Detective Groza didn’t sound very good and he didn’t look too good. I was sure I didn’t either. I could still see the ominous billboard in the distance: COP SHOT $10,000 REWARD.
Chapter 49
NO ONE in the police manhunt would ever guess the beginning, the middle, but especially the end. None of them could imagine where this was heading, where it had been going from the first moment inside Union Station.
Gary Soneji had all the information, all the power. He was getting famous again. He was somebody. He was on the news at ten-minute intervals.
It didn’t much matter that they were showing pictures of him. Nobody knew what he looked like today, or yesterday, or tomorrow. They couldn’t go around and arrest everyone in New York, could they?
He left the late Jean Summerhill’s apartment around noon. The pretty lady had definitely lost her head over him. Just like Missy in Wilmington. He used her key and locked up tight. He walked west on Seventy-third Street until he got to Fifth, then he turned south. The train was back on the track again.
He bought a cup of black coffee in a cardboard container with Greek gods all over the sides. The coffee was absolute New York City swill, but he slowly slipped it anyway. He wanted to go on another rampage right here on Fifth Avenue. He really wanted to go for it. He imagined a massacre, and he could already see the live news stories on CBS, ABC, CNN, FOX.
Speaking of news stories, Alex Cross had been on TV that morning. Cross and the NYPD had nabbed Shareef Thomas. Well hooray for them. It proved they could follow instructions at least.
As he passed chic, well-dressed New Yorkers, Soneji couldn’t help thinking how smart he was, how much brighter than any of these uptight assholes. If any of these snooty bastards could get inside his head, just for a minute, then they’d know.
No one could, though, no one had ever been able to. No one could guess.
Not the beginning, the middle, or the end.
He was getting very angry now, almost uncontrollably so. He could feel the rage surging as he walked the overcrowded streets. He almost couldn’t see straight. Bile rose in his throat.
He flung his coffee, almost a full cup of the steamy liquid, at a passing businessman. He laughed right in the shocked, outraged face. He howled at the sight of coffee dripping from the New Yorker’s aquiline nose, his squarish chin. Dark coffee stained the expensive shirt and tie.
Gary Soneji could do anything he wanted to, and most often, he did.
Just you watch.
Chapter 50
AT SEVEN that night, I was back in Penn Station. It wasn’t the usual commuter crowd, so it wasn’t too bad on Saturdays. The murders that had taken place at Union Station in Washington, and here, were spinning around in my mind. The dark train tunnels were the “cellar” to Soneji, symbols of his tortured boyhood. I had figured out that much of the delusionary puzzle. When Soneji came up out of the cellar, he exploded at the world in a murderous rage.…
I saw Christine coming up the stairs from the train tunnels.
I began to smile in spite of the locale. I smiled, and shifted my weight from foot to foot, almost dancing. I felt light-headed and excited, filled with a hope and desire that I hadn’t felt in a long time. She had really come.
Christine was carrying a small black bag with “Sojourner Truth School” printed on it. She was traveling light. She looked beautiful, proud, more desirable than ever, if that was possible. She was wearing a white short-sleeved dress with a jewel neckline and her usual flats in black patent leather. I noticed people looking at her. They always did.
We kissed in a corner of the train station, keeping our privacy as best we could. Our bodies pressed together and I could feel her warmth, her bones, her flesh. I heard the bag she was carrying drop at her feet.
Her brown eyes looked into mine and they were wide and questioning at first, but then became very soft and light. “I was a little afraid you wouldn’t be here,” she said. “I had visions of you off on some police emergency, and me standing here alone in the middle of Penn Station.”
“There’s no way I would let that happen,” I said to her. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
We kissed again, pressing even harder together. I didn’t want to stop kissing Christine, holding her tightly. I wanted to take her where we could be alone. My body nearly convulsed. It was that bad, that good.
“I tried,” she said and grinned, “but I couldn’t stay away from you. New York scares me a little, but here I am.”
