Patterson, James - Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

“May se nkin co ay chet,” Starkey yelled in Vietnamese.

Now you get to watch her die.

“Trong luc tao hoi may.”

While I interrogate you, pig.

“May thay cank nay co quen khong, Robert?”

Does that sound familiar, Robert?

Starkey then forced his pistol inside Colonel Bennett's mouth. “Remember this, Colonel? Remember what happens next?”

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Sixty-Three

Sampson and I got to West Point at a little past five o'clock on Friday evening. All hell had broken loose there.

I'd received an urgent heads-up from Ron Burns at the FBI. There'd been a murder-suicide at the Point that had immediately aroused suspicions when the news got to Quantico. A highly decorated colonel had supposedly killed his wife, then himself.

Sampson and I flew into Stewart Field in Newburgh, then I drove eighteen miles by car to West Point. We had to park our rented car and walk the last several blocks to the officers' housing

The streets were roped off and closed to through traffic. The press was on hand, but they were being kept away by military police. Even the cadets couldn't help looking curious and concerned.

“You're getting chummy with Burns and the FBI,” Sampson said as we walked to the murder scene on Bartlett Loop. “He's giving a lot of help.”

“He has it in his head that I might want to work with them,” I told Sampson.

“And? Might you?”

I smiled at Sampson, didn't confirm or deny.

“I thought you were getting out of police work, sugar. Wasn't that the big master plan?”

“I don't know anything for sure right now. Here I am though, headed to another completely fucked-up murder scene with you. Same shit, different day.”

“So you're still hooked, Alex. Bad as ever, right?”

I shook my head. “No, I'm not hooked on the case, John. I'm helping you out. Remember how this started? Payback for Ellis Cooper?”

“Yeah, and you're also hooked. You can't figure out this puzzle. That makes you angry. And curious as hell. That's who you are, Alex. You're a hunter.”

“I am what I am,” I shook my head and finally smiled, 'said Popeye the sailor man. The killers were here, John. The three of them were here."

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Sixty-Four

The Bennett house was roped off and secured. Sampson and I identified ourselves to a nervous-looking MP at the perimeter of the crime scene. I could tell that he'd never seen anything like this before. Unfortunately, I had.

After we put on disposable paper boots, we were permitted to climb three stone steps that led into the house. Then we went looking for aCID officer named Pat Conte. The Army was 'cooperating' because of the other cases. They'd also let in a couple of FBI techs to show their good faith.

I found Captain Conte in the narrow hallway leading from the living room. The murders had apparently taken place in the kitchen. Techies were dusting for fingerprints and photographing the scene from every angle.

Conte shook hands and then he told us what he knew, or thought that he knew at this point.

“All I can give you so far is the obvious. From the looks of things, Colonel Bennett and his wife were engaged in an argument that seems to have turned violent. For a while, she must have given as good as she got. Then Bennett retrieved his service revolver. He shot her in the temple, then shot himself. Friends say that he and his wife were close, but that they fought a lot, sometimes violently. As you can see, the shooting took place in the kitchen. Some time last night.”

“That's what you think happened?” I asked Conte.

“At this point, that's my statement.”

I shook my head and felt my anger rising. “I was told that because of the possible connection between these deaths and the others that we could expect cooperation here.”

Captain Conte nodded. “That's what you just got, my full cooperation. Excuse me, I have work here. ”He walked away.

Sampson shrugged as we watched the CID officer shuffle off. “Can't say that I blame him too much. I wouldn't want you and me messing around at my crime scene either.”

“So, let's go mess around.”

I went over to see if I could get anything from the FBI people, the Evidence Response Team, also known as ERTs. They were being their usual thorough selves in the kitchen, where the murders had taken place. Given the normal level of dislike for the FBI, it's remarkable how much respect is given to ERTs. The reason is, they're very, very good.

Two members of the ERTs were taking Polaroid shots in the kitchen. Another, wearing a white coverall called a 'bunny suit', was looking for fibers and hairs using an alternative light source. Everybody had on rubber gloves and paper booties over their shoes. The head man was named Michael Fescoe, and I had already met him down on the Appalachian Trail, where he had supervised the crime scene investigation in the woods.

“CID giving you their full cooperation too?” I asked.

He scratched his light brown crew cut,“ I can tell you my version, and it's a little different from Captain Conte's.”

“Please,” I said.

Fescoe began, “The killers, whoever they were, did a thorough job with both the setup and the cleanup. They've done this before. They're professionals through and through. Just like the killers in Virginia.”

“How many of them?” I asked.

Fescoe held up three fingers. Three men. They surprised the Bennetts at dinner. And then they murdered them. These men, they bring force to bear without conscience. You can quote me on that."

Alex Cross 8 - Four Blind Mice

Chapter Sixty-Five

It was time to celebrate! The war was over. Starkey, Harris and Griffin ordered obscenely large, very rare Porterhouse steaks topped with jumbo shrimp at Spark's restaurant on West Forty-sixth Street in Manhattan. For anyone with wads of the green stuff, there was no better place to get happy in a hurry than in New York City.

“Three years, but it's finally over,” said Harris, and raised a glass of cognac, his fourth after-dinner drink of the evening.

“Unless our mysterious benefactor changes his mind,” cautioned Starkey. “It could happen. One more hit. Or maybe a complication that we didn't plan on. Which doesn't mean we shouldn't party tonight.”

Brownley Harris finished his cheesecake and dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin. Tomorrow we go home to Rocky Mount. The good life. That's not so terrible bad. We're finally out of the game, undefeated and unscored on. Nobody can touch us now."

Warren Griffin just grinned. He was pretty well plowed.

They all were, except Starkey, who said, “But tonight, we party. We damn well deserve it. Just like the old days, Saigon and Bangkok, Hong Kong. The night is young, and we're full of mischief, piss and vinegar. ”He leaned in close to his friends. “I want to rape and pillage tonight. It's our right.”

After they left the restaurant, the three friends strolled to East Fifty-second, between First and York. The brown-stone they stopped at was a walk-up that had seen better days. Four stories. No doorman. Starkey knew it as "Asia House'.

He rang the front buzzer and waited for the intercom. He had been here before.

A woman answered in a sultry voice. “Hi. May I have your code please, gentlemen.”

Starkey gave it in Vietnamese. Silver. Mercedes Eleven.

They were buzzed inside. “Xin moi len lau. Cac em dang cho,” the voice said in Vietnamese. The ladies are waiting, and they are stunning.

“So are we. ”Thomas Starkey said, and laughed.

Starkey, Harris and Griffin climbed the flight of red-carpeted stairs. As they reached the first landing, a plain gray door opened.