Kiss the Girls

by James Patterson

  I knew she was trying to talk about Casanova and the terrifying house where he kept the other women. She was trying to understand him better. We both were.

  “He’s refusing to be civilized, or repressed,” I said. “He does whatever he wants. He’s the ultimate pleasure seeker, I suppose. A hedonist for the times.”

  “I wish you could hear him talk. He’s very bright, Alex.”

  “So are we,” I reminded her. “He’ll make a mistake, I promise.”

  I was getting to know Kate very well by now. She was getting to know me. We had talked about my wife, Maria, who was killed in a senseless drive-by shooting in Washington, D.C. I told her about my kids, Jannie and Damon. She was a good listener; she had excellent bedside- manner potential. Dr. Kate was going to be a special kind of doctor.

  By three that afternoon, we must have walked four or five miles. I felt grungy and a little achy. Kate didn’t complain, but she must have been hurting. Thank God the karate kept her in great shape. We hadn’t found any sign of where she had run during her escape. None of the landmarks we passed looked familiar to her. There was no disappearing house. No Casanova. No outstanding clues in the deep, dark woods. Nothing to go on.

  “How the hell did he get so good at this?” I muttered as we tramped back to the car.

  “Practice,” Kate said with a grimace. “Practice, practice, practice.”

  CHAPTER 57

  THE TWO of us stopped to eat at Spanky’s on Franklin Street in Chapel Hill. We were bushed, famished, and most of all thirsty. Everybody knew Kate at the popular bar and restaurant, and they made a nice fuss over her when we walked in. A muscular, blond-haired bartender named Hack started a big round of applause.

  A waitress and friend of Kate’s gave us a table of honor at a front window on Franklin Street. The woman was a doctoral candidate in philosophy, Kate told me. Verda, the waitress-philosopher of Chapel Hill.

  “How do you like being a celebrity?” I kidded Kate once we were seated.

  “Hate it. Hate it,” she said with her teeth clenched tightly. “Listen, Alex, can we get blotto drunk tonight?” Kate suddenly asked. “I’d like a tequila, a mug of beer, and some brandy,” she told Verda. The waitress-philosopher grimaced and wrinkled her nose at the order.

  “I’ll have the same,” I said. “When in collegeville.”

  “This definitely isn’t therapy,” Kate said to me as soon as Verda departed. “We’re just going to bullshit some tonight.”

  “That sounds like therapy,” I said to her.

  “If it is, then we’re both on the couch.”

  We talked about a lot of unrelated things for the first hour or so: cars, rural versus big-city hospitals, slavery, childrearing, doctors’ salaries and the health-care crisis, rock ’n’ roll lyrics versus blues lyrics, a book we’d both enjoyed called The English Patient. We had been able to talk to each other right from the beginning. Almost from that first moment at University Hospital, there had been some kind of bright sparks between us.

  After the first blitzkrieg round of drinks, we settled into slow-sipping—beer in my case, the house wine in Kate’s. We got a little buzzed, but nothing too disastrous. Kate was right about one thing. We definitely needed some kind of release from the stress of the Casanova case.

  Around our third hour in the bar, Kate told a true story about herself that was almost as shocking to me as her abduction. Her brown eyes were wide as she spun her tale. Her eyes sparkled in the bar’s low light. “Let me tell you this one time now. Southerners love to tell a story, Alex. We’re the last safekeepers of America’s sacred oral history.”

  “Tell me the story, Kate. I love to listen to stories. So much so that I made it my job.”

  Kate put her hand on top of mine. She took a deep breath. Her voice got soft, very quiet. “Once upon a time, there was the McTiernan family of Birch. This was a happy group of campers, Alex. Tight-knit, especially the girls: Susanne, Marjorie, Kristin, Carole Anne, and Kate. Kristin and I were the youngest goils—twins. Then there was Mary, our mother, and Martin, our father. I’m not going to say too much about Martin. My mother made him leave when I was four. He was very domineering and could be as mean as a stepped-on copperhead sometimes. To hell with him. I’m way past my father by now.”

