I, Alex Cross

thought about how these men knew Caroline, it made me sick, physically ill.
    My next call was to Bree. She recognized two more of the names. One was a partner at Brainard & Truss, a political PR firm on the Hill; and it turned out that Randy Varrick, who was the mayor’s press secretary, was a woman.
    "Things are about to get real nasty around here," Bree said. "These are high-resource people, and I’m afraid they’re going to push back hard."
    "Let them push," I said. "We’ll be ready for them. In fact, I’m going to make my first call right now. In person."

Chapter 18

    HIGH-RESOURCE PEOPLE
, and apparently a lot of them were involved. What was this about, and how had it led to the death of Caroline Cross? Where else would it lead?
    It took me less than fifteen minutes to get from the Daly Building on Indiana up to Channel Nine’s offices on Wisconsin. By the time I got there, I hadn’t cooled down one bit. My badge got me past the guard in the lobby, then up to a receptionist on the third floor. A big number 9 hung on the wall behind her, along with poster-sized head shots of their news team.
    I showed my badge and pointed at the wall. "I’m looking for
him
."
    She pushed a button without taking her eyes off me. "Judy? I’ve got a police officer out here for Ryan?"
    She covered the receiver and spoke to me. "What is this regarding?"
    "Tell him I’ll be happy to share that information with anyone who wants to listen if he and I aren’t face-to-face in the next two minutes."
    "About ninety seconds later, I was ushered past reception, past the news studio entrance, and into a hall of windowed offices someplace in the back. Ryan Willoughby was waiting for me, looking like his tie was a little too tight. I’d seen him dozens of times delivering the news, but now all that polished blond congeniality of his was nowhere in sight.
    "What the hell is this about?" he asked me, after he closed the door. "You come barging in here like Eliot Ness, or Rudolph Giuliani back in his prosecutor days."
    I held up a picture of Caroline. "It’s about her," I said in the quietest voice I could manage.
    It took him a second, but I saw a flash of recognition on his face, then a fast recovery. He was brighter than he seemed.
    "Pretty girl. Who is she?"
    "Are you saying you’ve never seen her before?"
    He laughed defensively, and a little more of the anchorspeak came into his voice. "Do I need a lawyer here?"
    "We found your phone number in her apartment. She was murdered."
    "I’m sorry about that, the girl’s murder. A lot of people have my number. Or they can get it."
    "A lot of call girls?" I asked.
    "Listen, I don’t know what you want with me, but this is obviously some kind of mistake."
    Whatever he was publicly, this guy was nothing but a scumbag to me now. It was clear he didn’t care about Caroline and what had happened to her.
    "She was twenty-four," I said.
    I held up the picture again.
    "Someone took bites out of her. Probably raped her before they killed her. Then they put her body through a wood chipper. We found what was left of her — the remains — in a plastic bag being transported by a mob guy."
    "What are you… Why are you telling me this? I don’t know the girl."
    I looked at my watch. "I’m going to offer you a deal, Ryan. The terms are good for the next thirty seconds. You tell me how you found out about her, right now, and I leave your name out of my investigation. Unless, of course, you’re guilty of something a lot more damaging than procuring."
    "Is that a threat?"
    "Twenty seconds."
    "Even if I had any idea what you were talking about, how do I know you are who you say you are?"
    "You don’t. Fifteen seconds."
    "Excuse me, Detective, but you can go to hell."
    My hand was cocked, but I caught myself. Willoughby flinched and took a step back.
    "Get out of my office, unless you want me to have you thrown out."
    I waited until the full thirty seconds were up.
    "I’ll see you on the news," I said. "Trust me, you won’t be the one delivering it."

Chapter 19

    TWENTY MILES OF thick, old-growth Virginia forest separated Remy Williams’s cabin from pretty much everything else in the world. It was a pristine bit of wilderness with all the privacy he could ever want. A person could scream all night long out here and never be heard.
    Not that there ever was much screaming or carrying on out here. Remy appreciated efficiency, and he was good at what he did.
    Disposal
.
    The thing he didn’t like