agile than he’d looked at the hospital.

“What are you doing?” he screamed. “How dare you? How dare you touch my personal property?” He sounded completely crazy. “These letters are private!”

I pivoted off my right leg and yanked the hand holding the knife. The blade stuck several inches into the wooden desk. The masked man grunted and cursed.

Now what? I couldn’t chance bending down to get my gun from my ankle holster. The masked man easily wriggled the knife free. He swung it in a small, lethal arc. He missed the thrust by a few inches. The blade whistled past my temple.

“You’re going to die, Cross,” he screamed.

I spotted a cut-glass baseball on his desk. It was the only thing resembling a weapon that I saw anywhere. I grabbed it. Sidearmed it at him.

I heard a crunching sound as the paperweight struck a glancing blow off the side of his skull. He roared loudly, angrily, like an injured animal. Then he wobbled backward. He didn’t go down.

I bent quickly and pulled