Kiss the Girls

not writing any book.” My voice level was rising in spite of my better instincts. “I’m
investigating
a spree of kidnappings and murders in North Carolina. That’s what I’m doing.”
    “The chief of detectives in D.C. says otherwise, Dr. Cross. I called
him
when I read you were involved with the Casanova case.”
    The Jefe strikes again,
I thought. My old boss in D.C., George Pittman, was a complete asshole, who also wasn’t a fan of mine. “I wrote a book about Gary Soneji,” I said. “Past tense. I needed to get it out of my system. Trust me, I’m—”
    “History!”
    Beth Lieberman hung up on me. Bang!
    “Son of a bitch,” I muttered into the dead receiver in my hand. I dialed the paper again. This time I got a secretary on the line. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lieberman has left for the day,” she said in a staccato cadence.
    I was a little hot. “She must have left in the
ten seconds
it just took me to get reconnected. Please put Ms. Lieberman back on the phone. I know she’s there. Put her on now.”
    The secretary also hung up on me.
    “You’re a son of a bitch, too!” I said to the dead phone line. “Dammit all to hell.”
    I was getting noncooperation in two cities on the same case now. The infuriating part was that I thought I might be on to something. Was there some kind of bizarre connection between Casanova and the killer on the West Coast?
How could the Gentleman Caller possibly know about Naomi? Did he know about me as well?
    It was just a hunch so far, but much too good to brush aside. I called the editor in chief at the
Los Angeles Times.
It was easier to get through to the big man than it was to his reporter. The editor’s assistant was a male. His phone voice was crisp, efficient, but as pleasant as Sunday brunch at the Ritz-Carlton in D.C.
    I told him that I was Dr. Alex Cross, that I’d been involved in the Gary Soneji investigation, and that I had some important information on the Gentleman Caller case. Two-thirds of that was absolutely true.
    “I’ll tell Mr. Hills,” the assistant informed me, still sounding as if he were pleased as punch to hear from me. I was thinking it would be nifty to have an assistant like that.
    It didn’t take long for the editor in chief to come on the phone himself. “Alex Cross,” he said, “Dan Hills. I read about you during the Soneji manhunt. Glad to take your call, especially if you have something for us on this messy affair.”
    As I talked to Dan Hills, I pictured a big man in his late forties. Tough enough, but California-dapper at the same time. Pinstriped shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow. Hand-painted tie. Stanford all the way. He asked me to call him Dan. Okay, I could do that. He seemed like a nice guy. Probably had a Pulitzer or two.
    I told him about Naomi, and my involvement with the Casanova case in North Carolina. I also told him about the Naomi entry in the L.A. diaries.
    “I’m sorry about your niece’s disappearance,” Dan Hills said. “I can imagine what you’re going through.” There was a pause over the line. I was afraid that Dan was about to be either politically or socially correct with me. “Beth Lieberman is a good young reporter,” he went on. “She’s tough, but she’s professional. This is a big story for her, and for us as well.”
    “Listen,” I cut off Hills—I had to. “Naomi wrote me a letter almost every week that she was in school. I saved those letters, all of them. I helped to bring her up. We’re close.
That
means a lot to me.”
    “I hear you. I’ll see what I can do. No promises, though.”
    “No promises, Dan.”
    Good to his word, Dan Hills called me back at the FBI offices within the hour. “Well, we had a meeting of the minds out here,” he told me. “I talked to Beth. As you can imagine, this puts both of us in a tough spot.”
    “I understand what you’re telling me,” I said. I was cushioning myself for a soft blow, but I got something else.
    “There are mentions of Casanova in the unedited versions of the diaries that the Gentleman sent her. It sounds like the two of them
could be
talking, even sharing exploits. Almost as if they’re friends. It seems like they’re communicating for some reason.”
    Bingo!
    The monsters were communicating.
    Now I thought I knew what the FBI had been keeping secret, what they were afraid would come out in the open.
    There were coast-to-coast serial killers.

Chapter 44

    R UN! GO!
Just run your butt off! Get the hell