Alex Cross 1 - Along Came A Spider Read online

  I peered down on two Metro D.C. patrol cars parked behind the old Porsche in our drive. It looked miserably cold outside. We were just entering the deepest hollow of D.C.'s winter.

  “Give me a break,” I mumbled into the chilly window blinds. “Go away.”

  Sampson was heading for the back door to our kitchen. It was twenty to five on the clock next to the bed. Time to go to work.

  Just before five that morning, Sampson and I pulled up in front of a crumbling prewar brownstone in Georgetown, a block west of M Street. We had decided to check out Soneji's apartment ourselves. The only way to get stuff done right is to do it yourself.

  “Lights are all on. Looks like somebody's home,” Sampson said as we climbed out of the car. “Now who could it be?”

  “Three guesses. The first two don't count,” I mum bled. I was suffering from early-morning queasiness. A visit to the monster's den wasn't going to help.

  “The FBI. Maybe Efrem Zimbalist, Jr., is up there,” Sampson guessed. “Maybe they're filming Real Stories from the FBI.”

  “Let's go see.”

  We entered the building and took the narrow winding stairway up. On the second floor, yellow crime-scene tape had been placed in a crisscross pattern across the doorway to Soneji's apartment. It didn't look like the place where a “Mr. Chips” would live. More like a Richard Ramirez or a Green River killer.

  The scarred wooden door was open. I could see two FBI techies working inside. A local deejay called The Greaseman was screeching from a radio on the floor.

  “Hey, Pete, what's doin'?” I called inside. I knew one of the FBI techies on the job, Pete Schweitzer. He looked up at the sound of my voice.

  “Well, look who's here. Welcome to the Inner Sanctum. ”

  “We came over to bother you. See how it's done,” Sampson said. We'd both worked with Pete Schweitzer before, liked and trusted him as much as you could any FBI personnel.

  “Come in and make yourselves at home at Casa Soneji. This is my fellow flyshit finder and bagger, Todd Toohey. Todd likes to listen to The Greaseman in the A.m. These two are ghouls like us, Toddie.”

  “The best, ” I told Todd Toohey. I had already started to nose around the apartment. Everything was feeling unreal again. There was' this cold, damp spot inside my head. Eerie-time.

  The small studio apartment was a mess. There wasn't furniture-a bare mattress on the floor, an end table and lamp, a sofa that looked as if it had been picked up off the street-but the floor was covered with things.

  Wrinkled sheets and towels and underwear were a large part of the general chaos. Two or three loads of laundry were spilled out on the floor. Most of the clutter was books and magazines, though. Several hundred books, and at least that many magazines, were piled in the single small room.

  “Anything interesting so far?” I asked Schweitzer. “You look through his library?”

  Schweitzer talked to me without looking up from a pile of books he was dusting. “Everything is interesting. Check out the books along the wall. Also, consider the fact that our fine-feathered friend wiped down this whole fucking apartment before he split.”

  “He do a good job? Up to your standards?”

  ' ''Excellent job. I couldn't have done much better myself. We haven't found a partial print anywhere. Not even on any of those goddainn books."

  “Maybe he reads with plastic gloves on,” I offered.

  “I think he might. I shit you not. Place was dusted by a pro, Alex.”

  I was crouched near several stacks of the books now. I read the titles on several of the spines. Most of it was nonfiction from the last five years or so.

  “True-crime fan,” I said.

  “Lots and lots of kidnapping stories,” Schweitzer said. He looked up and pointed. "Right side of the bed,

  11 near the reading lamp. That's the kidnapping section.

  I walked over and looked at the volumes. Most of the books had been stolen from the library at Georgetown. I figured he must have had an I. D. to get into the stacks there. Was he a past student? Maybe a professor?

  Several computer printouts were taped to the bare wall over his private library on kidnapping. I started to read down the lists. Aldo Moro. Kidnapped in Rome. Five bodyguards killed during abduction. Moro's body found in a parked car. Jack Teich, released after payment of $750,000.

  J. Reginald Murphy, editor of the Atlanta Constitution, released after payment of $700,000.

  J. Paul Getty 3rd, released in southern Italy after $2.8 million ransom paid.

  Mrs. Virginia Piper of Minneapolis, released after her husband paid $1,000,000.

