Double Cross

them, pathetic creeps drawn by a serial-crime scene. And hell, this was probably the most sensational case in the last ten years, unfortunately for everyone involved.
    Bree looked straight down from the roof. The parking area below was mostly empty at this time of day. That’s where Kitz’s white Camry had been found in one of the resident spaces.
    The killer either left on foot or had another vehicle waiting for him.
    That is . . . if he left the scene at all.
    Had he?
    Or had he stayed awhile to watch and collect memories?
    Did he always hang around afterward?
    The actual murder had taken place in private, an interesting departure for DCAK. The audience was bigger but also more abstract—out there in TV land somewhere. Bree wondered if he’d wanted—
needed
—to check out the “live” crowd gathered on Nineteenth Street. She’d be willing to bet her shield that’s exactly what the bastard had done.
    And what about the woman who’d been his accomplice in Baltimore? Had she been here too? Was she part of everything from the start? What was the deal with the two of them? Lovers? Former inmates at some asylum? And what connected them to Kyle Craig?
    Bree sat on the edge of the roof, then finally let herself down the scaffold, carefully, because she was feeling a little shaky right now—too much stress, not enough sleep, not enough Alex either. Seconds later, she was on the ground.
    From there, she forced herself to follow the killer’s most likely path, up the alley to A Street and back around to Nineteenth.
    It was quiet now, especially compared to two days ago. A single MPD cruiser was parked in front of the house. Howie Pearsall, the officer she’d brought with her, was leaning against the passenger side. Howie was a good man, a friend of hers, just not the most ambitious guy in the world.
    Bringing him was a safety precaution but not one that Bree took seriously. She was more likely to protect Howie than the other way around. He stood up straight and brushed something off his shirt when he saw her coming.
    “At ease, soldier. Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Sorry I took so long, Howie.”
    “How’d it go in there?” he wanted to know.
    “Howie, it didn’t. Hold on, I’ll be right back.” She went up the front walk and tore the police notice off the door. So much for the crime scene.
    “Excuse me. Detective?” The guy behind her on the lawn seemed to have come out of nowhere.
What the hell was his deal
?
    “I’m Neil Stephens with the AP. I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions.”

Chapter 94

    NEIL STEPHENS, OR RATHER DCAK, wanted to shoot Bree Stone full of holes right there in front of the house. Pull the .357 out of his vest.
Bam
. Dumb cop dead on the front walk. Get the uniform sloppily moping around by the squad car too.
    But no. This wasn’t even a rehearsal, much less a performance. Maybe it was groundwork for later on, though. And a little bit of fun too. Detective Stone was, after all, a stone-cold fox.
And she was Alex Cross’s girlfriend, wasn’t she
? That made this very cool. Gave it stature and importance in his mind.
    Stone kept moving toward the cruiser. “No comment,” she said, not even making eye contact with him.
    So she was a bitch on wheels as well as a mediocre detective! Figured. Cops weren’t much of a challenge. Maybe
collectively
they were.
    He pulled the Leica around on its strap. “Just a quick photo, then?”
    Like he cared about the picture. What he wanted was for Stone to see him—to
have seen
the character he was playing today, Neil Stephens.
    Detective Bree Stone was his audience right now. But she didn’t even look. She held up a palm and got into the car—
Talk to the hand puppet
. “Let’s go,” she said to the cop at the wheel, and they pulled away from the curb. End of interview.
    Neil Stephens called out to her, “Having a bad day, Detective Stone?”
    It was meant to be in character, the parting shot of a pushy journalist. He wasn’t even sure she’d heard it—until the police cruiser suddenly braked. Then the car backed up several feet to where he was standing.
    Bree Stone climbed out and gave him a quick once-over. Now he had her attention.
But was that a good thing
?
    “What did you say your name was?” she asked. “I didn’t catch the name.”
    “Stephens. Out of Chicago. Associated Press.” The worst thing he could do right now was flinch. So he stepped closer instead. That’s what Neil would