Pop Goes the Weasel (8 page)

He punched another number on the cell phone.

“Dr. Cassady.” He heard her voice almost immediately. She
knew
it was him. He usually called from the car on his way over to see her. They liked to get each other hot and bothered on the
phone. Telephone sex as foreplay.

“They’ve done it to me again,” Shafer whined miserably into the phone, but he was smiling again, loving his flair for the
overdramatic.

A short silence, then, “You mean they did it to
us
, don’t you? There’s
no way
you can get away? It’s only a bloody job, and one that you detest, Geoff.”

“You know I would if I possibly could. I do hate it here,
loathe every
moment. And it’s even worse at home, Boo. Jesus, you of all people know that.”

He imagined the tight little frown and Boo’s pursing her lips. “You sound high, Geoffrey. Are you, dear? Take your pills today?”

“Don’t be horrible. Of course I’ve taken my medications. I
am
rushed. I
am
high. On the ceiling, as a matter of fact. I’m calling between blasted staff meetings. Oh hell, I miss you, Boo. I want to
be inside you, deep inside. I want to do your pussy, your ass, your throat. I’m thinking about it right now. Christ, I’m as
hard as a rock here in my government-issue office. Have to beat it down with a stick.
Cane
it. That’s how we British handle such things.”

She laughed, and he almost changed his mind about standing her up. “Go back to work. I’ll be at home, if you finish early,”
she said. “I could use a little finishing myself.”

“I love you, Boo. You’re so kind to me.”

“I am, and I could probably get into a little caning, too.”

He hung up and drove to the hideaway in Eckington. He parked the Jag next to the purple and blue taxi in the garage. He bounded
upstairs to change for the game. God, he loved this, his secret life, his nights away from everything and everyone he
loathed
.

He was taking too many chances now, but he didn’t care.

SHAFER WAS TOTALLY PUMPED UP for a night on the town. The Four Horsemen was on. Anything could happen tonight. Yet he found
that he was introspective and pensive. He could flip from manic to depressive in the blink of an eye.

He watched himself as if he were an observer in a dream. He had been an English intelligence agent, but now that the Cold
War had ended, there was little use for his talents. It was only the influence of Lucy’s father that had kept him in his job.
Duncan Cousins had been a general in the army and now was chairman of a packaged-goods conglomerate specializing in the sale
of detergents, soaps, and drugstore perfumes. He liked to call Shafer “the Colonel,” rubbing in his “rise to mediocrity.”
The General also loved to talk about the glowing successes of Shafer’s two brothers, both of whom had made millions in business.

Shafer shifted his thoughts back to the present. He was doing that a lot lately, fading in and out like a radio with a bad
connection. He took a settling breath, then pulled the taxi out of the garage. Moments later, he turned onto Rhode Island
Avenue. It was beginning to rain again, a light mist that made the passing traffic lights blurry and impressionistic.

Shafer drifted over to the curb and stopped for a tall, slender black man. He looked like a drug dealer, something Shafer
had no use for. Maybe he would just shoot the bastard, then dump the body. That felt good enough for tonight’s action. A sleazebag
dope dealer whom nobody would miss.

“Airport,” the man announced haughtily as he climbed inside the taxi. The inconsiderate bastard shook off rainwater onto the
seat. Then he shut the creaking car door behind him and was on his cell phone immediately.

Shafer wasn’t going to the airport, and neither was his first passenger of the night. He listened in on the phone call. The
man’s voice was affected, surprisingly cultured.

“I think I’ll just make the nine o’clock, Leonard. It’s Delta
on
the hour, right? I picked up a cab, thank the Lord Jesus. Most of them won’t stop anywhere near where my poor Moms lives
in Northeast. Then along comes this purple and blue absolute wreck of a gypsy cab, and merciful God, it stops for me.”

Christ, he’d been identified
. Shafer silently cursed his bad luck. That was the way of the game, though: incredible highs and vicious lows. He would have
to take this asshole all the way out to National Airport. If he disappeared, it would be connected to a purple and blue cab,
an “absolute wreck of a gypsy cab.”