“We’re going to have a great time. You’ll see.”
“You promise? Will it be unforgettable?” she teased me.
“Unforgettable, I promise,” I said.
I held her tightly in my arms. I couldn’t let her go.
Chapter 51
THE BEGINNING of “unforgettable” felt like this, looked like this, sounded like this.
The Rainbow Room at eight-thirty on a Saturday night. Christine and I waltzed off the glitzy elevator, arm in arm. We were immediately swept into another era, another lifestyle, maybe another life. A fancy silver-on-black placard near the elevator door read: “The Rainbow Room, Step into an MGM Musical.” Hundreds of minispotlights kicked off from the dazzling chrome and crystal. It was over the top, and just about perfect.
“I’m not sure if I’m dressed right for an MGM musical, but I don’t particularly care. What a wonderful idea,” Christine said as we made our way past overdone, outrageous-looking ushers and usherettes. We were directed to a desk that looked down onto the deco ballroom but also had panoramic views of New York. The room was jam-packed on a Saturday night; every table and the dance floor was filled.
Christine was dressed in a simple black sheath. She wore the same necklace, made from an old-fashioned brooch, that she wore at Kinkead’s. It had belonged to her grandmother. Because I’m six three, she wasn’t afraid to wear dressier shoes with high heels, rather than her comfortable flats. I had never realized it before, but I liked being with a woman who was nearly as tall as I am.
I had dressed up, too. I’d chosen a charcoal gray, summer-weight suit, crisp white shirt, blue silk tie. For tonight anyway, I was definitely not a police detective from D.C. I didn’t look like Dr. Alex Cross from Southeast. Maybe more like Denzel Washington playing the part of Jay Gatsby. I liked the feeling, for a night on the town anyway. Maybe even for a whole weekend.
We were escorted to a table in front of a large window that overlooked the glittering East Side of Manhattan. A five-piece Latin band was onstage, and they were cooking pretty good. The slowly revolving dance floor was still full. People were having a fine time, lots of people dancing the night away.
“It’s funny, beautiful, and ridiculous, and I think it’s as special as anywhere I’ve been,” Christine said once we were seated. “That’s about all the superlatives you’re going to hear from me tonight.”
“You haven’t even seen me dance,”
I said. “I already know that you can dance.” Christine laughed and told me, “Women always know which men can dance, and which men can’t.”
We ordered drinks, straight Scotch for me, Harvey’s sherry for Christine. We picked out a bottle of sauvignon blanc, and then spent a few delicious minutes just taking in the spectacle of the Rainbow Room.
The Latin combo was replaced by a “big band combo,” which played swing and even took a swipe at the blues. A whole lot of people still knew how to jitterbug and waltz and even tango, and some of them were pretty good.
“You ever been here before?” I asked Christine as the waiter came with our drinks.
“Only while I was watching The Prince of Tides alone in my bedroom at home,” she said, and smiled again. “How about you? Come here often, sailor?”
“Just the one time I was chasing down this split-personality ax murderer in New York. He went right out that picture window over there. Third from the left.”
Christine laughed. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it was true, Alex. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised
.”
The band started to play “Moonglow,” which is a pretty song, and we had to get up and dance. Gravity just pulled us. At that moment, I couldn’t think of too many things in the world I wanted to do more than hold Christine in my arms. Actually, I couldn’t think of anything at all.
At some point in time, Christine and I had agreed to take a risk and see what would happen. We’d both lost people we loved. We knew what it meant to be hurt, and yet here we were, ready to go out on the dance floor of life again. I think I’d wanted to slow-dance with Christine from the very first time I saw her at the Sojourner Truth School.
Now, I tucked her in close and my left arm encircled her waist. My right hand clasped hers. I felt her soft intake of breath. I could tell she was a little nervous, too.
I started to hum softly. I might have been floating a little, too. My lips touched hers and my eyes closed. I could feel the silk of her dress under my fingers. And yes, I could dance pretty well, but so could she.
