The Big Bad Wolf Part 1

Alex Cross.

The Big Bad Wolf.

by James Patterson.

Part One

THE "WHITE GIRL" CASE

Chapter 1.

THE PHIPPS PLAZA shopping mall in Atlanta was a showy montage of pink-granite doors, sweeping bronze-trimmed staircases, gilded Napoleonic design, lighting that sparkled like halogen spotlights. A man and a woman watched the target, "Mom", as she left Niketown with sneakers and whatnot for her three daughters packed under one arm."She is very pretty. I see why the Wolf likes her. She reminds me of Claudia Schiffer," said the male observer. "You see the resemblance?"Everybody reminds you of Claudia Schiffer, Slave Don't lose her. Don't lose your pretty little Claudia or the Wolf will have you for breakfast."The abduction team, the Couple, was dressed expensively, and that made it easy for them to blend in at Phipps Plaza, in the Buckhead section of Atlanta. At eleven in the morning, Phipps wasn't very crowded, and that could be a problem.It helped that their target was rushing about in a world of her own, a tight little coc.o.o.n of mindless activity, buzzing in and out of Gucci, Caswell-Ma.s.sey, Niketown, then Gapkids and Parisian (to see her personal shopper, Gina), without paying the slightest attention to who was around her in any of the stores. She worked from an At-a-Glance leather-bound diary and made her appointed rounds in a quick, efficient, practiced manner, buying faded jeans for Gwynne, a leather dop kit for Brendan, Nike diving watches for Meredith and Brigid. She even made an appointment at Carter-Barnes to get her hair done.The target had style and also a pleasant smile for the sales people who waited on her in the Tony stores. She held doors for those coming up behind her, even men, who went out of their way to thank the attractive blonde. "Mom" was s.e.xy in the wholesome, clean-cut way of many upscale American suburban women. And she did resemble the supermodel Claudia Schiffer. That was her undoing.According to the job specs, Mrs. Elizabeth Connolly was the mother of three girls; she was a graduate of Va.s.sar, cla.s.s of 87, with what she called a degree in art history that is practically worthless in the real world , whatever that is , but invaluable to me." She'd been a reporter for the Washington Post and the Atlanta Journal-Const.i.tution before she was married. She was thirty-seven, though she didn't look much more than thirty. She had her hair in a velvet barrette that morning, wore a short-sleeved turtleneck, a crocheted sweater, slim-fitting slacks. She was bright, religious, but sane about it, and tough when she needed to be, at least according to the specs.Well, she would need to be tough soon.Mrs. Elizabeth Connolly was about to be abducted.She had been purchased, and she was probably the most expensive item for sale that morning at Phipps Plaza.The price: $150,000.

Chapter 2.

LIZZIE CONNOLLY FELT LIGHT-HEADED and she wondered if her quirky blood sugar was acting up again.She made a mental note to pick up Trudie Styler's cookbook, she kind of admired Trudie, who was cofounder of the Rainforest Foundation as well as Sting's wife. She seriously doubted she would get through this day with her head still screwed on straight, not twisted around like the poor little girl in The Exorcist. Linda Blair, wasn't that the actress's name? Lizzie was pretty sure it was. Oh, who cared? What difference did trivia make?What a merry-go-round today was going to be. First, it was Gwynne's birthday, and the party for twenty-one of her closest school buddies, eleven girls, ten boys, was scheduled for one o'clock at the house. Lizzie had rented a bouncy house, and she had already prepared lunch for the children, not to mention for their moms or nannies. Lizzie had even rented a Mister Softee ice-cream truck for three hours. But you never knewwhat to expect at these birthday gigs other than laughter, tears, thrills, and spills.After the birthday bash, Brigid had swimming lessons, and Merry had a trip to the dentist scheduled. Brendan, her husband of fourteen years, had left her a "short list" of his current needs. Of course everything was needed A.S.A.P.S. which meant as soon as possible, sweetheart.After she picked up a T-shirt with rhinestones for Gwynnie at Gapkids, all she had left to buy was Brendan's replacement dop kit. Oh, yeah, and her hair appointment. And ten minutes with her savior at Parisian, Gina Sabellico.She kept her cool through the final stages, never let them see you sweat, then she hurried to her new Mercedes 320 station wagon, which was safely tucked in a corner on the P3 level of the underground garage at Phipps. No time for her favorite rooibos tea at Teavana.Hardly anybody was in the garage on a Monday morning, but she nearly b.u.mped into a man with long dark hair. Lizzie smiled automatically at him, revealing perfect, recently whitened and brightened teeth, warmth, and s.e.xiness even when she didn't want to show it.She wasn't really paying attention to anyone, thinking ahead to the fast-approaching birthday party, when a woman she pa.s.sed suddenly grabbed her around the chest as if Lizzie were a running back for the Atlanta Falcons football team trying to pa.s.s through the "line of spinach," as her daughter Gwynne had once called it. The woman's grip was like a vise she was strong as h.e.l.l."What are you doing? Are you crazy?" Lizzie finally screamed her loudest, squirmed her hardest, dropped her shopping bags, heard something break. "Hey! Somebody, help! Get off of me!"Then a second a.s.sailant, the BMW sweatshirt guy, grabbed her legs and held on tight, hurt her, actually, as he brought her down onto the filthy, greasy parking-lot concrete along with the woman. "Don't kick me, b.i.t.c.h!" he yelled in her face. "Don't you f.u.c.king dare kick me."But Lizzie didn't stop kickingor screaming either. "Help me. Somebody, help! Somebody, please!"Then both of them lifted her up in the air as if she weighed next to nothing. The man mumbled something to the woman. Not English. Middle European, maybe. Lizzie had a housekeeper from Slovakia. Was there a connection?The woman attacker gripped her around the chest with one arm and used her free hand to push aside tennis and golf stuff, hurriedly clearing a s.p.a.ce in the back of the station wagon.Then Lizzie was roughly shoved inside her own car. A gauzy, foul-smelling cloth was pushed hard against her nose and mouth, and held there so tightly it hurt her teeth. She tasted blood. First blood, she thought. My blood. Adrenaline surged through her body, and she began fighting back again with all her strength. Punching and kicking. She felt like a captured animal striking out for its freedom."Easy," the man said." Easy-peasy-j.a.panesy . . . Elizabeth Connolly."Elizabeth Connolly? They know me? How? Why? What is going on here?"You're a very s.e.xy mom," said the man. "I see why the Wolf likes you."Wolf? Who's the Wolf? What was happening to her? Who did she know named Wolf?Then the thick, acrid fumes from the cloth overpowered Lizzie and she went lights out. She was driven away in the back of her station wagon.But only across the street to the Lenox Square Mallwhere Lizzie Connolly was transferred into a blue Dodge van that then sped away.Purchase complete.

Chapter 3.