Shafer stepped on the accelerator and sped out toward National. The airport was backed up, even at nine in the evening. He
cursed under his breath. The rain was heavy and punctuated by rolling thunder and spits of lightning.

He tried to control his building anger, his darkening mood. It took nearly forty minutes to get to the bloody terminal and
drop off the passenger. By that time he’d settled back into another fantasy, had another huge mood swing. He was cycling
up
again.

Maybe he should have gone to see Dr. Cassady, after all. He needed more pills, especially Lithium. This was like a carnival
ride tonight—up and down, up and down. He wanted to push things as far as he could. He also felt crazed. He was definitely
losing control.

Anything could happen when he got like this. That was the thing. He pulled into the queue of taxis waiting to get a fare back
to D.C.

As he got closer to the front of the line, there was more thunder. Lightning crackled high above the airport. He could see
the prospective victims huddled under a dripping canopy. Flights were undoubtedly being postponed and canceled. He savored
the cheap-seat melodrama, the suspense. The victim du jour could be anyone, from a corporate executive to a harried secretary,
or maybe even a whole family back from a vacation to Disney World.

But not once did he look directly at the queue of potential victims as he inched closer and closer. He was almost there. Just
two more taxis in front of him. He could see the queue out of the corner of his eye. Finally, he had to snatch a quick peek.

It was a tall male.

He peeked again, couldn’t help himself.

A white male, a businessman, stepped off the curb and was climbing inside the taxi. He was cursing to himself, pissed off
about the rain.

Shafer looked the man over. He was American, late thirties, full of himself. Investment analyst, maybe, or banker—something
like that.

“We can
go
—whenever you’re in the mood,” the man snapped at him.

“Sorry, sir,” Shafer said, and smiled obsequiously into the rearview mirror.

He dropped the dice on the front seat:
six!
His heart began to hammer.

Six meant
immediate action
. But he was still inside National Airport. There was a heavy lineup of traffic and cops, bright lights glittering everywhere.
It was too dangerous, even for him.

The dice had spoken. He had no choice. The game was
on
right now.

A sea of red rear lights glowed at him. Cars were everywhere. How could he do this here? Shafer began to perspire heavily.

But he had to do it. That was the point of the game. He had to do it now. Had to murder this asshole right here at the airport.

He swerved into the nearest parking area. This was not good. He sped down a narrow lane. Another bolt of lightning flashed
overhead; it seemed to underscore the madness and chaos of the moment.

“Where the
hell
are you going?” the businessman shouted at him. He slammed his palm into the back of the seat. “This isn’t the way out, you
ass!”

Shafer glared at the business creep in his rearview mirror. He hated him for calling him an ass. The bastard also reminded
him of his brothers.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he yelled back. “But
you’re
going straight to hell!”

The businessman blubbered, “What did you say to me? What did you just say?”

Shafer fired his Smith & Wesson nine-millimeter and hoped no one would hear it above the thunder and honking horns.

He was soaking wet with perspiration, and he was afraid his blackface would run and smear. He was expecting to be stopped
at any moment. Waiting for policemen to surround the taxi. Bright-red blood was splattered all over the backseat and window.
The businessman was slumped in the corner as if he were asleep. Shafer couldn’t see where the bloody bullet had exited the
taxi.

He made it out of National before he went completely mad. He drove carefully to Benning Heights in Southeast. He couldn’t
risk being stopped for speeding. But he was out of his head, not sure he was doing the right thing.

He stopped on a side street, checked out the body, stripped it. He decided to dump the corpse out in the open. He was trying
his best not to be predictable.

Then he sped away from the crime scene and headed home.

He’d left no identification on the victim. Nothing but the body.

Just a little surprise—a
John
Doe.

I GOT HOME from Christine’s house at two-thirty in the morning feeling exhilarated, the happiest I’d been in years. I thought
about waking Nana and the kids to tell them the news. I wanted to see the surprised looks on their faces. I wished that I
had brought Christine home with me, so we could celebrate together.

The phone rang moments after I stepped inside the house.
Oh no
, I thought,
not tonight. Nothing good comes from phone calls at two-thirty
A.M
.

