Part 29 (2/2)

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 anything about this anonymous tipster? Jesus Christ, Kyle. G.o.ddammit to h.e.l.l! An anonymous tip. Awhh about this anonymous tipster? Jesus Christ, Kyle. G.o.ddammit to h.e.l.l! An anonymous tip. Awhh G.o.ddammit! G.o.ddammit!”

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 to off the world.

Chapter 100.

I RECOGNIZED the Durham chief of police right away. He was in his early forties and looked like an ex-pro quarterback. Chief Robby Hatfield was around six two, square-jawed, powerfully built. I had a wild, paranoid thought that maybe he was Casanova. He looked the part, anyway. He even fit the psych profile of Casanova. RECOGNIZED the Durham chief of police right away. He was in his early forties and looked like an ex-pro quarterback. Chief Robby Hatfield was around six two, square-jawed, powerfully built. I had a wild, paranoid thought that maybe he was Casanova. He looked the part, anyway. He even fit the psych profile of Casanova.

Detectives Sikes and Ruskin were flanking the prisoner, Dr. Wick Sachs. I recognized a couple of other Durham detectives. They all appeared nervous as h.e.l.l but jubilant, and mostly relieved. Sachs looked as if he'd taken a shower in his clothes. He looked guilty.

Are you Casanova? Are you the Beast after all? If so, what the h.e.l.l are you pulling now? I wanted to ask Sachs a hundred questions, but couldn't. I wanted to ask Sachs a hundred questions, but couldn't.

Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes joked around some with their brother officers in the crowded foyer. The two detectives reminded me of a few professional jocks I'd known around D.C. Most of them like the spotlight; some of them lived for it. Most of the Durham police force seemed to operate like that, too.

Ruskin's hair was s.h.i.+ny and slicked back, combed back tight against his skull. He was ready for the spotlight, I could see. Davey Sikes looked ready, too. You too bozos should be checking your list of doctor suspects, You too bozos should be checking your list of doctor suspects, I wanted to tell them. I wanted to tell them. This thing isn't over! It's just starting now. The real Casanova is cheering for you right now. Maybe he's watching from the crowd. This thing isn't over! It's just starting now. The real Casanova is cheering for you right now. Maybe he's watching from the crowd.

I made my way up closer to Wick Sachs. I needed to see everything here, just as it was. Feel it. Watch and listen to it. Understand it, somehow.

Sachs's wife and the two beautiful children were being kept in the dining room off the vestibule. They looked hurt, very sad, and confused. They knew something was wrong here, too. The Sachs family didn't look guilty.

Chief Robby Hatfield and Davey Sikes finally saw me. Sikes reminded me of the chief's favorite bird dog. He was ”pointing” at me now.

”Dr. Cross, thank you for your help on all this.” Chief Hatfield was magnanimous in his moment of triumph. I had forgotten that I was the one here who'd brought back the photo of Sachs from the Gentleman's apartment in Los Angeles. Such great detective work... such a convenient G.o.dd.a.m.n clue to discover.

This was all wrong. It just felt wrong and it smelled wrong. This was a setup of the first order, and it was working perfectly. Casanova was escaping; he was getting away right now. He would never be caught.

The Durham chief of police finally put out his hand. I took the chief's hand and squeezed it tight, held on to it.

I think he was afraid I was going to walk out into the camera lights with him. Robby Hatfield had seemed like a hands-off administrator up until now. He and his star detectives were about to parade Wick Sachs outside. It would be a big dazzling moment under a full moon and the blazing klieg lights. All that was missing were the baying bloodhounds.

”I know I helped find him, but Wick Sachs didn't do it,” I told Hatfield straight to his face. ”You're arresting the wrong man. Let me tell you why. Give me ten minutes right now.”

He smiled at me, and it seemed like a G.o.dd.a.m.n condescending smile. It was almost as if he were stoned on the moment. Chief Hatfield pulled away from me and walked outside.

He walked out in front of the bright TV camera lights, playing his part beautifully. He was so taken with himself that he almost forgot about Sachs.

Whoever called about the women's underwear is Casanova, I was thinking to myself. I was getting closer in my mind to who that might be. I was thinking to myself. I was getting closer in my mind to who that might be. Casanova did this. Casanova is behind it, anyway. Casanova did this. Casanova is behind it, anyway.

