Shafer wanted to take her right there in the hall and knew Boo would like the spontaneity and the passion that was so clearly missing from her life. Not tonight, though. He had more basic needs: the drugs.
'You don't look too happy to see me, Geoff,' she complained. She took his face in her manicured hands. Christ, her long, varnished red nails scared him. 'What happened, darling? Something's happened. Tell Boo what it is.'
Shafer took her in his arms and held her tightly against his chest. She had large soft breasts, great legs, too. He stroked her frosted-blonde hair and nuzzled her with his chin. He loved the power he had over her - his goddamned shrink.
'I don't want to talk about it just yet. I'm here with you. I feel much better already.'
'What happened, darling? What's wrong? You have to share these things with me.'
So he made up a story on the spot, acted it out. Nothing to it. 'Lucy claims she knows about us. God, she was paranoid before I started to see you. Lucy always threatens to ruin my life. She says she'll leave me. Sue for what fucking little I have. Her father will have me fired, then blackball me with the government and the private sector, which he's perfectly capable of doing. The worst thing is she's poisoning the children, turning them against me. They use the same belittling phrases that she does: “colossal failure”, “under-achiever”, “get a real job, Daddy”. Some days I wonder whether it isn't true.'
Boo kissed him lightly on the forehead. 'No, no, darling. You're well thought of at the embassy. I know you're a loving dad. You just have a bitchy, mean-spirited, spoiled-rotten wife who gets you down on yourself. Don't let her do it.'
He knew what she wanted to hear next, so he told her. 'Well, I won't have a bitchy wife for much longer. I swear to God I won't, Boo. I love you dearly, and I'm going to leave Lucy soon.'
He looked at her heavily made-up face and watched as tears formed and ruined her look. 'I love you, Geoff,' she whispered, and Shafer smiled as if he were pleased to hear it.
God, he was so good at this.
Lies.
Fantasies.
Role-playing games.
He unbuttoned the front of her mauve silk blouse, fondled her, then carried her inside to the sofa.
'This is my idea of therapy,' he whispered hotly in Boo's ear.' This is all the therapy I need.'
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel
CHAPTER Sixty
I had been up since before five that morning. Finally, I called Inspector Patrick Busby in Bermuda. I wanted to call every day, sometimes more than once, but I stopped myself.
It would only make things worse, strain my relations with the local police, and signal that I didn't trust them to handle the investigation properly.
'Patrick, it's Alex Cross calling from Washington. Did I catch you at a good time? Can you talk for a moment now?' I asked. I always tried to sound as upbeat as possible.
I wasn't, of course. I had been pacing the house, and already had breakfast with Nana. Then I'd waited impatiently until eight thirty to call Busby at the station house in Hamilton. He was an efficient man, and I knew he was there every morning by eight.
I could picture the thin, wiry policeman as we talked on the phone. I could see the tidy cubicle office where he worked. And superimposed over everything, I could still see Christine on her moped waving goodbye to me on that perfectly sunny afternoon.
'I have a few things for you from my contact at Interpol.' I said. I told him about an abduction of a woman in Jamaica earlier in the summer, and another in Barbados; both were similar, though not identical, to Christine's disappearance. I didn't think they were connected really, but I wanted to give him something, anything.
Patrick Busby was a thoughtful and patient man; he remained silent until I had finished talking before asking his usual quota of logical questions. I had observed that he was flawed as an interrogator because he was so polite. But at least he hadn't given up.
'I assume that neither abduction was ever solved, Alex. How about the women who were taken? Were they found?'
'No, neither woman was seen again. Not a sign of them. They're still missing.'
He sighed into the phone receiver. 'I hope your news is helpful in some way, Alex. I'll certainly call the other islands and check into it further. Anything else from Interpol or the FBI?'
I wanted to keep him on the line, the lifeline, as I now thought of it. 'A few far-flung possibilities in the Far East, Bangkok, the Philippines, Malaysia. Women abducted and murdered - all Jane Does. To be honest, nothing too promising at this point.'
