Four Blind Mice Read online

  “Another perfect day in paradise,” he said, and smiled brilliantly. Billie couldn’t keep herself from staring a little at the policeman. He was strong and good-looking, and his smile was dazzling whenever it came. She had the sense that he didn’t smile enough, and wondered why that was. What had happened to him growing up in Washington? And then living and working there? She wanted to know everything about him, and that natural curiosity was something that had been missing since Laurence died.

  Don’t make this into something it isn’t, she reminded herself. He’s a policeman on a murder case. That’s all this is. You just have a silly crush on him.

  “Average day in paradise,” she said with a laugh. Then she got serious. “You wanted to talk some more about Laurence. Something else happened, didn’t it? That’s why you’re back here.”

  “No, I came to see you.” There was that amazing smile of his again.

  Billie took a little swing at the air with her hand. “Sure you did. Anyway — your murder case?”

  He told her about the recent deaths of Robert and Barbara Bennett at West Point, and then the shooting death of Colonel Owen Handler. He shared his and Alex’s theory that three men might be responsible for at least some of the murders. “Everything seems to point back to Vietnam. Something incredible happened, something so bad that it’s probably the root cause of all these murders. Your husband may have been involved in some way. Maybe he didn’t even know it, Billie.”

  “He didn’t like to talk about his experiences over there,” she said, repeating what she’d told him during his first visit. “I always respected that. But then something strange happened. A couple of years ago, he brought home books about the war. Rumors of War was one that I remember. He rented the movie Platoon, which he’d always insisted he wouldn’t watch. He still didn’t want to talk about the war, though. Not to me anyway.”

  Billie sat back in the navy blue wicker rocker she’d chosen. She stared out at the ocean. Several gulls floated over the tall dunes. Picture pretty. She could see the blurred outline of an ocean liner on the horizon miles away.

  “He always drank, but during those last years, he drank much more. Hard liquor, wine. He wasn’t ever abusive, but I felt he was drifting farther and farther away.

  “One night around dusk he took off down the beach with his fishing pole and a pail for anything he might catch. It was early September, and the bluefish were running. He could have caught them with his pail.

  “I waited for him to come back, but he didn’t. Finally, I went out looking for him. Most of these houses on the beach empty out after Labor Day. That’s the way it is here. I walked south a mile or so. I was getting a little scared.

  “I had brought a flashlight, and as I headed back, I turned it on and worked my way up closer to the dunes and the deserted beach houses. That was how I found him.

  “Laurence was lying in the sand beside his fishing pole and the bucket. He’d finished off a pint of whiskey. Looked like a street bum who’d lost his way and wound up sleeping it off on the beach.

  “I lay down beside him, and held him in my arms. I asked him to please tell me why he was so sad. He couldn’t. It broke my heart that he couldn’t tell me. All he said was that ‘you can’t outrun your past.’ It looks like he was right.”

  Chapter 76

  THEY TALKED ABOUT Vietnam, and her husband’s army experiences after the war, until Sampson was starting to get a headache. Billie never complained. About four in the afternoon they took a break and watched the high tide coming in. It amazed Sampson that the long stretch of beach could be so empty on such a sunny and blue-skied day.

  “Did you bring a suit?” she asked, and smiled.

  “Actually, I did throw a suit in the car,” Sampson said, returning her smile.

  “Want to take a swim?”

  “Yeah. Be nice.”

  They slipped into their suits and met back on the front porch. She had on a black one-piece. He figured she must do a lot of swimming, or maybe worked out. She was little, but she didn’t look like a young girl. She was probably in her early forties.

  “I know I look okay,” Billie said, and twirled around. “So do you. Now let’s hit the water before you chicken out on me.”

  “Chicken out? You know I’m a homicide detective?”

  “Uh-huh. Water’s sixty-seven today, tough guy.”

  “What? Is that cold?”

  “You’ll soon find out.”

