The fact of the matter was, Creem knew the score. We were onto him, but every piece of evidence we had was circumstantial. All we could do now was keep peeling the layers away until we found a little more blood on the doctor’s hands.
In the meantime, he was about to walk out of here, and there was nothing we could do to stop him.
CHAPTER
87
BY SIX O’CLOCK THAT NIGHT, ELIJAH CREEM WAS HOME AGAIN, AND GETTING ready to go out for the evening. When the doorbell rang, he was tying a godforsaken bow tie around his neck for the first time in months.
From the bedroom window, he saw Josh standing outside, looking as strung out as some kind of junkie. It was tempting to ignore the bell, but probably ill advised.
When he went down to answer, Bergman walked right past him and made his usual beeline for the bar. The pits of his wrinkled linen blazer were stained right through with sweat.
“Josh?” Creem said, following him inside.
Bergman’s hands trembled as he dropped a couple of ice cubes into a glass, and a few on the custom Oriental carpet, too. He didn’t seem to notice.
“They came to my house, Elijah! Asking all kinds of questions.”
“Who did?”
“The police! Who do you think?”
“What did you tell them?” Creem asked.
“Nothing! I told them I wanted to speak to my goddamn attorney.”
Bergman threw the first shot down his throat and poured another. He was probably on a Klonopin or two as well. Not that it seemed to be helping.
“First of all, just calm down,” Creem said.
“Calm down?” Bergman turned on him, wild-eyed. “I’m lucky to be here at all. If I’d known they were coming . . . well, it all happened too fast, and my gun was in the safe—”
“Whoa, whoa, whoa,” Creem said. He walked over and put both hands on Bergman’s quivering shoulders. “Believe me, I know how you feel. I was with the police all morning.”
“What? Why didn’t you warn me?”
“It was the same,” Creem said. “I didn’t see it coming, and frankly, I’ve been afraid to call. I know they’re watching me now.”
Bergman searched his face, before he turned away to take another swig.
“Can you get us out of the country?” he asked.
“No,” Creem admitted. “Not anymore. It’s too late for that.”
His best friend laughed then, a little maniacally, and completely without humor. “Well that’s it then,” he said. “Game over. I guess we knew it was coming.”
When Josh pulled the small black and silver pistol from the back of his waistband, Creem’s eyes went wide. The gun shook in Bergman’s hand, but he pulled it out of reach when Creem tried to take it.
“Don’t you dare try to talk me out of this!” Bergman said. “Not now!”
“I’m not,” Creem said. “I even have my own gun upstairs. And I’m not afraid, Josh.”
“So? What are you waiting for?” Bergman looked toward the foyer, where the main staircase wound up to the second floor. He was crying, too. Tears ran down from the corners of his eyes and over the cheekbones he’d always been so proud of.
“I need one more night,” Creem told him. “And . . . I need a favor.”
That was worth another few fingers of Scotch, apparently. Josh was back at the bar now, and he set the pistol down to pick up a crystal decanter.
“You are unbelievable,” he said. “A favor? What kind of favor?”
“What kind do you think?” Creem told him. “You can do it however you like. Shoot her, cut her up, I don’t care. I just want it done. After that, we can call it quits.”
“Why can’t you do it yourself?”
Creem pointed at the tall front window overlooking the lawn. “Did you see the car parked outside? They’re all over me, Josh. If they were on you, too, you’d know it. Please—one last favor. That’s all I’m asking.”
Bergman got to the bottom of his glass one more time before he finally answered.
“Okay, fine,” he said. “But you have to do something for me, too.”
“What’s that?” Creem asked.
Looking him right in the eye, Bergman said, “I want you to kiss me, Elijah.”
Creem laughed before he realized how serious Josh was. Of course he was. It was like the longest-running inside joke they had—the kind that grows around a kernel of truth. Josh had wanted him since college.
And clearly, this was going to be his last chance to do anything about it.