EARLY MONDAY MORNING, I was oblivious to the rest of the world and its problems. This was the way life was supposed to be, only it rarely seemed to turn out so well. At least not in my experience, which was limited, when it came to anything that might be considered the "good life?"I was walking Jannie and Damon to the Sojourner Truth School that morning. Little Alex was merrily toddling along at my side. "Puppy," I called him.The skies over D.C. were partly cloudy, but now and then the sun peeked through the clouds and warmed our heads and the backs of our necks. I'd already played the piano ,Gershwin, for forty-five minutes. And eaten breakfast with Nana Mama. I had to be at Quantico by nine that morning for my orientation cla.s.ses, but it left time for the walk to school at around seven-thirty. And that was what I'd been in search of lately, or so I believed. Time to be with my kids.Time to read a poet I'd discovered recently, Billy Collins. First I'd read his Nine Horses, and now it was Sailing Alone Around the Room. Billy Collins made the impossible seem so effortless, and so possible.Time to talk to Jamilla Hughes every day, often for hours at a time. And when I couldn't, to correspond by e-mail and, occasionally, by long flowing letters. She was still working homicide in San Francisco, but I felt the distance between us was shrinking. I wanted it to and hoped she did too.Meanwhile, the kids were changing faster than I could keep up with them, especially Little Alex, who was morphing before my eyes. I needed to be around him more and now I could be. That was my deal. It was why I had joined the FBI, at least that was part of it.Little Alex was already over thirty-five inches and thirty pounds. That morning he had on pinstriped overalls and an Orioles cap. He moved along the street as if a leeward wind were propelling him. His ever-present stuffed animal, a cow named Moo, created ballast so that he listed slightly to the left at all times.Damon was lurching ahead to a different drummer, a faster, more insistent beat. Man, I really loved this boy. Except for his fashion sense. That morning he was wearing long jean shorts, Uptowns, a gray T with an Alan Iverson "The Answer" jersey over it. His lean legs were sprouting peach fuzz, and it looked as if his whole body were developing from the feet up. Large feet, long legs, a youthful torso.I was noticing everything that morning. I had time to do it.Jannie was typically put together in a gray T with "pro Athletics 1987 printed in bright red letters, sweatpant capris with a red stripe down each leg, and white Adidas sneakers with red stripes.As for me, I was feeling good. Every now and again someone would still stop me and say I looked like the young Muhammad Ali. I knew how to shake off the compliment, but I liked to hear it more than I let on."You're awfully quiet this morning, Poppa," Jannie laced her arms around my free arm and said. "You having trouble at school? Your orientation? Do you like being an FBI agent so far?""I like it fine," I said. "There's a probationary period for the next two years. Orientation is good, but a lot of it is repet.i.tive for me, especially what they call "practicals". Firing range, gun cleaning, exercises in apprehending criminals. That's why I get to go in late some days.""So you're the teacher's pet already," she said, and winked.I laughed. "I don't think the teachers are too impressed with me, or any other street cops. How're you and Damon doing so far this year? Aren't you about due for a report card or something?"Damon shrugged. "We're acing everything. Why do you want to change the subject all the time when it's on you?"I nodded. "You're right. Well, my schooling is going fine. Eighty is considered a failing grade at Quantico. I expect to ace most of my tests.""Most?" Jannie arched an eyebrow and gave me one of Nana Mama's "perturbed" looks. "What's this most stuff? We expect you to ace all your tests.""I've been out of school for a while.""No excuses."I fed her one of her own lines. "I'm doing the best I can, and that's all you can ask from somebody."She smiled. "Well, all right, then, Poppa. Just as long as the best you can do puts all A's on your next report."About a block from the school I gave Jannie and Damon their hugs _ so as not to embarra.s.s them, G.o.d forbid, in front of all their cool-a.s.s friends. They hugged me back and kissed their little brother, and then off they ran. "bye," said Little Alex, and so did Jannie and Damon, calling back to their brother," bye, ba-bye!"I picked up Little Alex and we headed home; then it would be off to work for soon-to-be Agent Cross of the FBI.u," said Little Alex as I carried him in my arms. That was right _ Dada. Things were falling into place for the Cross family. After all these years, my life was finally close to being in balance. I wondered how long it would last. Hopefully at least for the rest of the day.

Chapter 4.

NEW-AGENT TRAINING at the FBI Academy in Quantico, sometimes called "Club Fed," was turning out to be a challenging, arduous, and tense program. For the most part, I liked it, and I was making an effort to keep any skepticism down. But I had entered the Bureau with a reputation for catching pattern killers, and I already had the nickname Dragonslayer. So irony and skepticism might soon be a problem.Training had begun six weeks before, on a Monday morning, with a crew-cut broad- shouldered SSA, or supervisory special agent, Dr. Kenneth Horowitz, standing in front of our cla.s.s trying to tell a joke: "The three biggest lies in the world are: _All I want is a kiss,_ _The check is in the mail,_ and _I'm with the FBI and I'm only here to help you._" Everybody in the cla.s.s laughed, maybe because the joke was so ordinary, but at least Horowitz had tried his best, and maybe that was the point.FBI director Ron Burns had set it up so that my training period would last for only eight weeks. He'd made other allowances for me as well. The maximum age for entrance into the FBI was thirty-seven years old. I was forty-two. Burns had the age requirement waived for me and also voiced his opinion that it was discriminatory and needed to be changed. The more I saw of Ron Burns, the more I sensed that he was something of a rebel, maybe because he was an ex-Philadelphia street cop himself. He had brought me into the FBI as a GS13, the highest I could go as a street agent. I'd also been promised a.s.signments as a consultant, which meant a better salary. Burns had wanted me in the Bureau, and he got me. He said that I could have any reasonable resources I needed to get the job done. I hadn't discussed it with him yet, but I thought I might want two detectives from the Washington PD _ John Sampson and Jerome Thurman.The only thing Burns had been quiet about was my cla.s.s supervisor at Quantico, a senior agent named Gordon Nooney. Nooney ran Agent Training. He had been a profiler before that, and prior to becoming an FBI agent, had been a prison psychologist in New Hampshire. I was finding him to be a bean counter at best.That morning, Nooney was standing there waiting when I arrived for my cla.s.s in abnormal psych, an hour and fifty minutes on understanding psychopathic behavior, something I hadn't been able to do in nearly teen years with theD.C. police force.There was gunfire in the air, probably from the nearby Marine base. "How was traffic from D.C.?" Nooney asked. I didn't miss the barb behind the question: I was permitted to go home nights, while the other agents-in-training slept at Quantico."No problem," I said. "Forty-five minutes in moving traffic up on Ninety-five. I left plenty of extra time.""The Bureau isn't known for breaking rules for individuals," Nooney said. Then he offered a tight, thin smile that was awfully close to a frown. "Of course, you're Alex Cross.""I appreciate it," I said. I left it at that."I just hope it's worth the trouble," Nooney mumbled as he walked off in the direction of Admin. I shook my head and went into cla.s.s, which was held in a tiered symposium-style room.Dr. Horowitz's lesson this day was interesting to me. It concentrated on the work of Professor Robert Hare, who'd done original research on psychopaths by using brain scans. According to Hare's studies, when healthy people are shown "neutral" and >motional" words, they respond acutely to emotional words, such as cancer or death. Psychopaths register the words equally. A sentence like "I love you" means nothing more to a psychopath than "I'll have some coffee." Maybe less. According to Hare's a.n.a.lysis of data, attempts to reform psychopaths only make them more manipulative. It certainly was a point of view.Even though I was familiar with some of the material, I found myself jotting down Hare's "characteristics" of psychopathic personality and behavior. There were forty of them. As I wrote them down, I found myself agreeing that most rang true.Glibness and superior charmNeed for constant stimulation / p.r.o.ne to boredomLack of any remorse or guiltShallow emotional responseComplete lack of empathy...I was remembering two psychopaths in particular: Gary Soneji and Kyle Craig. I wondered how many of the forty characteristics" the two of them shared, and started puttingG.S. and K.C. next to the appropriate ones. Then I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned away from Dr. Horowitz."Senior Agent Nooney needs to see you right now in his office," said an executive a.s.sistant, who then walked away with the full concept that I would be right on his heels.I was.I was in the FBI now.