  They walked to the top of the dune in front of the house. Then they broke into a full-out run. Sampson was laughing, mostly at himself, because he didn’t do this kind of thing.

  They high-stepped their way through the low surf like kids on vacation, ignoring that the water was in the sixties, cold as hell, absolutely freezing.

  “You can swim?” Billie asked as a huge swell moved toward them. She thought she saw him nod.

  “John?” she asked again.

  “I can swim. Can you?”

  Then they both dove under the wave as it crested high above their heads. A ways out past the first wave, they resurfaced. She started to stroke her way out to a point past the breakers. Sampson followed, and he was a good, strong swimmer. That delighted her for some reason.

  “Sometimes, kids from the cities,” she said as they bobbed heads together, “they don’t learn to swim.”

  “That’s true. I have this good friend. When we were growing up in D.C., his grandmother made sure we knew how. She used to take us to the city pool. She said, ‘You swim, or you drown.’”

  Then Sampson found himself taking Billie in his arms again. She used a forefinger to wipe beads of water off his face. Her touch was gentle. So were her eyes. Something was going on here, and whatever it was he didn’t know if he was ready for it.

  “What?” Billie asked.

  “I was just going to say,” he said, “that you’re surprising in a lot of ways.”

  She closed her eyes for a second, nodded. Then Billie opened her eyes again. “You’re still here. Good. I’m glad you came back. Even if you came to interrogate me.”

  “The reason I came was to see you. I told you.”

  “Whatever you say, John.”

  Nobody but Alex and Nana called him John.

  They swam back toward shore and played in the creamy surf for a while. Even though it was late afternoon they took a walk to the south, passing more large houses that were shut up tight for the coming winter. They fell into a nice rhythm along the way. They had to stop and kiss at each house.

  “You’re getting kind of corny,” Billie finally said. “It becomes you. You have a tender side, John Sampson.”

  “Yeah. Maybe I do.”

  They ate dinner on the front porch again. Sampson put on the radio. Afterward, they snuggled in the love seat, and he was struck again by how tiny she was. She fit against him, though.

  “One Night with You” came on the radio. Luther Vandross. Sampson asked her to dance. He couldn’t believe it — I just asked Billie to dance on the porch.

  He tucked her in close. She fit nicely standing up too. They moved well together, totally in sync. He listened to her breathing and could feel her heartbeat as well.

  An old Marvin Gaye tune came on the radio, and they danced to that too. It all seemed dreamlike to him. Completely unexpected.

  Especially when they went upstairs together about ten-thirty. Neither of them said a word, but Billie took his hand and led him into the bedroom. A three-quarter moon was lighting the whitecaps. A sailboat lazily drifted by out beyond the line of surf.

  “You okay?” she whispered.

  “I am much more than okay. Are you, Billie?”

  “I am Billie. I think I wanted this to happen from the first time I saw you. You ever done this before?” she asked. There was that sly grin of hers again. She was playing with him, but he liked it.

  “First time. I’ve been saving myself for the right woman.”

  “Well, let’s see if I’m worth the wait.”

/>   Sometimes he could be in a hurry, and that would be okay, the way of the world in Washington, but not tonight. He wanted to explore Billie’s body, to get to know what pleased her. He touched Billie everywhere; kissed her everywhere. Everything about her seemed right to him. What’s happening here? I came to ask this woman about some murders. Murders! Not lovemaking in shimmering moonlight.

  He could feel her small breasts rising and falling, rising and falling. He was on top of her, supporting his weight on his hands.

  “You won’t hurt me,” she whispered.

  “No, I won’t.”

  I won’t. I couldn’t hurt you. And I won’t let anybody hurt you.

  She smiled, rolled over, and then slid up on top of him. “How’s that? Is that better for you?”

  He ran his strong hands up and down her back and over her buttocks. She hummed “One Night with You.” They began to move together, slowly at first. Then faster. And faster still. Billie rose and fell hard on him. She liked it that way.

