“The chief of detectives wants to see you in his office posthaste. It’s important,” Fred told me. “Better move it.”
I nodded at him and tried to keep my good mood intact. “Of course it is, he’s the chief of detectives. You have any helpful hints for me, Fred? You happen to know what this is about, what I should expect?”
“It’s a big deal,” said Cook, unhelpful and happy about it. “That’s about all I can tell you, Alex.”
He walked away, leaving me hanging. I could feel bile rising in my throat. My good mood had already deserted me.
I walked down the creaking hardwood floors of the hallway to The Jefe’s office. I had no idea what to expect, but I sure wasn’t prepared for what I found.
I immediately thought about what Damon had said that morning: It’s time we had a normal life around here.
Sampson was seated inside the chief’s office. Rakeem Powell and Jerome Thurman were both in there, too.
“Come in, Dr. Cross.” Chief Pittman beckoned with an outstretched hand. “Please come in. We’ve been waiting for you to arrive.”
“What is this?” I said, pulling up a chair next to Sampson’s and whispering in his ear.
“Don’t know yet, but it’s not too good,” he said. “The Jefe hasn’t said word one to us. Looks like the canary who ate the cat, though.”
Pittman came around in front of his desk and leaned his ample buttocks back against it. He seemed particularly full of himself and bullshit this morning. His mousy gray hair was plastered back and looked like a helmet on his bullet head.
“I can tell you what you want to know, Detective Cross,” he said. “In fact, I didn’t want to tell these other detectives until you got here. As of this morning, detectives Sampson, Thurman, and Powell have been suspended from active duty. They have been working on cases outside the auspices of this department. Evidence is still being gathered about the full extent of these activities and also if any other detectives were involved.”
I started to speak up, but Sampson grabbed my arm—hard. “Be cool, Alex.”
Pittman looked at the three of them. “Detectives Sampson, Thurman, Powell, you can go. Your union representative has been informed of the situation. You have questions, or issues with my decision, inform your representative.”
Sampson’s mouth was set hard. He didn’t say a word to The Jefe, though. He got up and left the office. Thurman and Powell trailed close behind him. Neither of them spoke to Pittman, either. The three of them were hardworking, dedicated detectives, and I couldn’t stand to watch this happen.
I wondered why The Jefe had spared me so far. I also wondered why Shawn Moore wasn’t there. The cynical answer was that Pittman wanted to set us against one another, to make us believe that Shawn had spoken against us.
Pittman reached across his desk and picked up a folded copy of the Washington Post. “You happen to see this article today? Bottom right?”
He pushed the newspaper toward me. I had to catch the paper to keep it from falling to the floor.
“‘Scandal over unsolved murders in Southeast,’” I said. “Yes, I did. I read it at home.”
“I’ll bet you did. Mr. Taylor, of the Post, quotes unidentified sources in the police department. You have anything to do with the article?” Pittman asked, and stared hard at me.
“Why would I talk to the Washington Post?” I asked a question in answer to his. “I told you about the problem in Southeast. I think a repeat killer may be working there. Why go any farther with it than that? Suspending those detectives sure won’t help solve the problem. Especially if this sicko is approaching rage, which I believe he is.”
“I don’t buy this serial-killer story. I don’t see any pattern that’s consistent. No one else does but you.” Pittman shook his head and frowned. He was hot, angry, trying to control himself.
He reached out his hand toward me again. His fingers were like uncooked sausages. He lowered his voice almost to a whisper. “I’d like to fuck you over good, and I will. But for now, it wouldn’t be expedient to pull you off the Odenkirk homicide. It wouldn’t look good, and I suspect it would end up in the Post, too. I look forward to your daily reports on the so-called John Doe case. You know, it is time you got some of those unsolved murders off the books. You’ll report directly to me on this. I’m going to be all over you, Cross. Any questions?”
I quickly left Chief Pittman’s office. Before I hit him.
Chapter 42
SAMPSON, THURMAN, AND RAKEEM POWELL had already left the building by the time I got out of The Jefe’s office. I felt as if I could easily go postal. I nearly walked back inside Pittman’s office and wiped up the floor with him.