Chapter 5.

SENIOR AGENT GORDON NOONEY was waiting in his small, cramped office in the Administration building. He was obviously upset, which had the desired effect: I wondered what I could have done wrong in the time since we'd talked before cla.s.s.It didn't take him long to let me know why he was so angry. "Don't bother to sit down. You'll be out of here in a minute. I just received a highly unusual call from Tony Woods in the director's office. There's a _situation_ going down in Baltimore. Apparently the director wants you there. It will take precedence over your training cla.s.ses."Nooney shrugged his broad shoulders. Out the window behind him I could see thick woods, and also Hoover Road, where a couple of agents jogged. "What the h.e.l.l, why would you need any training here, Dr. Cross? You caught Casanova in North Carolina. You're the man who brought down Kyle Craig. You're like Clarice Starling in the movies. You're already a star."I took a deep breath before responding. "I had nothing to do with this. I won't apologize for catching Casanova or Kyle Craig."Nooney waved a hand my way. "Why should you apologize? You're dismissed from the day's cla.s.ses. There's a helicopter waiting for you over at HRT. You do know where Hostage Rescue Team is?""I know where it is."Cla.s.s dismissed, I was thinking as I ran to the helipad. I could hear the crack, crack of weapons being fired at the shooting range. Then I was...o...b..ard the helicopter and strapping in. Less than twenty minutes later, the Bell helicopter touched down in Baltimore. I still hadn't gotten over my meeting with Nooney. Did he understand that I hadn't asked for this a.s.signment? I didn't even know why I was in Baltimore.Two agents in a dark blue sedan were waiting for me. One of them, Jim Heekin, took charge immediately, and also put me in my place. "You must be the FNG," he said as we shook hands.I wasn't familiar with what the letters stood for, so I asked Heekin what they meant as we got into the car.He smiled, and so did his partner. "The f.u.c.king New Guy," he said."What we have so far is a bad deal. And it's hot," Heekin said. City of Baltimore homicide detective is involved. Probably why they wanted you here. He's holed up in his own house. Most of his immediate family's in there with him. We don't know if he's suicidal, homicidal, or both, but he's apparently taken the family hostage. Seems similar to a situation created by a police officer last year in south Jersey. This officer's family was gathered together for his father's birthday party. Some birthday party.""Do we know how many are in the house with him?" I asked.Heekin shook his head. Best guess, at least a dozen, including a couple of children. Detective won't let us talk to any of the family members, and he won't answer our questions. Most of the people in the neighborhood don't want us here either.""What's his name?" I asked as I jotted down a few notes to myself. I couldn't believe I was about to get involved in a hostage negotiation. It still didn't make any sense to me _ and then _ it did."His name is Dennis Coulter."I looked up in surprise. "I know Dennis Coulter. I worked a murder case with him. Shared a bushel of crabs at Obrycki's once upon a time.""We know," said Agent Heekin. "He asked for you."

Chapter 6.

DETECTIVE COULTER HAD ASKED FOR ME. What the h.e.l.l was that all about? I hadn't known we were so close. Because we weren't. I'd met him only a couple of times. We were friendly, but not exactly friends. So why did Dennis Coulter want me here?A while back, I had worked with Dennis Coulter on an investigation of drug dealers who were trying to connect, and control, the trade in D.C. and Baltimore and everywhere in between. I'd found Coulter to be tough, very egotistical, but good at his job. I remembered he was a big Eubie Blake fan, and that Blake was from Baltimore.Coulter and his hostages were huddled somewhere inside the house, a gray wood-shingle Colonial on Ailsa Avenue in Lauraville, in the northeast part of Baltimore. Venetian blinds were tightly closed in the windows. What was going on behind the front door was anybody's guess. Three stone steps climbed to the porch, where a rocking chair and a wooden glider sat. The house had recently been painted, which suggested to me that Coulter probably hadn't been expecting trouble in his life. So what happened?Several dozen Baltimore PD, including SWAT team members, had surrounded the house. Weapons were drawn and, in some cases, aimed at the windows and the front door. The Baltimore police helicopter unit Foxtrot had responded.Not good.I already had one idea. "What do you think about everybody lowering their guns for starters?" I asked the old commander from the Baltimore PD. "He hasn't fired on anybody, has he?"The old commander and SWAT team leader conferred briefly, and then weapons around the perimeter were lowered, at least the ones I could see. Meanwhile, one of the Foxtrot helicopters continued to hover close to the house.I turned to the commander again. I needed him on my side. "Thank you, Lieutenant. Have you been talking to him?"He pointed to a man crouched behind a cruiser. Detective Fescoe has the honor. He's been on the horn with Coulter for about an hour."I made a point of walking over to Detective Fescoe and introducing myself. "Mick Fescoe," he said, but he didn't seem overjoyed to meet me. "Heard you were coming. We're fine here.""This intrusion isn't my idea," I told him. "I just left the force in D.C. I don't want to get in anybody's way.""So don't," Fescoe said. He was a slender, wiry man who looked as if he might have played some ball at one time. He moved like it.I rubbed my hand over my chin. "Any idea why he asked for me? I don't know him that well."Fescoe's eyes drifted toward the house. "Says he's being set up by Internal Affairs. Doesn't trust anybody connected to the Baltimore PD. He knew you'd gone over to the FBI recently.""Would you tell him I'm here? But also tell him I'm being briefed now. I want to hear how he sounds before I talk to him."Fescoe nodded, then he called the house. It rang several times before it was picked up."Agent Cross has just arrived, Dennis. He's being briefed now," said Fescoe."Like h.e.l.l he is. Get him on the hook. Don't make me shoot in here. I'm getting close to creating a real problem. Get him now!"Fescoe handed me the phone and I spoke into it. "Dennis, this is Alex Cross. I'm here. I did want to be briefed first.""This really Alex Cross?" Coulter asked, sounding surprised."Yeah, it's me. I don't know too many of the details. Except you say you're being set up by Internal Affairs.""I don't just say it, I am being set up. I can tell you why too. I'll brief you. That way you'll hear it straight.""All right," I told him. "I'm on your side so far. I know you, Dennis. I don't know Baltimore Internal Affairs."Coulter cut me off. "I want you to listen to me. Don't talk. Just hear me out.""All right," I said. "I'm listening."I sat down on the ground behind a Baltimore PD cruiser, and I got ready to listen to the armed man who was supposedly holding a dozen of his family members hostage. Jesus, I was back on the Job again."They want to kill me," Dennis Coulter began. "The Baltimore PD has me in its crosshairs."

Chapter 7.

