Kiss the Girls

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? Goddammit.”
    “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. Goddammit 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 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.
    Detectives Sikes and Ruskin were flanking the prisoner, Dr. Wick Sachs. I recognized a couple of other Durham detectives. They all appeared nervous as hell 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 hell are you pulling now?
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 shiny 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,
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.
    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 goddamn 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