Kiss The Girls Part 3

I HAD to tell Damon and Jannie about their "Auntie Scootch," which is what the kids have always called her. My kids sensed something bad had happened. They knew it, just as they somehow know my most secret and vulnerable places. They had refused to go to sleep until I came and talked to them. HAD to tell Damon and Jannie about their "Auntie Scootch," which is what the kids have always called her. My kids sensed something bad had happened. They knew it, just as they somehow know my most secret and vulnerable places. They had refused to go to sleep until I came and talked to them.

"Where's Auntie Scootch at? What happened to her?" Damon demanded as soon as I entered the kids' bedroom. He had heard enough to understand that Naomi was in some kind of terrible trouble.

I have a need always to tell the kids the truth, if it's possible. I'm committed to truth-telling between us. But every once in a while, it is so hard to do, "We haven't heard from Aunt Naomi in a few days," I began. "That's why everybody is worried tonight, and why they came over to our house," I said.

I went on. "Daddy's on the case now. I'm going to do my best to find Aunt Naomi in the next couple of days. You know that your daddy usually solves problems. Am I right?"

Damon nodded to the truth in that, and seemed rea.s.sured by what I had told them, but mostly by my serious tone. He came into my arms and gave me a kiss, which he hasn't been doing as much lately. Jannie gave me the softest kiss, too. I held them both in my arms. My sweet babies.

"Daddy's on the case now," Jannie whispered. That warmed my spirits some. As Billie Holiday put it, "G.o.d bless the child who's got his own."

By eleven the kids were sleeping peacefully, and the house was beginning to clear. My elderly aunts had already gone home to their quirky old-lady nests, and Sampson was getting ready to leave.

He usually lets himself in and out, but this time, Nana Mama walked Sampson to the door, which is a rarity. I went with them. Safety in numbers.

"Thank you for going down South with Alex tomorrow," Nana said to Sampson in confidential tones. I wondered who she thought might be listening, trying to overhear her intimacies. "You see now, John Sampson, you can can be civilized and somewhat useful when you want to be. Didn't I always tell you that?" She pointed a curled, k.n.o.bby finger at his ma.s.sive chin. "Didn't I?" be civilized and somewhat useful when you want to be. Didn't I always tell you that?" She pointed a curled, k.n.o.bby finger at his ma.s.sive chin. "Didn't I?"

Sampson grinned down at her. He revels in his physical superiority even to a woman who is eighty. "I let Alex go by himself, I'd only have to come later, Nana. Rescue him and and Naomi," he said. Naomi," he said.

Nana and Sampson cackled like a pair of cartoon crows on an old familiar fencepost. It was good to hear them laugh. Then she somehow managed to wrap her arms around Sampson and me. She stood there-like some little old lady holding on to her two favorite redwood trees. I could feel her fragile body tremble. Nana Mama hadn't hugged the two of us like that in twenty years. I knew that she loved Naomi as if she were her own child, and she was very afraid for her.

It can't be Naomi. Nothing bad could happen to her, not to Naomi. The words kept drifting through my head. But something had happened to her, and now I would have to start thinking and acting like a policeman. Like a homicide detective. The words kept drifting through my head. But something had happened to her, and now I would have to start thinking and acting like a policeman. Like a homicide detective. In the South. In the South.

"Have faith and pursue the unknown end." Oliver Wendell Holmes said that. I have faith. I pursue the unknown. That's my job description. Oliver Wendell Holmes said that. I have faith. I pursue the unknown. That's my job description.

Chapter 9.

SEVEN O'CLOCK in the evening was a busy time in late April on the stunningly beautiful campus of Duke University. The physical impressiveness of the students was visible everywhere at the self-proclaimed "Harvard of the South." The magnolia trees, especially along Chapel Drive, were plentiful and in full bloom. The well-kept and striking orderliness of the grounds made it one of the most visually satisfying campuses in the United States.

Casanova found the fragrant air intoxicating as he strolled between tall graystone gates and onto the university's West Campus. It was a few minutes past seven. He had come for one reason only-to hunt. The entire process was exhilarating and irresistible. Impossible to stop once he had begun. This was foreplay. Lovely in every way.

I'm like a killer shark, with a human brain, and even a heart, Casanova thought, as he walked. Casanova thought, as he walked. I am a predator without peer, a thinking predator. I am a predator without peer, a thinking predator.

He believed that men loved the hunt-lived for it, in fact-though most wouldn't admit it. A man's eyes never stopped searching for beautiful, sensual women, or for s.e.xy men and boys, for that matter. All the more at a prime location like the Duke campus, or the campuses at the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill, or North Carolina State University at Raleigh, or many others he'd visited throughout the Southeast.