POP!I jumped. Someone had pulled open a can of soda and tapped me on the shoulder with it.I looked up to see none other than Ned Mahoney, head of the Hostage Rescue Team at Quantico, handing me a Diet c.o.ke, caffeine-free. I had taken a couple of cla.s.ses from him during orientation. He knew his stuff _ in the cla.s.sroom, anyway."Welcome to my private h.e.l.l," I said. "What am I doing here, by the way?"Mahoney winked and dropped down beside me."You're a rising star, or maybe a risen star. You know the drill. Get him talking. Keep him talking," said Mahoney. "We hear you're real good at this.""So what are you doing here?" I asked."What do you think? Watching, studying your technique. You're the director's boy, right? He thinks you're gifted."I took a sip of soda, then pressed the cold can to my forehead. h.e.l.l of an introduction to the FBI for the FNG."Dennis, who wants to kill you?" I spoke into the cell phone again. "Tell me all you can about what's going on here. I also need to ask about your family. Is everybody all right in there?"Coulter bristled. "Hey! Let's not waste time on a lot of bulls.h.i.t negotiation c.r.a.p. I'm about to be executed. That's what this is. Make no mistake. Look around you, man. It's an execution."I couldn't see Coulter, but I remembered him. No more than five-eight, goatee, hip, always cracking a wisea.s.s joke, very tough. All in all, a small-man complex. He began to tell his story, his side of things, and unfortunately I had no idea what to make of what he was spilling out. According to Coulter, detectives in the Baltimore PD had been involved in large drug payoffs. Even he didn't know how many, but the number was high. He'd blown the whistle. The next thing he knew, his house was surrounded by cops.Then Coulter dropped the bomb. "I was getting kickbacks too. Somebody turned me in to Internal Affairs. One of my partners.""Why would a partner do that?"He laughed. "Because I got greedy. I went for a bigger piece of the pie. Thought I had my partners by the short hairs. They didn't see it that way.""How did you have them by the short hairs?""I told my partners that I had copies of records _ who had been paid what. A couple years_ worth of records."Now we were getting somewhere. "Do you?" I asked.Coulter hesitated. Why was that? Either he did or he didn't."I might," he finally said. "They sure think I do. So now they're going to put me down. They were coming for me today....I'm not supposed to leave this house alive."I was trying to listen for other voices or sounds in the house while he kept talking. I didn't hear any. Was anybody else still alive in there? What had Coulter done to his family? How desperate was he?I looked at Ned Mahoney and shrugged my shoulders. I really wasn't sure whether Coulter was telling the truth or if he was just a street cop who'd gone loco. Mahoney looked skeptical too. He had a don't ask me look on his face. I had to go somewhere else for guidance."So what do we do now?" I asked Coulter.He sniffed out a laugh. "I was hoping you'd have an idea. You're supposed to be the hotshot, right?"That's what everybody keeps saying.

Chapter 8.

THE SITUATION IN BALTIMORE didn't get any better during the next several hours. If anything, it got worse. It was impossible to keep the neighbors from wandering out on their porches to watch the standoff in progress. Then the Baltimore PD began to evacuate the Coulters_ neighbors, many of whom were also the Coulters_ friends. A temporary shelter had been set up at the nearby Garrett Heights elementary school. It reminded everyone that there were probably children trapped inside Detective Coulter's house. His family. Jesus!I looked around and shook my head in dismay as I saw an awful lot of Baltimore police, including SWAT, and also the Hostage Rescue Team from Quantico. A swarm of crazy-eyed spectators was pushing and shoving outside the barricades, some of them rooting for cops to be shot _ any cop would do.I stood up and cautiously made my way over to a group of officers waiting behind an emergency rescue van. I didn't need to be told that they didn't appreciate interference from the Feds. I hadn't either when I was on the D.C. police force. I addressed Captain Stockton James Sheehan, whom I'd spoken to briefly when I arrived. "What do you think? Where do we go with this?""Has he agreed to let anybody out?" Sheehan asked. "That's the first question."I shook my head. "He won't even talk about his family. Won't confirm or deny that they're in the house."Sheehan asked, "Well, what is he talking about?"I shared some of what I'd been told by Coulter but not everything. How could I? I left out that he'd sworn Baltimore cops were involved in a large-scale drug scheme _ and, more devastating, that he had records that would incriminate them.Stockton Sheehan listened and then he offered, "Either he lets go of some of the hostages or we have to go in and get him. He's not going to gun down his own family.""He says he will. That's the threat."Sheehan shook his head. "I'm willing to take the risk. We go in when it gets dark. You know this should be our call."I nodded without agreeing or disagreeing, then I walked away from the others. It looked as if we might have another half hour of light. I didn't like to think about what would happen once darkness came.I called Coulter again. He picked up right away."I have an idea," I told him. "I think it's your best shot." I didn't tell Coulter, but I also thought it was his only shot."So tell me what you're thinking," he said.I told Dennis Coulter my plan.. . .Ten minutes later, Captain Sheehan was shouting in my face that I was "worse than any motherf.u.c.king FBI a.s.shole" he had ever dealt with. I guess I was a fast learner. Maybe I didn't even need the orientation cla.s.ses I was missing at Quantico. Not if I was already the "king of the FBI a.s.sholes." Which was one way of saying that the Baltimore police didn't approve of my plan to defuse the situation with Detective Coulter.Even Mahoney had doubts. "I guess you're not real big on social and political correctness," he commented when I told him Captain Sheehan's reaction."Thought I was; guess I'm not. Hope this works. It better work. I think they want to kill him, Ned.""Yeah. So do I. I think we're making the right call.""We?" I asked.Mahoney nodded. "I'm in this with you, podjo. No guts, no glory. It's a Bureau thing."Minutes later, Mahoney and I watched the Baltimore police very reluctantly pull back from the house. I had told Sheehan I didn't want to see a single blue uniform or SWAT coverall anywhere around. The captain had his idea of what const.i.tuted acceptable risks and I had mine. If they rushed the house, somebody would die for sure. If my idea failed, at least n.o.body would get hurt. Or, at least, n.o.body but me.I got back on the phone with Coulter. "The Baltimore police are out of sight," I told him. "I want you to come out, Dennis. Do it now. Before they get a chance to think about what just happened."He didn't answer at first, then said, "I'm looking around. All it takes is one sniper with a nightscope."I knew he was right. Didn't matter. We had one chance."Come on out with your hostages," I told him. "I'll meet you on the front steps myself."He didn't say anything more, and I was pretty sure I'd lost him. I focused on the front door of the house and tried not to think about people dying here. C'mon, Coulter. Use your head. This is the best deal you're going to get.He finally spoke again. "You sure about this? Because I'm not. I think you might be crazy.""I'm sure.""All right, I'm coming out," he said. Then he added, "This is on you."I turned to Mahoney. "Let's get a protective vest on him as soon as he hits the porch. Surround him with our guys. No Baltimore PD anywhere near him no matter what they say. Can we do that?""Bra.s.s b.a.l.l.s." Mahoney grinned. "Let's do it _ try, anyway.""Let me bring you out, Dennis. It's safer that way," I said into the cell. "I'm coming to you now."But Coulter had his own plan. Jesus, he was already on his front porch. He had both hands raised high over his head. Clearly unarmed. Vulnerable as h.e.l.l.I was afraid I'd hear shots and he'd go down in a heap. I started to run forward.Then half a dozen HRT guys were all over him, shielding Coulter from harm. They rushed him to a waiting van."We got him inside the truck. Subject is safe," I heard the report from HRT. "We're getting him the h.e.l.l out of here."I turned back toward the house. What about the family? Where were they?Had he made up his story? Oh, Christ, what had Dennis Coulter done?Then I saw the family walking single file out of the house. It was an incredible scene. The hair on the back of my neck stood up.An old man in a white shirt, black trousers, and suspenders. An elderly woman in a blowing pink dress and high heels. Tears were streaming down her cheeks. Two small girls in white party dresses. A couple of middle-aged women holding hands. Three males in their twenties, each of them with their hands up. A woman with two little babies.Several of the adults were carrying cardboard boxes.I figured I knew what was in them. Yeah, I knew. The records, the proof, the evidence.Detective Dennis Coulter had been telling the truth after all. His family had believed him. They had just saved his life.I felt Ned Mahoney pat my back hard. "Nice job. Really good job."I laughed and said, for an FNG. That was a test, wasn't it?""I really couldn't say. But if it was, you aced it."