“Look at me,” she whispered, and I opened my eyes. She was right. It was much better that way.
“What’s going on here? What is this? I don’t think I’ve ever felt like this, Alex.”
“Neither have I. But I could get used to it. I know that I like it.”
I lightly brushed her cheek with my fingers. The music was working and Christine seemed to flow with me. Graceful, moonlit choreography. All my body parts were moving. I was finding it hard to breathe.
Christine and I were in harmony together. We both could dance well enough, but together it was something special. I moved slowly and smoothly with her. The palm of her hand felt magnetized to mine. I spun her slowly, a playful half turn underneath my arm.
We came back together and our lips were inches apart. I could feel the warmth of her body right through my clothes. Our lips met again, just for an instant, and the music stopped. Another song began.
“Now that is a hard act to follow,” she said as we sashayed back to our table after the slow dance. “I knew you could dance. Never a doubt in my mind. But I didn’t know you could dance.”
“You haven’t seen anything. Wait until they play a samba,” I told her. I was still holding her hand, couldn’t let go. Didn’t want to.
“I think I can samba,” she said.
We danced a lot, we held hands constantly, and I think we even ate dinner. We definitely danced some more, and I could not let go of Christine’s hand. She couldn’t let go of mine. We talked nonstop, and later, I couldn’t remember most of what had been said. I think that happens high above New York City in the Rainbow Room.
The first time I looked at my watch all night it was nearly one o’clock and I couldn’t believe it. That same mysterious time-loss thing had happened a couple of times when I’d been with Christine. I paid our bill, our big bill, and I noticed that the Rainbow Room was nearly empty. Where had everybody gone?
“Can you keep a secret?” Christine whispered as we were going down to the lobby in the walnut-paneled elevator. We were alone in the car with its soft yellow light. I was holding her in my arms.
“I keep lots of secrets,” I said.
“Well, here it is,” Christine said as we reached the bottom floor with just the lightest bump. She held me inside after the door had opened. She wasn’t going to let me out of the softly lit elevator until she finished saying what she had to say.
“I really like that you got me my own room at the Astor,” she said. “But Alex, I don’t think I’ll be needing it. Is that okay?”
We stood very still in the elevator and began to kiss again. The doors shut, and the elevator slowly climbed back up to the roof. So we kissed going up, and we kissed on the way back down to the lobby, and it wasn’t nearly a long enough round-trip.
“You know what, though?” she finally said as we reached the ground floor of Rockefeller Center a second time.
“What, though?” I asked her.
“That’s what’s supposed to happen when you go to the Rainbow Room.”
Chapter 52
IT WAS unforgettable. Just like the magical Nat King Cole song, and the more recent version with Natalie Cole.
We were standing at the door to my hotel room, and I was completely lost in the moment. I had let go of Christine’s hand to open the door—and I was lost. I fumbled the key slightly and missed the lock. She gently placed her hand on mine and we glided the key into the lock, turned the tumblers together.
An eternity of seconds passed, at least it seemed that way. I knew that I would never forget any of this. I wouldn’t let skepticism or cynicism diminish it either.
I knew what was happening to me. I was feeling the dizzying effect of a return to intimacy. I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed it. I had let myself be numb, let myself live numb for the past few years. It’s easy enough to do, so easy that you don’t even realize your life has become a deep rut.
The hotel door slowly opened, and I had the thought that the two of us were giving up something of our past now. Christine turned to me at the threshold. I heard the faint swish of her silk dress.
Her beautiful face tilted toward mine. I reached for her and balanced her chin with my fingertips. I felt as if I hadn’t been able to breathe properly all night, not from the moment she’d arrived at Penn Station.
“Musician’s hands. Piano player fingers,” she said. “I love the way you touch me. I always knew I would. I’m not afraid anymore, Alex.”
“I’m glad. Neither am I.”
The heavy wooden door of the hotel room seemed to close all by itself.
