Double Cross

reputation.”
    I shrugged her off with a smile, but deep down I enjoyed the compliment. “I’ve done a lot of these meetings. Besides, you carried it, and you know it.”
    “Not the meeting, Alex.
This
. This work. You’re the best I’ve seen. By a lot. If you want to know the truth, I think we’re pretty good together. How scary is that?”
    I stopped organizing the files in my hands and stared at her. “Then, Bree, why do I feel like we’re headed in the wrong direction on this thing?”
    She looked stunned by what I’d said. “Excuse me?”
    It had been bugging me since just before the meeting ended. Everything had been moving so fast. This was really the first opportunity to hold our stuff up to scrutiny. And now I felt as if we were missing something important. I was almost sure of it. I hated the timing, but I couldn’t help the feeling I had.
My famous goddamn feelings
! My gut was calling out to me to review all the bidding so far, everything that we thought we believed.
    “Maybe this all makes sense because it’s what he wants us to think,” I said. “That’s just a hunch I have, but it bothers the hell out of me.”
    I’d been burned like this before, not too long ago. We’d spent a lot of time on the Mary, Mary case in LA, running down an obvious but misleading persona instead of the actual killer. More people had died while we figured that out.
    Bree started pulling papers from the briefcase she’d just packed. “Okay, fine. Let’s break it apart again. What do we need to know to nail this thing down the right way?”
    The obvious answer to her question was that another murder would provide a hell of a lot more information for us.

Chapter 26

    IT WAS TIME for the
second
story to unfold.
    Nine hundred fifty-five brave souls were filing toward and into their plush seats at the Kennedy Center that night. The Grand Foyer was lit by eighteen one-ton crystal chandeliers that resembled . . . what? Giant stalactites? The foyer was huge, more than six hundred feet in length. At its center was an eight-foot bronze bust of the great Kennedy himself, never more august and serious in his life.
    A crew of thirty-seven worked behind the scenes here. Impressive. Expensive too.
    A cast of no fewer than seventeen trod the boards.
    And one lone figure waited, quietly, underneath the stage.
    Dr. Xander Swift.
    At three o’clock that afternoon, he’d come in through the stage door. A large toolbox in hand and a few rehearsed phrases about the boiler were all it took. Inside the toolbox were his props.
    Pistol.
    Ice pick, just in case.
    Butane torch.
    Supply of ethanol.
    Now it was more than five hours later and almost time for the main act. Above his head, the play was in progress. The house was full, theater lovers one and all, drama and suspense fans.
    Matthew Jay Walker was well into a scene in which he talked somewhat robotically with another character on a monitor. Walker was excessively handsome, of course, a little shorter than expected, and quite the spoiled brat, if truth be known. His agent had made demands for fresh exotic fruit, a supply of Evian water, a personal makeup artist. Now it was time for Walker to meet his costar.
    “Hello, Matthew Jay! Greetings,” said Dr. Swift. “I’m here . . .
behind
you.”
    The actor looked around, surprised—no,
shocked
—when the trapdoor in the stage floor, normally used only in the second act, flew open.
    “What th —”
    “Ladies and Gentlemen, I am so sorry for the interruption,” said Dr. Xander Swift in a loud, clear, commanding voice that could be heard way up in the cheap seats. “But please, may I have your attention, your
full
attention, your undivided attention? This is a matter of life and death.”

Chapter 27

    AT FIRST, the only noticeable stir in the audience was that of riffling pages as dozens of people looked to their programs to see
who
this was up on the stage.
    Matthew Jay Walker turned his back to the audience and spoke in a whisper. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing? Who the hell are you? Get off the stage! Now!”
    Suddenly, Dr. Xander Swift held forth a pistol until it nearly touched the actor’s face. He let his hand shake, as if he were nervous—which he was not. “Shhh,” he said in a stage whisper. “You don’t have any lines here.”
    He continued to push the gun at the actor until Walker went down on his knees. “Please,” Walker said on mike, “I’ll do whatever you want. Just calm