Chapter 9.

A TEST? Jesus. Is that why I was sent to Baltimore? I hoped to h.e.l.l not.I got home late that night, too late. I was glad that no one would be up to see me, especially Nana. I couldn't handle one of her soul-piercing disapproving looks right now. I needed a beer and then I wanted to go to bed. Sleep if I could.I slipped quietly inside the house, not wanting to wake anyone. Not a sound except for the tiniest electric hum that came from somewhere. I was planning to call Jamilla as soon as I got upstairs. I was missing her like the plague. Rosie the cat slid by and rubbed against my leg. "h.e.l.lo, Red," I whispered. "I did good today."Then I heard a cry.I hurried up the front stairs toward Little Alex's room. He was up and working himself into a good wail. I didn't want Nana or one of the other kids to have to get up and tend to him. Besides, I hadn't seen my boy since early that morning and I wanted to give him a snuggle. I missed his little face.When I peeked into his room he was sitting up, and he seemed surprised to see it was me. Then he smiled and clapped his hands. Oh, boy! Daddy's on the case. Daddy's the biggest sucker in the house."What are you doing up, Pup? It's late," I said.Alex's bed is a low-riser that I made myself. There are protective bars on either side to keep him from falling out.I slid in beside him. "Move over and give your daddy some room," I whispered, and kissed the top of his head. I don't ever remember my father kissing me, so I kiss Alex every chance I get. The same goes for Damon and Jannie, no matter how much they complain as they get older and less wise."I'm tired, little man," I said as I stretched out. "How about you? Tough day, Puppy?"I retrieved his bottle from a s.p.a.ce between the mattress and the guard bars. He started to drink, and then he moved in close to me. He grabbed his stuffed cow, Moo, and he fell back to sleep in minutes.So nice. Magical. That sweet baby smell I love. His soft breathing _ baby's breath.The two of us had a nice sleep-over that night.

Chapter 10.

THE COUPLE WAS HIDING out for a few days in New York City. Lower Manhattan. It was so easy to get lost there, to disappear off the map. And New York was one city where they could get whatever they wanted, whenever they wanted it. The Couple wanted rough s.e.x. For starters, anyway.They had stayed out of reach of their employer for more than thirty-six hours. Their contact man, Sterling, finally got through to them on the cell phone in a room at the Chelsea Hotel on West Twenty-Third Street. Outside the window was a sign: HOTEL CHELSEA in an L shape. The vertical HOTEL was in white, the horizontal CHELSEA in red. It was a famous New York City icon."I've been trying to reach you for a day and a half," Sterling said. "Don't ever turn off your cell on me. Consider this a last warning."The woman, Zoya, yawned and gave the phone the finger.With her free hand, she popped a CD, East Eats West, into the player. Rock music kicked in hard and loud. "We were busy, darling. We're still busy. What the h.e.l.l do you want? You have more money for us? Money talks.""Turn down the music, please. Please. Somebody has an itch. He's very rich. There's a lot of money involved.""Like I said, darling, we're busy right now. Otherwise occupied. Out to lunch. How big an itch is it?""Same as last time. A very big itch. He's a personal friend of the Wolf."Zoya flinched at the mention of the Wolf. "Give me details, specius. Don't waste our time.""We'll do it like we always do, darling. A piece of the puzzle at a time. How soon can you be on the road? How about thirty minutes?""We have something to wrap up here. Let's say four hours. This need that somebody has, this itch _ what kind of itch is it?""One unit, female. And not too far from New York. I'll give you directions first. Then specius on the unit. You have four hours."Zoya looked at her partner, who was lounging in an armchair. Slava was idly fingering a p.e.c.k.e.r leash as he listened to her talking. He was gazing out the window at a sweet shop, a tailor shop, a one-hour photo. Typical NYC view."We'll do the job," said Zoya. "Tell Wolf we'll get his friend what he needs. No problem whatsoever." Then she hung up on Sterling. Because she could.She shrugged at her partner. Then Zoya looked across the hotel room to a queen-size bed with a steel decorative headboard. A young blond man was lying there. He was naked and gagged, handcuffed to vertical rods s.p.a.ced about a foot apart on the bed."You're in luck," Zoya said to the blond. "Only four more hours to play, baby. Only four more hours."Then Slava spoke. "You'll wish it was less. You ever heard of a Russian word _ zamochit? No. I'll show you zamochit. Four hours_ worth. I learned it from the Wolf. Now you learn from me. Zamochit. It means to break all the bones in your body."Zoya winked at the boy. ?our hours. Zamochit. You'll take the next few hours with you through eternity. Never forget it, darling."

Chapter 11.

