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  He rang the front buzzer and waited for the intercom. He had been here before.

  A woman answered in a sultry voice. “Hi. May I have your code please, gentlemen.”

  Starkey gave it in Vietnamese. Silver. Mercedes 11.

  They were buzzed inside. “Các em dang cho. Em dep het xay,” the female said in Vietnamese. The ladies are waiting, and they are stunning.

  “So are we,” Thomas Starkey said, and laughed.

  Starkey, Harris, and Griffin climbed the flight of red-carpeted stairs. As they reached the first landing, a plain gray door opened.

  An Asian girl, slender and young, no more than eighteen and gorgeous, stood legs akimbo in the doorway. She had on a black bra and matching panties, thigh-high stockings, sling backs with high heels.

  “Hi there,” she said in English. “I’m Kym. Welcome. You’re very good-looking men. This will be fun for us too.”

  “You’re very beautiful too, Kym,” Starkey said in Vietnamese. “And your English is flawless.” He then pulled out a revolver and pointed it between the girl’s eyes. “Don’t say another word, or you die. Right here, right now, Kym. Your blood all over the carpet and those walls.”

  He shoved the girl into a living room, where three other girls were seated on two small couches. They were also young, Asian, very pretty.

  They wore silk negligees — lavender, red, and pink, with color-coordinated high heels and stockings. Victoria’s Secret.

  “Don’t speak, ladies. Not a word,” Starkey said, pointing his gun at one then another.

  “Shhh.” Brownley Harris held a finger to his lips. “Nobody gets hurt. We don’t want that either. Trust me, my little Asian dolls.”

  Starkey threw open the door at the rear of the living room. He surprised an older woman, probably the voice over the intercom, as well as a husky bouncer in a black T-shirt and gym shorts that had CRUNCH stenciled on it. They were greedily eating Chinese food out of cardboard containers.

  “Nobody gets hurt,” Starkey said in Vietnamese as he shut the door behind him. “Hands up high.”

  The man and woman slowly raised their hands, and Starkey shot them dead with the silenced revolver. He wandered over to some high-tech equipment and calmly removed a tape. The surveillance camera at the front entrance had recorded their arrival, of course.

  Starkey left the slumped, bloody bodies and returned to the living room. The party had begun without him. Brownley Harris was kissing and fondling the pretty young girl who had answered the door. He had lifted Kym up and held her tiny mouth pressed against his. She was too frightened to resist.

  “May cái này moi dem lai nhieu ky niem,” Starkey said, and smiled at his friends but also at the women.

  Memories are made of this.

  Chapter 66

  THEY HAD DONE this many times before, and not just in New York. They’d “celebrated” victories in Hong Kong, Saigon, Frankfurt, Los Angeles, even London. It had all started in South Vietnam when they were just boys in their teens and early twenties, when the war was on and the madness was everywhere around them. Starkey called it “blood lust.”

  The four Asian girls were terrified, and that was the thrill for Starkey. He totally got off on the look of fear in their eyes. Starkey believed that all men did, though few would admit it.

  “BFn tao muGn liên hoan!” he shouted.

  We want to party now!

  “Chi liên hoan, the thôi.”

  It’s a celebration.

  Starkey found out the girls’ names: Kym, Lan, Susie, and Hoa. They were pretty, but Kym was truly beautiful. A slender body with small breasts, delicate features — the best of a complicated heritage that could be Chinese, French, and Indian.

  Harris found bottles of scotch and champagne in a small kitchen. He passed the hootch around and made the girls drink too.

  The alcohol calmed them, but Kym kept asking about the owner. Occasionally the bell rang downstairs. Kym’s English was the best, so she was told to say that the girls were busy for the night — a private party. “Come back another time, please. Thank you.”

  Griffin took two of the girls upstairs to another floor. Starkey and Harris looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Starkey kept an ear cocked once Griffin was upstairs. At least he’d left two pretty ones for Brownley and him. Kym and Lan.

