“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?”

“The Service. The Feds. Goddamn President Vance for all I know.”

I stopped and took a breath, hoping he’d do the same. “You’re giving me mixed signals here, Bowie,” I said. “One second you seem lucid and the next—”

“Yeah, well, just ’cause I’m paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get me, right?”

Oddly enough, I couldn’t argue with that, so I moved on.

“Why don’t you tell me what you need to hear before you lower that weapon?”

He chinned at the officer closest to him. “They put theirs down first.”

“Come on, Constantine. That’s not going to happen, and you know it isn’t. Work with me here. If you really are innocent, then I’m on your side. Where did you get that ring?”

“Stop with the questions. Just stop.”

“Okay.”

His arms were all muscle, but after at least twenty minutes outstretched, they were starting to shake. And in fact, he moved to adjust himself, up onto one knee with the shooting arm resting on top.

“Bowie, I—”

A tinkle of glass sounded. That was all it was. One of the small windowpanes behind him split into shards, and Bowie fell facedown onto the carpet, a small dark hole in the back of his head.