  Victor E. Samuelson, released in Argentina after payment of $14.2 million ransom.

  I whistled as I spotted the amounts on his list. What was he going to ask for Maggie Rose Dunne and Michael Goldberg?

  It was a really small place, and there hadn't been much room for Soneji to wipe off fingerprints. Still, Schweitzer said he hadn't left anything. I wondered if Soneji could have been a cop. That was one way to plan a crime, and maybe improve your chances of getting away with it.

  “Come in here for a minute.” Sampson was in the bathroom that was off to one side of the tiny studio.

  The walls were papered with photos from magazines, newspapers, record albums, book jackets.

  72 / Jamei; Patterson

  He'd left a final surprise for us. There were no fingerprints, but he had scrawled a message.

  Just over the mirror was a typeset headline: I WANT TO BE SOMEBODY!

  Up on the walls was an exhibition. I saw River Phoenix. And Matt Dillon. There were photos from Helmut Newton books. I recognized Lennon's murderer, Mark David Chapman. And Axl Rose. Pete Rose was up on the wall, too. And Neon Deon Sanders. Wayne Williams was there. And newspaper stories. The Happy Land Social Club fire in New York City. A New York Times story of the Lindbergh kidnapping. A story about the kidnapping of Samuel Bronfman, the Seagram's heir, and a story about the missing child Etan Patz.

  I thought about Soneji the kidnapper, all alone in his desolate apartment. He had carefully wiped every inch of space for fingerprints. The room itself was so small, so monkish. He was a reader, or at least liked to have books around. Then there was his photo gallery. What did it tell us? Leads? Misdirections? I stood in front of the mirror that was over the sink and stared into it as I knew he had many, many times. What was I supposed to see? What had Gary Sonejl seen? “This was his picture on the wall-the face in this mirror,” I offered a theory to Sampson. “It's the key picture here, the central one. He wants to be the star of all this.” Sampson was leaning against a wall of photos and news clippings. “Why no fingerprints, Dr. Freud?”

  “He must know we have his fingerprints on file somewhere. Makes me think he may have been wearing some of disguise at the school. Maybe he put on makeup here before he went off to school. He could be a stage actor. I don't think we've seen his face yet.”

  “I think the boy has big plans. He definitely wants to be a star,” Sampson said. I want to be somebody!

  Along Came A Spider

  CHAPTER 13

  AGGIE ROSE DUNNE had awoken from the strangest sleep of her life. Horrible and indescribable bad dreams.

  She felt as if everything around her were moving in slow motion. She was thirsty. She needed to pee awfully bad.

  I'm too tired this morning, @. Please! I don't want to get up. Don't want to go to school today. please, Mom. I don't feel so good. Honest, I really don't, Mommy.

  Maggie Rose opened her eyes. At least she thought she had opened her eyes, but she couldn't see anything. Nothing at all.

  “MommY! Monimy! Mommy!” Maggie finally screamed, and couldn't stop screaming. For an hour after that, at least that long, she floated in and out of consciousness. She felt weak all over. She floated like a leaf on the hugest river. The currents just took her wherever they wanted.

  She thought about her morn. Did she know Maggie was gone? Was she looking for her now? She had to be looking f
or her.

  Maybe someone took her arms and legs off. She couldn't feel them. It must have been long ago.

  It was black. She must be buried in the ground. She must be rotting and becoming a skeleton. Was that why she couldn't feel her arms and legs? Am I going to be like this forever? She couldn't stand that, and she was crying again. She was so confused. She couldn't think at all.

  Maggie Rose could open and close her eyes, though. At least she thought she could. But there was just no difference with her eyes open or closed. Everything was darkness. Either way.

  If she did it over and over, opened and closed her eyes real fast, she saw color.

  Now, inside the blackness, she saw streaks and tears of color. Mostly red and bright yellow.

  Maggie wondered if she might be strapped or tied down. Was that what they really did to you inside a casket? Did they strap you down? Why would they do that? To stop you from getting out of the ground? To keep your spirit under the earth forever and ever?

