Kiss the Girls

CHAPTER 99.

THAT NIGHT, Sampson and I had dinner together at a pretty good spot in Durham. Ironically, it was called Nana's.

Neither of us was especially hungry. The overly large steaks with shallots and mountains of garlic mashed potatoes went to waste. It was late in the game with Casanova, and we seemed to be falling all the way back to square one.

We talked about Kate. I had been told by hospital officials that her condition was still poor. If she lived, the doctors believed that she had little chance of full recovery, of ever being a doctor again.

“You two were more than, you know, good friends?” Sampson finally asked. He was gentle with his probing, the way he can be when he wants to.

I shook my head. “No, we were friends, John. I could talk to her about anything, and in ways I'd mostly forgotten. I've never been so comfortable with a woman so quickly, except maybe for Maria.” Sampson nodded a lot, and mostly listened to me air it all out. He knew who I was, past and present.

My beeper sounded while we were still pushing around the generous portions of food on our plates. I called Kyle Craig from a phone downstairs in the restaurant. I reached him in his car. He was on his way to Hope Valley.

“We're about to arrest Wick Sachs for the Casanova murders,” he said. I almost dropped the receiver. “You're about to what?” I shouted into the phone. I couldn't believe what I had just heard.

“When the hell is this going to happen?” I asked. “When was the decision made? Who made it?” Kyle kept his cool as always. The Iceman. “We're going into the house in the next couple of minutes. This time it's the Durham police chief's game. Something was found in the house. Physical evidence. It will be a joint arrest, the Bureau in cooperation with the Durham PD. I wanted you to know, Alex.” “He's not Casanova,” I said to Kyle. “Don't take him down. Don't arrest Wick Sachs.” The level of my voice was high. The pay phone was in a narrow corridor of the restaurant, and people were filing in and out of the nearby restrooms. I was drawing stares, both angry and fearful looks.

“It's a done deal,” Kyle said. “I'm sorry about it myself.” Then he hung up the car phone on me. End of discussion.

Sampson and I rushed to Sachs's house in the Durham suburbs. Man Mountain was quiet at first, then he asked the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question: “Could they have enough to convict, without you knowing anything?” It was a tough question for me. His meaning: How out of the loop was I?

“I don't think Kyle has enough for an arrest now. He would have told me. The Durham PD? I don't know what the hell they're up to. Ruskin and Sikes have been off doing their own thing. We've been in their position ourselves.” When we arrived in Hope Valley, I found out that we weren't the only ones who had been called to the arrest scene.

The quiet suburban street was blocked off. Several TV station trucks and minivans were already there. Police cruisers and FBI sedans were parked everywhere.

“This is really fucked up. Looks like a block party,” Sampson said as we got out of the car. “Worst I've seen, I think. Worst screw up.” “It has been from the beginning,” I agreed. “A multi jurisdictional nightmare.” I was shaking like a wino in winter on a D.C. street. I had taken one body blow after another. Nothing completely made sense to me anymore. How out of the loop was I?

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.