Pop Goes the Weasel (24 page)

Finally, the door to the apartment slowly opened.

A blond woman was standing there—Dr. Cassady, I assumed. She wore an expensive-looking light-blue suit with lots of gold
buttons, but she was barefoot. She looked frightened and angry.

“What do you want?” she demanded. “What the hell is going on here? Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve interrupted a therapy
session.”

GEOFFREY SHAFER stepped into the doorway and stood a few feet behind his irate therapist. He was tall and imposing and very
blond.
He’s the Weasel, isn’t he?

“What the hell’s the problem here? Who are you, sir, and what do you want?” he asked in a clipped English accent.

“There’s been a murder,” I said. “I’m Detective Cross.” I showed them my badge. I kept looking past Shafer and Dr. Cassady,
trying to spot something that would give me probable cause to come inside the apartment. There were lots of plants on the
sills and hanging in windows—philodendron, azalea, English ivy. Dhurrie rugs in light pastels, overstuffed furniture.

“No. There’s certainly no murderer here,” the therapist said. “Leave this instant.”

“You should do as the lady says,” Shafer said.

Shafer didn’t look like a murderer. He was dressed in a navy suit, a white shirt, a moiré tie, a pocket square. Impeccable
taste. Completely unruffled and unafraid.

Then I glanced down at his shoes. I almost couldn’t believe it. The gods had finally smiled on me.

I pointed my Glock at Shafer. At the Weasel. I went up to him and bent down on one knee. My whole body was trembling. I examined
the right leg of his trousers.

“What the
hell
are you doing?” he asked, pulling away from me. “This is completely absurd.

“I’m with the British Embassy,” Shafer then stated. “I repeat, I’m with the British Embassy. You have no rights here.”

“Officers,” I called to the two patrolmen who were still outside the door. I tried to act calm, but I wasn’t. “Come here and
look. You see this?”

Both patrolmen moved closer to Shafer. They entered the living room.

“Stay out of this apartment!”
The therapist raised her voice close to a scream.

“Remove your trousers,” I said to Shafer. “You’re under arrest.”

Shafer lifted his leg and gave a look. He saw a dark stain, Patsy Hampton’s blood, smudged on the cuff of his trousers. Fear
shot through his eyes, and he lost his cool.

“You put that blood there! You did it,” he yelled at me. He pulled out an identification badge. “I am an official at the British
Embassy. I don’t have to put up with this outrage. I have diplomatic immunity. I will not take off my trousers for you. Call
the embassy immediately!
I demand diplomatic immunity.
”

“Get out of here now!” Dr. Cassady yelled loudly. Then she pushed one of the patrolmen.

It was just what Shafer needed. He broke free and ran back through the living room. He rushed into the first room down the
hallway, slammed the door, and locked it.

The Weasel was trying to get away. It couldn’t happen; I couldn’t let it. I got to the door seconds behind him. “Come out
of there, Shafer! You’re under arrest for the murder of Detective Patsy Hampton.”

Dr. Cassady came screaming down the hall after me.

I heard the toilet flush in the bathroom. No, no, no! I reared back powerfully and kicked in the door.

Shafer was pulling off his trousers, standing on one leg. I tackled him hard, knocked him over, then held him facedown against
the tile floor. He screamed curses at me, flailed his arms, bucked his lower body. I pushed his face harder into the floor.

The therapist tried to pull me off Shafer. She was scratching my face, pounding my back with her fists. It took both policemen
to restrain her.

“You can’t do this to me!” Shafer was yelling at the top of his voice, twisting and turning beneath me, a powerful stallion
of a man.

“This is illegal. I have diplomatic immunity!”

I turned to one of the officers.

“Cuff him.”

IT WAS A LONG AND VERY SAD NIGHT at the Farragut, and I didn’t leave until past three. I had never lost a partner before,
though I had once come close with Sampson, in North Carolina. I realized that I’d already come to think of Patsy Hampton as
a partner, and a friend. At least we had the Weasel in custody.

I slept in the next morning, allowing myself the small luxury of not setting the alarm. Still, I was wide awake by seven.
I’d been dreaming about Patsy Hampton, and also about Christine—different, vivid scenes with each of them, the kind of frenetic
dreams where you wake up feeling as tired as when you went to bed. I said a prayer for both of them before I finally rolled
out of bed. We had the Weasel. Now I had to get the truth out of him.

