Part 3 (2/2)

Nothing was overdone about her, and he appreciated that. Her long, curly brown hair framed her narrow face nicely. Her eyes were dark brown, and sparkled when she smiled. Her laugh was catchy, irresistible. She had an all-American look, but not ba.n.a.l. She was a hardbody, but she appeared so soft and feminine.

He'd watched other men hit on her-studly students and even the occasional jaunty and ridiculous professor. She didn't hold it against them, and he saw how she deflected them, usually with some kindness, some small generosity.

But there was always that devilish, heartbreaking smile of hers. I'm not available, I'm not available, it said. it said. You can never have me. Please, don't even think about it. It's not that I'm too good for you, I'm just... different. You can never have me. Please, don't even think about it. It's not that I'm too good for you, I'm just... different.

Kate the Dependable, Kate the Nice Person, was right on time tonight. She always left the cancer annex between a quarter to eight and eight. She had her routines just as he did.

She was a first-year intern at North Carolina University Hospital in Chapel Hill, but she'd been working in a co-op program at Duke since January. The experimental cancer ward. He knew all about Katelya McTiernan.

She was going to be thirty-one in a few weeks. She'd had to work three years to pay for her college and medical-school expenses. She had also spent two years with a sick mother in Buck, West Virginia.

She walked at a determined pace along Flowers Drive, toward the multilevel Medical Center parking garage. He had to move quickly to keep up with her, all the while watching her long shapely legs, which were a little too pale for his liking. No time for the sun, Kate? Afraid of a little melanoma? No time for the sun, Kate? Afraid of a little melanoma?

She carried thick medical volumes against one hip. Looks and brains. She planned to practice back in West Virginia, where she was born. Didn't seem to care about making a lot of money. What for? So she could own ten ten pairs of black high-topped sneakers? pairs of black high-topped sneakers?

Kate McTiernan was wearing her usual university garb: a crisp white med-school jacket, khaki s.h.i.+rt, weathered tan trousers, her faithful black sneakers. It worked for her. Kate the Character. Slightly off-center. Unexpected. Strangely, powerfully alluring.

On Kate McTiernan, almost anything would have worked, even the most homespun interpretation of cheap chic. He particularly loved Kate McTiernan's irreverence toward university and hospital life, and especially the holier-than-thou medical school. It showed in the way she dressed; the casual way she carried herself now; everything about her lifestyle. She seldom wore makeup. She seemed very natural, and there was nothing phony or stuck-up about her that he'd noticed yet.

There was even a little of the unexpected klutz in her. Earlier in the week, he had seen her flush the deepest red after she tripped on a guardrail outside Perkins Library and crashed into a bench with her hip. That warmed him tremendously. He could could be touched, could feel human warmth. be touched, could feel human warmth. He wanted Kate to love him.... He wanted to love her back. He wanted Kate to love him.... He wanted to love her back.

That was why he was so special, so different. It was what separated him from all the other one-dimensional killers and butchers he had ever heard or read about, and he had read everything on the subject. He could feel everything. He could love. He knew that.

Kate said something amusing to a fortyish-looking professor as she walked past him. Casanova couldn't hear it from where he was watching. Kate turned for some quick repartee, but kept on walking, leaving the professor with her luminous smile to think about.

He saw a little jiggle action as Kate whirled around after her brief interchange with the prof. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s weren't too large or too small. Her long brown hair was thick and wavy, s.h.i.+ny in the early evening light, revealing just a touch of red. Perfect in every detail.

He been watching her for more than four weeks, and he knew she was the one. He could love Dr. Kate McTiernan more than all the others. He believed believed it for a moment. He it for a moment. He ached ached to believe it. He said her name softly- to believe it. He said her name softly-Kate....

Dr. Kate.

Tick-c.o.c.k.

Chapter 11.

SAMPSON AND I took s.h.i.+fts at the wheel on the four-hour haul from Was.h.i.+ngton, down into North Carolina. While I drove, the Man Mountain slept. He wore a black T-s.h.i.+rt that bluntly said SECURITY. Economy of words.

When Sampson was at the controls of my ancient Porsche, I put on a set of old Koss headphones. I listened to Big Joe Williams, thought about Scootchie, continued to feel hollowed-out.