  Kate went on for a bit, but then she stopped and looked deeply into my eyes. “Did anybody ever tell you what a terrific, terrific listener you are? You make it seem like you’re interested in everything I have to say. That makes me want to talk to you. I have never told this whole story to anyone, Alex.”

  “Well, I am interested in what you have to say. It makes me feel good that you’re sharing this with me, that you trust me enough.”

  “I trust you. It’s not a very happy story, so I must trust you a lot.”

  “I have that sense,” I told Kate. It struck me again how very beautiful her face was. Her eyes were very large and lovely. Her lips weren’t too full, or too thin. I kept being reminded why Casanova had chosen her.

  “My sisters, my mother, they were so great when I was growing up. I was their little slave, and I was their pet. There wasn’t much money coming into the house, so there was always too much to do. We canned our own veggies, jelly, and fruit. We took in washing and ironing. Did our own carpentry, plumbing, auto repair. We were lucky: we liked one another. We were always laughing and singing the latest hit song off the radio. We read a lot, and we’d talk about everything from abortion rights to recipes. A sense of humor was mandatory in our house. ‘Don’t be so serious’ was the famous line there.”

  Finally, Kate told me what had happened to the McTiernan family. Her story; her secret came out in an agitated burst that darkened her face.

  “Marjorie got sick first. She was diagnosed with ovarian cancer. Margie died when she was twenty-six. She already had three kids. Then, in order, Susanne, my twin Kristin, and my mother died. All of breast or ovarian cancer, That left Carole Anne, me, and my father. Carole Anne and I joke that we inherited my father’s snarly mean streak, so we’re destined to die of nasty heart attacks.”

  Kate suddenly swung her head down and to one side. Then she looked back up at me. “I was going to say, I don’t know why I told you that. But I do know. I like you. I want to be your friend. I want you to be my friend. Is that possible?”

  I started to say something about how I felt, but Kate stopped me. She put the tips of her fingers on my lips. “Don’t be sentimental right now. Don’t ask me any more about my sisters right now. Tell me something you don’t ever tell other people. Tell me quick now, before you change your mind. Tell me one of your big secrets, Alex.”

  I didn’t think about what I was going to say. I just let it come out. It seemed fair after what Kate had told me. Besides, I wanted to share something with her, I wanted to confide in Kate, at least see if I could.

  “I’ve been screwed up ever since my wife, Maria, died,” I told Kate McTiernan, one of my secrets, one of the things I keep bottled inside. “I put on clothes every morning, and a sociable face, and my six-gun some days… but I feel hollow most of the time. I got into a relationship after Maria, and it didn’t work out. It failed in a spectacular fashion. Now I’m not ready to be with anyone again. I don’t know if I ever will be.”

  Kate peered into my eyes. “Oh, Alex, you’re wrong. You are so ready,” she told me without any doubt in her eyes or her voice.

  Sparks.

  Friends.

  “I’d like us to be friends, too,” I finally told her. It was something I rarely said, and never this quickly.

  As I stared across the table at Kate, stared over the glowing wick of a dwindling candle, I was reminded of Casanova again. If nothing else, he was a very good judge of a woman’s beauty and character. He was just about perfect.

  CHAPTER 58

  THE HAREM cautiously shuffled toward a large living area at the end of a winding hallway inside the mysterious, loathsome house. The place had two floors. On the lower one, there was only a s
ingle room. Upstairs, there were as many as ten.

  Naomi Cross walked cautiously among the women. They had been told to go to the common room. Since she had been there, the number of captives had ranged from six to eight. Sometimes a girl left, or disappeared, but there always seemed to be a new one to take her place.

  Casanova was waiting for them in the living room. He had on another of his masks. This one was handpainted with white and bright green streaks. Festive. A party face. He wore a gold silk robe and was naked underneath it.

  The room was large and tastefully furnished. The floor was covered with an oriental rug. The walls were off-white and freshly painted.

  “Come in, come in ladies. Don’t be shy. Don’t be bashful,” he said from the back of the room. He had a stun gun and a pistol and struck a dashing pose.