I slipped on a somewhat worn white satin robe. Muhammad Ali had worn it in his training camp in Manila before the Joe Frazier
fight. Sampson had given it to me for my fortieth birthday. He appreciated the fact that while most people would treat the
robe as some kind of sacred exhibit in their house, I routinely wear it to breakfast.

I love the old robe, which is unusual for me since I’m not particularly into mementos and souvenirs. Maybe part of it is that
I’m supposed to resemble Ali physically, or so people tell me. Maybe I’m a little better looking, but he’s definitely the
better man.

When I got down to the kitchen, Nana and the kids were sitting at the table watching the small portable TV that she keeps
there but doesn’t use very often. She prefers to read or chitchat and, of course, cook.

“Ali.” Jannie looked up at me and grinned, but then her eyes went back to the TV. “You should watch this, Daddy.”

Nana muttered into her cup of tea. “Your British murderer is all over the news this morning. TV and the newspaper, too. ‘Diplomatic
Immunity May Bar Prosecution of British Embassy Suspect,’ ‘Spy Linked to Detective Slay.’ They already interviewed people
in Union Station and on Pennsylvania Avenue. Everybody’s mad as a hatter about this diplomatic-immunity disgrace, as they
call it. It’s just terrible.”

“I’m mad. It’s not right,” Damon said. “Not if he did it. Did he, Dad? Did he do it?”

I nodded. “He did it.” I poured milk into my coffee. I wasn’t quite ready to deal with Geoffrey Shafer, or the kids, or especially
the horrible, senseless murder the night before. “Anything else on the news?”

“The Wizards kicked butt,” Damon said with a straight face. “Rod Strickland had a double-double.”

“Shhhh.”
Nana gave us both a mighty look of irritation. “CNN carried stories
from London
. The media there is already comparing this to that unfortunate nanny case in Massachusetts. They say that Geoffrey Shafer
is a decorated war hero and that he claims, with good reason, that he was framed by the police. I assume that means you, Alex.”

“Yes, it does. Let’s watch CNN for a few minutes,” I said. Nobody objected, so I switched the channel. A hard knot was forming
in my stomach. I didn’t like what I was seeing and hearing on TV.

Almost immediately, a reporter came on the screen from London. He introduced himself and then proceeded to give a pompous,
thirty-second summary of the previous evening’s events.

The reporter looked gravely into the camera. “And now, in a dramatic turnabout, we have learned that the Washington Police
Department is investigating a bizarre twist. The senior detective who arrested Geoffrey Shafer might himself be a suspect
in the murder case. At least that’s what has been reported in the American press.”

I shook my head and frowned. “I’m innocent,” I said to Nana and the kids. They knew that, of course.

“Until proven guilty,” said Jannie, with a little wink.

THERE WAS A LOUD HUBBUB out in front of the house, and Jannie ran to the living-room window to look. She hurried back to the
kitchen with wide eyes, loud-whispering, “It’s TV cameras and the newspapers outside. CNN, NBC—lots of them, like that other
time, with Gary Soneji. Remember?”

“Of course we remember,” said Damon. “Nobody’s retarded in this house except you.”

“Oh, good Lord, Alex,” Nana said, “don’t they know decent people are eating breakfast?” She shook her head, rolled her eyes.
“The vultures are here again. Maybe I should throw some meat scraps out the front door.”

“You
go talk to them, Jannie,” I said, and looked back at the TV. I don’t know why I was feeling so cynical, but I was. My remark
quieted her down for a half second, but then she figured it was a joke. She pointed a finger at herself. “Gotcha!”

I knew they wouldn’t go away, so I took my mug of coffee and headed toward the front door. I walked out into a beautiful fall
morning, temperature probably in the low sixties.

Leaves rustled merrily in the elm and maple trees, dappled sunshine fell on the heads of the TV crew and print journalists
gathered at the edges of our front lawn.

The vultures.

“Don’t be absurd and ridiculous around here,” I said, and then calmly sipped my coffee as I stared at the noisy press mob.
“Of course I didn’t kill Detective Patsy Hampton, or frame anyone for her murder.”

Then I turned on my heel and walked back inside without answering a single question from any of them.

