Kiss the Girls

by James Patterson

  He’d watched other men hit on her—studly students and even the occasional jaunty and ridiculous professor. She didn’t hold it against them, and he saw how she deflected them, usually with some kindness, some small generosity.

  But there was always that devilish, heartbreaking smile of hers. I’m not available, it said. You can never have me. Please, don’t even think about it. It’s not that I’m too good for you, I’m just… different.

  Kate the Dependable, Kate the Nice Person, was right on time tonight. She always left the cancer annex between a quarter to eight and eight. She had her routines just as he did.

  She was a first-year intern at North Carolina University Hospital in Chapel Hill, but she’d been working in a co-op program at Duke since January. The experimental cancer ward. He knew all about Katelya McTiernan.

  She was going to be thirty-one in a few weeks. She’d had to work three years to pay for her college and medical-school expenses. She had also spent two years with a sick mother in Buck, West Virginia.

  She walked at a determined pace along Flowers Drive, toward the multilevel Medical Center parking garage. He had to move quickly to keep up with her, all the while watching her long shapely legs, which were a little too pale for his liking. No time for the sun, Kate? Afraid of a little melanoma?

  She carried thick medical volumes against one hip. Looks and brains. She planned to practice back in West Virginia, where she was born. Didn’t seem to care about making a lot of money. What for? So she could own ten pairs of black high-topped sneakers?

  Kate McTiernan was wearing her usual university garb: a crisp white med-school jacket, khaki shirt, weathered tan trousers, her faithful black sneakers. It worked for her. Kate the Character. Slightly off-center. Unexpected. Strangely, powerfully alluring.

  On Kate McTiernan, almost anything would have worked, even the most homespun interpretation of cheap chic. He particularly loved Kate McTiernan’s irreverence toward university and hospital life, and especially the holier-than-thou medical school. It showed in the way she dressed; the casual way she carried herself now; everything about her lifestyle. She seldom wore makeup. She seemed very natural, and there was nothing phony or stuck-up about her that he’d noticed yet.

  There was even a little of the unexpected klutz in her. Earlier in the week, he had seen her flush the deepest red after she tripped on a guardrail outside Perkins Library and crashed into a bench with her hip. That warmed him tremendously. He could be touched, could feel human warmth. He wanted Kate to love him…. He wanted to love her back.

  That was why he was so special, so different. It was what separated him from all the other one-dimensional killers and butchers he had ever heard or read about, and he had read everything on the subject. He could feel everything. He could love. He knew that.

  Kate said something amusing to a fortyish-looking professor as she walked past him. Casanova couldn’t hear it from where he was watching. Kate turned for some quick repartee, but kept on walking, leaving the professor with her luminous smile to think about.

  He saw a little jiggle action as Kate whirled around after her brief interchange with the prof. Her breasts weren’t too large or too small. Her long brown hair was thick and wavy, shiny in the early evening light, revealing just a touch of red. Perfect in every detail.

  He had been watching her for more than four weeks, and he knew she was the one. He could love Dr. Kate McTiernan more than all the others. He believed it for a moment. He ached to believe it. He said her name softly—Kate….

  Dr. Kate.

  Tick-cock.

  CHAPTER 11

  SAMPSON AND I took shifts at the wheel on the four-hour haul from Washington, down into North Carolina. While I drove, the Man Mountain slept. He wore a black T-shirt that bluntly said SECURITY. Economy of words.

  When Sampson was at the controls of my ancient Porsche, I put on a set of old Koss headphones. I listened to Big Joe Williams, thought about Scootchie, continued to feel hollowed-out.

  I couldn’t sleep, hadn’t slept more than an hour the night before. I felt like a grief-stricken father whose only daughter was missing. Something seemed wrong about this case.

  We entered the South at noon. I had been born around a hundred miles away, in Winston-Salem. I hadn’t been back there since I was ten years old, the year my mother died, and my brothers and I were moved to Washington.

  I’d been to Durham before, for Naomi’s graduation. She had finished Duke undergraduate summa cum laude, and she received one of the loudest, cheeriest ovations in the history of the ceremony. The Cross family had been there in full force. It was one of the happiest, proudest days for all of us.

