Alex Cross 02 - Kiss the Girls

by James Patterson

  “You don’t know that for sure,” Kyle said. “Good theories aren’t going to stop this from happening.”

  “How about good logic and a little common sense?”

  “That won’t work, either, I’m afraid.”

  We started to walk toward the back porch of the Sachs house. TV cameras whirred into action, shooting anything that moved. It was a full-scale, three-ring media circus; a disaster of the highest order in progress.

  “They searched the house sometime late this afternoon,” Kyle told me as we walked. “Brought dogs in. Special dogs from Georgia.”

  “Why the hell would they do that? Why suddenly search the Sachs house now? Goddammit.”

  “They received a tip, and they had reason to believe it. That’s what I’m getting from them. I’m on the outside, too, Alex. I don’t like it any more than you do.”

  I could barely see two feet ahead of me. My vision was tunneled. Stress will do that. Anger, too.

  I wanted to shout, to scream out, at somebody. I wanted to punch out lights on the Sachses’ veranda-style porch. “Did they tell you anything about this anonymous tipster? Jesus Christ, Kyle. Goddammit to hell! An anonymous tip. Awhh goddammit!”

  Wick Sachs was being held hostage inside his own beautiful house. The Durham police apparently wanted this historic moment recorded on local and national TV. This was it for them. North Carolina law-enforcement hall-of-fame time.

  They had the wrong man, and they wanted to show him to off the world.

  Chapter 100

  I RECOGNIZED the Durham chief of police right away. He was in his early forties and looked like an ex-pro quarterback. Chief Robby Hatfield was around six two, square-jawed, powerfully built. I had a wild, paranoid thought that maybe he was Casanova. He looked the part, anyway. He even fit the psych profile of Casanova.

  Detectives Sikes and Ruskin were flanking the prisoner, Dr. Wick Sachs. I recognized a couple of other Durham detectives. They all appeared nervous as hell but jubilant, and mostly relieved. Sachs looked as if he’d taken a shower in his clothes. He looked guilty.

  Are you Casanova? Are you the Beast after all? If so, what the hell are you pulling now? I wanted to ask Sachs a hundred questions, but couldn’t.

  Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes joked around some with their brother officers in the crowded foyer. The two detectives reminded me of a few professional jocks I’d known around D.C. Most of them like the spotlight; some of them lived for it. Most of the Durham police force seemed to operate like that, too.

  Ruskin’s hair was shiny and slicked back, combed back tight against his skull. He was ready for the spotlight, I could see. Davey Sikes looked ready, too. You too bozos should be checking your list of doctor suspects, I wanted to tell them. This thing isn’t over! It’s just starting now. The real Casanova is cheering for you right now. Maybe he’s watching from the crowd.

  I made my way up closer to Wick Sachs. I needed to see everything here, just as it was. Feel it. Watch and listen to it. Understand it, somehow.

  Sachs’s wife and the two beautiful children were being kept in the dining room off the vestibule. They looked hurt, very sad, and confused. They knew something was wrong here, too. The Sachs family didn’t look guilty.

  Chief Robby Hatfield and Davey Sikes finally saw me. Sikes reminded me of the chief’s favorite bird dog. He was “pointing” at me now.

  “Dr. Cross, thank you for your help on all this.” Chief Hatfield was magnanimous in his moment of triumph. I had forgotten that I was the one here who’d brought back the photo of Sachs from the Gentleman’s apartment in Los Angeles. Such great detective work… such a convenient goddamn clue to discover.

  This was all wrong. It just felt wrong and it smelled wrong. This was a setup of the first order, and it was working perfectly. Casanova was escaping; he was getting away right now. He would never be caught.

  The Durham chief of police finally put out his hand. I took the chief’s hand and squeezed it tight, held on to it.

  I think he was afraid I was going to walk out into the camera lights with him. Robby Hatfield had seemed like a hands-off administrator up until now. He and his star detectives were about to parade Wick Sachs outside. It would be a big dazzling moment under a full moon and the blazing klieg lights. All that was missing were the baying bloodhounds.