  Naomi imagined that he was smiling behind the mask. More than anything she wanted to see his face, just once, and then obliterate it forever, shatter it into tiny pieces, grind the pieces into nothing.

  Naomi felt her heart skip as she entered the large, attractive sitting room. Her violin was on a table near Casanova. He had taken her violin and brought it to this awful place.

  Casanova was waltzing around the low-ceilinged room like the host of a sophisticated costume party. He knew how to be classy, even gallant. He carried himself with confidence.

  He lit a woman’s cigarette with a gold lighter. He stopped to talk to each of his girls. He touched a bare shoulder, a cheek, caressed someone’s long blond hair.

  The women all looked stunning. They wore their own beautiful clothes, and had carefully applied makeup. The scents of their perfumes filled the room. If only they could rush him all at once, Naomi thought to herself. There had to be a way to take Casanova down.

  “As some of you may have already guessed,” he raised his voice, “we have a nice surprise for tonight’s festivities. A little night music.”

  He pointed to Naomi, and beckoned her to come forward. He was always careful when he brought them together like this. He had his gun in hand, holding it casually.

  “Please play something for us,” he said to Naomi. “Anything that you’d like. Naomi plays the violin, and very beautifully I might add. Don’t be shy, dear.”

  Naomi couldn’t take her eyes off Casanova. His robe was open so that they could see his nakedness. Sometimes he had one of them play an instrument, or sing, or read poetry, or just talk about their lives before hell. Tonight it was Naomi’s turn.

  Naomi knew that she had no choice. She was determined to be brave, to look confident.

  She picked up the violin, her precious instrument, and so many painful memories swept over her. Brave… confident…, she repeated inside her head. She’d been doing that since she was a young girl.

  As a young black woman she had learned the art of acting poised. She needed all the poise she could muster now.

  “I’m going to try to play Bach’s sonata number one,” she quietly announced. “This is the adagio, the first movement. It’s very beautiful. I hope I can do it justice.”

  Naomi shut her eyes as she brought the violin up to her shoulder. She opened her eyes again as she placed her chin on the rest and slowly began to tune the instrument.

  Brave… confident, she reminded herself.

  Then she began to play. It was far from perfect, but it did come from her heart. Naomi’s style had always been personal. She concentrated more on making music than on her technique. She wanted to cry, but she held back the tears, held everything inside. Her feelings came out only in the music, the beautiful Bach sonata.

  “Brava! Brava!” Casanova shouted as she finished.

  The women clapped. That was permitted by Casanova. Naomi stared out at their beautiful faces. She could feel their shared pain. She wished that she could talk to them. But when he brought them together, it was only to show off his power, his absolute control over them.

  Casanova’s hand moved and lightly touched Naomi’s arm. It was hot, and she felt as if she’d been burned.

  “You’ll stay with me tonight,” he said in the softest voice. “That was so beautiful, Naomi. You are so beautiful, the most beautiful one here. Do you know that, sweetheart? Of course you do.”

  Brave, strong, confident, Naomi told herself. She was a Cross. She wouldn’t let him see her fear. She would find a way to beat him.

  CHAPTER 59

  KATE AND I were working at her apartment in Chapel Hill. We’d been talking about the disappearing house again, still trying to figure out that mind-bending mystery. At a little past eight the front doorbell rang. Kate went to see who it was.

  I could see her talking to someone, but I couldn’t tell who. My hand went for my revolver, touched the handle. She let the visitor come inside.

  It was Kyle Craig. I was immediately struck by the drawn and somber look on his face. Something must have happened.

  “Kyle says he has something you’re going to want to see,” Kate said as she led the FBI man into the living room.

  “I tracked you down, Alex. It wasn’t too hard,” Kyle said. He sat on the sofa arm next to me. He looked as if he needed to sit down.

  “I told the hotel desk and the operator where I’d be until nine or so.”

  “Like I said, it wasn’t hard. Check out the look on Alex’s face, Kate. Now you see why he’s still a detective. He’s hooked on The Job, wants to solve all the great puzzles, even the not-so-great ones.”

  I smiled, and shook my head. Kyle was partly right. “I love my work, mostly because I get to spend time with sophisticated and high-minded individuals like yourself. What’s happened, Kyle? Tell me right now.”