I went to my desk and thought about what to do next, tried to calm myself down before I did anything rash and stupid. I thought about my responsibilities to the people in Southeast, and that helped me. Still, I almost went back after Pittman.
I called Christine and let out some steam. Then, on the spur of the moment, I asked if she could get away for our long weekend, possibly starting on Thursday night. Christine said that she could go. I went and filled out a vacation form and left it on Fred Cook’s desk. It was the last thing he and Pittman would expect from me. But I’d already decided the best thing would be to get away from here, cool down, then figure out a plan to move forward.
As I headed out of the building, another detective stopped me. “They’re over at Hart’s bar,” he said. “Sampson said to tell you they reserved a seat for you.”
Hart’s is a very seedy, very popular gin mill on Second Street. It isn’t a cops’ bar, which is why some of us like it. It was eleven in the morning, and the barroom was already crowded, lively, even friendly.
“Here he is!” Jerome Thurman saluted me with a half-full beer mug as I walked inside. Half a dozen other detectives and friends were there, too. The word had gotten around fast about the suspensions.
There was a whole lot of laughter and shouting going on. “It’s a bachelor’s party!” Sampson said, and grinned. “Got you, sugar. With a little help from Nana. You should see the look on your face!”
For the next hour and a half, friends kept arriving at Hart’s. By noon the bar was full, and then the regular customers started coming in for their lunch-hour nips. The owner, Mike Hart, was in his glory. I hadn’t really thought about having a bachelor’s party, but now that I was in the middle of one, I was glad it happened. A lot of men still guard their emotions and feelings, but not so much at a bachelor’s party, at least not at a good one thrown by the people closest to you.
This was a good one. The suspensions that had been handed down earlier that morning were mostly forgotten for a few hours. I was congratulated and hugged more times than I could count, and even kissed once or twice. Everybody was calling me “sugar,” following Sampson’s lead. The “love” word was used, and overused. I was roasted and toasted in sentimental speeches that seemed hilarious at the time. Just about everybody had too much to drink.
By four in the afternoon, Sampson and I were steadying each other, making our way into the blinding daylight on Second Street. Mike Hart himself had called us a cab.
For a brief, clear moment, I was reminded of the purple and blue gypsy cab we were looking for—but then the thought evaporated into the nearly white sunlight.
“Sugar,” Sampson whispered against my skull as we were climbing into our cab, “I love you more than life itself. It’s true. I love your kids, love your Nana, love your wife-to-be, the lovely Christine. Take us home,” he said to the driver. “Alex is getting married.”
“And he’s the best man,” I said to the driver, who smiled.
“Yes I am,” said Sampson. “The very best.”
Chapter 43
ON THURSDAY NIGHT, Shafer played the Four Horsemen again. He was locked inside his study, but through the early part of the night he could hear the sounds of his family throughout the house. He felt intensely isolated; he was nervous, jittery, and angry for no appar
ent reason.
While he waited to log on with the other players, he found himself thinking back to his wild car ride through Washington. He relived a particular feeling over and over: the imagined moment of sudden impact with an unmovable structure. He saw it as blinding light, and physical objects, and himself, all shattering like glass and then becoming part of the universe again. Even the pain he would feel would be part of the reassembling of matter into other fascinating forms and shapes.
I am suicidal, he finally thought. It’s just a matter of time. I really am Death.
When it was exactly nine o’clock, he began to type in a message on his computer. The other Horsemen were on-line, waiting for his response to the visit and warning by George Bayer. He didn’t want to disappoint them. What they had done had made him even more enthusiastic about playing the game. He wrote:
STRANGELY, DEATH WASN’T SURPRISED WHEN FAMINE APPEARED IN WASHINGTON. OF COURSE HE HAD EVERY RIGHT TO COME. JUST AS DEATH COULD GO TO LONDON, OR SINGAPORE, OR MANILA, OR KINGSTON, AND PERHAPS DEATH WILL PAY ONE OF YOU A VISIT SOON.
THAT’S THE BEAUTY OF THE GAME WE PLAY—ANYTHING CAN HAPPEN.