  “I know I helped find him, but Wick Sachs didn’t do it,” I told Hatfield straight to his face. “You’re arresting the wrong man. Let me tell you why. Give me ten minutes right now.”

  He smiled at me, and it seemed like a goddamn condescending smile. It was almost as if he were stoned on the moment. Chief Hatfield pulled away from me and walked outside.

  He walked out in front of the bright TV camera lights, playing his part beautifully. He was so taken with himself that he almost forgot about Sachs.

  Whoever called about the women’s underwear is Casanova, I was thinking to myself. I was getting closer in my mind to who that might be. Casanova did this. Casanova is behind it, anyway.

  Dr. Wick Sachs passed by me as they led him outside. He was dressed in a white cotton shirt and black trousers. All of his fine clothes were drenched through with his sweat. I imagined he was swimming in his shoes, too: gold-buckled black loafers. His hands were cuffed behind his back. All of his arrogance was long gone.

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said to me in the softest, choking voice. His eyes were pleading. He couldn’t believe this, either. Then he said the most pathetic thing of all. “I don’t hurt women. I love them.”

  I was struck with a mad, absolutely dizzying, thought on the Sachs porch. I felt as if I were in the middle of a somersault, and then I just stopped. Time stopped. This is Casanova! I suddenly understood.

  Wick Sachs was the original model used for Casanova, anyway. That was the monsters’ plan from the start; they had a fall guy for their perfect murders and de Sade-like adventures.

  Dr. Wick Sachs was actually Casanova, but he wasn’t one of the monsters. Casanova was a front, too. He knew nothing about the real “collector.” He was another victim.

  Chapter 101

  I’M THE Gentleman Caller,” Will Rudolph announced with a polite, theatrical bow. He was wearing a dinner jacket, black tie, dress shirt. His hair was tied in a tight ponytail. He’d bought white roses for the special occasion.

  “And you know who I am, ladies. You all look so very lovely,” Casanova spoke at his side. He was a striking contrast to his partner. Tight black jeans. Black cowboy boots. No shirt. His stomach washboard-hard. He had on a black fright mask with thick, handpainted median-gray streaks.

  The killers introduced themselves as the women filed into the living room at the hideaway. They lined up in front of a long table.

  This was to be a special celebration, they had been informed earlier in the day. “The mad dog Casanova has finally been caught,” Casanova told them. “It’s all over the news. Turned out that he was some crazed college professor. Who can you trust these days?”

  The women had been asked to wear serious party clothes, whatever they would choose for a special night out. Gowns with plunging necklines, high-heeled evening shoes with sheer stockings, and perhaps pearls or long earrings. No other jewelry. They were to look “elegant.”

  “Only seven pretty ladies here now,” Rudolph noted as he and Casanova watched the women enter the living room and form a receiving line. “You’re too picky, you know. The original Casanova was a voracious lover who wasn’t choosy at all.”

  “You have to admit that the seven are extraordinary,” Casanova said to his friend. “My collection is a masterpiece, the best in the world.”

  “I quite agree with you,” said the Gentleman. “They look like paintings. Shall we begin?”

  They had agreed to play an old favorite game. “Lucky seven.” At other times it had been “luck four,” “lucky eleven,” “luck two.” It was the Gentleman’s game, actually. This was his night. Perhaps the final night at the house for the two of them.r />
  They calmly walked down the receiving line. They talked with Melissa Stanfield first. Melissa wore a red silk sheath. Her long blond hair was pinned back on one side. She reminded Casanova of a young Grace Kelly.

  “Have you been saving yourself for me?” the Gentleman asked.

  Melissa’s smile was demure. “I’ve been saving my heart for someone.”

  Will Rudolph smiled at the clever answer. He ran the back of his hand across her cheek. He let his hand slowly track down her throat and over her firm breasts. She submitted without showing fear or revulsion. That was one of the rules when the games were played.

  “You’re very, very good at our little game,” he said. “You’re a worthy player, Melissa.”

  Naomi Cross was next in the line. She had on an ivory cocktail dress. Very chic. She would have been the belle at some Washington law firm’s ball. The scent of her perfume made Casanova feel a little giddy. He had been tempted to declare her off-limits to the Gentleman. He wasn’t fond of her uncle, Alex Cross, after all.