  “The Gentleman made a personal call on Beth Lieberman. She’s dead. He cut off her fingers, Alex. After he killed her, he torched her studio apartment in West Los Angeles. He set half her building on fire.”

  Beth Lieberman hadn’t exactly endeared herself to me, but I was shocked and saddened to hear about her murder. I’d taken Kyle’s word that she had nothing worth traveling to Los Angeles for. “Maybe he knew there was something in her apartment that needed to be torched. Maybe she actually had something important.”

  Kyle glanced over at Kate again. “You see how good he is? He’s a machine. She did have something incriminating,” he said to both of us. “Only she had it on her computer at the Times. So now we have it.”

  Kyle handed me a long, curling fax. He pointed to some copy at the very bottom of the sheet. The fax was from the FBI’s office in Los Angeles.

  I glanced down the page and read the entry that was underscored.

  Possible Casanova!!! it said. Very possible suspect.

  Dr. William Rudolph. First-class creep.

  Home: the Beverly Comstock. Work: Cedars-Sinai Medical Center.

  Los Angeles.

  “We’ve finally got our break. We’ve got a first-class lead, anyway,” Kyle said. “The Gentleman could be this doctor. This creep, as she calls him.”

  Kate looked at me, then at Kyle. She had told both of us that Casanova might be a doctor.

  “Anything else in Lieberman’s notes?” I asked Kyle.

  “Not that we’ve been able to find so far,” Kyle said. “Unfortunately, we can’t ask Ms. Lieberman about Dr. William Rudolph, or why she made the note in her computer. Let me tell you two new theories that are making the rounds with our profilers out on the West Coast,” Kyle went on. “Are you ready for a little outrageous mind trip, my friend? Some profiler speculation?”

  “I’m ready. Let’s hear the latest and greatest theories from FBI West.”

  “The first theory is that he’s sending the diary entries to himself. That he’s Casanova and the Gentleman Caller. He could be both killers, Alex. They each specialize in ‘perfect’ crimes. There are other similarities, too. Maybe he’s a split personality. FBI West, as you call it, would like Dr. McTiernan to fly out to Los Angeles right away. They’d like to talk to her.”

  I didn’t like the first West Coast theor
y too much myself, but I couldn’t completely discount it. “What’s the other theory from the wild, wild West?” I asked Kyle.

  “The other theory,” he said, “is that there are two men. But that they aren’t just communicating, they’re competing. This could be a scary competition, Alex. This could all be a scary game they’ve invented.”

  PART THREE

  THE GENTLEMAN CALLER

  CHAPTER 60

  HE HAD been a Southern gentleman.

  A gentleman scholar.

  Now he was the very finest gentleman in Los Angeles. Always a gentleman, though. A hearts-and-flowers kind of guy.

  An orangish-red sun had begun its long, slow shimmy and slide toward the Pacific Ocean. Dr. William Rudolph thought it looked visually stunning as he strolled at a leisurely pace along Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles.

  The Gentleman Caller was “shopping” that afternoon, absorbing all the sights and sounds, the hectic flash-and-cash of his surroundings.

  The street scene reminded him of something one of the hard-boiled detective writers, maybe Raymond Chandler, had written: “California, the department store.” The description still worked pretty damn well.

  Most of the attractive women he observed were in their early and mid-twenties. They had just come from the stultifying workaday world of the ad agencies, money managers, and law firms in the entertainment district around Century Boulevard. Several of them wore high heels, platforms, clinging spandex miniskirts, here and there a form-fitting Rollo suit.

  He listened to the casually sexy rustle of crushed silk, the martial click-click of designer shoes, the sultry scuff of cowboy boots that cost more than Wyatt Earp had earned in a lifetime.

  He was getting hot and a little frenzied. Nicely frenzied. Life in California was good. It was the department store of his dreams.

  This was the best part: the foreplay before he made his final selection. The Los Angeles police were still stumped and baffled by him. Maybe one day they would figure it all out, but probably not. He was simply too good at this. He was Jekyll and Hyde for this age.