Cross

definitely appeared to like the sex, which was a good, sweaty workout. The blond guy was going deep, and Melinda seemed to like it that way just fine. The whole thing was kind of a turn-on. Melinda had on white kneesocks, which Sullivan got a kick out of. Did she do it for him or for herself? he wondered.
    After a minute or so of watching, he cleared his throat.
Ahem, ahem. Order in the fuck-room.
    The coupling couple jumped apart, which was no easy trick given the corkscrew position they’d been locked in a couple of milliseconds before.
    “Wow—you two!” he said, and smiled pleasantly, as if he was here doing a survey on extramarital affairs or something. “Really going at it. I’m impressed.”
    He kind of liked the two of them actually, especially this Mel. No doubt about it, she was a looker for her age. Nice body and face—sweet face, he was thinking.
    He even liked the way she didn’t cover up and stared right back at him, like
What the hell do you think you’re doing here? This is my house, my affair, none of your goddamn business, whoever the hell you are. So get lost!
    “You’re Melinda Steiner, right?” he asked, pointing the gun at her, but not in a threatening way. What was the point of threats, of scaring them any worse than he had to? He didn’t have it in for these two. They weren’t the Mafia; they hadn’t come gunning for him or his family.
    “Yes. I’m Melinda Steiner. Who are you? What do you want here?”
    She was definitely kind of feisty but not being totally obnoxious about it. Hell, this
was
her house, and she had a right to know what he was doing here.
    He took a few quick strides into the room and —
    Pop!
    Pop!
    He shot the blond male in the throat and forehead, and he dropped off the bed onto the Indian-style area rug on the floor. So much for keeping in good shape so that you live longer.
    Melinda put both hands to her mouth and gasped out loud. “Oh my God.” But she didn’t scream, which meant this was mostly about the sex. They were screwing, but the two of them weren’t in love, not even close. Watching her face now, he didn’t even think she liked Blondie all that much.
    “Good girl, Melinda. You’re thinking on your feet. He didn’t feel a thing. No pain, I promise.”
    “He was my architect,” she said, then quickly added, “I don’t know why I told you that.”
    “You’re just nervous. Who wouldn’t be? You’ve probably already figured out that I’m here to kill you, not your former lover.”
    He was standing about three feet from the woman, and his gun was pointed in the general direction of her heart. She seemed in pretty good control of herself though—very impressive to him. Sullivan’s kind of girl. Maybe
she
should be the head of the mob. Maybe he would put her name up for the job.
    He definitely liked her, and he had the sudden thought that he didn’t much like her husband. He sat down on the bed with the gun still on her—well, on her left tit actually.
    “Mel, here’s the thing. Your husband sent me here to kill you. He paid seventy-five thousand dollars,” he said. “I’m improvising here, but do you have access to your own money? Maybe we could work out some kind of a deal. Is that an option?”
    “Yes,” she said. “It is.” That was all.
    A deal was struck a couple of minutes later, and his fee quadrupled. Lot of crazy people out there in the world—no wonder
Desperate Housewives
was so popular, he couldn’t help thinking.

Chapter 110
    SAMPSON AND I HADN’T BEEN to Massachusetts in a few years, not since we’d chased a madman killer named “Mr. Smith” in a case code-named Cat and Mouse. Mr. Smith had probably been the most cunning of all the psychopaths we had tracked to that point. He almost murdered me. So not a lot of happy memories for us as we rode in Sampson’s car from DC toward the Berkshires.
    On the way, we stopped off for an out-of-this-world dinner and some congenial bullshit at my cousin Jimmy Parker’s restaurant, the Red Hat, in Irvington, New York. Mmm, mmm good. Otherwise, this trip was all business. We went alone, with no backup. I still wasn’t sure what I planned to do if I found the Butcher.
If
we found him; if he hadn’t already fled.
    We listened to some old Lauryn Hill and Erykah Badu tapes on the road and didn’t discuss Michael Sullivan much, not until we reached the end of the Connecticut Turnpike and crossed over into Massachusetts.
    “So what are we doing here, John?” I