James Patterson - London Bridges

"I have to go," Kayla said, and stood up from the couch. "It is late, even for me."

"Don't let me break up the party," I protested. Suddenly I didn't want Kayla to leave. I wanted to talk about something other than the Wolf and the terror attacks that had been threatened.

"You're not breaking up the party, Alex. Wouldn't happen. But I still have two more house calls to make."

I looked at my watch. "Two more calls at this hour? You're something else. Wow. You're crazy, you know that?" I grinned.

"Maybe I am," Kayla said, and shrugged. "Probably true." Then she kissed Nana with obvious affection. "You take care. Blood tests. Don't forget."

"My memory is fine."

When she was gone, Nana said to me, "Kayla Coles is something else, Alex. And you know what? I think that one reason she comes around here is to see you. That's my cockeyed theory, anyway, and I'm sticking with it."

The thought had occurred to me, too. "Then why does she leave so fast when I get here?"

Nana frowned and raised an eyebrow at me. "Maybe it's because you never ask her to stay. Maybe it's because you gawk at her when she's here. Why is that? You know, she just could be the one for you. Don't argue with me. She scares you, and that might be a good thing."

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.