  When they finally collapsed with the pleasure of it all, she looked into his eyes. “Not bad for your first time. You’ll get better.”

  Later, Sampson lay in the bed with Billie snuggled up against his side. It still made him smile to see how small she was. Small face, small hands, feet, breasts. And then the thought hit him — stunned him: He was at peace for the first time in years. Maybe ever.

  Chapter 77

  I WAS PUMPED up to see Nana and the kids when I got home from my trip to Florence prison that night. It was only seven, and I’d been thinking we might go to the IMAX theater or maybe the ESPN Zone — some nice treat for the kids.

  As I climbed the front steps of the house, I spotted a note stuck into the screen door, flapping in the breeze.

  Uh-oh.

  Messages left at the house always make me a little queasy. There’d been too many bad ones left there during the past few years.

  I recognized Nana’s handwriting: Alex, we’ve gone to your aunt Tia’s. Be back by nine or so. Everybody misses you. Do you miss us? Of course you do — in your own way. Nana and the kids.

  I’d noticed that Nana Mama had been unusually sentimental lately. She said she was feeling better, back to her old self again, but I wondered if that was true. Maybe I should talk to her doctor, but I didn’t like interfering in her business. She’d been doing an excellent job taking care of herself for a long time.

  I shuffled into the kitchen and grabbed a cold beer from the fridge.

  I saw a funny drawing of a pregnant stork that Jannie had stuck up on the door. Suddenly I felt lonely for everybody. The thing about kids for some people — for me anyway — is that they complete your life, make some kind of sense out of it, even if they do drive you crazy sometimes. The pain is worth the gain. At least in our house it is.

  The telephone rang, and I figured it was Nana.

  “Hooray, you’re home!” came a welcome voice. Well, surprise, surprise. It was Jamilla, and that cheered me right up. I could picture her face, her smile, the bright shine in her eyes.

  “Hooray, it’s you. I just got home to an empty house,” I said. “Nana and the kids deserted me.”

  “Could be worse, Alex. I’m at work. Caught a bad one on Friday. Irish tourist got killed in the Tenderloin district. So tell me, what was a fifty-one-year-old priest from Dublin doing in one of the seediest parts of San Francisco at two in the morning? How did he get strangled with a pair of extra-large pantyhose? My job to find out.”

  “Sounds like you’re enjoying yourself, anyway.” I found myself smiling. Not at the murder, but at Jamilla’s enthusiasm for the Job.

  Jamilla was still laughing. “Well, I do enjoy a good mystery. How’s your case going? Now that sucker is nasty. I’ve been thinking about it in my free moments. Somebody ‘murdering’ army officers by framing them for crimes they didn’t commit.”

  I brought her up to speed, detective to detective, then we talked about more pleasant subjects, like our time together in Arizona. Finally, she said she had to run, to get back to her case. I thought about Jam after I hung up the phone. She loved police work, and she said so. I did too, but the demons were getting to me.

  I grabbed another beer out of the fridge, then headed upstairs. I was still ruminating about Jamilla. Nice thoughts. Nothing but blue skies . . .

  I opened the bedroom door, then just stood there, shaking my head back and forth.

  Sitting there on my bed were two large glass jars. Pretty ones. Maybe antiques.

  They were filled with what looked to be about twelve hundred cat’s-eye marbles.

  I went over to the bed. Took one out.

  I rolled the marble between my thumb and forefinger. I had to admit that it felt precious.

  The Saturdays I still had left.

  How did I plan to use them?

  Maybe that was the biggest mystery of all.

  Chapter 78

  I HAD THE feeling that I was being followed around Washington during the next few days. Watched. But I couldn’t seem to catch them at it. Either they were very good or I was completely losing it.

  On Monday I was back at work. All that week I put in my time at the precinct, on the Job. I made sure I spent extra hours at home with the kids before I did overtime in my office in the attic. A colonel named Daniel Boudreau at the Pentagon was cooperating somewhat. He’d sent me army records from the Vietnam War. Lots of paperwork that appeared not to have been looked at in years. He also suggested I contact the Vietnamese embassy. They had records too.