  Naomi was the only child of my brother Aaron, who died of cirrhosis at thirty-three. Naomi had grown up fast after his death. Her mother had to work a sixty-hour week for years to support them, so Naomi was in charge of the house from around the time she was ten. She was the littlest general.

  She was a precocious little girl, and read about Alice’s adventures in Through the Looking-Glass when she was only four. A family friend gave her violin lessons, and she played well. She loved music, and still played whenever she had time. She graduated number one in her class at John Carroll High School in D.C. As busy as she was with her studies, she found time to write graceful prose on what life was like growing up in the projects. She reminded me of a young Alice Walker.

  Gifted.

  Very special.

  Missing for more than four days.

  The welcome mat wasn’t out for us at Durham’s brand-new police headquarters building, not even after Sampson and I showed our badges and IDs from Washington. The desk sergeant wasn’t impressed.

  He looked something like the TV weatherman Willard Scott. He had a full crewcut, long thick sideburns, and skin the color of fresh ham. After he found out who we were, it got a little worse. No red carpet, no Southern hospitality, no Southern comfort.

  Sampson and I got to sit and cool our heels in the duty room of the Durham Police Department. It was all shiny glass and polished wood. We received the kind of hostile looks and blank stares usually reserved for drug dealers caught around grade schools.

  “Feel like we just landed on Mars,” Sampson said as we waited and watched Durham’s finest, watched complainants come and go. “Don’t like the feeling I get from the Martians. Don’t like their beady little Martian eyes. Don’t think I like the new South.”

  “You think about it, we’d fit in the same anywhere,” I told Sampson. “We’d get the same reception, same cold stares, at Nairobi Police Headquarters.”

  “Maybe.” Sampson nodded behind his dark glasses. “But at least they’d be black Martians. At least they’d know who John Coltrane is.”

  Durham detectives Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes finally came down to see us an hour and a quarter after we arrived.

  Ruskin reminded me a little of Michael Douglas in his dark-hero cop roles. He wore a coordinated outfit: green-and-tan tweed jacket, stonewashed jeans, yellow pocket T. He was about my height, which would make him six three or so, a little bigger than life. His longish brown hair was slicked back and razor-cut.

  Davey Sikes was well built. His head was a solid block that made sharp right angles with his shoulders. He had sleepy, oatmeal-brown eyes; almost no affect that I could discern. Sikes was a sidekick type, definitely not the leader. At least not if first appearances meant anything.

  The two detectives shook hands with us, and acted as if all were forgiven, as if they were forgiving us for intruding. I had the feeling that Ruskin especially was used to getting his way inside the Durham PD. He seemed like the local star. The main man around these parts. Matinee idol at the Durham Triplex.

  “Sorry about the wait, Detective Cross, Sampson. It’s been busy as a son of a bitch around here,” Nick Ruskin said. He had a light Southern accent. Lots of confidence in himself.

  He hadn’t mentioned Naomi by name yet. Detective Sikes was silent. Didn’t say a word.

  �
��You two like to take a ride with Davey and me? I’ll explain the situation on the way. There’s been a homicide. That’s what had us all tied. Police found a woman’s body out in Efland. This is a real bad one.”

  CHAPTER 12

  THIS IS a real bad one. A woman’s body in Efland. What woman?

  Sampson and I followed Ruskin and Sikes out to their car, a forest-green Saab Turbo. Ruskin got in the driver’s seat. I remembered Sergeant Esterhaus’s words in Hill Street Blues: “Let’s be careful out there.”

  “You know anything at all about the murdered woman?” I asked Nick Ruskin as we headed onto West Chapel Hill Street. He had his siren screaming and he was already driving fast. He drove with a kind of brashness and cockiness.

  “I don’t know enough,” Ruskin said. “That’s our problem, Davey’s and mine, with this investigation. We can’t get straight-dick information about much of anything. That’s probably why we’re in such a good mood today. You notice?”

  “Yeah, we noticed,” Sampson said. I didn’t look over at him. I could feel the steam rising in the back seat, though. Heat coming off his skin.

