Chapter 13
T HE BUTCHER PARKED a block or so up Fourth Street; then he got out of the car and walked quickly back toward the cozy house where the cop had the bottom-floor flat. Getting the correct address had been easy enough for him. The Mafia had ties with the Bureau, after all. He loped around the side, trying not to be seen, but not concerned if he was. People in these neighborhoods didn’t talk about what they saw.
This job was going to happen fast now. In and out of the house in a few seconds. Then back to Brooklyn to celebrate his latest hit and get paid for it.
He stepped through a thick patch of pachysandra surrounding the back porch, then boosted himself up. He walked right in through the kitchen door, which whined like a hurt animal.
No problem so far. He was inside the place easy enough. He figured the rest would be a snap too.
Nobody in the kitchen.
Nobody home?
Then he heard a baby crying and took out his Beretta. He fingered the scalpel in his left-hand pocket.
This was a promising development. Babies in the house made everybody careless. He’d killed guys like this before, in Brooklyn and in Queens. One mob stoolie he’d cut into little pieces in his own kitchen, then stocked the family fridge to send a message.
He passed down a short hall, moving like a shadow. Didn’t make a sound.
Then he peeked into the small living room, family room, whatever the hell it was.
This wasn’t exactly what he’d expected to see. Tall, good-looking man changing diapers for two little kids. The guy seemed to be pretty good at it too. Sullivan knew because years ago he’d been in charge of his three snot-nosed brothers in Brooklyn. Changed a lot of stinking diapers in his day.
“You the lady of the house?” he asked.
The guy looked up ? Detective Alex Cross ? and he didn’t seem afraid of him. Didn’t even seem surprised that the Butcher was in the house, even though he had to be shocked, and probably scared. So the cop had some brass balls on him anyway. Unarmed, changing his kids’ diapers, but showing some attitude, some real character.
“Who are you?” Detective Cross asked, almost as if he was in charge of the situation.
The Butcher folded his arms, keeping the pistol out of sight from the children. Hell, he liked kids okay. It was adults he had a problem with. Like his old man ? to take one flagrant example.
“You don’t know why I’m here? No idea?”
“Maybe I do. I guess you’re the hit man from the other day. But why are you here? At my house? This isn’t right.”
Sullivan shrugged. “Right? Wrong? Who’s to say? I’m supposed to be a little crazy. So people tell me anyway. That could be it. You think? They call me the Butcher.”
Cross nodded. “So I’ve heard. Don’t hurt my kids. No one else is here but me. Their mother’s not home.”
“Now why would I do that? Hurt your kids? Hurt you in front of your kids? Not my style. Tell you what. I’m outta here. Like I said ? crazy. You lucked out. Bye-bye, kiddies.”
Then the hit man took another bow, like he had after he shot down Jiang An-Lo.
The Butcher turned away, and he left the apartment the way he came in. Let the hotshot detective try to figure that one out. There was a method to his madness though ? always a method to every move he made. He knew what he was doing, and why, and when.