  Starkey asked Kym to dance. Her eyes were gleaming slants of dark purple. Except for her three-inch heels, Kym was naked now. An old song by the Yardbirds played on the radio. As he danced, Starkey remembered that Vietnamese women had a thing about their height, at least when they were around American men. Or maybe it was American men who had a thing about height? Or length?

  Harris was speaking in English to Lan. He handed her a bottle of champagne. “Drink,” he said. “No, drink it down there, babe.”

  The girl understood, either the words or lewd gestures. She shrugged, then dropped onto the couch and inserted the champagne bottle in herself. She poured the champagne, then comically wiped her lips. “I was thirsty!” she said in English.

  The joke got a good laugh. Broke the tension.

  “Ban cung phai uong nua,” the girl said.

  You drink too.

  Harris laughed and passed the bottle to Kym. She lifted one leg and put it inside without sitting down. She kept it there while she danced with Starkey, spilling champagne all over the carpet and her shoes. Everybody was laughing now.

  “The bubbles tickle,” Kym said, sitting down on the couch. “I have an itch inside me now. You want to scratch it?” she asked Starkey.

  The switchblade seemed to come from nowhere. Kym jabbed it at Starkey without actually stabbing him. She screamed, “You go! Leave right now. Or I cut you bad!”

  Then Starkey had his gun out. He was cool and calm. He reached over to the radio and shut off the loud music. Silence. And dread. Incredible tension in the room. Everywhere except on Thomas Starkey’s face.

  “Dung, dung!” cried Kym. “Hay dep súng ong sang mot bên di bô.”

  No, no! Put the gun away.

  Starkey moved toward little Kym. He wasn’t afraid of the switchblade, almost as if he knew he wasn’t going to die like this. He twisted the knife out of her hand, then held the revolver against the side of her skull.

  Tears ran down the girl’s smooth cheeks. Starkey brushed them away. She smiled up at him. “Hay yêu tôi di, anh ban,” she whispered.

  Make love to me, soldier man.

  Starkey was there in the apartment, but his head was in Vietnam. Kym was shaking, and he loved that — the total control he felt, the evil he was capable of, the electricity it could bring into his system.

  He looked at Harris, who had his gun out now too, and his friend knew. He just knew.

  They fired their guns simultaneously.

  The girls flew back against the wall and then slid down onto the floor. Kym was shaking all over, very close to death. “Why?” she whispered.

  Starkey just shrugged at her.

  Upstairs there were two more pffthts. The sound of falling bodies, Susie and Hoa. Warren Griffin had been waiting for them. He knew too.

  It was just like in the An Lao Valley, Vietnam.

  Where the madness had started.

  Chapter 67

  WHEN WE FINISHED up at Colonel Bennett’s house, Sampson and I checked into the Hotel Thayer right on the grounds of West Point. I continued to think about the three killers and how they kept getting away. There was no blue paint this time, and none of the other victims had been set up to look like suicides. But it still felt the same. Force to bear without conscience. That was what Agent Fescoe had called it.

  In the morning, I met Sampson for breakfast in the hotel dining room overlooking the majestic Hudson, which appeared almost steely gray in the distance and was topped by whitecaps. We talked about the grisly Bennett murders and wondered whether they were connected to the others, whether the killers had changed their pattern.

  “Or maybe there are more murders that w
e just don’t know about,” Sampson said. “Who knows how many have been killed at this point, or how far back the murders go?”

  Sampson poured himself another steaming cup of coffee. “It has to come down to the three killers. They were here, Alex. It has to be the same three men.”

  I couldn’t disagree with him. “I have to make a few calls, then we’re out of here. I want to make sure the local police are checking into whether anybody actually saw three men who don’t belong on the grounds or in Highland Falls.”

  I went upstairs to my room and called Director Burns. He wasn’t in, so I left a message. I wanted to call Jamilla, but it was too early in California, so I logged on to my computer and left her a long e-mail.

  Then I saw that I had a message. Now what?

  It turned out to be from Jannie and Damon. They were busting my chops about being away from home again, even for a night. When was I coming back? Would they get a neat souvenir from West Point? How about a shiny new sword for each of them? And one for Little Alex too.

