Cross

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 and 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