“I’m not going to kiss you, Josh,” Creem said.
“Fine, then.”
In one fast gesture, Josh dropped his glass to the carpet and raised the pistol to his own wide-open mouth.
“No!”
Creem lunged and knocked his hand away. Josh stumbled, weeping, and came to rest against the back of a slipcovered dining room chair. One of his front teeth was chipped and his lip was bleeding, but he didn’t seem to notice.
“You can’t stop me, Elijah,” he said.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Creem said. “Jesus Christ!”
There was obviously only one way around this. He took Bergman by the shoulders again and stood him up. Then he pulled him in close. He even let it last a long time. It was a little disgusting, a little strange, and it smelled strongly of booze.
When they pulled apart, Bergman’s eyes were red and puffy, but he’d stopped crying, anyway. His mouth was smeared with his own blood.
“I know you didn’t feel anything,” he said. “But that’s okay. I also know you love me.”
“I do, Josh. But for God’s sake, enough with the histrionics. Let’s finish this with a little bit of dignity. Like men.”
Bergman grinned, looking more tired than anything now. Spent.
“Whatever you say, Elijah. Just tell me what to do.”
CHAPTER
88
NOW THAT WE HAD A PRIMARY SUSPECT, ELIJAH CREEM QUICKLY BECAME THE subject of MPD surveillance. Commander D’Auria was making the assignments at this point, and mine was to cover a shift at Creem’s house that night, whether he was home or not.
When I showed up to relieve the first shift at eight o’clock, word from command was that Creem had gone out in a tux around seven thirty. Hired car service had dropped him off at a private home on the 3000 block of Q Street, one of Georgetown’s highest-dollar neighborhoods. Intel on the event said that it was a juvenile diabetes fundraising dinner.
That made sense. I didn’t really see “Dr. Creep” being welcomed into society circles anymore, unless he was buying his way in.
My partner for the night was a thick-necked detective from the Second District warrant squad, Jerry Doyle. According to Sampson, the guy’s nickname was The Mouth, and it didn’t take long to find out why. He was complaining within the first five minutes.
“What are we even doing?” he said. “Creem’s out for the night while we sit here getting kidney stones and he makes nice with the richies, eating caviar or whatever. Yeah, sure, that makes a lot of sense.”
“Well—” I said, but that was as far as I got.
“Not to mention, if they’re going to do this, they should be doing it right,” Doyle went on. “Management’s pulling all kinds of extra staff and overtime, and if you ask me, we still don’t have this guy covered good enough. I mean, if I were him and I wanted to give us the slip, I’m pretty sure I could do it.”
“No argument there,” I said. “I don’t know if I’ve ever seen the investigative units stretched so thin before.”
“Speaking of which, I thought you were out of commission,” Doyle went on. “I mean, no judgment. I’m just a little surprised to see you here, I guess.”
I wasn’t so keen on discussing my situation with The Mouth, so I mostly listened instead. For hours. Doyle didn’t seem to notice the difference.
Finally, around midnight, we got a radio call that Creem was on his way. He’d left the party with an unknow
n female and seemed to be heading home.
“You’ve got to be shittin’ me,” Doyle said. “I mean, he knows we’re all over him, right? And he’s going to bring a broad back here?”
I nodded. “I think it’s all part of the show.”
Creem didn’t do anything without a reason. He was trying to rub his own freedom in our faces, wasn’t he? Never mind that the pornography charges alone were enough to send him to jail. He was clearly milking this for all it was worth in the meantime.
Ten minutes later, a black town car pulled up the block and idled to a stop in Creem’s driveway. A uniformed driver got out, but Creem was a step ahead of him. He ducked around and helped his date out of the car himself. A faux gas lamp from the front porch threw just enough light to show me that she was tall, blond, and as far as I could tell, exactly Dr. Creem’s type.
That was as much as I could sit still for.
“What are you doing?” Doyle asked when I reached for my door handle.