I imagined him pursing his thin lips and nodding thoughtfully. 'I understand, Alex. Please keep giving me whatever you get from your sources. It's difficult for us to get help outside this small island. My calls for assistance frequently aren't returned. I sincerely wish that I had some good news for you on my end, but I'm afraid I don't.'
'Other than Perri Graham, no one saw the man with the van. No one seems to have seen Christine Johnson in Hamilton or St George either. It's truly a baffling mystery. I don't believe that she ever got to Hamilton. It's frustrating for us, too. My prayers are with you and your wonderful family and, of course, John Sampson.'
I thanked Patrick Busby and hung up the phone. Slowly I went upstairs and dressed for work.
I still had nothing really substantial on the murder of Frank Odenkirk, and the Jefe was contacting me daily on e-mail. I certainly knew how the Odenkirk family felt. The media heat about the homicide had died down, though, as it often does. Unfortunately, so had the Post stories about the unsolved murders in Southeast.
While I was taking a hot shower, I thought about DeWitt Luke and the mysterious 'watcher' on S Street. What was the man in the Mercedes doing out there so long? Did he have some connection to the murders of Tori Glover and Marion Cardinal? None of this was making complete sense to me. That was the truly maddening thing about the Jane Doe murders and the Weasel. He wasn't like other repeat killers. He wasn't a criminal genius like Gary Soneji, but he was effective. He got the job done, didn't he?
I needed to think more about why someone had been lurking outside Tori Glover's apartment. Was he a private detective? A stalker? Or was he actually the murderer? One possibility hit me. Maybe the man in the car was an accomplice of the killer. Two of them working together. I'd seen that before in North Carolina.
I turned up the water, made it hotter. I thought it would help me to concentrate better. Steam out the cobwebs in my brain. Bring me back from the dead.
Nana finally banged on the pipes from downstairs in the kitchen. 'Get down here and go to work, Alex. You're using all my hot water up,' she yelled above the noise of the shower.
'Last time I looked, my name was on the water and gas bills.' I shouted back.
'It's still my hot water. Always was, always will be,' Nana replied.
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel
CHAPTER Sixty-One
Every day, every night, I was out on the streets of Southeast, working harder than ever, but with nothing much to show for it. I continued to search for the mysterious purple-and-blue cab, and for the late-model black Mercedes DeWitt Luke had seen on S Street.
Sometimes I felt as if I were sleepwalking, but I kept at it, sleepwalking as fast as I could. Everything about the investigation seemed a longshot at best. I received tips and leads every day that had to be followed up; none of them went anywhere, though.
I got home at a little past seven that night but, tired as I was, I still let the kids drag me downstairs for their boxing lesson. Damon was showing me a lot of hand speed, and also some pretty good footwork and power for his age. He always had good spirit, and I was confident that he wouldn't abuse his burgeoning boxing skills at school.
Jannie was more a student of boxing, though she seemed to recognize the value of being able to defend herself. She was quick at mastering techniques, seeing connections, even if her heart wasn't completely into the sport. She preferred to torture her brother and me with her taunts
and wit.
'Alex, telephone,' Nana called down from the top of the cellar stairs. I looked at my watch, saw it was twenty to eight.
'Practice your footwork,' I told the kids. Then I trudged up the steep stone stairs. 'Who is it?'
'Wouldn't say who it was.' Nana said as I got up to the kitchen. She was making shrimp and corn fritters and the room was also filled with the glorious smells of honey-baked apples and gingerbread. It was a late dinner for us - Nana had waited until I got home.
I picked up the phone on the kitchen counter. 'Alex Cross.'
'I know who you are, Detective Cross.'
A chill went right through me, and my hands shook.
'There's a pay phone outside the Budget Drugs on Fourth Street. She's safe for now. We have her. But hurry. Hurry! Maybe she's on the pay phone right now. I'm serious. Hurry!'