  “We might come back to visit with Naomi,” the Gentleman said. He lightly kissed her hand. “Enchantŭ.”

  Rudolph nodded, then stopped at the sixth woman in the receiving line. He turned his head and checked out the final girl, then his eyes returned to number six.

  “You’re very special,” he spoke softly, almost shyly. “Extraordinary, actually.”

  “This is Christa,” Casanova said with a knowing smile.

  “Christa is my date for tonight,” the Gentleman exclaimed in an enthusiastic voice. He’d made his choice. Casanova had given him a present—to do with as he pleased.

  Christa Akers tried to smile. That was the house rule. But she couldn’t. That was what the Gentleman especially liked about her: the delicious fear in her eyes.

  He was ready to play kiss the eyes.

  One last time.

  Part Five

  Kiss the Girls

  Chapter 102

  THE MORNING after the arrest of Dr. Wick Sachs, Casanova strolled the corridors of the Duke Medical Center. He calmly turned into Kate McTiernan’s private room.

  He could go anywhere now. He was free again.

  “Hello, my darling. How goes the wars?” he whispered to Kate.

  She was all by her lonesome, though there was still a Durham policeman stationed on the floor. Casanova sat on the straight–backed chair beside her bed. He looked at the sad physical wreck that had once been such an outstanding beauty.

  He wasn’t even angry with Kate anymore. There wasn’t much to be angry with now, was there? The lights are still on, he thought as he stared into the vacant blue eyes, but there’s nobody home, is there, Katie?

  He enjoyed being in her hospital room—it got his juices going, turned him on, moved his spirit toward great things. Actually, just sitting beside Kate McTiernan’s bed made him feel at peace.

  That was important now. There were decisions to be made. How, exactly, to handle the situation with Dr. Wick Sachs? Did more tinder need to be thrown on that fire? Or would that be overkill, and therefore dangerous in itself?

  Another tricky decision would have to be made soon. Did he and Rudolph still have to leave the Research Triangle area? He didn’t want to—this was home—but maybe it had to be. And how about Will Rudolph? He had clearly been emotionally disturbed in California. He had been taking Valium, Halcion, and Xanax—that Casanova knew of. Sooner or later he was going to blow it for both of them, wasn’t he? On the other hand, it had been so unbearably lonely when Rudolph was away. He’d felt cut in half.

  Casanova heard a noise behind him at the hospital room door. He turned—and smiled at the man.

  “I was just leaving, Alex,” he said, and got up from the chair. “No change here. What a damn shame.”

  Alex Cross let Casanova slide by him and out the door.

  He fit in anywhere, Casanova thought to himself as he walked away and down the hospital corridor. He was never going to be caught. He had the perfect mask.

  Chapter 103

  THERE WAS a fine old upright piano inside the barroom at the Washington Duke Inn. I was there playing Big Joe Turner and Blind Lemon Jefferson tunes between four and five one morning. I played the blues, the blahs, the doldrums, the grumps, the red ass. The hotel maintenance staff sure was impressed.

  I was trying to put everything I knew together. I kept circling back to the same big three or four points, my pillars to build the investigation on.

  Perfect crimes, both here and in California. The killers’ knowledge of crime scenes and police forensics.

  Twinning between the monsters. Male bonding as it had never existed.

  The disappearing house in the woods. A house had actually disappeared! How could that happen?

  Casanova’s harem of special women—but even more than that, the “rejects.”

  Dr. Wick Sachs was a college professor with questionable morals and actions. But was he a stone-cold murderer without a conscience? Was he the animal who had imprisoned a dozen or more young women somewhere near Durham and Chapel Hill? Was he a modern-day de Sade?

  I didn’t think so. I believed, I was almost certain, that the Durham police had arrested the wrong man, and that the real Casanova was out there laughing at all of us. Maybe it was even worse than that. Maybe he was stalking another woman.

  Later that morning, I made my usual visit to Kate at Duke Medical Center. She was still deep in a coma, still listed as grave. The Durham police no longer had an officer on guard outside her room.

