Mandy Bell blushed, said softly, “That was a long time ago, Detective. I called him because these days he’s the best attorney in Nashville.”
“Sure,” I said, smiling at them both. “Makes sense. But now I’m going to have to ask you both to vacate the premises for the time being.”
“But the house is hers,” Jackson protested.
“I’ve got an evidence team on the way, Counselor, and for the sake of finding out who killed Mr. Francones, I’d prefer you not be here.”
The attorney looked ready to argue, but Mandy Bell drained her glass, said, “It’s okay, Timmy. We’ll just go get rooms at a hotel. Good one. Four stars. Five stars. Why not?”
Chapter
25
At a quarter to seven that evening, Marcus Sunday watched Mandy Bell Lee and her attorney spill out of a taxi in front of the new Mandarin Oriental Hotel overlooking the Tidal Basin.
She must be a handful between the sheets, the writer thought, maybe as crazy as Acadia. He had been following the pair since they left Francones’s house, not quite sure why, relying on instinct rather than clear purpose in his decision to abandon his surveillance of Cross in favor of these two.
He had the valet take his van.
“Checking in, sir?” the doorman asked.
“Going to the bar,” Sunday replied. “Heard it’s nice.”
“Yes, sir. Empress Lounge, top of the stairs.”
Given her wobbly state exiting the taxi, he figured the lobby bar as the most likely place to spot the pair, and he was right, or at least half right. While the attorney was checking in, Mandy Bell Lee was causing quite the stir in the sunken lounge area. She had every guy in the place gaping as she sashayed up to the bar, leaned over, and placed an order with one hip cocked provocatively.
Sunday glanced back in the attorney’s direction and wondered for a moment about the connection. Were those two monkeying around? Did it matter?
And right then he understood why his instincts had driven him here: it would matter to Alex Cross whether or not the singer and her lawyer were involved, because a love triangle is a proven motive for murder.
But that’s nonsense, Sunday thought, taking a seat where he could see the entire bar. At least, in this case it seemed obvious to him from the news coverage that Francones should not be the focus of the Superior Spa investigation. Yes, the Mad Man was a celebrity, a lady-killer, a football god and all that. But those were just pegs for the news guys to hang on to, things they could worry to death for the sake of ratings.
Everything he’d read about the slayings said “freak” to Sunday, even the way the killer had taken the hard drive that recorded the feeds from the interior security cameras. The Post story this morning had described that as “the shooter covering his tracks.” Nonsense again.
This killer was not perfect. He believed in something—in this case, himself. In Sunday’s mind the murderer became a narcissist who wanted to see himself in action, wanted to relive every moment of mayhem again and again. At some level, the writer understood that compulsion, but he also realized that it was a terrible flaw, one that could easily get the killer caught and convicted.
Watching Mandy Bell Lee eagerly tossing back a shot that set her body swaying to the lounge music, Sunday realized there was something else he knew about the killer in light of the missing surveillance tapes.
The Superior Spa was not a one-time deal, the writer thought. He’s done this before! He could feel it: somewhere, somehow, this imperfect killer had left carnage and evidence behind him. He was also sure that Cross, blinded by the Mad Man’s celebrity, was not considering this angle.
That got Sunday excited intellectually. He fervently believed he understood murder, crime, and violent chaos at a much deeper level than Alex Cross ever could. What did Cross know, really, about cold-blooded killing? The lust that rose in an active murderer? The addictive desire to end lives?
He was certain that Dr. Alex had all sorts of half-baked theories, while he, Marcus Sunday, had insight, true insight into what made men kill.
Then he had a though
t, a delicious thought. Wouldn’t it be enjoyable to see Cross one-upped before he was destroyed? Wouldn’t it be satisfying to see him groveling in failure just as his life began to disintegrate?
Yes. Yes, it would. And in a flash, an impromptu plan developed quite organically in Sunday’s fertile mind. That’s it, he thought after several moments’ reflection, that would do it.
Mandy Bell Lee’s attorney returned to the bar, spotting the country-western star ready to toss back another shot of Maker’s Mark. Jackson crossed to his client. They had an intense conversation. The attorney signaled to the bartender that she was cut off.
He led her by her elbow out of the bar. The whole place was watching the scene. As they passed Sunday, who was acting interested in the drink menu, the singer said in a slurred voice, “You’re an asshole, Timmy. You always were. I don’t know why I called you. I must have been out of my mind to think you were my friend.”
“I’m your lawyer, dear,” Jackson said. “There’s a big, big difference.”
As the pair disappeared toward the elevators, Sunday nodded with satisfaction at a new thought, a new plan, risky, reckless, but overwhelmingly attractive.