  There was a second message for me.

  It wasn’t from the kids.

  Or Jamilla.

  Detective Cross. While you are at West Point, you ought to see Colonel Owen Handler. He teaches political science. He might have some answers for you. He’s a friend of the Bennetts. He might even know who killed them.

  I’m just trying to be helpful. You need all the help you can get.

  Foot Soldier

  Chapter 68

  THE THREE KILLERS had been right here. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head, but the feeling was in my bones, my blood.

  Sampson and I walked along the main drag toward Thayer Hall. Several cadets were out parade drilling on the Plain. As we got closer, I saw that wooden pegs were driven into the ground to show the cadets exactly where to turn their faultlessly sharp corners. I had to smile. It reminded me that so many things in life were an illusion. Maybe even the “facts” I was collecting on this case.

  “So what do you think about this help we’re getting? The mad e-mailer? Foot Soldier?” Sampson asked. “I don’t like it, Alex. It’s too convenient, too pat. This whole case is about being set up.”

  “You’re right, we don’t have any reason to trust the information we’re getting. So I don’t. On the other hand, we’re here. Why not talk to Professor Handler? It can’t hurt.”

  Sampson shook his head. “I wish that was so, Alex.”

  I had called the History Department immediately after I received the “helpful” e-mail from Foot Soldier. I was told that Professor Handler had a class that met from eleven until noon. We had twenty minutes to kill, so we took in a few sights: Washington Hall, a cavernous three-story building where the entire Corps of Cadets could sit simultaneously for meals; the Eisenhower and MacArthur Barracks; the Cadet Chapel; plus several incomparable river vistas.

  Cadets flowed past us lickety-split on the sidewalk. They wore long-sleeved gray shirts with black ties, gray trousers with a black stripe, brass belt buckles shined to perfection.

  Everybody was moving in double time. It was contagious.

  Thayer Hall was a huge gray building that was virtually windowless. Inside, the classrooms all looked identical, each with desks arranged in a horseshoe so that everyone was in the front row.

  Sampson and I waited in a deserted hallway until Handler’s class was finished and the cadets filed out.

  They were incredibly orderly for college students, which didn’t surprise me, but it was still impressive to watch. Why aren’t students in all universities orderly? Because no one demands it? Well, hell, who cares? But it was a striking, impressive scene. All these young kids with so much purpose and resolve. On the surface anyway.

  Professor Handler trailed his students out of the classroom. He was a burly man, about six-one with short-cropped salt-and-pepper hair. I already knew he’d served two tours of duty in Vietnam and had an M.A. from the University of Virginia and a doctorate from Penn State. That much was on the West Point website.

  “We’re Detectives Cross and Sampson,” I said as I walked up to him. “Could we talk to you for a moment?”

  Handler grimaced. “What’s this about, Detectives? One of our cadets in trouble?”

  “No, no.” I shook my head. “The cadets seem beyond reproach.”

  A smile broke across Handler’s face. “Oh, you’d be surprised. They only look blameless, Detective. So if it isn’t one of our charges, what is it you’d like to talk to me about? Robert and Barbara Bennett? I’ve already spoken to Captain Conte. I thought CID was handling that.”

  “They are,” I told him. “But the murders might be a little more complicated than they appear. Just like the cadets here at West Point.”

  As concisely as I could, I told Handler about the other murder cases that Sampson and I had been investigating. I didn’t tell him about the e-mail from Foot Soldier that had led us to him. As I spoke, I noticed a professor in the classroom next to Handler’s. He had a bucket of water and a sponge, and he was actually washing the blackboard before the next class. All the classrooms had identical buckets and sponges. Hell of a system.

  “We think there’s a connection to something pretty bad that took place in Vietnam,” I said to Professor Handler. “Maybe the murders actually started there.”

  “I served in Southeast Asia. Two tours,” Handler volunteered. “Vietnam and Cambodia.”

  “So did I,” said Sampson. “Two tours.”

