Criss Cross

Chapter 13

Twelve years before

In a driving rain on a late May afternoon, John Sampson and I hurried north on Wisconsin Avenue toward La Cravate, an upscale men’s-necktie store that catered to the rich and powerful in Washington, DC.

I carried a tie in a plastic evidence bag. The tie was silk and in a blue-and-red-paisley print, the kind you might see on a high-powered lobbyist on K Street. At least, that was the impression I got seeing it, brilliantly colored, crisp along the edges, and the knot near perfect around the neck of throttled twenty-six-year-old Cassandra “Kissy” Raider.

Two homeless men looking for a place to crash for the night had found Ms. Raider’s corpse in a stolen and abandoned panel van in Southeast DC. She had been naked and spread-eagled on the floor, her wrists and ankles lashed with half-inch nylon webbing through eyebolts turned into the walls of the van, which reeked of bleach.

An autopsy found the killer had drenched Raider’s body in a diluted bleach solution, which had destroyed any DNA evidence that might have been left after she was savagely and repeatedly beaten and raped prior to her strangulation.

At first, we treated the rape and murder as a one-off, and in the crucial first forty-eight hours, we focused on Raider’s work at the Stallion Club, a strip joint in suburban Maryland, and on her ex-boyfriend, a biker from Roanoke, Virginia, who’d been convicted of some minor crimes in the past.

But when we ran the basic facts about the Raider case through the FBI’s files, we got seven hits, including one in Boca Raton, Florida, and another in Newport Beach, California.

Like Kissy Raider, both victims had been petite, buxom blondes and single moms of young children. And like Kissy Raider, both women had been raped, beaten, and then throttled with a fine silk tie.

None of the ties carried a manufacturer’s mark, which had us stymied for almost a week. But then Sampson started researching shops that specialized in high-end ties, and that was what led us to the Georgetown boutique.

We went inside and were greeted with the scent of some kind of essential oils misting the air, cedar and something I couldn’t quite place. Whatever it was, it seemed to put me in a better mood, although that could have been due to just getting out of the pouring rain.

A fit, balding man in his forties with tan skin stood behind the counter. A second man was stocking the racks upon racks of men’s neckties. He was as tall as the other guy but must have weighed close to three hundred pounds. But you wouldn’t have known that at first glance; the tailoring of his suit hid it until he started moving.

The one behind the counter fixed us with a What are you two doing in an upscale place like this? stare and said in an English accent, “We take deliveries around back.”

Sampson pulled himself up to his full height — well over six feet — and shot the man a surly look. Then he dug out his badge and ID while I did the same.

“We’re not here to make a delivery, Chatsworth,” Sampson said.

I said, “We’re homicide investigators with Metro PD.”

The man behind the counter looked indignant and then sputtered, “My name is not Chatsworth, it’s Bernard Mountebank, and we know nothing about any murder.”

“Nothing at all,” the other man said in a mild Southern accent. He was Nathan Daniels, he told us, and he and Bernard owned the shop.

“We didn’t say we thought you were involved in a murder,” Sampson growled. “We need your help.”

“We hoped you could help identify this tie, gentlemen,” I said, holding out the evidence bag. “The manufacturer, anything at all you can tell us.”

That seemed to somewhat mollify Daniels, but Mountebank still seemed insulted by Sampson having called him Chatsworth. I thought it was kind of funny as well as justified, given that he’d taken us for deliverymen.

Mountebank didn’t move, but Daniels ambled over to us. The fabric of his suit made swishing sounds as he came closer, interested now.

I handed him the evidence bag. He looked at the tie, then flipped the bag over.

“Can I remove it?” he asked.

“Only if you wear gloves,” Sampson said, holding out a pair of disposables.

I made a note on the bag that we were opening it, put on my own gloves, pulled back the zipper closure, and handed him the tie, which was still knotted.

“Hmmmm,” Daniels said, peering at the tie. He dug out his reading glasses so he could look closer. “Jacquard and Italian, for certain. Very nice indeed. Bernard, I believe this is a Stefano Ricci.”

Mountebank seemed piqued when he said, “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not,” Daniels said. “You have a better eye for this kind of thing.”

That seemed to please Mountebank no end and he quickly came over, giving Sampson a harsh glance as he passed. He donned gloves, studied the tie in some detail, noting the stitching and the weave.

“It would be easy to think this is a Ricci, but it’s not,” Mountebank said at last. “This is a limited-edition tie from Kiton in Naples, Italy. Very nice. Two, maybe three hundred, retail.”

“For a tie?” Sampson said.

“If fashion were your thing, Detective, you would understand.” He sniffed and returned the tie to me.

“Sell a lot of limited-edition Kitons?” I asked.

Daniels laughed. “That’s a rather niche market.”

“Did you carry this specific tie?”

Mountebank thought about that, then said, “You know, I believe we did. Last year. Sold it to one of our best customers.”

“Who was that?” Sampson asked.

“Oh, I’m not at liberty to say. He’s someone who values his privacy.”

Sampson looked ready to swat the twit but said, “This is a murder investigation. We can come back with a warrant to tear this place apart and seize your computers.”

Mountebank blanched. “Oh my. Well, Perry Singer, then.”

His partner looked confused. “Perry?”

“Most definitely,” Mountebank said, tilting his nose skyward. “He’s a tie fanatic. He just might be your man, Detectives.”