I, Alex Cross

to need more information than that.
What
guy? Give me a hint."
    "The name’s Johnny Tucci," said Fatboy.
    "Who? Never heard of him. Tucci? Did he come to my club? Who is he?"
    "Don’t bullshit us, man." The smaller punk pushed in close now, with a rush of cigarette and body stink. "We know all about your little place in the country, okay?"
    Nicholson sat up straight on the couch. This might have more to do with Zeus than he’d thought. Or maybe with his business on the side?
    "That’s right," the punk went on. "You think Mr. Martino sends his people down here for a vacation?"
    "Listen, I still have no idea what you’re talking about," he told them. That much was partly the truth.
    Fatboy hunkered down on the burled-wood coffee table and lowered his gun for the first time. It might have been an opening, if the other punk weren’t so close by.
    "I’m going to lay it out for you, then," he said, in an almost conciliatory tone. "One of our guys is missing. Whoever’s been contracting with our boss isn’t easy to track down. So far, all we’ve got is you. And that means our problem just became your problem. You understand?"
    Nicholson was afraid that he did. "What do you expect me to do… about
our
problem?"
    The guy shrugged, then scratched his stubbly chin with the barrel of his gun. "Bottom line, we’ve got to deliver somebody back to Mr. Martino. So you do some asking around, find out what you can, or you’ll be the one we bring back."
    "Or the little lady up on the stairs," the other one said.
    "You can have the little lady," Nicholson said. "We’ll call it even."
    The heavy man smiled finally, and then he stood up. Tonight’s business was clearly done.
    "I’ll take that drink to go," he said to Nicholson. "You just stay put."
    He waddled over to the bar, where his buddy was already helping himself to as many bottles as he could carry in both arms.
    Once the two punks were gone and Nicholson had his drink and some ice for his head, he noticed they’d cleaned him out of Johnnie Walker only to leave a Dalmore 62 sitting right there on the bar. It was a four-hundred-dollar bottle, and seemed as ominous a sign as anything else.
    If these two losers were onto him, then everything was unraveling faster than he’d thought possible.
    Now, who the hell was Johnny Tucci?

Chapter 40

    FOR SUAREZ AND Overton, every exchange with Zeus was a dead drop — no face-to-face meetings, ever, by mutual agreement with whoever was actually paying their fees. They went into the suite at Blacksmith Farms after him, sanitized the space, and took away whatever needed taking away, including the bodies.
    Just before dawn, their no-profile G6 bumped along the familiar dirt track in the backwoods of Virginia. Its rear end was riding a little low because of the weight in the trunk.
    "Let me ask you this," Suarez said to his partner. "He’s obviously filthy rich. Why does he risk it? What is he — completely crazy?"
    "On some level, sure."
    "On some level? How about 24/7/365 he’s crazier than a shithouse rat on speed? How does he get away with it —
how?
"
    "Well, for one thing — do
you
know who he is, Suarez?"
    "You’re right, I don’t. But somebody has to know. Somebody has to stop him eventually."
    "What can I tell you — welcome to the wackadoo world of the rich and famous. Can you say wood chipper?"

Chapter 41

    REMY WILLIAMS DIDN’T trust these two guys at all. Never had, not from the start of the contract. When they pulled up to the cabin and didn’t even get out of the car, he knew something was up. Something more than the usual dirtbag routine.
    "How’s it going, fellas?" He shuffled on over like the piece of white trash he was supposed to be. "What’ve you got for me this time?"
    "Two female." The driver looked up, though not quite into his eyes. What was this:
Did the Latino have a conscience?
"One of them has a bullet in the chest. You’ll see."
    "Oh, yeah? What’d you shoot her for?"
    "I don’t know, maybe because we’re still chasing down the last one who ran off."
    The guy was baiting him, Remy could tell, but he wasn’t sure why or, really, what these murders were all about. He was just a cog, didn’t have all the pieces, figured probably no one did. Like JFK. Like RFK. Hell, like O.J.
    "Seems to me you shot the last one too," he said, playing along. "Maybe she didn’t run off a’tall. Might just be lying out in those woods somewhere, turning into mulch. As we speak. Coulda just been found