  Suddenly, she remembered something. Mr. Soneji. A little of the fog that swirled around her cleared away for a second.

  Mr. Soneji had taken her out of school. When had it happened? Why? Where was Mr. Soneji now?

  And Michael! What had happened to Michael? They had left school together. She remembered that much.

  She moved then, and the most amazing thing happened. She discovered that she could roll herself over.

  That's what Maggie Rose did. She rolled over, and was suddenly up against something.

  She could feel her whole body again. She still had a body to feel. She was absolutely certain she had her body and that she wasn't a skeleton.

  And Maggie screamed!

  She had rolled into someone or something.

  Someone else was there in the dark with her.

  Michael?

  It had to be Michael.

  “Michael?” Maggie's voice was so low it was barely a whisper. “Michael? Is that you?”

  She waited for an answer.

  “Michael?” she whispered louder.

  “Michael, c'mon. Please talk to me.”

  Whoever it was wouldn't answer. It was more terrifying than being alone.

  "Michael... It's me.... Don't be afraid.... It's Maggie.... Michael, please wake up.

  . "Oh, Michael, please... Please, Shrimpie. I was just kidding about your dopey school shoes. C'mon

  Michael. Talk to me, Shrimpie. It's Dweebo Dido.

  Along Came A Spider

  CHAPTER 14

  HE DUNNE HOUSE was what local real-estate ma vens might call Lutyens-style neo-Elizabethan.

  Neither Sampson nor I had seen too many of those in Southeast D.C. Inside, the house had the serenity and diversity I guess might be conu-non among the rich. There were a lot of expensive “things. ” Art Deco plaques, and oriental screens, a French sundial, a Turkestan rug, what looked like a Chinese or Japanese altar table. I remembered something Picasso had once said: “Give me a museum, and I'll fill it.”

  There was a small bathroom off one of the formal sitting rooms. Chief of Detectives George Pittman grabbed me and pulled me in there minutes after I arrived. It was around eight o'clock. Too early for this. “What do you think you're doing?” he asked me. “What are you up to, Cross?”

  The room was really cramped, no place for two goodsized, grown-up men to be. It wasn't your average toilet,

  77 either. The floor was covered with a William Morris rug. A designer chair sat in one corner.

  “I thought I would get some coffee. Then I was going to sit in on the morning briefing,” I said to Pittman. I wanted to get out of that bathroom so bad.

  “Don't fuck around with me.” He started to raise his voice. “Do not fuck with me.”

  Oh, don't do that, I wanted to say to him. Don't make a big, awful scene in here. I thought about putting his head underwater in the toilet bowl, just to keep him quiet.

  “Lower your voice, or I'm leaving,” I said. I try to act in a reasonable and considerate manner most of the time. It's one of my character flaws.

  “Don't tell me to lower my voice. Who the fuck told you to go home last night? You and Sampson. Who told you to go to the Soneji apartment this morning?”

  “Is that what this is all about? Is that why we're in here together now?” I asked.

  “You bet it is. I'm running this investigation. That means if you want to tie your shoe, you talk to me first. ”

  I grinned. I couldn't help it. “Where'd you get that line? Did Lou Gossett say that in An Officer and a Gentleman?”

  “You think this is a lot of fun and games, Cross?”

  “No,, I don't. I don't think it's any fun. Now you keep the fuck out of my face, or you won't have one,” I warned him.

  I walked out of the bathroom. Chief of Detectives Pittman didn't follow me. Yes, I can be provoked. No, that little turd shouldn't fuck with me.

  At a little past eight, the Hostage Rescue Team was finally gathered together in a large, exquisitely decorated sitting room. Right away I sensed something was wrong. Something-was up for sure.

  Jezzie Flanagan from the Secret Service had taken the floor. I remembered her from the morning before at the Day School. She stood in front of a working fireplace.

  The mantel was strung with holly boughs, tiny white lights, and Christmas cards. Several nontraditional cards were obviously from friends of the Dunnes in California-photographs of decorated palm trees, of Santa's sleigh in the sky over Malibu. The Dunnes had recently moved to Washington, after Thomas Dunne took a job as director of the Red Cross.

