Kiss the Girls (Alex Cross #2)(76)

“I think he’s learned to enjoy being a local celebrity, yes. He likes to play the game. He’s especially proud of his handiwork his art.”

“Doesn’t he want a larger venue? Larger canvas, so to speak?” Sampson asked as we climbed the gentle hills the college town had apparently been named for.

“I don’t know about that yet. He might be a very territorial rec killer. Some recs are strictly territorial: Richard Ramirez, the Son of Sam, the Green River killer.”

I then told Sampson about my theory on twinning. The more I thought about it, the sounder it got for me. Even the FBI was starting to believe in it a little. “The two of them have to be sharing some big secret. That they abduct beautiful women is only part of it. One of them thinks of himself as a ‘lover’ and artist. The other is a brutal killer, much more typical of serial-killer cases. They complete each other, they correct each other’s weaknesses. Together, I think they’re virtually unstoppable. More importantly, I think they do, too.”

“Which one is the leader?” Sampson asked a very good question. It was completely intuitive on his part. The way he always solves problems.

“I think it’s Casanova. He’s definitely the more imaginative of the two. He’s the one who hasn’t made any major mistakes yet, either. But the Gentleman isn’t really comfortable being a follower. He probably moved to California to see if he could succeed on his own. And he couldn’t.”

“Is Casanova this kinky-assed college professor? Dr. Wick Sachs? The pornography professor you told me about? Is he our man, Sugar?”

I peered across the front seat at Sampson. We were into the real deal now. Cop shop talk. “Sometimes, I think it’s Sachs, and that he’s so goddamn clever and smart he can let us know who he is. He enjoys watching us squirm. That could be the ultimate power game for him.”

Sampson nodded one nod. “And other times, Dr. Freud, what is your alternative thought process on Dr. Sachs?”

“Other times, I wonder if Sachs has been set up. Casanova is very bright, and he’s been extremely careful. He seems to send out misinformation that has everyone chasing his own tail. Even Kyle Craig’s getting uptight and crazy.”

Sampson finally showed his large, very white teeth. Maybe it was a smile, or maybe he was going to bite me. “Looks like I’m here just in the motherfucking nick of time.”

As I slowed for a stop sign on the side street, a man with a gun suddenly moved away from a parked car and toward us.

There was nothing I could do to stop him, nothing Sampson could do.

The gunman pointed a Smith and Wesson right into my face, up against my cheekbone.

Endgame! I thought.

Tilt!

“Chapel Hill police,” the man shouted into the open window. “Get the hell out of the car. Assume the position.”





Chapter 87


“YOU GOT here just in the nick of time,” I muttered to Sampson under my breath. We climbed out of the car very slowly and carefully.

“Looks like it,” he said. “Be cool now. Don’t get us shot or beat up, Alex. I wouldn’t appreciate the irony.”

I thought I knew what was happening and it made me incredibly angry. Sampson and I were “suspects.” Why were we suspects? Because we were a couple of black males riding on the side streets of Chapel Hill at ten o’clock in the goddamn morning.

I could tell that Sampson was furious, too, but he was angry in his own way. He was smiling thinly and shaking his head back and forth. “This is rich,” he said. “This is the best yet.”

Another Chapel Hill detective appeared to assist his partner. They were tough-looking studs, in their late twenties. Longish hair. Full mustaches. Hard, muscular bodies from workout central. Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes in training.

“You think this is funny?” The second officer’s voice was disembodied, so low I could barely hear the words. “You think you’re a laugh riot, Home?” he asked Sampson. He had a lead sap out and was holding it close to his hip, ready to strike.

“Best I could come up,” Sampson said, keeping his smile turned on low. He wasn’t afraid of saps.

My scalp was crawling and sweat dribbled slowly down my back. I couldn’t remember being rousted recently, and I didn’t like it one bit. Everything bad I had felt since I’d been here fell into place. Not that rousting black males is peculiar to North Carolina or the South anymore.

I started to tell the cops who we were. “My name is ”

“Shut the fuck up, asshole!” One of them popped me in the small of the back before I could finish. Not hard enough to leave a bruise, but it stung like a good rabbit punch. It hurt in a couple of ways, actually.

“This one looks fucked up to me. Eyes are bloodshot,” the low-voiced patrolman said to his partner. “This one is high.” He was talking about me.

“I’m Alex Cross. I’m a police detective, you motherfucker! ” I suddenly yelled at him. “I’m part of the Casanova investigation. Call detectives Ruskin and Sikes right now! Call Kyle Craig from the FBI!”

At the same time, I spun around fast and hit the closest one in the throat. He dropped to the ground like a stone. His partner jumped forward, but Sampson had him on the sidewalk before he could do anything too dumb. I took away the first stud’s revolver easier than I could disarm a fourteen-year-old hugger-mugger in D.C.