“Whatever I can,” I said, and got out of the car. I headed straight across the lawn to cut the couple off as they came up Creem’s brick front walk.
“Excuse me,” I called out.
The woman started and clutched Creem’s arm.
“It’s all right,” he said to her. “This is one of the police officers I was telling you about. Sheila Bishop, I’d like you to meet Detective Cross. He’s here to make sure I don’t cut you up into little pieces.”
The woman actually rolled her eyes and kept her arm locked onto his. A pair of high-heeled sandals was dangling off one finger, and she had on a long, shimmery dress that pooled around her bare feet.
“I’m sorry to startle you, Ms. Bishop,” I said, “but I’m not at all comfortable with you going inside. I’d like to call you a cab, if that’s all right.”
“And I’d like you to mind your own damn business,” she snapped back at me.
Creem only smiled, as if he were leaving this up to the two of us.
“You should know the reason we’re here,” I told her. “Dr. Creem is the primary suspect in a series of murders in Georgetown. You’ve probably heard about them. I’d strongly suggest—”
But Ms. Bishop cut me off.
“Just inside, there’s an antique mahogany coatrack,” she said, pointing at the front door.
“Excuse me?”
“Upstairs, to the left, is the master bedroom. That’s where Elijah and Miranda keep their Rookwood pottery collection. There’s also a fantastic Lucien Freud hanging over the bed. Should I go on?”
I’d thought Ms. Bishop was embarrassed by my presence, but I was wrong. As far as I could tell now, Dr. Creem’s mistress was just pissed off and anxious to get inside.
He’d laid the bait, and I’d taken it, just like he wanted. Unbelievable.
“Don’t worry, detective,” Creem said ingratiatingly. “It’s an understandable mistake. For what it’s worth, I don’t imagine Sheila could be any safer, with you and your partner out here. Am I right?”
He didn’t wait for an answer, and keyed the door to let Ms. Bishop in ahead of him. As she led the way, Creem turned back to me and spoke low from the porch.
“If it makes you feel any better, I’ll leave the curtains open,” he said with a smile.
Then he went inside, closed the door, and turned off the lights behind him.
CHAPTER
89
THE NEXT SEVERAL HOURS WERE THEIR OWN KIND OF TORTURE. I FELT MORE than a little burned by Creem, and I hated the way he was playing this.
To make things worse, Doyle kept his own personal monologue going pretty much the entire time. He knew a thing or two about surveillance and had some valid opinions about how these investigations ought to be structured, but most of that was bookended with one long, pointless story after another.
Around 3 a.m., a yellow cab pulled up in front of the house. A minute later, the porch light came on and Creem walked Ms. Bishop outside. She was carrying a shopping bag now and wearing street clothes that, for all I knew, came straight out of Mrs. Creem’s closet.
Neither of them even glanced our way, until Creem had put her into the cab and sent her off. Then he turned, gave us a friendly wave, and went back inside.
“What a tool,” Doyle said. “I don’t get it. What is it about hot women and rich assholes? Actually, never mind. I just answered my own question. But still—”
Bottom line, I don’t like to talk when I’m losing the game. I couldn’t stand the idea of five more hours of this.
“Doyle, don’t take this the wrong way,” I said, “but is there any chance we could finish out this shift with a little less conversation?”
It got him all huffy and cold-shouldered, but if that was the price of silence, I was ready to pay it. With any luck, this would be our first and last detail together.
After that it stayed pretty quiet, both in and outside the car. Creem kept the lights on and puttered around the house, doing whatever he was doing in there. At five, he took the paper off his front porch and went back in—upstairs, I think. I didn’t see him after that.
Then, just after sunrise, my cell rang.
It’s not so unusual for me to get calls at all hours. I expected to see a departmental number on the ID or maybe Bree. But it wasn’t either of those. It was Stephanie Gethmann, Ava’s social worker. Right away I knew something had to be wrong.
“Stephanie?” I answered.