Just look at them! The slightly uppity Duke coeds were among the very finest and most The slightly uppity Duke coeds were among the very finest and most "contemporary" "contemporary" American women. Even in dirty cutoffs, or ridiculous holey 501s, or baggy hobo's pants, they were something to see, to watch, occasionally to photograph, to fantasize about endlessly. American women. Even in dirty cutoffs, or ridiculous holey 501s, or baggy hobo's pants, they were something to see, to watch, occasionally to photograph, to fantasize about endlessly.

Nothing could be finer, Casanova thought, whistling a bar of the beamish old tune about a life of leisure in the Carolinas. Casanova thought, whistling a bar of the beamish old tune about a life of leisure in the Carolinas.

He casually sipped an icy Coca-Cola as he watched the students at play. He was playing a game of skill himself-several complicated games at once, actually. The games had become his life. The fact that he had a "respectable" job, another life, no longer mattered.

He checked each pa.s.sing woman each pa.s.sing woman who even looked like a faint possibility for his collection. He studied shapely young coeds, older women professors, and female visitors in the Duke Blue Devils T-s.h.i.+rts that seemed de rigueur for outsiders. who even looked like a faint possibility for his collection. He studied shapely young coeds, older women professors, and female visitors in the Duke Blue Devils T-s.h.i.+rts that seemed de rigueur for outsiders.

He licked his lips in antic.i.p.ation. Here was something splendid up ahead...

A tall, slender, exquisite black woman leaned against a shapely old oak in the Edens Quad. She was reading the Duke Chronicle, Chronicle, which she'd folded into thirds. He loved the smooth s.h.i.+ne of her brown skin, her artistically braided hair. But he moved on. which she'd folded into thirds. He loved the smooth s.h.i.+ne of her brown skin, her artistically braided hair. But he moved on.

Yes, men are hunters by nature, he was thinking. He was off in his own world again. "Faithful" husbands were oh-so-careful and furtive with their looks. Fresh-eyed boys of eleven and twelve appeared very innocent and playful. Grandfathers pretended to be above the fray, and were just "cute" with their affection. But Casanova knew they were all watching, constantly selecting, obsessed with mastering the hunt from p.u.b.erty to the grave. he was thinking. He was off in his own world again. "Faithful" husbands were oh-so-careful and furtive with their looks. Fresh-eyed boys of eleven and twelve appeared very innocent and playful. Grandfathers pretended to be above the fray, and were just "cute" with their affection. But Casanova knew they were all watching, constantly selecting, obsessed with mastering the hunt from p.u.b.erty to the grave.

It was a biological necessity, no? He was quite certain of that. Women nowadays were demanding that men accept the fact that their female biological clocks were ticking... well, with men, it was their biological c.o.c.ks c.o.c.ks that were ticking. that were ticking.

Constantly ticking, those c.o.c.ks.

That was a fact of nature, too. Everywhere he went, at virtually any time of day or night, he could feel the pulsing beat inside. Tick-c.o.c.k. Tick-c.o.c.k. Tick-c.o.c.k. Tick-c.o.c.k.

Tick-c.o.c.k!

Tick-c.o.c.k!

A beautiful honey-blond coed sat crosslegged on the gra.s.s intersecting his path. She was reading a paperback, Karl Jasper's Philosophy of Existence. Philosophy of Existence. The rock group Smas.h.i.+ng Pumpkins was contributing mantralike riffs from a portable CD player. Casanova smiled to himself. The rock group Smas.h.i.+ng Pumpkins was contributing mantralike riffs from a portable CD player. Casanova smiled to himself.

Tick-c.o.c.k!

The hunt was relentless for him. He was Priapus for the nineties. The difference between him and so many gutless modern men was that he acted on his natural impulses.

He relentlessly searched out a great beauty-and then he took her! What an outrageously simple idea. What a compellingly modern horror story. What a compellingly modern horror story.

He watched two pet.i.te j.a.panese coeds chowing down on greasy North Carolina barbecue from the new Crooks Corner II restaurant in Durham. They They looked so delicious eating their dinner, wolfing their barbecue like small animals. North Carolina BBQ consisted of pork cooked over a fire, seasoned with a vinegar-laced sauce, then finely chopped. You looked so delicious eating their dinner, wolfing their barbecue like small animals. North Carolina BBQ consisted of pork cooked over a fire, seasoned with a vinegar-laced sauce, then finely chopped. You couldn't couldn't eat BBQ without slaw and hush puppies. eat BBQ without slaw and hush puppies.

He smiled at the unlikely scene. Yum. Yum.

Still, he moved on. Sights and scenes caught his eye. Pierced eyebrows. Tattooed ankles. Lalapalooza T-s.h.i.+rts. Lovely flowing b.r.e.a.s.t.s, legs, thighs everywhere he looked.

He finally came to a small Gothic-style building near the Duke University Hospital, North Division. This was a special annex where terminally ill cancer patients from all over the South were cared for during their final days. His heart began to pound, and a series of small tremors shook his body.

