Along Came a Spider

in. Before I could say a word, Pittman held up his right hand. “Cross, you just listen to what I have to say,” he said as he came over to us. “There’s been a kidnapping at this school. It’s a major kidnapping—”
    “That’s a real bad thing,” I butted in immediately. “Unfortunately, a killer has also struck the Condon Terrace and Langley neighborhoods. The killer’s hit two times already. Six people are
dead
so far. Sampson and I are the senior people on that case. Basically, we’re
it
.”
    “I’m apprised of the situation in the Condon and Langley projects. I’ve already made contingencies. It’s taken care of,” Pittman said.
    “Two black women had their breasts sliced off this morning. Their pubic hair was shaved while they were tied up in bed. Were you apprised of that?” I asked him. “A three-year-old boy was murdered, in his pajamas.” I was shouting again. I glanced at Sampson and saw him shaking his head.
    A group of teachers in the office looked our way. “Two young black women had their breasts sliced off,” I repeated for their benefit. “Someone’s wandering around D.C. this morning with breasts in his pocket.”
    Chief Pittman gestured toward the headmaster’s inner office. He wanted the two of us inside the room. I shook my head. I wanted to have witnesses when I was around him.
    “I know what you’re thinking, Cross.” He lowered his voice and spoke very close to my face. The odor of stale cigarettes billowed out at me. “You think I’m out to get you, but I’m not. I know you’re a good cop. I know your heart’s usually in the right place.”
    “No, you don’t know what I’m thinking. Here’s what I’m thinking! Six black people are dead already. A crazed, homicidal killer is out there. He’s in heat. He’s sharpening his eyeteeth. Now two white kids have been kidnapped, and that’s a horrible thing. Horrible! But I’m already on a fucking case!”
    Pittman suddenly jabbed his index finger at me. His face was very red. “
I
decide what cases you’re on!
I
decide! You’re experienced as a hostage negotiator. You’re a psychologist. We have other people to send into Langley and Condon. Besides, Mayor Monroe has specifically asked for you.”
    So that was it. Now I understood everything. Our mayor had intervened. It was all about me.
    “What about Sampson? At least leave him on the project murders,” I said to the chief of detectives.
    “You got any complaints, take them up with the mayor. You’re both working on this kidnapping. That’s all I have to say to you at this time.”
    Pittman turned his back on us and walked away. We were on the Dunne-Goldberg kidnapping case, like it or not. We didn’t like it.
    “Maybe we should just go back to the Sanders house,” I said to Sampson.
    “Nobody miss us here,” he agreed.

CHAPTER 7

    A GLEAMING, black BMW K-1 motorcycle squeezed between the low fieldstone gates of the Washington Day School. The driver was I.D.’d, then the bike sped down a long narrow road toward a gray cluster of school buildings. It was eleven o’clock.
    The BMW K-1 streaked to sixty in the few seconds it took to get to the administration building. The motorcycle then braked easily and smoothly, barely throwing gravel. The rider slid it in behind a pearl-gray Mercedes stretch limousine with diplomat’s plates DP101.
    Still seated on the bike, Jezzie Flanagan pulled off a black helmet to reveal longish blond hair. She looked to be in her late twenties. Actually, she’d turned thirty-two that summer. Life was threatening to pass her right by. She was a relic now, ancient history, she believed. She had come straight to the school from her lake cottage, not to mention her first vacation in twenty-nine months.
    That latter fact helped to explain her style of dress that morning: the leather bike jacket, the faded black jeans with leg warmers, thick leather belt, the red-and-black checkered lumberman’s shirt, and the worn engineering boots.
    Two D.C. policemen rushed up on either side of her. “It’s okay, officers,” she said, “here’s my I.D.” After eyeing the identification, they backed away quickly and became solicitous. “You can go right in,” one of them said. “There’s a side door just around those high hedges, Ms. Flanagan.”
    Jezzie Flanagan managed a friendly smile for the two harried-looking policemen. “I don’t exactly look the part today, I know. I was on my vacation. I race the bike. I raced