Kyle Craig saw me coming. He walked up to me and firmly grabbed my arm. I had the feeling he was ready to body-block me if necessary.
“I know how damn upset you are. So am I” were his first words. He seemed apologetic, but Kyle also appeared angry as hell. “This wasn't our doing, Alex. Durham blindsided us this time. The chief of police made the decision himself. There's political pressure right up to the statehouse on this thing. Something smells so bad I want to put a handkerchief over my nose and mouth.” “What the hell did they find in the house?” I asked Kyle. “What physical evidence? Not the dirty books?” Kyle shook his head. “Women's underwear. He had a large cache of clothes hidden in the house. There was a University of North Carolina T-shirt that belonged to Kate Mctiernan. Casanova apparently kept souvenirs, too. Just like the Gentleman in L. A.” “He wouldn't do that. He's different from the Gentleman,” I said to Kyle. "He has the girls and plenty of their clothes at his hideaway.
He's careful, and obsessive about it. Kyle, this is fucking crazy.
This isn't the answer. This is a huge mess-up."
“You don't know that for sure,” Kyle said. “Good theories aren't going to stop this from happening.” “How about good logic and a little common sense?” “That won't work, either, I'm afraid.” We started to walk toward the back porch of the Sachs house. TV cameras whirred into action, shooting anything that moved. It was a full-scale, three-ring media circus; a disaster of the highest order in progress.
“They searched the house sometime late this afternoon,” Kyle told me as we walked. “Brought dogs in. Special dogs from Georgia.” “Why the hell would they do that? Why suddenly search the Sachs house now? Goddamnit.” “They received a tip, and they had reason to believe it. That's what I'm getting from them. I'm on the outside, too, Alex. I don't like it any more than you do.” I could barely see two feet ahead of me. My vision was tunneled.
Stress will do that. Anger, too.
I wanted to shout, to scream out, at somebody. I wanted to punch out lights on the Sachses' veranda-style porch. “Did they tell you anything about this anonymous tipster? Jesus Christ, Kyle. Goddamnit to hell! An anonymous tip. Awhh goddammit!” Wick Sachs was being held hostage inside his own beautiful house. The Durham police apparently wanted this historic moment recorded on local and national TV. This was it for them. North Carolina law-enforcement hall-of-fame time.
They had the wrong man, and they wanted to show him off to the world.
Alex Cross 2 - Kiss the Girls
CHAPTER 100.
I RECOGNIZED the Durham chief of police right away. He was in his early forties and looked like an ex-pro quarterback. Chief Robby Hatfield was around six two, square-jawed, powerfully built. I had a wild, paranoid thought that maybe he was Casanova. He looked the part, anyway. He even fit the psych profile of Casanova.
Detectives Sikes and Ruskin were flanking the prisoner, Dr. Wick Sachs. I recognized a couple of other Durham detectives. They all appeared nervous as hell but jubilant, and mostly relieved. Sachs looked as if he'd taken a shower in his clothes. He looked guilty.
Are you Casanova? Are you the Beast after all? If so, what the hell are you pulling now? I wanted to ask Sachs a hundred questions, but couldn't.
Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes joked around some with their brother officers in the crowded foyer. The two detectives reminded me of a few professional jocks I'd known around D.C. Most of them liked the spotlight; some of them lived for it. Most of the Durham police force seemed to operate like that, too.
Ruskin's hair was shiny and slicked back, combed back tight against his skull. He was ready for the spotlight, I could see. Davey Sikes looked ready, too. You two bozos should be checking your list of doctor suspects, I wanted to tell them. This thing isn't over! It's just starting now. The real Casanova is cheering for you right now.
Maybe he's watching from the crowd.
I made my way up closer to Wick Sachs. I needed to see everything here, just as it was. Feel it. Watch and listen to it. Understand it, somehow.
Sachs's wife and the two beautiful children were being kept in the dining room off the vestibule. They looked hurt, very sad, and confused. They knew something was wrong here, too. The Sachs family didn't look guilty.
Chief Robby Hatfield and Davey Sikes finally saw me. Sikes reminded me of the chief's favorite bird dog. He was “pointing” at me now.
“Dr. Cross, thank you for your help on all this.” Chief Hat-field was magnanimous in his moment of triumph. I had forgotten that I was the one here who'd brought back the photo of Sachs from the Gentleman's apartment in Los Angeles. Such great detective work ... such a convenient goddamn clue to discover.
This was all wrong. It just felt wrong and it smelled wrong. This was a setup of the first order, and it was working perfectly. Casanova was escaping; he was getting away right now. He would never be caught.
The Durham chief of police finally put out his hand. I took the chief's hand and squeezed it tight, held on to it.
I think he was afraid I was going to walk out into the camera lights with him. Robby Hatfield had seemed like a hands-off administrator up until now. He and his star detectives were about to parade Wick Sachs outside. It would be a big dazzling moment under a full moon and the blazing klieg lights. All that was missing were the baying bloodhounds.
“I know I helped find him, but Wick Sachs didn't do it,” I told Hatfield straight to his face. “You're arresting the wrong man. Let me tell you why. Give me ten minutes right now.” He smiled at me, and it seemed like a goddamn condescending smile. It was almost as if he were stoned on the moment. Chief Hatfield pulled away from me and walked outside.
He walked out in front of the bright TV camera lights, playing his part beautifully. He was so taken with himself that he almost forgot about Sachs.
Whoever called about the women's underwear is Casanova, I was thinking to myself. I was getting closer in my mind to who that might be.
Casanova did this. Casanova is behind it, anyway.
Dr. Wick Sachs passed by me as they led him outside. He was dressed in a white cotton shirt and black trousers. All of his fine clothes were drenched through with his sweat. I imagined he was swimming in his shoes, too: gold-buckled black loafers. His hands were cuffed behind his back. All of his arrogance was long gone.
“I didn't do anything,” he said to me in the softest, choking voice.
His eyes were pleading. He couldn't believe this, either. Then he said the most pathetic thing of all. “I don't hurt women. I love them.” I was struck with a mad, absolutely dizzying, thought on the Sachs porch. I felt as if I were in the middle of a somersault, and then I just stopped. Time stopped. This is Casanova! I suddenly understood.
Wick Sachs was the original model used for Casanova, anyway. That was the monsters' plan from the start; they had a fall guy for their perfect murders and de Sade-lihe adventures.
Dr. Wick Sachs was actually Casanova, but he wasn't one of the monsters. Casanova was a front, too. He knew nothing about the real “collector.” He was another victim.
Alex Cross 2 - Kiss the Girls
CHAPTER 101.
I'M THE GENTLEMAN CALLER," Will Rudolph announced with a polite, theatrical bow. He was wearing a dinner jacket, black tie, dress shirt. His hair was tied in a tight pony-tail. He'd bought white roses for the special occasion.
“And you know who I am, ladies. You all look so very lovely,” Casanova spoke at his side. He was a striking contrast to his partner. Tight black jeans. Black cowboy boots. No shirt. His stomach washboard-hard. He had on a black fright mask with thick, hand painted median-gray streaks.