London Bridges: A Novel (9 page)

I thought about it, and I didn't have a response. It had been a long day and my brain wasn't firing on all cylinders. “So you're okay?” I asked Nana. “You're sure you're feeling all right?”

“Alex, I'm eighty-three years old. More or less. How okay can I be?” she asked. Then Nana kissed me on the cheek and headed off to bed.

“You're not getting any younger yourself,” she turned and chirped over her shoulder.

Good one, Nana.

Not everyone was headed off to bed yet that night. The night was still young in some quarters.

The Weasel had never been any good at controlling his so-called baser desires and physical needs. This fact scared him sometimes, because it was an obvious weakness and vulnerability, but it also turned him on. The danger, the adrenaline rush. Actually, it made him feel more alive than anything else in his life. When he went for the kill, he felt so good, so powerful, that it took over everything and he lost himself completely in the moment.

Shafer knew Washington, D.C., very well from his earlier posting at the British embassy, and he knew the poorer sections, because it was where he had hunted most often in the past.

The Weasel was hunting tonight. And he was feeling alive again, that his life had a purpose.

He drove a black Mercury Cougar along South Capitol. A cool drizzle was falling, and there were only a couple of skanks walking the streets. But one of the girls had already caught his eye.

He cruised around the block a couple of times, checking her out in the most obvious ways, playing at being a john.

He finally slowed the Cougar beside a petite black girl showing off her wares near the hot Nation nightclub. She wore a silver bustier, matching short skirt, and platform heels.

The very best part: he had been instructed to go hunting in Washington tonight. He was following orders from the Wolf. Just doing his job.

The young black girl thrust her chest forward provocatively as he leaned across the front seat to talk to her. She probably thought that her pert young nipples put her in control of the situation. This encounter will be interesting, he was thinking. Shafer had on a wig, and he had colored his face and hands black. A dumb old rock tune was playing inside his head: “The name of the song is I like it like that.”

“Those real?” he asked as the girl leaned in close.

“Last time I checked they were. Maybe you should find out for yourself? You interested in a feel? It could be arranged, you know. A private tour, just for you, darlin'.”

Shafer smiled pleasantly, playing the game, too, the street hustle. If the girl noticed he was wearing blackface, she wasn't letting on. Nothing bothers this one, does it? Well, we'll see about that.

“Hop in,” he said. “I'd like to check you out. Breast to toe, as it were.”

“It's a hundred,” she said, and suddenly stood back from the car. “Y'okay with that? 'Cause if you're not —”

Shafer continued to smile. “If they're real, a hundred is fine. It won't be a problem.”

The girl opened the door and hopped into the car. She was wearing way too much perfume. “See for yourself, sweetheart. They're kind of small-like, but they're soooo nice. And they're all yours.”

Shafer laughed again. “You know, I like you a great deal. Remember what you said, though. I'll hold you to it.” They're all mine.

I was on duty again at midnight, and I felt as though I was back in Homicide. I arrived in a familiar neighborhood that was mostly white clapboard row houses, many of them deserted, on New Jersey Avenue in Southeast. A crowd had already gathered at the murder scene, including some local gangbangers and little kids on bikes still up at that late hour.

A man in a Rastafarian hat full of dreadlocks was shouting at the police from behind the yellow crime-scene tape. “Hey, ya hear dat music?” he called in a loopy, wheezy voice. “Ya like dat music? Dat mah people music.”

Sampson met me outside one of the dilapidated row houses, and we went in together.

“Just like bad old times,” John said, shaking his head. “That why you're here, Dragonslayer? Are you nostalgic for the old days? Want to come back to the Washington PD?”

I nodded and gestured around. “Yeah. I missed this. Bad homicide scenes in the middle of the night.”

“Bet you do, too. I would.”

The building where the body had been found was boarded up in front, but it was easy enough for us to get inside. There was no front door.

“This is Alex Cross,” Sampson said to the patrolmen standing just outside the open doorway. “You heard of him? This is the Alex Cross, brother.”

“Dr. Cross,” said the man as he stepped aside to let us enter.

