mistakes yet, either. But the Gentleman isn't really comfortable being a follower. He probably moved to California to see if he could succeed on his own. And he couldn't.” “Is Casanova this kinky-assed college professor? Dr. Wick Sachs? The pornography professor you told me about? Is he our man, Sugar?” I peered across the front seat at Sampson. We were into the real deal now. Cop shop talk. “Sometimes, I think it's Sachs, and that he's so goddamn clever and smart he can let us know who he is. He enjoys watching us squirm. That could be the ultimate power game for him.” Sampson nodded one nod. “And other times, Dr. Freud, what is your alternative thought process on Dr. Sachs?” “Other times, I wonder if Sachs has been set up. Casanova is very bright, and he's been extremely careful. He seems to send out misinformation that has everyone chasing his own tail. Even Kyle Craig's getting uptight and crazy.” Sampson finally showed his large, very white teeth. Maybe it was a smile, or maybe he was going to bite me. “Looks like I'm here just in the motherfucking nick of time.” As I slowed for a stop sign on the side street, a man with a gun suddenly moved away from a parked car and toward us. There was nothing I could do to stop him, nothing Sampson could do.
The gunman pointed a Smith and Wesson right into my face, up against my cheekbone.
Endgame! I thought.
Tilt! “Chapel Hill police,” the man shouted into the open window. “Get the hell out of the car. Assume the position!”
Alex Cross 2 - Kiss the Girls
CHAPTER 87.
YOU GOT HERE just in the nick of time,' I muttered to Sampson under my breath. We climbed out of the car very slowly and carefully.
“Looks like it,” he said. “Be cool now. Don't get us shot or beat up, Alex. I wouldn't appreciate the irony.” I thought I knew what was happening, and it made me incredibly angry.
Sampson and I were “suspects.” Why were we suspects? Because we were a couple of black males riding on the side streets of Chapel Hill at ten o'clock in the goddamn morning.
I could tell that Sampson was furious, too, but he was angry in his own way. He was smiling thinly and shaking his head back and forth. “This is rich,” he said. “This is the best yet.” Another Chapel Hill detective appeared to assist his partner. They were tough-looking studs, in their late twenties. Longish hair. Full mustaches. Hard, muscular bodies from workout central. Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes in training.
“You think this is funny?” The second officer's voice was disembodied, so low I could barely hear the words. “You think you're a laugh riot, Home?” he asked Sampson. He had a lead sap out and was holding it close to his hip, ready to strike.
“Best I could come up,” Sampson said, keeping his smile turned on low.
He wasn't afraid of saps.
My scalp was crawling and sweat dribbled slowly down my back. I couldn't remember being rousted recently, and I didn't like it one bit.
Everything bad I had felt since I'd been here fell into place. Not that rousting black males is peculiar to North Carolina or the South anymore.
I started to tell the cops who we were. “My name is ” “Shut the fuck up, asshole!” One of them popped me in the small of the back before I could finish. Not hard enough to leave a bruise, but it stung like a good rabbit punch. It hurt in a couple of ways, actually.
“This one looks fucked up to me. Eyes are bloodshot,” the low-voiced patrolman said to his partner. “This one is high.” He was talking about me.
“I'm Alex Cross. I'm a police detective, you motherfucker!” I suddenly yelled at him. “I'm part of the Casanova investigation. Call detectives Ruskin and Sikes right now! Call Kyle Craig from the FBI!” At the same time, I spun around fast and hit the closest one in the throat. He dropped to the ground like a stone. His partner jumped forward, but Sampson had him on the sidewalk before he could do anything too dumb. I took away the first stud's revolver easier than I could disarm a fourteen-year-old hugger-mugger in D.C.
“Assume the position?” Sampson said to his “suspect.” There was no merriment in his deep voice. 'How many brothers you pull that shit on?
How many young men you call '' and humiliate like that? like you might fuckin' understand what their life is about. Makes me sick.'
“You know damn well the serial killer Casanova isn't a black man,” I said to the two disarmed Chapel Hill cops. “You haven't heard the last of this particular incident, gentlemen. Believe me on that one.” “There been a lot of robberies in this neighborhood,” the deep-voiced one said. He was contrite all of a sudden, doing the Corporate America step'n'fetchit, the old two-step back-step.
“Save the sorry bullshit!” Sampson said, jabbing out with his own gun, letting the two detectives feel a little humiliation of their own.
Sampson and I got back into our car. We kept the detectives' guns.
Souvenirs of our day. Let them explain it to their bosses back at police headquarters.
“Son of a bitch!” Sampson said as we pulled away. I hit the steering wheel with the heel of my palm. I hit it a second time. The bad scene had shaken me more than I had realized, or maybe I was just too ragged and frayed right then.
“On the other hand,” Sampson said, “we did take those boys down like snap. Little bullshit racism gets my adrenaline flowing, blood boiling. Gets the demons going. That's good. I have the proper edge now.” “It's nice to see your ugly face again,” I said to Sampson. I had to smile, finally. We both did. Then we were both