  Jezzie Flanagan looked more formal than she had at the school. She wore a loose gray skirt, with a black turtleneck sweater, and small gold earrings. She looked like a Washington lawyer, an attractive and very successful one.

  “Soneji contacted us at midnight, last night. Then again around one o'clock. We didn't expect him to contact us so soon. None of us did,” she started things off.

  “The initial phone call was made from the Arlington area. Soneji made it clear he had nothing to say about the children, except that both Maggie Dunne and Michael Goldberg are doing well. What else would he say? He wouldn't allow us to speak to either of the children, so we don't know that for sure. He sounded lucid and very much in control.”

  “Has the voice tape been analyzed yet?” Pittman asked from his seat near the front. If Sampson and I had to be on the outside looking in, it was good to know Pittman was right there with us. Apparently, nobody was talking to him, either.

  “It's being done,” Flanagan answered the question politely. She gave it just about the attention it deserved, I thought, but she avoided any condescension. She was real good at keeping control.

  “How long was he actually on the line?” the Justice lawyer, Richard Galletta, asked next.

  “Not very long, unfortunately. Thirty-four seconds to be exact,” Flanagan answered him with the same efficient courtesy. Cool, but pleasant enough. Smart.

  I studied her. She was obviously comfortable being up in front of people. I'd heard that she'd gotten credit for some strong moves at Service in the past few years which meant that she took a lot of credit.

  “He was long gone when we got to the pay phone in Arlington. We couldn't get that lucky so soon,” she said. She offered the hint of a smile, and I noticed that several of the men in the room smiled back at her.

  “Why do you think he made the call?” the U.S. marshal asked from the back of the room. He was balding and paunchy, and smoking a pipe.

  Flanagan sighed. “Please, let me go on. Unfortunately, there's more to it than the phone call. Soneji murdered FBI agent Roger Graham last night. It happened right outside Graham's house in Virginia, in the driveway. ”

  It's difficult to shake up an experienced group like the one gathered at the Dunnes'. The news of Roger

  Graham's murder did it: I know that it buckled my knees. Roger ' and I had shared some tight spaces together over the past few years. Whenever I worked with him
, I'd always known my back would be covered. Not that I needed another reason to want to get Gary Soneji, but he'd given me a good one.

  I wondered if Soneji had known that. And what it meant if he did. As a psychologist, the murder filled me with a sense of dread. It told me that Soneji was organized, confident enough to play with us, and willing to kill. It did not bode well for Maggie Rose Dunne and Michael Goldberg.

  “He left a very explicit message for us,” Flanagan went on. “The message was typed on an index card, or what looked like a little library card. The message was for all of us. It said, 'Roger Grahamcracker thought he was a big deal. Well, he obviously wasn't. If you work on this case, you're in grave danger!'... The message was signed. He calls himself the Son of Lindbergh.”

  Along Came A Spider

  CHAPTER 15

  HE PRESS COVERAGE of the kidnapping case got down and very dirty right away. A front-page headline in one of the morning papers said: SECRET SERVICE BODYGUARDS OUT FOR COFFEE. The press hadn't gotten the news about FBI agent Roger Graham yet. We were trying to sit on it.

  The news gossip that morning was about how Secret Service agents Charles Chakely and Michael Devine had left their posts at the private school. Actually, they had gone out for breakfast during classes. It was pretty standard for this kind of duty. The coffee break, however, would be expensive. It would probably cost Chakely and Devine their jobs, possibly their careers. On another front, Pittman wasn't making much use of Sampson and me so far. This went on for two days. Left on our own, Sampson and I concentrated on the thin trail left by Gary Soneji. I followed up at area stores where someone might buy makeup and special effects. Sampson went to the Georgetown library, but no one

  82 there had seen Soneji. They weren't even aware of the book thefts from their stacks.

  Soneii had successfully disappeared. More disturbing, he seemed to have never existed before taking the job at Washington Day School.

  Not surprisingly, he had falsified his employment records and faked several recommendations. He'd completed each step as expertly as any of us had seen in fraud or bunco cases. He'd left no trail.