“Gone,” said John Sampson, “but not forgotten.”

Once we were in, the scene was sadly familiar and reprehensible. Garbage was strewn in the hallways, and the smell of decaying food and urine was overpowering. Maybe it was because I hadn't been inside one of these vacated rattraps in a while, over a year now.

We were told that the body was on the top floor, the third, so Sampson and I began to climb.

“Dumping grounds,” he muttered.

“Yeah, I know. I remember the drill pretty well.”

“At least we don't have to visit the goddamn basement,” Sampson grumped. “So, why did you say you're here? I didn't catch that part.”

“I just missed hanging with you. Nobody calls me Sugar anymore.”

“Uh-huh. You Feebies aren't into nicknames? So why are you here, Sugar?”

Sampson and I had made our way to the third floor. There were Washington PD uniforms everywhere up there. This really was déjà vu all over again. I put on plastic gloves, and so did Sampson. I did miss working with him, and sadly, this brought it all home, the good and the bad.

We stopped outside the second door on the right just as a young black patrolman was leaving. He had his hand over his mouth, a white handkerchief wrapped over the fist. I think he was going to be sick any second. That part doesn't change, either.

“Hope he didn't barf all over our crime scene,” Sampson said. “Goddamn rookies.”

Then we went inside. “Oh man,” I muttered. You see things like this over and over in Homicide, but you never get used to it, and you don't forget the details, the sensations, the smells, the taste it leaves in your mouth.

“He called it in to us first,” I told Sampson. “That's why I'm here.”

“Who's he?” he asked.

“You tell me,” I said.

We walked over closer to the body that lay on the bare wooden floor. Young woman, probably still in her teens. Petite, pretty enough. Naked except for one platform hanging off the toes on her left foot. Golden ankle charm on her right foot. Her hands were tied behind her back with what looked like plastic cable. A black plastic bag had been stuffed inside her mouth.

I'd seen this kind of murder before, exactly this kind. So had Sampson.

“Prostitute.” Sampson sighed. “Patrolmen seen her around on South Capitol. Eighteen, nineteen years old, maybe even younger. So who is he?”

It looked to me as if the girl's breasts had been sliced right off her chest. Her face had been attacked, too. A checklist of deviant behavior ran through my head, the kind of things I hadn't thought about for a while: expressive aggression (check), sadism (check), sexualization (check), offense planning (check). Check, check, check.

“It's Shafer, John. It's the Weasel. He's back in Washington. But that's not the worst of it. I wish to hell it were.”

We knew a bar that was open, so Sampson and I went for a beer after we left the slaughter scene on New Jersey Avenue. We were officially off duty, but I had my beeper clipped on. So did John. There were only two other guys drinking in the gin mill, so we pretty much had the place to ourselves.

Didn't matter one way or the other. It was good just to be with John. I needed to talk to him. I really needed to talk to Sampson about something.

“You sure it's Shafer?” he asked me once we had our beers and some nuts in front of us. I told him about the disturbing tape I'd seen from Sunrise Valley. But not about the other threats, or the ransom. I couldn't, and that bothered me a lot. I'd never lied to Sampson, and this felt like a lie.

“It's him. No doubt about it.”

“That's messed up,” John said. “The Weasel. Why would he come back to Washington? He almost got caught here the last time.”

“Maybe that's why. The thrill of it, the challenge.”

“Yeah, and maybe he misses us. I won't miss him this time. Put one right between his eyes.”

I sipped my beer. “Shouldn't you be home with Billie?” I asked.

“It's a work night. Billie is cool with it, with my job. Her sister's staying with us for a while, anyway. They're both asleep by now.”

“How's that working out? Married life? Billie's sister at the house?”

“I like Trina, so it's okay. Funny, things I couldn't imagine getting used to aren't a problem. I'm happy. First time, maybe. Floatin' on a cloud, man.”

I grinned at Sampson. “Ain't love grand?”

“Yes, it is. You ought to try it again sometime.”

“I'm ready,” I said, and smiled.

“You think so? I wonder about that. Are you really ready?”

“Listen, John, there's something I need to talk to you about.”