“I’m sorry to call so early,” she said. “I actually wanted to call last night, but . . . well, it’s complicated, of course.”
“Something’s happened to Ava,” I said. It wasn’t a question. My heart was thumping, and I was already running through the possibilities in my head. Overdose? Runaway? Accident?
“She’s missing, Alex.”
“Missing? What does that mean?”
“She didn’t come home from school yesterday, and nobody knows where she is. I hope this isn’t inappropriate, but I know you and Bree are police officers. I was thinking maybe—”
I only wished Stephanie had called sooner.
“Of course we will,” I said. “We’ll get right on it. Tell me everything you know.”
Part Four
ALL FALL DOWN
CHAPTER
90
BREE AND I SPENT THE MORNING IN OUR CARS, KEEPING IN TOUCH BY PHONE and hitting up every resource we could think of to track Ava down.
I started with the Youth Investigations Bureau contacts I knew in the first, third, and sixth police districts. Those covered Ava’s group home, her school, our house, and Seward Square, where she used to hang out. The department has a centralized database of missing kids, but there’s no substitute for face time with people who are working the streets every day. For that, you have to go district by district.
As it turned out, the picture Nessa had taken of us at the group home was even more valuable than I’d thought. It wasn’t much of a shot, but it was something to show people. I texted it to everyone I could think of.
Bree started at Howard House and interviewed several of the girls there, as well as Sunita, the braided house manager we’d met the other day. From the sound of it, nobody had seen Ava since breakfast the previous morning. She’d been quiet, but that was nothing new. And it didn’t look like anything was missing from her room, either. That meant she hadn’t intentionally run away.
After that, Bree headed over to Seward Square, walking the neighborhood and looking for any of Ava’s old friends. She told me over the phone that she’d found two of them—Patrice and K-Fly. Supposedly, neither of them had seen Ava in weeks, but you have to take anything street kids tell you with a grain of salt. Bree gave them each a card and promised a hundred bucks for anyone who might help find her. Whatever it took.
I hit up all the area hospitals, and then finally headed over to MPD’s main Narcotics Unit on Third Street in Northeast. I was starting to grasp at straws, but I thought if anyone knew of specific dealers who pushed Oxy, or fake Oxy, o
n the streets Ava had frequented, it might be a way in.
The longer this went on, the worse I felt about it. Especially if drugs were involved, which I all but assumed was the case.
Opiates are probably the least-controlled substances out there these days. The high-grade pharmaceutical stuff is highly desirable on the street, and sellers take advantage of that fact all the time. They pass garbage off as true Oxy, and there’s no way to control the dosage, much less the contents of street drugs like that. It wasn’t just empty talk when we’d told Ava that kids OD all the time. This country has an opiate epidemic, and it’s largely being driven by people under twenty-five.
By midafternoon, we’d come up completely empty-handed. It was getting hard not to play out some worst-case scenarios in my head, and it drove me crazy to think that Ava was around here somewhere, while we ran out of ideas about where to look.
I knew I had to stay positive, for Nana’s sake and the kids’ sake, if not my own. But the truth was, I had a terrible feeling about this.
CHAPTER
91
“ALEX, WHERE THE HELL ARE YOU?”
It was Sergeant Huizenga on the phone. I was driving from the Sixth District station house back to my own place in Southeast when I took the call.
“I’m sorry, sergeant. Something’s come up at home.”
“Yeah, well, we need you. Now.”
“What is it?” I asked.
“Sheila Bishop, Dr. Creem’s date from last night. She’s been found dead in her apartment.”
It might have hit me harder, but I was practically numb by now. Still, this was one more smack in the face on top of everything else.
“Is Creem in custody?” I asked.
“No,” Huizenga said tightly. “That’s part of the cluster hump we’ve got going on. The son of a bitch is missing.”
That got me. I actually braked right there on D Street and pulled over. “Missing? How is that even possible? We’ve been on him since yesterday.”