  Suddenly, and for no apparent reason, Colonel Handler seemed nervous. His eyes narrowed and darted around the hallway. The cadets were gone now, no doubt rushing off to Washington Hall for lunch.

  “I’ll talk to you,” he finally said, “but not on the grounds. Pick me up at my place tonight. It’s Quarters Ninety-eight. We’ll go somewhere else. Come by at eight sharp.”

  He looked at Sampson and me, and then Professor Handler turned and walked away.

  In double time.

  Chapter 69

  I HAD THE feeling that we were close to something important, at West Point, and maybe with Colonel Handler. It was something indefinable that I’d seen in his eyes when the subject had turned to Vietnam. Maybe the murders started there.

  The colonel had made reservations at what he called an “extraordinarily misplaced” northern Italian restaurant in Newburgh, Il Cenacolo. We were on our way there, riding the Storm King Highway, a winding roller coaster with incredible views of the Hudson, which stretched out hundreds of feet below.

  “Why didn’t you want to talk to us closer to home?” I finally asked the colonel.

  “Two of my best friends were just murdered there,” Handler said. He lit up a cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. It was pitch black outside, and the mountainous road had no lights to guide our way.

  “You believe the Bennetts were murdered?” I asked.

  “I know they were.”

  “Do you know why?”

  “I might. You’ve heard of the blue wall of silence with the police. In the army, it’s the same, only the wall is gray. It’s higher, thicker, and has been here for a hell of a long time.”

  I had to ask another question. I couldn’t hold back. “Are you Foot Soldier, Colonel? If you are, we need your help.”

  Handler didn’t seem to understand. “What the hell is Foot Soldier? What are you talking about?”

  I told him that a mysterious someone had been periodically slipping me information, including his name. “Maybe you thought it was time we met face-to-face,” I said.

  “No, I may be a source for you now. But it’s only because of Bob and Barbara Bennett. I’m not Foot Soldier. I never contacted you. You came to see me. Remember?”

  As convincing as he sounded, I didn’t know whether to believe him, but I had to pursue the identity of Foot Soldier. I asked Handler for names, others who might be helpful in the investigation. He gave me a few — some Americans, even a couple of South Vietnamese who might be willing to help.

  Han
dler spoke from the darkened backseat of the sedan. “I don’t know who’s been contacting you, but I’m not so sure that I’d trust whoever it was. Right about now, I’m not sure that I’d trust anyone.”

  “Not even you, Colonel?”

  “Especially not me,” he said, and laughed. “Hell, I’m a college professor.”

  I glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw a single pair of headlights approaching. I hadn’t noticed much traffic so far, and most of it had been speeding in the opposite direction, heading south.

  Suddenly Sampson raised his voice and turned to Handler. “Why don’t you tell us what’s really going on, Colonel? How many more have to die? What do you know about these murders?”

  That’s when I heard a gunshot and the sound of glass shattering. The car from behind was already on us.

  My eyes darted and I saw a driver, then a gunman leaning out the window of the backseat.

  “Get down!” I yelled at Handler and Sampson. “Cover up!”

  More shots came from the pursuing car. I violently swerved the wheel to the left. We skidded hard across double-yellow lines, headed for the mountain. Handler yelled, “Watch it, Jesus! Watch it!”

  We hit a straight part of the highway, thank God. I stomped on the accelerator, picking up some speed. But I couldn’t lose the other car.

  He was still in the right-hand lane, but I was in the wrong lane, the one meant for oncoming traffic.

  Sampson had gotten to his gun and had returned fire. More shots struck our car.

  The other sedan stayed right with us. I couldn’t shake loose. I was doing over ninety on a twisty road built for fifty or sixty. On my left side was a shoulder and then the mountain wall; on my right, across the other lane, a sheer drop down toward the Hudson River and certain death.

  I was going too fast to see faces in the other car. Who the hell was it?

  Suddenly I stomped on the brakes, and our car skidded badly. Then it fishtailed. We wound up facing the opposite direction, south.

  I took off that way. Back toward West Point.