“Figured that out already. Something about that bombing. Then the murder of Thomas Weir. Shafer back in town.” Sampson looked into my eyes. “So what is it?”

“This is confidential, John. They've made a threat against Washington. It's pretty serious. We've been warned about an attack. They demanded a huge ransom to stop it.”

“Which can't be paid?” Sampson asked. “The United States doesn't negotiate with terrorists.”

“I don't know about that. I'm not sure if anybody does, except maybe the president. I'm on the inside, but not that far inside. Anyway, now you know as much as I do.”

“And I should act accordingly.”

“Yeah, you should. But you can't talk about this with anybody. Not anyone, not even Billie.”

Sampson took my hand. “I got it. Thank you.”

On the way home late that night I was guilt-tripping and a little shaky about what I'd told Sampson, but I felt I'd had no choice. John was my family, simple as that. Also, maybe I was on burnout because we were working eighteen-to-twenty-hour days. Maybe the stress was getting to me. There was a lot of disaster planning going on behind the scenes, but nobody I talked to knew where we were on the ransom demands. Everybody's nerves were frayed, including mine. About twelve hours were gone on our deadline.

Other questions burned in my mind. Was Shafer the one who had murdered and maimed the woman we'd found on New Jersey Avenue? I was almost sure he was, and Sampson agreed. But why commit that type of grisly murder now? Why risk it? I sure as hell doubted it was a coincidence that the young woman's body had been dumped less than two miles from my house.

It was late and I wanted to think about something else, anything else, but I couldn't get my head off the case. I drove the old Porsche faster than I needed to on the mostly empty streets, knowing I had to focus on the driving. It didn't really work too well, though.

I pulled into my driveway and sat in the car for a few minutes. I tried to clear my head before I went inside. Things to do. I needed to give Jamilla a call—it was only eleven on the coast. I felt as though my head would explode. And I knew when I'd felt this way before: the last time the Weasel went on a killing spree in Washington. Only this was so much worse.

I finally trudged inside the house, past the old piano on the sunporch. I thought about sitting down and playing. A little blues? Broadway? At two in the morning? Sure, why not. I couldn't sleep, anyway.

The phone began to ring and I ran to get it. Awhh, Jesus, who the hell?

I snatched up the phone on the kitchen wall near the fridge.

“Hello. Cross.”

Nothing.

And then a hang-up.

Seconds later, the phone rang again. I picked up after one ring.

Another hang-up.

And another after that.

I took the phone off the hook. Set it on the counter inside Nana's oven mitt to muffle the sound.

I heard a noise behind me.

I turned around quickly.

Nana was standing there in the doorway, all five feet, ninety-five pounds of her. Her brown eyes were fired up.

“What's wrong, Alex? What are you doing up?” she asked. “This isn't right. Who's calling the house this late at night?”

I sat down at the kitchen table, and over some tea I told Nana everything that I could.

The next day I was paired up with Monnie Donnelley, which was good news for both of us. Our assignment was to gather information on Colonel Shafer and the mercenaries being used in the attacks; our timetable— fast, incredibly fast.

Monnie, as usual, already knew a lot about the subject, and she talked nonstop while she retrieved even more data for the case. Once Monnie gets going, it's difficult to get her to stop, almost impossible. The woman is relentless about facts being the way to truth.

“Mercenaries, the 'dogs of war,' so-called. Mostly former soldiers from Special Forces—Delta Force, Army Rangers, SEALs, SAS if they're Brits. Many are totally legit, Alex, though they operate in a kind of legal netherworld. What I mean is that they aren't subject to the U.S. military's code of conduct or even our laws. Technically, they're subject to the laws of the countries where they serve, but some of those hot spots have piss-poor judicial systems, if they have any system at all.”

“So they're pretty much on their own. That would appeal to Shafer. Most mercenaries work for private companies now?”

Monnie nodded. “Yes, they do, Grasshopper. Private military companies, PMCs. Earn as much as twenty thousand a month. Average probably closer to three or four. Some of the larger PMCs have their own artillery, tanks. Even fighter jets, if you can believe it.”