  Davey Sikes glanced back and frowned at Sampson. I got the feeling they weren’t going to become best buddies.

  Ruskin continued talking. He seemed to like the spotlight, being on the Big Case. “This entire case is under the control of the FBI now. The DEA got in the act, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if the CIA was part of the ‘crisis team.’ They did send some kinky crackerjack down from their fancy outpost in Sanford.”

  “What do you mean this entire case?” I asked Ruskin. Warning alarms were sounding in my head. I thought of Naomi again.

  This is a real bad one.

  Ruskin turned around quickly and looked at me. He had penetrating blue eyes and they seemed to be sizing me up. “Understand we’re not supposed to tell you anything. We’re not authorized to bring you out here either.”

  “I hear what you’re saying,” I said. “I appreciate the help.”

  Once again, Davey Sikes turned and looked at us. I felt as if Sampson and I were on the other team, looking over the line of scrimmage, waiting for the ball snap, the crunch of bodies.

  “We’re on our way to the third murder site,” Ruskin went on. “I don’t know who the victim is. Goes without saying that I hope the victim isn’t your niece.”

  “What’s this case all about? Why all the mystery?” Sampson asked. He sat forward in his seat. “We’re all cops here. Talk straight to us.”

  The Durham homicide detective hesitated before he answered. “A few women, let’s say several, have disappeared in a three-county area—Durham, Chatham, and Orange, which you’re in now. The press has reported a couple of disappearances and two murders so far. Unrelated murders.”

  “Don’t tell me the media is actually cooperating with an investigation?” I said.

  Ruskin half smiled. “Not in your wildest wet dreams. They only know what the FBI’s decided to tell them. Nobody’s actually withholding information, but nothing’s being volunteered, either.”

  “You mentioned that several young women have disappeared,” I said. “How many exactly? Tell me about them.”

  Ruskin talked out of the side of his mouth. “We believe eight to ten women are missing. All young. Late teens and early twenties. All students in college or high school. Only two bodies have been found, though. The one we’re going to see could make three. All the bodies were discovered in the last five weeks. The Feebies think we’re in the middle of what could be one of the worst kidnapping and murder sprees ever in the South.”

  “How many FBI in town?” Sampson asked. “Squad? Battalion?”

  “They’re here in full force. They have ‘evidence’ that the disappearances extend beyond state lines—Virginia, South Carolina, Georgia, down into Florida. They think our friendly squirrel abducted a Florida State cheerleader at this year’s Orange Bowl. They call him ‘The Beast of the Southeast.’ It’s as if he’s invisible. He’s in control of the situation right now. Calls himself Casanova… believes he’s a great lover.”

  “Did Casanova leave mash notes at the murder scenes?” I asked Ruskin.

  “Just at the last one. He seems to be coming out of his shell. He wants to communicate now. Bond with us. He told us he was Casanova.”

  “Were any of the victims black women?” I asked Ruskin. One trait of repeat killers was that they tended to choose their victims along racial grounds. All white. All black. All Spanish. Not too much mixing, as a rule.

  “One other missing girl is black. Student from North Carolina Central University. Two bodies we found were white. All the women who’ve disappeared are extremely attractive. We have a bulletin board up with pictures of the missing girls. Somebody gave the case a name: ‘Beauties and the Beast.’ It’s on the board in big letters. Right over the pictures. That’s another handle we have for the case.”

  “Does Naomi Cross fit his pattern?” Sampson asked quietly. “Whatever the crisis team has established so far?”

  Nick Ruskin didn’t answer right away. I couldn’t tell if he was thinking about it, or just trying to be considerate.

  “Is Naomi’s picture up on the FBI bulletin board? The Beauties and the Beast board?” I asked Ruskin.

  “Yes, it is.” Davey Sikes finally spoke. “Her picture is on the big board.”

  CHAPTER 13

  DON’T LET this be Scootchie. Her life is just beginning, I silently prayed as we sped to the homicide scene.