Dr. Wick Sachs pa.s.sed by me as they led him outside. He was dressed in a white cotton s.h.i.+rt and black trousers. All of his fine clothes were drenched through with his sweat. I imagined he was swimming in his shoes, too: gold-buckled black loafers. His hands were cuffed behind his back. All of his arrogance was long gone.

”I didn't do anything,” he said to me in the softest, choking voice. His eyes were pleading. He couldn't believe this, either. Then he said the most pathetic thing of all. ”I don't hurt women. I love them.”

I was struck with a mad, absolutely dizzying, thought on the Sachs porch. I felt as if I were in the middle of a somersault, and then I just stopped. Time stopped. This is Casanova! This is Casanova! I suddenly understood. I suddenly understood.

Wick Sachs was the original model used for Casanova, anyway. That was the monsters' plan from the start; they had a fall guy for their perfect murders and de Sade-like adventures.

Dr. Wick Sachs was actually Casanova, but he wasn't one of the monsters. Casanova was a front, too. He knew nothing about the real ”collector.” He was another victim.

Chapter 101.

I'M THE Gentleman Caller,” Will Rudolph announced with a polite, theatrical bow. He was wearing a dinner jacket, black tie, dress s.h.i.+rt. His hair was tied in a tight ponytail. He'd bought white roses for the special occasion.

”And you know who I am, ladies. You all look so very lovely,” Casanova spoke at his side. He was a striking contrast to his partner. Tight black jeans. Black cowboy boots. No s.h.i.+rt. His stomach washboard-hard. He had on a black fright mask with thick, handpainted median-gray streaks.

The killers introduced themselves as the women filed into the living room at the hideaway. They lined up in front of a long table.

This was to be a special celebration, they had been informed earlier in the day. ”The mad dog Casanova has finally been caught,” Casanova told them. ”It's all over the news. Turned out that he was some crazed college professor. Who can you trust these days?”

The women had been asked to wear serious party clothes, whatever they would choose for a special night out. Gowns with plunging necklines, high-heeled evening shoes with sheer stockings, and perhaps pearls or long earrings. No other jewelry. They were to look ”elegant.”

”Only seven pretty ladies here now,” Rudolph noted as he and Casanova watched the women enter the living room and form a receiving line. ”You're too picky, you know. The original Casanova was a voracious lover who wasn't choosy at all.”

”You have to admit that the seven are extraordinary,” Casanova said to his friend. ”My collection is a masterpiece, the best in the world.”

”I quite agree with you,” said the Gentleman. ”They look like paintings. Shall we begin?”

They had agreed to play an old favorite game. ”Lucky seven.” At other times it had been ”luck four,” ”lucky eleven,” ”luck two.” It was the Gentleman's game, actually. This was his night. Perhaps the final night at the house for the two of them.

They calmly walked down the receiving line. They talked with Melissa Stanfield first. Melissa wore a red silk sheath. Her long blond hair was pinned back on one side. She reminded Casanova of a young Grace Kelly.

”Have you been saving yourself for me?” the Gentleman asked.

Melissa's smile was demure. ”I've been saving my heart for someone.”

Will Rudolph smiled at the clever answer. He ran the back of his hand across her cheek. He let his hand slowly track down her throat and over her firm b.r.e.a.s.t.s. She submitted without showing fear or revulsion. That was one of the rules when the games were played.

”You're very, very good at our little game,” he said. ”You're a worthy player, Melissa.”

Naomi Cross was next in the line. She had on an ivory c.o.c.ktail dress. Very chic. She would have been the belle at some Was.h.i.+ngton law firm's ball. The scent of her perfume made Casanova feel a little giddy. He had been tempted to declare her off-limits to the Gentleman. He wasn't fond of her uncle, Alex Cross, after all.

”We might come back to visit with Naomi,” the Gentleman said. He lightly kissed her hand. ”Enchant.” ”Enchant.”

Rudolph nodded, then stopped at the sixth woman in the receiving line. He turned his head and checked out the final girl, then his eyes returned to number six.

”You're very special,” he spoke softly, almost shyly. ”Extraordinary, actually.”

”This is Christa,” Casanova said with a knowing smile.

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