WHEN I WOKE IN THE MORNING, Little Alex was sleeping peacefully beside me, his head on my chest. I couldn't resist sneaking another kiss. And another. Then, as I lay there next to my boy, I found myself thinking about Detective Dennis Coulter and his family. I had been moved emotionally when they came out of that house together. The family had saved Coulter's life, and I was a sucker for family stuff.I had been asked to stop at the Hoover Building, always referred to as "the Bureau," before I drove down to Quantico. The director wanted to see me about what had happened in Baltimore. I had no idea what to expect, but I was anxious about the visit. Maybe I should have skipped Nana's coffee that morning.Almost anybody who has seen it would agree that the Hoover Building is a strange and supernaturally ugly structure. It takes up an entire block between Pennsylvania Avenue, Ninth, Tenth, and E Streets. The nicest thing I could say about it is that it's fortresslike." Inside, it's even worse. The Bureau is library quiet and warehouse grim. The long halls glow in medicinal white.As soon as I stepped onto the director's floor, I was met by his executive a.s.sistant, a very effluent man named Tony Woods, whom I liked quite a bit already."How is he this morning, Tony?" I asked."He likes what happened down in Baltimore," Tony answered. "His Highness is in a pretty good mood. For a change.""Was Baltimore a test?" I asked, not sure how far I could go with the a.s.sistant."Oh, it was your final exam. But remember, everything's a test."I was led into the director's relatively small conference room. Burns was already sitting there waiting for me. He raised a gla.s.s of orange juice in mock salute. "Here he is!" He smiled. "I'm making sure that everybody knows you did a bang-up job in Baltimore. Just the way I wanted to see you start out.""n.o.body got shot," I said."You got the job done, Alex. HRT was very impressed. So was I."I sat down and poured myself coffee. I knew it was "help yourself" and no formalities with Burns. "You're spreading the word . . . because you have such big plans for me?" I asked.Burns laughed in his usual conspiratorial way. "Absolutely, Alex. I want you to take my job."Now it was my turn to laugh. "No, thank you." I sipped the coffee, which was dark brown, a little bitter, but delicious _ almost as good as Nana Mama's. Well, maybe half as good as the best in Washington. "You care to share any of your more immediate plans with me?" I asked.Burns laughed again. He was in a good mood this morning. "I just want the Bureau to operate simply and effectively, that's all. It's the way it was when I ran the New York office. I'll tell you what I don't believe in: bureaucrats, and cowboys. There are too many of both in the Bureau. Especially the former. I want street smarts on the street, Alex. Or maybe I just want smarts. You took a chance yesterday, only you probably didn't see it that way. There were no politics for you _ just the right way to get the job done.""What if it hadn't worked?" I asked as I set my coffee down on a coaster emblazoned with the Bureau's emblem."Well, h.e.l.l, then you wouldn't be here now and we wouldn't be talking like this. Seriously, though, there's one thing I want to caution you about. It may seem obvious to you, but it's a lot worse than you imagine. You can't always tell the good guys from the bad ones in the Bureau. No one can. I've tried, and it's almost impossible."I thought about what he was implying _ part of which was that Burns already knew that one of my weaknesses was to look for the good in people. I understood it was a weakness sometimes, but I wouldn't change, or maybe I couldn't change."Are you a good guy?" I asked him."Of course I am," Burns said with a wholesome grin that could have landed him a starring role on The West Wing. "You can trust me, Alex. Always. Absolutely. Just like you trusted Kyle Craig a few years back."Jesus, he was giving me the shivers. Or maybe the director was just trying to get me to see the world his way: Trust no one. Go to the head of the cla.s.s.

Chapter 12.

AT A LITTLE PAST ELEVEN, I was on my way down to Quantico. Even after my "final" in Baltimore, I still had a cla.s.s on "Stress Management and Law Enforcement." I already knew the operative statistic: FBI agents were five times more likely to kill themselves than to be killed in the line of duty.A Billy Collins poem was floating through my brain as I drove: "Another Reason Why I Don't Keep a Gun in the House." Nice concept, good poem, bad omen.The cell rang and I heard the voice of Tony Woods from the director's office. There had been a change of plans. Woods gave me orders from the director to go straight to Ronald Reagan Washington National Airport. A plane was waiting for me.Jesus! I was on another case already; I'd been ordered to skip school again. Things were happening faster than even I had expected, and I wasn't sure if that was a good or a bad thing."Does Senior Agent Nooney know that I'm the director's one-man flying squad?" I asked Woods. Tell me that he does. I don't need more trouble down at Quantico."We'll let him know posthaste where you're going," Woods promised. "I'll take care of it personally. Go to Atlanta, and keep us posted on what you find down there. You'll be briefed on the plane. It's a kidnapping case." But that was all Tony Woods would tell me on the phone.For the most part, the Bureau flies out of Reagan Washington National. I boarded a Cessna Citation Ultra, tan, with no identifying markings. The Cessna sat eight, but I was the only pa.s.senger."You must be important," the pilot said before we took off."I'm not important. Believe me, I'm n.o.body."The pilot just laughed. "Buckle up, then, n.o.body."It was perfectly clear that a call from the director's office had preceded me. Here I was, being treated like a senior agent. The director's troubleshooter?Another agent jumped aboard just before we took off. He sat down across the aisle from me and introduced himself as Wyatt Walsh, from D.C. Was he part of the director's "flying team" too? Maybe my partner?"What happened in Atlanta?" I asked. "What's so important, or unimportant, that it requires our services?""n.o.body told you?" He seemed surprised that I didn't know the details."I got a call from the director's office less than half an hour ago. I was told to come here. They said I'd be briefed on the plane."Walsh slapped two volumes of case notes on my lap. "There's been a kidnapping in the Buckhead section of Atlanta. Woman in her thirties. White woman, well-to-do. She's the wife of a judge, which makes it federal. More important, she isn't the first."

Chapter 13.

EVERYTHING WAS SUDDENLY in a hurry-up mode. After we landed I was driven in a van to the Phipps Plaza shopping center in Buckhead.As we pulled into the lot off Peachtree, it was obvious to me that something was very wrong there. We pa.s.sed the anchor stores: Saks Fifth Avenue and Lord & Taylor. They were nearly empty. Agent Walsh told me that the victim, Mrs. Elizabeth Connolly, had been abducted in the underground parking lot near another large store called Parisian.The entire parking area was a crime scene, but particularly Level 3, where Mrs. Connolly had been grabbed. Each level of the garage was marked with a purple-and-gold scroll design, but now crime-scene tape was draped over the scrolls. The Bureau's Evidence Response Team was there. The incredible amount of activity indicated that the local police agencies were taking this extremely seriously. Walsh's words were floating in my head: She isn't the first.It struck me as a little ironic, but I was more comfortable talking to the local police than to agents from the Bureau's old office. I walked over and spoke to two detectives, Pedi and Ciaccio, from the Atlanta PD."I'll try to stay out of your way," I said to them, then added, "I used to be Washington PD.""Sold out, huh?" Ciaccio said, and she sniffed out a laugh. It was supposed to be a joke, but it had enough truth in it to sting. Her eyes had a light frost in them.Pedi spoke up. He looked about ten years older than his partner. Both were attractive. "Why's the FBI interested in this case?"I told them only as much as I thought I should, not everything. "There have been other abductions, or at least disappearances, that resemble this one. White women, suburban locales. We're here checking into possible connections. And, of course, this is a judge's wife."Pedi asked, "Are we talking about past disappearances in the Atlanta metro area?"I shook my head. "No, not to my knowledge. The other disappearances are in Texas, Ma.s.sachusetts, Florida, Arkansas.""Ransoms involved?" Pedi followed up."In one Texas case, yes. Otherwise no money has been asked for. None of the women have been found so far.""Only white women?" Detective Ciaccio asked as she took a few notes."As far as we know, yes. And all of them fairly well-to-do. But no ransoms. And none of what I'm telling you gets to the press." I looked around the parking garage. "What do wehave so far? Help me out a little."Ciaccio looked at Pedi. "Joshua?" she asked.Pedi shrugged. "All right, Irene.""We do have something. There were a couple of kids in one of the parked cars when the abduction went down. They didn't witness the first part of the crime.""They were otherwise occupied," said Joshua Pedi."But they looked up when they heard a scream and saw Elizabeth Connolly. Two kidnappers, apparently pretty good at it. Man and a woman. They didn't see our young lovers because they were in the back of a van.""And they had their heads down?" I asked. "Otherwise occupied?""That too. But when they did come up for air, they saw the man and woman, described as being in their thirties, well-dressed. They were already holding Mrs. Connolly. Took her down very fast. Threw her into the back of her own station wagon. Then they drove off in her car.""Why didn't the kids get out of the van to help?"Ciaccio shook her head. "They said that it happened very fast, and that they were scared. Seemed _unreal_ to them. I think they were also nervous about having it known they were playing around in the back of a van during school hours. They both attend a local prep school in Buckhead. They were skipping cla.s.ses."A team took her, I thought, and knew it was a big break for us. According to what I'd read on the ride down, no team had been spotted at any of the other abductions. A male and a female team? That was interesting. Strange and unexpected."You want to answer a question for us now?" Detective Pedi asked."If I can. Shoot."He looked at his partner. I had a feeling that somewhere along the way Joshua and Irene might have spent some time in the backseat of a car, something about the way they looked at each other. "We've been hearing that this might have to do with the Sandra Friedlander case. Is that right? That one's gone unsolved for, what, two years in D.C.?"I looked at the detective and shook my head. "Not to my knowledge," I said. "You're the first to bring up Sandra Friedlander."Which wasn't exactly the truth. Her name had been in confidential FBI reports I'd read on the ride down from D.C. Sandra Friedlander _ and seven others.