It didn’t really matter where we were right now, I was thinking. The twinkling lights outside, or maybe a boat gliding by on the river, gave the impression that the floor was gently moving, much as the dance floor at the Rainbow Room had moved under our feet.
I had switched hotels for the weekend, moving to the Astor on Manhattan’s East Side. I’d wanted someplace special. The room was on the twelfth floor, facing out on the river.
We were drawn to the picture window, attracted by the strobing lights of the New York skyline to the southeast. We watched the silent, strangely beautiful movement of traffic passing the United Nations, moving toward the Brooklyn Bridge.
I remembered taking the bridge earlier today on our way to a crackhouse in Brooklyn. It seemed so long ago. I saw the face of Shareef Thomas, then the dead policeman’s then Soneji’s, but I shut down those images immediately. I wasn’t a police detective here. Christine’s lips were on my skin, lightly bussing my throat.
“Where did you go just now? You went away, didn’t you?” she whispered. “You were in a dark place.”
“Just for a few seconds.” I confessed the truth, my flaw. “A flashback from work. It’s gone.” I was holding her hand again.
She kissed me lightly on the cheek, a paper-thin kiss, then very lightly on the lips. “You can’t lie, can you, Alex? Not even tiny white lies.”
“I try not to. I don’t like lies. If I lie to you, then who am I?” I said and smiled. “What’s the point?”
“I love that about you,” she whispered. “Lots of other things, too. I find something else every time I’m with you.”
I nuzzled the top of her head, then I kissed Christine’s forehead, her cheek, her lips, and finally the sweet hollow of her throat. She was trembling a little. So was I. Thank God that neither of us was afraid, right. I could feel the pulse tripping under her skin.
“You’re so beautiful,” I whispered. “Do you know that?”
“I’m way too tall, too thin. You’re the beautiful one. You are, you know. Everybody says so.”
Everything felt electric and so right. It seemed a miracle that we had found each other, and now we were here together. I was so glad, felt so lucky, that she had decided to take a chance with me, that I had taken a chance, too.
“Look in the mirror there. See how beautiful you are,” she said. “You have the sweetest face. You are trouble, though, aren’t you, Alex?”
<
br /> “I won’t give you too much trouble tonight,” I said.
I wanted to undress her, to do everything for and to Christine. A funny word, strange word in my head, rapture. She slid her hand over the front of my pants and felt how hard I was.
“Hmmm,” she whispered and smiled.
I began to unzip her dress. I couldn’t remember wanting to be with someone like this, not for a long time anyway. I ran my hand over her face, memorizing every part, every feature. Christine’s skin was so soft and silky underneath my fingers.
We started to dance again, right there in the hotel room. There wasn’t any music, but we had our own. My hand pressed just below her waist, folding her in close to me.
Moonlit choreography again. We slowly rocked back and forth, back and forth, a sensuous cha-cha-cha next to the broad picture window. I held her buttocks in the palms of my hands. She wiggled into a position she liked. I liked it, too. A whole lot.
“You dance real good, Alex. I just knew you would.”
Christine reached down and tugged at my belt until the prong came free. She unzipped me, lightly fondled me. I loved her touch, anywhere, everywhere. Her lips were on my skin again. Everything about her was erotic, irresistible, unforgettable.
We both knew to do this slowly, no need to hurry anything tonight. Rushing would spoil this, and it mustn’t be spoiled in any way.
I held the thought that we’d both been here before, but never like this. We were in this very special place for the first time. This would only happen one time.
My kisses slowly swept over her shoulders and I could feel her breasts rising and falling against me. I felt the flatness of her stomach, and her legs pressing. I cupped Christine’s breasts in my hands. Suddenly I wanted everything, all of her at once.
I sank to my knees. I ran my hands up and down her soft legs, along her waist.
I rose to my feet. I unzipped her black sheath the rest of the way, and it trailed down her long arms to the floor. It made a shimmering black puddle surrounding her ankles, her slender feet.
Alex Cross 04 - Cat & Mouse Page 12