  I sat vigil beside her and tried not to think about the way she had been. I held her hand for an hour and quietly talked to her. Her hand was limp, almost lifeless. I missed Kate so much. She couldn’t respond, and that created a gaping, painful hole in my chest.

  Finally, I had to leave. I needed to lose myself in my work.

  From the hospital, Sampson and I drove to the home of Louis Freed in Chapel Hill. I had asked Dr. Freed to prepare a special map of the Wykagil River area for us.

  The seventy-seven-year-old history professor had done his job well. I hoped the map might help Sampson and me find the “disappearing house.” The idea came to me after reading several newspaper accounts of the golden couple murder case. Over twelve years ago, Roe Tierney’s body had been found near “an abandoned farm where runaway slaves had once been hidden in large underground cellars. These cellars were like small houses under the earth, some with as many as a dozen rooms or compartments.”

  Small houses under the earth?

  The disappearing house?

  There was a house out there somewhere. Houses didn't disappear.

  Chapter 104

  SAMPSON AND I drove to Brigadoon, North Carolina. We planned to hike through the woods to where Kate had been found in the Wykagil River. Ray Bradbury had once written that “living at risk is jumping off a cliff, and building your wings on the way down.” Sampson and I were getting ready to jump.

  As we trudged into the foreboding woods, the towering oaks and Carolina pines began to shut out all light. A chorus of cicadas was thick as molasses around us. The air wasn’t moving.

  I could imagine, I could see, Kate running through these same dark green woods only a few weeks earlier, fighting for her life. I thought of her now, surviving on life-support systems. I could hear the machine’s whoosh-click, whoosh-click. Just the thought hurt my heart.

  “I don’t like it in the deep dark woods,” Sampson confessed as we passed under a thick umbrella of twisted vines and tent-like treetops. He had on a Cypress Hill T-shirt, his Ray-Ban sunglasses, jeans, workboots. “Reminds me of Hansel and Gretel. Melodramatic bullshit, man. Hated that story when I was a little kid.”

  “You were never a little kid,” I reminded him. “You were six foot when you were eleven, and you already had your cold stare down to a fine art.”

  “Maybe so, but I hated those Grimm Brothers. Dark side of the German mind, turning out nasty fantasies to warp the minds of little German child
ren. Must have worked, too.”

  Sampson had me smiling again with his warped theories of our warped world. “You’re not afraid going through the D.C. projects at night, but a nice walk in these woods gets you? Nothing can hurt you here. Pine trees. Muscadine grapevines. Brier brambles. Looks sinister, maybe, but it’s harmless.”

  “Looks sinister. Is sinister. That’s my motto.”

  Sampson was struggling to get his statuesque body through closely bunched saplings and honeysuckle at the edge of the woods. The honeysuckle was actually like a mesh curtain in places. It seemed to grow tangled.

  I wondered if Casanova might be watching us. I suspected that he was a very patient watcher. Both he and Will Rudolph were very clever, organized, and careful. They had been doing this for a lot of years and hadn’t been caught yet.

  “How’s your history on the slaves in this area?” I asked Sampson as we walked. I wanted his mind off poisonous snakes and dangling snakelike vines. I needed him concentrating on the killer, or maybe the killers, who might be cohabitating these woods with us.

  “I’ve dabbled with some E. D. Genovese, some Mohamed Auad,” he said. I couldn’t tell if he was serious. Sampson is well read for a man of action.

  “The Underground Railroad was active in this area. Runaway slaves and whole families heading north were kept safe for days, even weeks, at some of the local farms. They were called stations,” I said. “That’s what Dr. Freed’s map shows. That’s what his book was written about.”

  “I don’t see any farms, Dr. Livingstone. Just this muscadine grapevine shit,” Sampson complained and pushed away more branches with his long arms.

  “The big tobacco farms used to be west of here. They’ve been deserted for almost sixty years. Remember I told you that a student from UNC was brutally raped and murdered back in nineteen eighty-one? Her decomposed body was found out here. I think Rudolph, and possibly Casanova, killed her. That’s around the time they first met.