  Terrible, unspeakable things happened all the time nowadays, to all kinds of innocent, unsuspecting people. They happened in virtually every big city, and even small towns, in villages of a hundred or less. But most often these violent, unthinkable crimes seemed to happen in America.

  Ruskin downshifted hard as we curled around a steep curve and saw flashing red and blue lights. Cars and EMS vans loomed up ahead, solemnly gathered at the edge of thick pine woods.

  A dozen vehicles were parked haphazardly along the side of the two-lane state road. Traffic was sparse out there in the heart of nowhere. There was no buildup of ambulance-chasers yet. Ruskin pulled in behind the last car in line, a dark blue Lincoln Town Car that might as well have had Federal Bureau written all over it.

  A state-of-the-art homicide scene was already in progress. Yellow tape had been strung from pine trees, cordoning off the perimeter. Two EMS ambulances were parked with their blunt noses pointed into a stand of trees.

  I was swept into a near out-of-body experience as I floated from the car. My vision tunneled.

  It was almost as if I had never visited a crime scene before. I vividly remembered the worst of the Soneji case. A small child found near a muddy river. Horrifying memories mixed with the terrifying present moment.

  Don’t let this be Scootchie.

  Sampson held my arm loosely as we followed detectives Ruskin and Sikes. We walked for nearly a mile into the dense woods. In the heart of a copse of towering pines, we finally saw the shapes and silhouettes of several men and a few women.

  At least half of the group were dressed in dark business suits. It was as if we had come upon some impromptu camping trip for an accounting firm, or a coven of big-city lawyers or bankers.

  Everything was eerie, quiet, except for the hollow popping of the technicians’ cameras. Close-up photos of the entire area were being taken.

  A couple of the crime-scene professionals were already wearing translucent rubber gloves, looking for evidence, taking notes on spiral pads.

  I had a creepy, otherworldly premonition that we were going to find Scootchie now. I pushed it, shoved it away, like the unwanted touch of an angel of God. I turned my head sharply to one side—as if that would help me avoid whatever was coming up ahead.

  “FBI for sure,” Sampson muttered softly. “Out here on the Wilderness Trail.” It was as if we were walking toward a mammoth nest of buzzing hornets. They were standing around, whispering secrets to one another.

  I was acutely aware of
leaves crumpling under my feet, of the noise of twigs and small branches breaking. I wasn’t really a policeman here. I was a civilian.

  We finally saw the naked body, at least what was left of it. There was no clothing visible at the murder scene. The woman had been tied to a small sapling with what appeared to be a thick leather bond.

  Sampson sighed, “Oh, Jesus, Alex.”

  CHAPTER 14

  WHO IS the woman?” I asked softly as we came up to the unlikely police group, the “multijurisdictional mess,” as Nick Ruskin had described it.

  The dead woman was white. It was impossible to tell too much more than that about her at this time. Birds and animals had been feasting on her, and she almost didn’t look human anymore. There were no fixed, staring eyes, just dark sockets like burn marks. She didn’t have a face; the skin and tissue had been eaten away.

  “Who the hell are these two?” one of the FBI agents, a heavyset blond woman in her early thirties, asked Ruskin. She was as unattractive as she was unpleasant, with puffy red lips and a bulbous, hooked nose. At least she’d spared us the usual FBI happy-camper smile, or the FBI’s famous “smiling handshake.”

  Nick Ruskin was brusque with her. His first endearing moment for me. “This is Detective Alex Cross, and his partner, Detective John Sampson. They’re down here from D.C. Detective Cross’s niece is missing from Duke. She’s Naomi Cross. This is Special Agent in Charge Joyce Kinney.” He introduced the agent to us.

  Agent Kinney frowned, or maybe it was a scowl. “Well, this is certainly not your niece here,” she said.

  “I’d appreciate it if the two of you would return to the cars. Please do that.” She felt the need to go on. “You have no authority on this case, and no right to be here, either.”

  “As Detective Ruskin just told you, my niece is missing.” I spoke softly, but firmly, to Special Agent Joyce Kinney. “That’s all the authority I need. We didn’t come down here to admire the leather interior and instrument panel of Detective Ruskin’s sports car.”