ULTIMATELY, THE ISSUE IS TRUST, ISN’T IT? DO I TRUST THAT YOU WILL ALLOW ME TO CONTINUE TO PLAY THE FANTASY GAME AS I WISH? AFTER ALL, THAT IS WHAT MAKES THE GAME DISTINCTIVE AND ALLURING: THE FREEDOM WE EXPERIENCE.
THAT IS THE GAME NOW, ISN’T IT? WE HAVE EVOLVED INTO SOMETHING NEW. WE HAVE RAISED THE TABLE STAKES. SO LET’S HAVE SOME REAL EXCITEMENT, FELLOW HORSEMEN. I HAVE A FEW IDEAS TO TRY OUT ON YOU. EVERYTHING IS IN THE SPIRIT OF THE GAME. NO UNNECESSARY RISKS WILL BE TAKEN.
LET’S PLAY THE GAME AS IF OUR LIVES DEPENDED ON IT.
PERHAPS MINE ALREADY DOES?
AS I TOLD YOU, WE HAVE TWO NEW PLAYERS. THEY ARE WASHINGTON DETECTIVES NAMED ALEX CROSS AND JOHN SAMPSON. WORTHY OPPONENTS. I’M WATCHING THEM, BUT I CAN’T HELP WONDERING WHETHER SOON THEY’LL BE WATCHING ME.
LET ME TELL YOU ABOUT A FANTASY SCENARIO THAT I’VE CREATED TO WELCOME THEM TO OUR GAME. I’M SENDING PICTURES NOW—DETECTIVES CROSS AND SAMPSON.
Chapter 44
IT TOOK US A DAY to get organized for our trip, but everybody seemed to enjoy the spontaneity, and also the special treat of our all being together on a vacation for the first time. And so Damon, Jannie, Nana, Christine, and I left D.C. in the afternoon and arrived in high spirits at Bermuda International Airport late on Thursday evening, the twenty-fifth of August.
I definitely wanted to be out of Washington for a few days. The Mr. Smith murder case had been followed too quickly by the Jane Doe investigation. I needed a rest. I had a friend who was part owner of a hotel in Bermuda, and it wasn’t a particularly long airplane ride. It was perfect for us.
One scene from the airport will always stick in my mind—Christine’s singing “Ja-da, ja-da,” with Jannie stuck at her side. I couldn’t help thinking that they looked like mother and daughter, and that touched me deeply. They were so affectionate and playful, so natural. It was a mind-photo for me to have and to hold, one of those moments that I knew I’d never forget, even as I watched the two of them dancing and singing as if they’d known each other forever.
We were blessed with extraordinarily good weather for our holiday. It was sunny and blue-skied every day, morning until nightfall, when the sky turned a magical combination of reds, oranges, and purples. The days belonged to all of us, but especially to the kids. We went swimming and snorkeling at Elbow Beach and Horseshoe Bay, and then raced mopeds along the picturesque Middle and Harbour roads.
The nights belonged to Christine and me, and we made the most of them. We hit all the best spots: the Terrace Bar at the Palm Reef, the Gazebo Lounge at the Princess, the Clay House Inn, Once Upon a Table in Hamilton, Horizons in Paget. I loved being with her, and that thought kept drifting through my mind. I felt that what we shared had been strengthened because I had backed off and given her time and space. And I felt whole again. I kept remembering the very first time I had seen her in the schoolyard at Sojourner Truth. She’s the one, Alex. That thought still played in my head, too.
We sat at the Terrace Bar overlooking the city and harbor of Hamilton. The water was dotted with small islands, white sails, ferries going back and forth to Warwick and Paget. We held hands, and I couldn’t stop staring into her eyes, didn’t want to.
“Big thoughts?” she finally asked.
“I’ve been thinking a lot about going into private practice again,” I told her. “I think it might be the best thing to do.”
She stared into my eyes. “I don’t want you to do it for me, Alex. Please don’t make me the cause of your leaving your job with the police. I know you love it. Most days you do.”
“The Job has been tearing at me lately. Pittman isn’t just a difficult boss; I think he’s a bad guy. What happened to Sampson and the others is just bullshit. They were working unsolved cases on their own time. I’m tempted to give the story to Zach Taylor at the Post. People would riot if they knew the truth. Which is why I won’t give it to the Post.”