Chapter 14.

MY HEAD WAS BUZZING. In a bad way. I knew from my hurried reading of the case notes that there were more than 220 women currently listed as missing in the United States, and that at least seven of the disappearances had been linked by the Bureau to "white slave rings." That was the nasty twist. White women in their twenties and thirties were in high demand in certain circles. The prices could get exorbitant _ if the sales were to the Middle East or to j.a.pan.Atlanta had been the hub of another kind of s.e.x-slave scandal just a few years back. It had involved Asian and Mexican women smuggled into the U.S., then forced into prost.i.tution in Georgia and the Carolinas. This case had another possible connection to Juanita, Mexico, where hundreds of women had disappeared in the past couple of years.My mind was rushing through these unpleasantries when I arrived at Judge Brendan Connolly's home in the Tuxedo Park section of Buckhead, near the governor's mansion. The Connolly place replicated a 1840s up-country Georgia plantation home and sat on about two acres. A Porsche Boxster was parked in the circular driveway. Everything looked perfect _ in its place.The front door was opened by a young girl who was still in her school clothes. The patch on her jumper told me she attended Pace Academy. She introduced herself as Brigid Connolly, and I could see braces on her teeth. I had read about Brigid in the Bureau's notes on the family. The foyer of the house was elegant, with an elaborate chandelier and a highly polished ash hardwood floor.I spotted two younger girls _ just their heads _ peeking out from a doorway off the main entryway, just past a couple of British watercolors. All three of the Connolly daughters were pretty. Brigid was twelve, Meredith was eleven, and Gwynne was six. According to my crib notes, the younger girls attended the Lovett School."I'm Alex Cross, with the FBI," I said to Brigid, who seemed tremendously self-a.s.sured for her age, especially during this crisis. "I think that your father is expecting me.""My dad will be right down, sir," she told me. Then she turned to her younger sisters and scolded, "You heard Daddy. Behave. Both of you.""I won't bite anybody," I said to the girls, who were still peeking at me from down the hallway.Meredith turned bright red. "Oh, we're sorry. This isn't about you.""I understand," I said. Finally they smiled, and I saw that Meredith had braces too. Very cute girls, sweet.I heard a voice from above. "Agent Cross?" Agent? I wasn't used to the sound of that yet.I looked up the front staircase as Judge Brendan Connolly made his way down. He had on a striped blue dress shirt, dark blue slacks, black driving loafers. He looked trim and in shape, but tired, as if he hadn't slept in days. I knew from the FBI workup sheets that he was forty- four and had attended Georgia Tech and Vanderbilt Law School."So which is it," he asked, then forced a smile, =o you bite or not?"I shook his hand. "I only bite people who deserve it," I said. "Alex Cross."Brendan Connolly nodded toward a large library-den that I could see was crammed from floor to ceiling with books. There was also room for a baby grand piano. I noticed sheet music for some Billy Joel songs. In the corner of the room was a daybed _ unmade."After Agent Cross and I are done, I'll make dinner," he said to the girls. "I'll try not to poison anybody tonight, but I'll need your help, ladies.""Yes, Daddy," they chorused. They seemed to adore their father. He pulled the sliding oak doors, and the two of us were sealed inside."This is so d.a.m.n bad. So hard." He let out a deep breath. "Trying to keep up a front for them. They're the best girls in the world." Judge Connolly gestured around the book-lined room. "This is Lizzie's favorite place in the house. She plays the piano very well. So do the girls. We're both bookaholics, but she especially loved reading in this room."He sat in a club chair covered in rust-tone leather. "I appreciate that you came to Atlanta. I've heard you're very good at difficult cases. How can I help you?" he asked.I sat across from him on a matching rust-tone-leather couch. On the wall behind him were photographs of the Parthenon, Chartres, the pyramids, and an honorary plaque from Chastain Horse Park. "There are a lot of people working to find Mrs. Connolly, and they'll go down a lot of avenues. I'm not going to get into too many details about your family. The local detectives can go there.""Thank you," the judge said. "Those questions are devastating to answer right now. To go over and over. You can't imagine."I nodded. "Are you aware of any local men, or even women, who might have taken an inappropriate interest in your wife? A long-standing crush, a potential obsession? That's the one private area I'd like to go into. Then, any little things that strike you as out of the ordinary. Did you notice anyone watching your wife? Are there any faces you've seen around more than normal lately? Delivery men? Federal Express or other services? Neighbors who are suspicious in any way? Work a.s.sociates? Even friends who might have fantasized about Mrs. Connolly?"Brendan Connolly nodded. "I see what you're getting at."I looked him in the eye. "Have you and your wife had any fights lately?" I asked. "I need to know if you have. Then we can move on."Wetness suddenly appeared in the corners of Brendan Connolly's eyes. "I met Lizzie in Washington when she was with the Post and I was an a.s.sociate at Tate Schilling, a law firm there. It was love at first sight. We almost never fought, hardly ever raised our voices. That's still true. Agent Cross, I love my wife. So do her daughters. Please help us bring her home. You have to find Lizzie."

Chapter 15.