I picked up in the living room and heard Sampson’s voice on the line. “Sugar?” he whispered.

“Leave me alone,” I said. “Try again in the morning. I’m closed for the night.”

“No you’re not, Alex. Not tonight. Get over to Alabama Avenue, about three blocks east of Dupont Park. A man was found there
naked and dead, in the gutter. The guy is white, and there’s no I.D. on him.”

First thing in the morning, I would tell Nana and the kids about Christine and me. I had to go. The murder scene was a ten-minute
ride across the Anacostia River. Sampson was waiting for me on a street corner. So was the John Doe.

And a lively, mean-spirited crowd. A naked white body dumped in this neighborhood had prompted lots of curiosity, almost like
seeing a deer walking down Alabama Avenue.

“Casper the Friendly Ghost been
offed
.” A heckler contributed his twenty-five cents as Sampson and I stooped down under the yellow plastic crime-scene tape. In
the background were rows of dilapidated brick buildings that almost seemed to scream out the names of the lost, the forgotten,
the never-had-a-chance.

Stagnant water often pools on the street corners here since the storm drains are hardly ever inspected. I knelt over the twisted,
naked body that was partly immersed in the cesspool. There would be no tire marks left at the watery scene. I wondered if
the killer had thought of that.

I was making mental notes. No need to write them down; I’d remember everything. The man had manicured fingernails and toenails.
No calluses showed on either his hands or his feet. He had no bruises or distinct disfiguring marks, other than the cruel
gunshot wound that had blown away the left side of his face.

The body was deeply suntanned, except where he’d worn swim trunks. A thin, pale ring ran around his left index finger, where
he’d probably worn a wedding band, which was missing.

And there was no I.D.—just like the Jane Does.

Death was clearly the result of the single, devastating gunshot to the head. Alabama Avenue was the primary scene—where
the body was found—but I suspected a secondary homicide scene, where the victim was actually murdered.

“What do you think?” Sampson crouched down close beside me. His knees cracked loudly. “Sonofabitch killer is pissed off about
something.”

“Really bizarre that he wound up here in Benning Heights. I don’t know if he’s connected to the Jane Does. But if he is, the
killer wanted us to find this one in a hurry. Bodies around here usually get dumped in Fort Dupont Park. He’s getting stranger
and stranger. And you’re right, he’s very angry with the world.”

My mind was rapidly filling with crime-scene notes, plus the usual stream of homicide-detective questions. Why leave the body
in a street gutter? Why not in an abandoned building? Why in Benning Heights? Was the killer black? That still made the most
sense to me, but a very low percentage of pattern killers are black.

The sergeant from the Crime Scene Unit came strolling up to Sampson and me. “What do you want from us, Detective?”

I looked back at the naked white body. “Videotape it, photograph it, sketch it,” I told him.

“And take some of the trash in the gutter and sidewalk?”

“Take everything. Even if it’s soaking wet.”

The sergeant frowned. “Everything? All this wet trash? Why?”

Alabama Avenue is hilly, and I could see the Capitol Building brightly illuminated in the distance. It looked like a faraway
celestial body, maybe heaven. It got me thinking about the
haves
in Washington, and the
have-nots
.

“Just take everything. It’s how I work,” I said.

DETECTIVE PATSY HAMPTON arrived at the chilling homicide scene around 2:15. The Jefe’s assistant had called her apartment
about an unusual murder in Benning Heights that might relate to the Jane Does. This one was different in some ways, but there
were too many similarities for her to ignore.

She watched Alex Cross work the crime scene. She was impressed that he’d come out at this early hour. She was curious about
him, had been for a long time. Hampton knew Cross by reputation and had followed a couple of his cases. She had even worked
a few weeks on the tragic kidnapping of Maggie Rose Dunne and Michael Goldberg.

So far, she had mixed feelings about Cross. He was personable enough, and more than good-looking. Cross was a tall, strongly
put-together man. She felt that he received undeserved special treatment because he was a forensic psychologist. She’d done
her homework on Cross.