She listened and tried to help but she didn’t push, and I appreciated that. “It does sound like a terrible, complicated, nasty mess, Alex. I’d like to punch out Pittman, too. He’s choosing politics over protecting people. I’m sure you’ll know what to do when the time is right.”
The next morning, I found her walking in the garden, with tropical flowers strewn in her hair. She looked radiant, even more than usual, and I fell in love all over again.
“There’s an old saying I’ve been hearing since I was a little girl,” she told me as I joined her. “If you have only two pennies, buy a loaf of bread with one and a lily with the other.”
I kissed her hair, in between the flowers. I kissed her sweet lips, her cheeks, the hollow in her throat.
The kids and I went back to Horseshoe Bay Beach early that afternoon. They couldn’t get enough of the deep blue sea, swimming, snorkeling, and building sand castles. And, of course, it was almost time to start school again, so everything about our vacation was extra-special and intense.
Christine took a moped trip into Hamilton to pick up mementos for a few of the teachers at Sojourner Truth. We all waved until she was out of sight on Middle Road. Then back into the water!
Around five o’clock, Damon, Jannie, and I returned to the Belmont Hotel, which sat like a sentinel on lush green hills framed by china-blue skies. All around, everywhere we looked, were pastel-colored cottages with white roofs. Nana was sitting out on the porch, talking to a couple of her new best friends. Paradise regained, I thought, and felt something deep and sacred coming back to life inside me.
As I stared out at the cloudless blue sky, I regretted that Christine wasn’t there to share it. I actually missed her in just that short a time. I hugged Jannie and Damon, and we were all smiling at the obvious: we loved being here together, and we were so damn fortunate to have one another.
“You miss her,” Jannie whispered. It was a statement, not a question. “That’s good, Daddy. That’s the way it should be, right?”
When Christine still hadn’t returned by six o’clock, I struggled between conflicting thoughts of waiting for her at the hotel or driving into Hamilton myself. Maybe she’d had an accident. Those damn mopeds, I thought, having found them fun and perfectly safe just the afternoon before.
I spotted a tall, slender woman entering through the front gates of the Belmont, walking against a background of hibiscus and oleander. I sighed with relief, but as I started down the front stairs, I saw that it wasn’t Christine.
Christine still hadn’t returned, or called the hotel, by six-thirty Or by seven o’clock.
I finally called the police.
Chapter 45
INSPECTOR PATRICK BUSBY from the Hamilton P.D. arrived at the Belmont Hotel around seven-thirty. He was a small balding man who from a distance looked to be in his late fifties or sixties. As he approached the front porch, though, I could tell he was no more than forty, around the same age as me.
I wouldn’t have any of it. She was always punctual, and at the very least, she would have called.
I knew that somehow she’d call if she had a minor accident. So the inspector and I rode together between the hotel and Hamilton, and then we toured the streets of the capital city, particularly Front and Reid streets. I was silent and solemn-faced as I stared out of the car, hoping to get a glimpse of Christine shopping on some side street, forgetful of the hour. But we didn’t see her anywhere, and she still hadn’t called the hotel.
When she still hadn’t turned up by nine, Inspector Busby reluctantly agreed that Christine might be missing. He asked a lot of questions that showed me he was a decent cop. He wanted to know if we’d had any kind of argument or disagreement.
“I’m a homicide detective in Washington, D.C.,” I finally told him. I’d been holding it back because I didn’t want this to get territorial. “I’ve been involved with high-profile cases involving mass murders in the past. I’ve known some very bad men. There might be a connection. I hope not, but that could be.”
“I see,” Busby said. He was such a precise, neat man with his thin pencil mustache. He looked more like a fussy schoolteacher than a cop, more like a psychologist than I did. “Are there any other surprises I should know about, Detective Cross?” he asked.
“No, that’s it. But you see why I’m worried, and why I called you. I’m working on a series of nasty murders in Washington right now.”
“Yes, I see a reason for your concern now. I will put out a missing-persons report forthwith.”
Pop Goes the Weasel Page 11
