Cross

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