THE MODERN-DAY G.o.dFATHER. A forty-seven-year-old Russian now living in America and known as the Wolf. Rumored to be fearless, hands-on, into everything from weapon sales, extortion, and drugs to legitimate businesses such as banking and venture capital. No one seemed to know his true ident.i.ty, or his American name, or where he lived. Clever. Invisible. Safe from the FBI. And anybody else who might be looking for him.He had been in his twenties when he made the switch from the KGB to become one of the most ruthless cell leaders in Russian organized crime, the Red Maya. His namesake, the Siberian wolf, was a skillful hunter, but also relentlessly hunted. The Siberian was a fast runner and could overpower much heavier animals _ but it was also hunted for its blood and bones. The human Wolf was also a hunter who was hunted _ except that the police had no idea where to hunt.Invisible. By design. Actually, he was hiding in plain sight. On a balmy evening, the man called Wolf was throwing a huge party at his 20,000-square-foot house on the waterfront in Fort Lauderdale, Florida. The occasion was the launch of his new men's magazine, called Instinct, which would compete with Maxim and Stun.In Lauderdale, the Wolf was known as Ari Manning, a wealthy businessman originally from Tel Aviv. He had other names in other cities. Many names, many cities.He was pa.s.sing through the den now, where about twenty of his guests were watching a football game on several TVs, including a 61-inch Runco. A couple of football fanatics were bent over a computer with a statistics database. On a nearby table was a bottle of Stolichnaya encased in a block of ice. The vodka in ice was the only real Russian touch that he allowed.At six-foot-two, this Wolf could carry 240 pounds and still move like a big and very powerful animal. He circulated among his guests, always smiling and joking, knowing that no one in the room understood why he smiled, not one of these so-called friends or business partners or social acquaintances had any idea who he was.They knew him as Ari, not as Pasha Sorokin, and definitely not as the Wolf. They had no clue about the pounds of illegal diamonds he bought from Sierra Leone, the tons of heroin from Asia, and weapons and even jets sold to the Colombians, or white women purchased by the Saudis and j.a.panese. In south Florida, he had a reputation for being a maverick both socially and in business. There were more than 150 guests tonight, but he'd ordered food and drink for twice that number. He had imported the chef from Le Cirque 2000 in New York, and also a sushi cook from San Francisco. His servers were dressed as cheerleaders and were topless, which he thought a cheeky joke, guaranteed to offend. The famous surprise dessert for the party was Sacher tortes flown in from Vienna. No wonder everybody loved Ari. Or hated him.He gave a playful hug to a former pro running back for the Miami Dolphins and talked to a lawyer who'd made tens of millions from the Florida tobacco settlement _ exchanged stories about Governor Jeb Bush. Then he moved on through the crowd. There were so many a.s.s- kissing social climbers and opportunists who came to his house to be seen among the right, and wrong, people: self-important, spoiled, selfish, and, worst of all, boring as tepid dishwater.He walked along the edge of an indoor swimming pool toward an outdoor pool more than twice the size. He chatted with his guests and made a generous pledge to a private-school charity. Not surprisingly, he was. .h.i.t on by somebody's wife. He had serious conversations with the owner of the most important hotel in the state, a Mercedes-dealing mogul, and the head of a conglomerate who was a hunting "buddy" of his.He despised all of these pretenders, especially the older used-to-be's. None of them had ever taken a real risk in their lives. Still, they had made millions, even billions, and they thought they were such hot s.h.i.t.And then _ he thought about Elizabeth Connolly for the first time in an hour or so. His sweet, very s.e.xy Lizzie. She looked like Claudia Schiffer, and he fondly remembered the days when the image of the German model was on hundreds of billboards all over Moscow. He had l.u.s.ted for Claudia _ all Russian men had _ and now he had her likeness in his possession.Why? Because he could. It was the philosophy that drove him and everything in his life.For that very reason, he was keeping her right here in his big house in Fort Lauderdale.

Chapter 16.

LIZZIE CONNOLLY COULDN_T BELIEVE any of this awfulness was happening to her. It still didn't seem possible. It wasn't possible. And yet, here she was. A hostage!The house where she was being kept was full of people. Full! It sounded as if a party was going on. A party? How dare he?Was her insane captor that sure of himself? Was he so arrogant? So brazen? Was it possible? Of course it was. He'd boasted to her that he was a gangster, the king of gangsters, perhaps the greatest that ever lived. He had repulsive tattoos _ on the back of his right hand, his shoulders, his back, around his right index finger, and also on his private parts, on his t.e.s.t.i.c.l.es and p.e.n.i.s.Lizzie could definitely hear a party going on in the house. She could even make out conversations: small talk about an upcoming trip to Aspen; a rumored affair between a nanny and a local mother; the death of a child in a pool, a six-year-old like her Gwynne; football stories; a joke about two altar boys and a Siamese cat that she had already heard in Atlanta.Who the h.e.l.l were these people? Where was she being held? Where am I, d.a.m.n it?Lizzie was trying so hard not to go crazy, but it was almost impossible. All of these people, their inane talk.They were so close to where she was bound and tied and gagged and being held hostage by a madman, probably a killer. As Lizzie listened, tears finally began to run down her cheeks. Their voices, their closeness, their laughing, all just a few feet away from her.I'm here! I'm right here! d.a.m.n it, help me. Please help me.I'm right here!She was in darkness. Couldn't see a thing.The people, the party, were on the other side of a thick wooden door. She was locked in a small room that was part closet; she'd been kept in here for days. Permitted bathroom breaks but not much else.Bound tightly by rope.Gagged with tape.So she couldn't call out for help. Lizzie couldn't scream _ except inside her head.Please help me.Somebody, please!I'm here! I'm right here!I don't want to die.Because that was the one thing he'd told her that was certain _ he was going to kill her.

Chapter 17.

BUT NO ONE COULD HEAR Lizzie Connolly. The party went on and got larger, noisier, more extravagant, vulgar. Eleven times during the night, stretch limousines dropped off well- heeled guests at the large waterfront house in Fort Lauderdale. Then the limos left. They would not be waiting for their pa.s.sengers. No one noticed, at least no one let on.And no one paid any attention when these same guests left that night in cars they hadn't arrived in. Very expensive cars, the finest in the world, all of them stolen.An NFL running back departed in a deep maroon Rolls-Royce Corniche convertible worth $363,000, "made to order," from the paint to the wood, hide, trim, even the position of the intercrossed R's in the c.o.c.kpit.A white rap star drove off in an aqua blue Aston Martin Vanquish priced at $228,000, capable of zero to a hundred in under ten seconds.The most expensive of the cars was the American-made Saleen S7, with its gull-wing doors, the look of a shark, and 550 horsepower.All in all, eleven very expensive, very stolen automobiles were delivered to buyers at the house.A silver Pagani Zonda priced at $370,000. The engine of the Italian-made racer barked, howled, roared.A silver and orange-trimmed Spyker C8 Double 12 with 620 horsepower.A bronze Bentley Azure Mulliner convertible _ yours for $376,000.A Ferrari 575 Maranello, $215,000.A Porsche GT2.Two Lamborghini Murcielagos, yellow gold, $270,000 apiece, named, like all Lamborghinis, after a famous bull.A Hummer H1 _ not as hot as the other cars, maybe, but nothing got in its way.The total value of the stolen cars was over three million; the sales came to a little under two.Which more than paid for the Sacher tortes flown all the way from Vienna.And besides, the Wolf was a fan of fast, beautiful cars . . . of fast, beautiful everything.

Chapter 18.

I FLEW BACK TO D.C. the next day and was home at six that night, finished with work for the day. At times like this, I almost felt that maybe I had my life back. Maybe I'd done the right thing by joining the Bureau. Maybe . . . As I climbed out of the ancient black Porsche, I saw Jannie on the front porch. She was practicing her violin, her "long bows." She wanted to be the next Midori. The playing was impressive _ to me, anyway. When Jannie wanted something, she went after it."Who's the beautiful young lady holding that Juzek so perfectly?" I called as I trudged up the lawn.Jannie glanced my way, said nothing, smiled knowingly, as if only she knew the secret. Nana and I were involved in her practices, which featured the Suzuki method of instruction. We modified the method slightly to include both of us. Parents were a part of practice, and it seemed to pay dividends. In the Suzuki way, great care was taken to avoid compet.i.tion and its negative effects. Parents were told to listen to countless tapes and attend lessons. I had gone to many of the lessons myself. Nana covered the others. In that way, we a.s.sumed the dual role of "home teacher.""That's so beautiful. What a wonderful sound to come home to," I told Jannie. Her smile was worth everything I'd gone through at work that day.She finally spoke. "To s