Nana and the kids were right behind the big wooden door, listening. “That was pretty good,” Nana said, and her eyes sparkled
and beamed.

I went upstairs and got dressed for work. “Go to school.
Now!
” I called back to Jannie and Damon. “Get straight A’s. Play nicely with your friends. Pay no attention to the craziness everywhere
around you.”

“Yes, Daddy!”

ON ACCOUNT OF HIS REQUEST for diplomatic immunity, we weren’t allowed to question Geoffrey Shafer about Detective Hampton’s
murder or anything else. I was incredibly frustrated. We had the Weasel, and we couldn’t get to him.

Investigators were lying in wait for me that morning at the station house, and I knew it was going to be a long and excruciating
day. I was interviewed by Internal Affairs, by the city’s chief counsel, and also by Mike Kersee from the district attorney’s
office.

Pay no attention to the craziness everywhere around you
, I reminded myself over and over, but my own good advice wasn’t working too well.

Around three o’clock, the district attorney himself showed up. Ron Coleman is a tall, slender, athletic-looking man; we had
worked together many times when he was coming up in the D.A.’s office. I had always found him to be conscientious, well informed,
and committed to rationality and sanity. He’d never seemed very political, so it had come as a shock to almost everyone when
Mayor Monroe appointed him the D.A. Monroe loves to shock people, though.

Coleman made an announcement: “Mr. Shafer already has an attorney, and he is one of the bright stars of our galaxy. He has
retained none other than Jules Halpern. Halpern’s probably the one who planted the story that you’re a suspect—which you
aren’t, as far as I know.”

I stared at Coleman. I couldn’t believe what I’d just heard. “As far as you know? What does that mean, Ron?”

The D.A. shrugged. “We’re probably going to go with Cathy Fitzgibbon on our side. I think she’s our best litigator. We’ll
back her up with Lynda Cole and maybe Stephen Apt, who are also top-notch. That’s my take on it as of this morning.”

I knew all three prosecutors, and they had good reputations, particularly Fitzgibbon. They were on the young side, but nonetheless
tireless, smart, dedicated—a lot like Coleman himself.

“You sound like you’re preparing for a war, Ron.”

He nodded. “As I said, Jules Halpern is Shafer’s defense attorney. He rarely loses. In fact, I don’t know if he’s ever lost
a big case like this one. He turns down all the losers, Alex.”

I looked directly into Coleman’s dark eyes. “We have Patsy Hampton’s blood on the killer’s clothes. We have blood in the bathroom
drain, and I bet we’ll have Shafer’s fingerprints somewhere in Hampton’s car before the end of the day. We may have the wire
hanger he used to strangle her. Ron?”

“Yes, Alex. I know what you’re going to say. I know your question. It’s the same one I have.”

“Shafer
has
diplomatic immunity. So why bring in Jules Halpern?”

“That’s a very good goddamn question we both came up with. I suspect Halpern’s been hired to get us to drop the charges completely.”

“We have substantial evidence. He was
washing Patsy Hampton’s blood
off himself in the bathroom. There’s residue in the sink.”

Coleman nodded and shrank back into his easy chair. “I don’t understand why Jules Halpern is involved. I’m sure we’ll know
before too long, though.”

“I’m
afraid
we’ll know soon,” I said.

I decided to leave the station by the back way that night, just in case there was press lying in wait out front on Alabama
Avenue. As I stepped outside, a small balding man in a light-green suit popped out from behind the adjacent stone wall.

“That’s a good way to get yourself shot,” I told him. I was only half kidding.

“Occupational hazard,” he lisped. “Don’t shoot the messenger, Detective.”

He smiled thinly as he handed me a white letter-sized envelope. “Alex Cross, you’ve hereby been served with a Summons and
Complaint. Have a nice night, Detective,” he said in his sibilant whine. Then he walked away as surreptitiously as he’d appeared.

I opened the envelope and quickly scanned the letter. I groaned. Now I knew why Jules Halpern had been retained, and what
we were up against.

I had been named in a civil suit for “false arrest” and “defamation of the character of Colonel Geoffrey Shafer.” The suit
was for fifty million dollars.

THE NEXT MORNING I was summoned to the District of Columbia Law Department offices downtown. This was not good, I decided.
The city’s chief counsel, James Dowd, and Mike Kersee from the D.A.’s office were already ensconced in red-leather club chairs.