Kiss the Girls

he?
    “Don’t want to die. Be good,” she managed to say with great effort. “Get dressed up… high heels…”
    “Should have thought of that earlier, Dr. Kate, and you shouldn’t have broken the rules of my house every chance you got. You were a mistake on my part. I don’t usually make mistakes.”
    She knew that the electric shocks from the gun would immobilize her. She tried to concentrate on what she could do to save herself.
    She was on full automatic pilot now. All learned reflexes.
One straight, true kick,
she thought. But that seemed impossible right now. She reached deep inside herself, anyway.
Total concentration.
All of her years of karate practice channeled into one slender chance to save her life.
    One last chance.
    She’d been told a thousand times in the dojo to focus on a single target, and then use the enemy’s force and energy
against him.
Total focus. As much as she could right now.
    He came toward her and raised the stun gun to his chest. He was moving very purposefully.
    Kate rasped out
“kee-ai!”
or something like that. The best she could manage right then. She kicked out with all of her remaining strength. She aimed for his kidneys. The blow could incapacitate him. She wanted to kill him.
    Kate missed the kick of her life, but something happened. She did connect solidly with bone and flesh.
    Not the kidney, not even close to her intended target.
The kick had slammed into his hip, or his upper thigh. No matter—it had hurt him.
    Casanova yelped in pain. He sounded like a dog clipped by a speeding car. She could tell that he was surprised, too. He took a sudden stutter-step backward.
    Then Jack and the Goddamn Beanstalk Giant toppled over hard. Kate McTiernan wanted to scream for joy.
    She had hurt him.
    Casanova was down.

Chapter 42

    I WAS BACK in the South, back on this ugly homicide and kidnapping investigation. Sampson had been right—this time it was personal. It was also an impossible case, the kind that can go on for years.
    Everything was being done that could be done. There were eleven suspects currently under surveillance in Durham, Chapel Hill, and Raleigh. Among them were assorted deviates, but also university professors, doctors, and even a retired cop in Raleigh. On account of the “perfect” crimes, all area policemen had been checked by the Bureau.
    I didn’t concern myself with these suspects. I was to look where no one else was looking. That was the deal I had made with Kyle Craig and the FBI. I was the designated hitter.
    There were several ongoing cases across the country at that time. I read hundreds of detailed FBI briefs on all of them. A killer of gay men in Austin, Texas. A repeat killer of elderly women in Ann Arbor and Kalamazoo, Michigan. Pattern killers in Chicago, North Palm Beach, Long Island, Oakland, and Berkeley.
    I read until my eyes burned and my insides felt even worse.
    There was a nasty case that was grabbing national headlines—the Gentleman Caller in Los Angeles. I pulled up the killer’s “diaries” on Nexus. They had been running in the
Los Angeles Times
since the beginning of the year.
    I began to read the L.A. killer’s diaries. I short-circuited as I read the next-to-last diary entry from the
Times.
It took my breath away. I almost didn’t believe what I’d just read on the computer.
    I backed the story up on the screen. I reread the entry one more time, very slowly, word for word.
    It was a tale about a young woman who was being held “captive” by the Gentleman Caller in California.
    The young woman’s name: Naomi C. Her occupation: Second-year law student.
    Description: Black, very attractive. Twenty-two years old.
    Naomi was twenty-two… a second-year law student…
How could a savage, recreational killer in Los Angeles know anything about Naomi Cross?

Chapter 43

    I IMMEDIATELY called the reporter at the paper whose byline appeared on the diary stories. Her name was Beth Lieberman. She answered her own phone at the
Los Angeles Times.
    “My name is Alex Cross. I’m a homicide detective involved with the Casanova murders in North Carolina,” I told her. My heart was pounding as I tried to quickly explain my situation.
    “I know exactly who you are, Dr. Cross,” Beth Lieberman cut me off. “You’re writing a book about this. So am I. For obvious reasons, I don’t think I have anything to say to you. My own book proposal is circulating around New York right now.”
    “Writing a book? Who told you that? I’m