There she was!

Chapter 10.

THERE WAS the most beautiful woman in the South! Beautiful in all ways. Not only was she physically desirable-she was extremely smart. She might be able to understand him. Maybe she was as special as he was. the most beautiful woman in the South! Beautiful in all ways. Not only was she physically desirable-she was extremely smart. She might be able to understand him. Maybe she was as special as he was.

He almost said the words out loud, and believed them to be absolutely true. He had done a great deal of homework on his next victim. Blood began to pump and rush into his forehead. He could feel a throbbing all through his body.

Her name was Kate McTiernan. Katelya Margaret McTiernan, to be as precise as he liked to be.

She was just walking out of the terminal cancer wing, where she had worked to help pay her way through medical school. She was all by her lonesome, as usual. Her last boyfriend had warned her that she was going to "end up a beautiful old maid."

Fat chance of that. Obviously, it was Kate McTiernan's decision to be alone as much as she was. She could have been with nearly anyone she chose. She was stunningly beautiful, highly intelligent, and compa.s.sionate, from what he could tell so far. Kate was a grind, though. was a grind, though. She was incredibly dedicated to her medical studies and hospital duties. She was incredibly dedicated to her medical studies and hospital duties.

Nothing was overdone about her, and he appreciated that. Her long, curly brown hair framed her narrow face nicely. Her eyes were dark brown, and sparkled when she smiled. Her laugh was catchy, irresistible. She had an all-American look, but not ba.n.a.l. She was a hardbody, but she appeared so soft and feminine.

He'd watched other men hit on her-studly students and even the occasional jaunty and ridiculous professor. She didn't hold it against them, and he saw how she deflected them, usually with some kindness, some small generosity.

But there was always that devilish, heartbreaking smile of hers. I'm not available, I'm not available, it said. it said. You can never have me. Please, don't even think about it. It's not that I'm too good for you, I'm just... different. You can never have me. Please, don't even think about it. It's not that I'm too good for you, I'm just... different.

Kate the Dependable, Kate the Nice Person, was right on time tonight. She always left the cancer annex between a quarter to eight and eight. She had her routines just as he did.

She was a first-year intern at North Carolina University Hospital in Chapel Hill, but she'd been working in a co-op program at Duke since January. The experimental cancer ward. He knew all about Katelya McTiernan.

She was going to be thirty-one in a few weeks. She'd had to work three years to pay for her college and medical-school expenses. She had also spent two years with a sick mother in Buck, West Virginia.

She walked at a determined pace along Flowers Drive, toward the multilevel Medical Center parking garage. He had to move quickly to keep up with her, all the while watching her long shapely legs, which were a little too pale for his liking. No time for the sun, Kate? Afraid of a little melanoma? No time for the sun, Kate? Afraid of a little melanoma?

She carried thick medical volumes against one hip. Looks and brains. She planned to practice back in West Virginia, where she was born. Didn't seem to care about making a lot of money. What for? So she could own ten ten pairs of black high-topped sneakers? pairs of black high-topped sneakers?

Kate McTiernan was wearing her usual university garb: a crisp white med-school jacket, khaki s.h.i.+rt, weathered tan trousers, her faithful black sneakers. It worked for her. Kate the Character. Slightly off-center. Unexpected. Strangely, powerfully alluring.

On Kate McTiernan, almost anything would have worked, even the most homespun interpretation of cheap chic. He particularly loved Kate McTiernan's irreverence toward university and hospital life, and especially the holier-than-thou medical school. It showed in the way she dressed; the casual way she carried herself now; everything about her lifestyle. She seldom wore makeup. She seemed very natural, and there was nothing phony or stuck-up about her that he'd noticed yet.

There was even a little of the unexpected klutz in her. Earlier in the week, he had seen her flush the deepest red after she tripped on a guardrail outside Perkins Library and crashed into a bench with her hip. That warmed him tremendously. He could could be touched, could feel human warmth. be touched, could feel human warmth. He wanted Kate to love him.... He wanted to love her back. He wanted Kate to love him.... He wanted to love her back.

That was why he was so special, so different. It was what separated him from all the other one-dimensional killers and butchers he had ever heard or read about, and he had read everything on the subject. He could feel everything. He could love. He knew that.

Kate said something amusing to a fortyish-looking professor as she walked past him. Casanova couldn't hear it from where he was watching. Kate turned for some quick repartee, but kept on walking, leaving the professor with her luminous smile to think about.

He saw a little jiggle action as Kate whirled around after her brief interchange with the prof. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s weren't too large or too small. Her long brown hair was thick and wavy, s.h.i.+ny in the early evening light, revealing just a touch of red. Perfect in every detail.

He been watching her for more than four weeks, and he knew she was the one. He could love Dr. Kate McTiernan more than all the others. He believed believed it for a moment. He it for a moment. He ached ached to believe it. He said her name softly- to believe it. He said her name softly-Kate....