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel
CHAPTER Sixty-Two
I exploded out the back kitchen door without saying a word to Nana or the kids. I didn't have time to explain where I was going, or why. Besides, I didn't really know exactly what was happening. Had I just spoken to the Weasel?
I'm serious. Hurry! Maybe she's on the pay phone right now!
I sprinted across Fifth Street, then down a side alley and over to Fourth. I dashed another four blocks south toward the Anacostia River. People on the streets watched me running. I was like a tornado suddenly roaring through Southeast.
I could see the metal frame of a pay phone from more than a block away as I approached Budget Drugs. A young girl was leaning against the graffiti-covered wall of the drugstore, talking on the phone.
I pulled out my detective's shield as I raced the final block toward her.
The phone gets a lot of use. Some people don't have phones in their homes in the neighborhood.
'Police. I'm a homicide detective. Get off the phone!' I told the girl, who looked nineteen or so. She stared at me as if she couldn't care less that a DC policeman was trying to commandeer the phone.
'I'm using this phone, mister. Don't care who you are. You can wait your turn like everybody else.' She turned away from me. 'Probably just calling your honey.'
I yanked the receiver away from her, disconnected her call.
'The fuck you think you are!' the girl shouted at me, her face screwed in anger. 'I was talking. The fuck you thinking.'
'I'm thinking you better get out of my face. This is a life-and-death situation. Get away from this phone. Now! Get out of here!' I could see she had no intention of leaving. 'There's been a kidnapping!' I was yelling like a madman.
She finally backed away. She was afraid that I was really crazy, and maybe I was.
I stood there with my hand on the phone receiver, trembling, waiting for the call to come in. I was winded. Sweat covered my body.
I stared up and down Fourth Street.
Nothing obvious or suspicious. I didn't see a purple-and-blue cab parked anywhere. No one watching me. Somebody definitely knew who I was. They had contacted me at the Belmont Hotel; they had called me at home.
I could still hear the words echoing loudly inside my head.
She's safe for now.
We have her.
Those were the words sent to me six weeks before in Bermuda. I hadn't heard anything from the sender until now.
My heart was pounding, sounding as if it were amplified in my ears. Adrenaline was rushing like powerful rivers through my blood stream. I couldn't stand this. The caller had stressed that I hurry.
A young man approached the pay phone. He stared at my hand on the receiver. 'Wuzup, man? I need to use the phone. The phone? You hear me?'
'Police business.' I gave him a hard stare. 'Take a walk, please. Go!'
'Don't look like no police business to me,' he mumbled.
The man moved away, looking over his shoulder as he retreated down Fourth, frowning, but not stopping to argue with me.
The caller liked to be completely in control, I was thinking as I stood there helpless in front of the busy drugstore. He'd made me wait this long since the Bermuda call, possibly to demonstrate his power. Now he was doing it again. What did he really want, though? Why had he taken Christine? We have her, he'd said, and repeated the very same words when he called my house. Was there really a we? What kind of group did he represent? What did they want?
I stood at the pay phone for ten minutes, fifteen, twenty. I felt as if I were going mad, but I would stay there all night if I had to. I began to wonder if this was the right phone, but I knew it was. He had been crystal clear, calm, in control.
For the first time in weeks I allowed myself to truly hope that Christine might be alive. I imagined her face, deep brown eyes that showed so much love, and warmth. Maybe, just maybe, I would be allowed to talk to her.
I let my anger build toward the unknown caller. But then I cut it off, shut down my emotions, and waited with a cool head.
People came and went, in and out of the drugstore. A few wanted to use the phone. They took one look at me, then moved on, looked for another phone.
At five minutes to nine, the phone rang. I lifted the receiver instantly.
'This is Alex Cross.' I said.
'Yes, I know who you are. That's already been established. Here's what you should do. Back all the way off. Just back away. Before you lose everything you care about. It can happen so easily. In a snap. You're smart enough to understand that, aren't you?'