I couldn't sleep, hadn't slept more than an hour the night before. I felt like a grief-stricken father whose only daughter was missing. Something seemed wrong about this case.

We entered the South at noon. I had been born around a hundred miles away, in Winston-Salem. I hadn't been back there since I was ten years old, the year my mother died, and my brothers and I were moved to Was.h.i.+ngton.

I'd been to Durham before, for Naomi's graduation. She had finished Duke undergraduate summa c.u.m laude, and she received one of the loudest, cheeriest ovations in the history of the ceremony. The Cross family had been there in full force. It was one of the happiest, proudest days for all of us.

Naomi was the only child of my brother Aaron, who died of cirrhosis at thirty-three. Naomi had grown up fast after his death. Her mother had to work a sixty-hour week for years to support them, so Naomi was in charge of the house from around the time she was ten. She was the littlest general.

She was a precocious little girl, and read about Alice's adventures in Through the Looking-Gla.s.s Through the Looking-Gla.s.s when she was only four. A family friend gave her violin lessons, and she played well. She loved music, and still played whenever she had time. She graduated number one in her cla.s.s at John Carroll High School in D.C. As busy as she was with her studies, she found time to write graceful prose on what life was like growing up in the projects. She reminded me of a young Alice Walker. when she was only four. A family friend gave her violin lessons, and she played well. She loved music, and still played whenever she had time. She graduated number one in her cla.s.s at John Carroll High School in D.C. As busy as she was with her studies, she found time to write graceful prose on what life was like growing up in the projects. She reminded me of a young Alice Walker.

Gifted.

Very special.

Missing for more than four days.

The welcome mat wasn't out for us at Durham's brand-new police headquarters building, not even after Sampson and I showed our badges and IDs from Was.h.i.+ngton. The desk sergeant wasn't impressed.

He looked something like the TV weatherman Willard Scott. He had a full crewcut, long thick sideburns, and skin the color of fresh ham. After he found out who we were, it got a little worse. No red carpet, no Southern hospitality, no Southern comfort.

Sampson and I got to sit and cool our heels in the duty room of the Durham Police Department. It was all s.h.i.+ny gla.s.s and polished wood. We received the kind of hostile looks and blank stares usually reserved for drug dealers caught around grade schools.

”Feel like we just landed on Mars,” Sampson said as we waited and watched Durham's finest, watched complainants come and go. ”Don't like the feeling I get from the Martians. Don't like their beady little Martian eyes. Don't think I like the new South.”

”You think about it, we'd fit in the same anywhere,” I told Sampson. ”We'd get the same reception, same cold stares, at Nairobi Police Headquarters.”

”Maybe.” Sampson nodded behind his dark gla.s.ses. ”But at least they'd be black Martians. At least they'd know who John Coltrane is.”

Durham detectives Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes finally came down to see us an hour and a quarter after we arrived.

Ruskin reminded me a little of Michael Douglas in his dark-hero cop roles. He wore a coordinated outfit: green-and-tan tweed jacket, stonewashed jeans, yellow pocket T. He was about my height, which would make him six three or so, a little bigger than life. His longish brown hair was slicked back and razor-cut.

Davey Sikes was well built. His head was a solid block that made sharp right angles with his shoulders. He had sleepy, oatmeal-brown eyes; almost no affect that I could discern. Sikes was a sidekick type, definitely not the leader. At least not if first appearances meant anything.

The two detectives shook hands with us, and acted as if all were forgiven, as if they were forgiving us for intruding. I had the feeling that Ruskin especially was used to getting his way inside the Durham PD. He seemed like the local star. The main man around these parts. Matinee idol at the Durham Triplex.

”Sorry about the wait, Detective Cross, Sampson. It's been busy as a son of a b.i.t.c.h around here,” Nick Ruskin said. He had a light Southern accent. Lots of confidence in himself.

He hadn't mentioned Naomi by name yet. Detective Sikes was silent. Didn't say a word.

”You two like to take a ride with Davey and me? I'll explain the situation on the way. There's been a homicide. That's what had us all tied. Police found a woman's body out in Efland. This is a real bad one.”

Chapter 12.

THIS IS a real bad one. A woman's body in Efland. What woman? a real bad one. A woman's body in Efland. What woman?

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