Dr. Kate.

Tick-c.o.c.k.

Chapter 11.

SAMPSON AND I took s.h.i.+fts at the wheel on the four-hour haul from Was.h.i.+ngton, down into North Carolina. While I drove, the Man Mountain slept. He wore a black T-s.h.i.+rt that bluntly said SECURITY. Economy of words.

When Sampson was at the controls of my ancient Porsche, I put on a set of old Koss headphones. I listened to Big Joe Williams, thought about Scootchie, continued to feel hollowed-out.

I couldn't sleep, hadn't slept more than an hour the night before. I felt like a grief-stricken father whose only daughter was missing. Something seemed wrong about this case.

We entered the South at noon. I had been born around a hundred miles away, in Winston-Salem. I hadn't been back there since I was ten years old, the year my mother died, and my brothers and I were moved to Was.h.i.+ngton.

I'd been to Durham before, for Naomi's graduation. She had finished Duke undergraduate summa c.u.m laude, and she received one of the loudest, cheeriest ovations in the history of the ceremony. The Cross family had been there in full force. It was one of the happiest, proudest days for all of us.

Naomi was the only child of my brother Aaron, who died of cirrhosis at thirty-three. Naomi had grown up fast after his death. Her mother had to work a sixty-hour week for years to support them, so Naomi was in charge of the house from around the time she was ten. She was the littlest general.

She was a precocious little girl, and read about Alice's adventures in Through the Looking-Gla.s.s Through the Looking-Gla.s.s when she was only four. A family friend gave her violin lessons, and she played well. She loved music, and still played whenever she had time. She graduated number one in her cla.s.s at John Carroll High School in D.C. As busy as she was with her studies, she found time to write graceful prose on what life was like growing up in the projects. She reminded me of a young Alice Walker. when she was only four. A family friend gave her violin lessons, and she played well. She loved music, and still played whenever she had time. She graduated number one in her cla.s.s at John Carroll High School in D.C. As busy as she was with her studies, she found time to write graceful prose on what life was like growing up in the projects. She reminded me of a young Alice Walker.

Gifted.

Very special.

Missing for more than four days.

The welcome mat wasn't out for us at Durham's brand-new police headquarters building, not even after Sampson and I showed our badges and IDs from Was.h.i.+ngton. The desk sergeant wasn't impressed.

He looked something like the TV weatherman Willard Scott. He had a full crewcut, long thick sideburns, and skin the color of fresh ham. After he found out who we were, it got a little worse. No red carpet, no Southern hospitality, no Southern comfort.

Sampson and I got to sit and cool our heels in the duty room of the Durham Police Department. It was all s.h.i.+ny gla.s.s and polished wood. We received the kind of hostile looks and blank stares usually reserved for drug dealers caught around grade schools.

"Feel like we just landed on Mars," Sampson said as we waited and watched Durham's finest, watched complainants come and go. "Don't like the feeling I get from the Martians. Don't like their beady little Martian eyes. Don't think I like the new South."

"You think about it, we'd fit in the same anywhere," I told Sampson. "We'd get the same reception, same cold stares, at Nairobi Police Headquarters."

"Maybe." Sampson nodded behind his dark gla.s.ses. "But at least they'd be black Martians. At least they'd know who John Coltrane is."

Durham detectives Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes finally came down to see us an hour and a quarter after we arrived.

Ruskin reminded me a little of Michael Douglas in his dark-hero cop roles. He wore a coordinated outfit: green-and-tan tweed jacket, stonewashed jeans, yellow pocket T. He was about my height, which would make him six three or so, a little bigger than life. His longish brown hair was slicked back and razor-cut.

Davey Sikes was well built. His head was a solid block that made sharp right angles with his shoulders. He had sleepy, oatmeal-brown eyes; almost no affect that I could discern. Sikes was a sidekick type, definitely not the leader. At least not if first appearances meant anything.

The two detectives shook hands with us, and acted as if all were forgiven, as if they were forgiving us for intruding. I had the feeling that Ruskin especially was used to getting his way inside the Durham PD. He seemed like the local star. The main man around these parts. Matinee idol at the Durham Triplex.

"Sorry about the wait, Detective Cross, Sampson. It's been busy as a son of a b.i.t.c.h around here," Nick Ruskin said. He had a light Southern accent. Lots of confidence in himself.

He hadn't mentioned Naomi by name yet. Detective Sikes was silent. Didn't say a word.

"You two like to take a ride with Davey and me? I'll explain the situation on the way. There's been a homicide. That's what had us all tied. Police found a woman's body out in Efland. This is a real bad one."

Chapter 12.

THIS IS a real bad one. A woman's body in Efland. What woman? a real bad one. A woman's body in Efland. What woman?