Then the caller hung up. The line was dead.
I banged the phone with the receiver. I cursed loudly. The manager from the drugstore had come outside and was staring at me.
'I'm going to call the police,' he said. 'That's a public phone.' I didn't bother to tell him I was the police.
Alex Cross 5 - Pop Goes the Weasel
CHAPTER Sixty-Three
Was it the Weasel who had called? Was I dealing with one killer, or more than one?
If only I had some idea who the caller was and who he meant by we. The message scared me just as much as the first one had, maybe even more; but it also gave me hope about Christine still being alive.
With hope came a jolting surge of pain. If only they would put Christine on the phone. I needed to hear her voice.
What did they want? Back all the way off. Back off from what?
The Odenkirk murder case? The Jane Does? Perhaps even Christine's disappearance? Was Interpol or the FBI getting close to something that had scared them? We weren't close to anything that could solve any of the cases, and I knew timing was critical.
Early Wednesday morning, Sampson and I drove to Eckington. A woman over there knew where a purple-and-blue cab was garaged. We'd followed up a dozen or so leads like this already, but it didn't matter. Every lead had to be investigated, every single one.
'Cab owner's name is Arthur Marshall.' I told Sampson as we walked from my car toward a red-brick garden apartment that had seen better days. 'Trouble is, Arthur Marshall seems to be a false identity. Landlady has him working at a Target store. According to Target, he doesn't. Never worked at any Target store. Hasn't been seen around for a while, according to the landlady.'
'Maybe we spooked him,' Sampson said.
'I hope not, but you may be right.'
I glanced around at the lower-middle-class neighborhood as we walked. Overhead, the sky was a bright-blue canvas, nearly empty of clouds. The street was packed with one- and two-story homes. Bright orange fliers were sticking out from the mailboxes. Every window was a possible lookout for the Weasel. Back away, he had warned. I couldn't. Not after what he'd done. I knew that I was taking a risk though.
He probably spotted us canvassing the streets. If he was responsible for the Jane Doe murders, he had been working undetected for a long while. He was skillful, good at killing, at not getting caught.
The landlady told us what she knew about Arthur Marshall, which wasn't much more than the information she needed to rent him a one-bedroom apartment and the attached garage. She gave us a set of
keys for the place and said we could go look for ourselves.
The second house was similar to the landlady's except that it was painted Easter-egg blue. Sampson and I entered the garage first.
The purple-and-blue cab was there.
Arthur Marshall had told the landlady that he owned the cab and operated it as a part-time job. That was a possibility, but it seemed unlikely. The Weasel was close. I could feel it now. Had he known we would find the cab? Probably. Now what? What came next? What was his plan? His fantasy?
'I'm going to have to figure out how to get some techies in here,' I told Sampson. There has to be something in the cab, or maybe upstairs in the apartment. Hair, fibers, prints.'
'Hopefully no damn body parts,' Sampson said, and grimaced. It was typical cop humor, and so automatic that I didn't give it a second thought. 'Body parts are always popping up in these cases, Alex. I don't want to see it. I like feet attached to ankles, heads attached to necks, even if all the parts happen to be dead.'
Sampson searched around the front seat of the cab, with latex-gloved hands. 'Papers in here. Candy and gum wrappers, too. Why not call in a favor from Kyle Craig? Get the FBI boys over here.'
'Actually, I talked to Kyle last night,' I said. 'The Bureau's been involved for some time. He'll help out if we say the word.'
Sampson tossed me a pair of gloves and I examined the cab's backseat. I saw what could be bloodstains in the fabric of the seat cushion. The stains would be easy enough to check out.
John and I finally climbed upstairs into the apartment above the garage. It was dusty, grimy, without much furniture. Eerie and unpleasant on the eyes. It didn't look as if anyone lived there, but if someone did, they were really weird. The landlady had said as much.
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