Then he straightened up suddenly. I could hear shouting coming from the house.
“They’ve got him!” Ridge said—but then, “Wait.”
There was some fast back-and-forth now, with Ridge blurting communications. “Yes? I hear you. Do not stand down.” Eventually he said, “Okay, give me one second,” and turned to address the rest of us.
“We’ve got a standoff situation inside,” he said. “Bowie’s armed and belligerent. Says he won’t talk to Secret Service.”
I didn’t have to think about this. “Let me talk to him,” I said.
Ridge held up a finger and went back to the mic in his cuff. “Peters, I’m going to send in a throw phone—”
“No,” I said. “Face-to-face. All he’s looking at in there is five armed officers. We’re not window dressing, Ridge. You brought us here for a reason, and now we know what it is.”
There was another long stretch of back-and-forth after that, relayed among Ridge, SWAT, and Constantine Bowie inside. Eventually, an agreement was reached. Bowie would let them check the rest of the house to make sure no one else was there, and then I’d go in. All of a sudden, someone was handing me a vest and Ridge was giving me the rundown.
“Keep SWAT between you and Bowie at all times. If you can get him to stand down, do it, and if not, leave. Don’t drag it out.” He checked his watch again. “Fifteen minutes. That’s it. Then I’m going to pull you out myself.”
Chapter 102
THE PROFILER IN me was working overtime as I entered the alcove of Bowie’s town house by myself. The place was airy and well-appointed inside. A large amount of cash had gone into Early American antiques and art. It was also extremely neat; not a loose magazine, newspaper, or stray knickknack in sight. I saw a lot of control at work in this house. Was this where Zeus lived? Had he murdered here as well?
The master bedroom was at the top of the stairs on the third floor.
Two SWAT officers in the hall nodded at me as I came up, but they didn’t say anything. I could also see two of the three who were inside the bedroom, covering Bowie from different angles with their MP5s. I called out to Bowie.
“Bowie, my name’s Alex Cross. I’m with MPD and I’m coming in, okay?”
There was a pause, and then a strained voice. “Come in. Let me see a shield.”
He was sitting flat on the floor, wearing just boxers, sweating profusely. The king-size bed had obviously been slept in, and the nightstand drawer was hanging open.
He’d cornered himself under a window, between the bed and one of the two closets. His arms were locked out in front of him, with a .357 SIG Sauer pointed at the nearest officer.
The other thing I noticed was the signet ring on his right hand—gold with a red stone, just like the one in the video we’d all seen by now. Man, he was making this too easy. Why? Was he Zeus?
I kept my own hands in front of me with my badge showing, and only came as far as the doorway. Everyone else stayed still as statues.
“Nice house,” I said right off. “How long have you lived here?”
“What?” Bowie’s eyes took me in for half a second, then went back to his target.
“I was wondering how long you’ve lived here. That’s all. Breaking the ice.”
He scoffed. “Checking my mental acuity?”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been here two years. The president of the United States is Margaret Vance. Seven times eight is fifty-six, okay?”
“So I guess you understand the gravity of what you’re doing,” I told him.
“That’s where you’re wrong,” he said. “I have no fucking clue what’s going on here.”
“Well then, I’ll tell you. I’ll try to, anyway. Technically, you’re under arrest for the murder of Sally Anne Perry.”
His eyes flashed anger without actually moving. “Fuck that! They’ve been gunning for me ever since I got pushed out.”
“Who has?”