Kiss the Girls

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 goddamn 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.
Casanova did this. Casanova is behind it, anyway.
    Dr. Wick Sachs passed by me as they led him outside. He was dressed in a white cotton shirt 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!
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 shirt. 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 shirt. 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.