  I read through the old files until I couldn’t stay awake any longer and my head was throbbing severely. I was searching for anything that might link Ellis Cooper, Reece Tate, Laurence Houston, James Etra, Robert Bennett, or even Tran Van Luu to the string of murders.

  I found no connection, nothing remotely promising. Was that possible?

  None of the men had ever served together in Asia.

  Late that night I got another e-mail from Foot Soldier. Jesus Christ. Obviously, he wasn’t Owen Handler. So who was sending the messages? Kyle Craig? Was he still trying to play with my head? How could he get the messages out of a supermax prison?

  Somebody was sending them, and I didn’t like it. I also didn’t trust the information I was getting. Was I being set up too?

  Detective Cross,

  I am a little disappointed in your progress. You get on a good track, then you get off it. Look back at where you’ve been already. The answers are all in the past. Isn’t that always the way it works out?

  The note was signed, Foot Soldier.

  But there was something else at the bottom of the page. A very disturbing icon — a straw doll. Just like the ones we’d found.

  After work on Wednesday of that week, I visited the Vietnamese embassy on Twentieth Street in Northwest. The FBI had made a call for me. I arrived a little before six and went up to the fourth floor. I was met there by a translator named Thi Nguyen. At her desk were four large boxes of old records kept by the government of her country.

  I sat in her small office, and Thi Nguyen read passages to me. She didn’t want to be doing this, I could tell. I supposed she’d been ordered to work late. On a wall behind her was a sign: EMBASSY OF THE SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF VIETNAM. Also a portrait of Ho Chi Minh.

  “There’s nothing here, Detective. Nothing new,” she complained as she went through dusty files that were more than thirty years old. I told her to please stay with it. She would sigh loudly, adjust her odd, black-rimmed glasses, and sullenly dig into another file. This pouty ritual went on for hours. I found her incredibly unpleasant.

  At about nine o’clock, she looked up in surprise. “There’s something here,” she said. “Maybe this is what you’re looking for.”

  “Tell me. Don’t edit, please. Tell me exactly what you’re reading.”

  “That’s what I’ve been doing, Detective. According to these records, there were unauthorized attacks on small villages in the An Lao Valley. Civilians seem to have bee
n killed. This happened half a dozen times. Somebody must have known about it. Maybe even your Military Assistance Command.”

  “Tell me everything that’s in there,” I repeated. “Please don’t leave anything out. Read from the text.”

  The boredom and exasperation she had shown before were gone. Suddenly the translator was attentive, and she also seemed a little frightened. What she was reading now was disturbing her.

  “There are always unfortunate incidents during a war,” she lectured me. “But this is a new pattern in the An Lao Valley. The killings seem to have been organized and methodical. Almost like your serial killers here in America.”

  “There are serial killers in Asia too,” I said.

  Ms. Nguyen bristled at my comment. “Let me see. There were formal complaints made to your government and the U.S. Army by officers in the ARVN. Did you know that? There are also repeated complaints from what was then called Saigon. This was a murder case according to the ARVN. Murder, not war. The murder of innocent civilians, including children.”

  She frowned and shook her head. “There’s more about the precise pattern of the murders. Men, women, and children; innocent villagers were killed. Often the bodies were painted.”

  “Red, white, blue,” I said. “The painting was a calling card left by the killers.”

  Ms. Nguyen looked up in alarm. “How did you know? Did you already know about these horrible murders? What is your role in all this?”

  “I’ll tell you when we’re finished. Don’t stop now. Please. This could be what I’ve been looking for.”

  About twenty minutes later, Ms. Nguyen came upon something that I asked her to read a second time. “A team of Army Rangers was sent into the An Lao Valley. It’s unclear, but it seems they were dispatched to the area to investigate the murders. I’m sorry, Detective. It’s also unclear here whether they succeeded or not.”