Cat and Mouse Page 4

  Soneji was nothing if not methodical: He had wanted me at Union Station. Why, though? The answer to that question still wasn’t apparent to me.

  I finally snuck out of the station through the tunnels, to avoid the press and whatnot. I went home and showered and changed into fresh clothes.

  That helped a little. I lay on my bed and shut my eyes for ten minutes. I needed to clear my head of everything that had happened on this day.

  It wasn’t working worth a damn. I thought of calling off the night with Christine Johnson. A voice of warning was in my head. Don’t blow it. Don’t scare her about The Job. She’s the one. I already sensed that Christine had problems with my work as a homicide detective. I couldn’t blame her, especially not today.

  Rosie the cat came in to visit. She cuddled against my chest. “Cats are like Baptists,” I whispered to her. “You know they raise hell, but you can’t ever catch them at it.” Rosie purred agreement and chuckled to herself. We’re friends like that.

  When I finally came downstairs, I got “the business” from my kids. Even Rosie joined in the fun, racing around the living room like the family’s designated cheerleader.

  “You look so nice, Daddy. You look beautiful.” Jannie winked and gave me the A-OK sign.

  She was being sincere, but she was also getting a large charge out of my “date” for the night. She obviously delighted in the idea of my getting all dolled up just to see the principal from her school.

  Damon was even worse. He saw me coming down the stairs and started giggling. Once he started, he couldn’t stop. He mumbled, “beautiful.”

  “I’ll get you for this,” I told him. “Ten times over, maybe a hundred times. Wait until you bring somebody home to meet your pops. Your day will come.”

  “It’s worth it,” Damon said, and continued to laugh like the little madman that he can be. His antics got Jannie going so bad that she was finally rolling around on the carpet. Rosie hopped back and forth over the two of them.

  I got down on the floor, growled like Jabba the Hut, and started wrestling with the kids. As usual, they were healing me. I looked over at Nana Mama, who was standing in the doorway between the kitchen and dining room. She was strangely quiet, not joining in as she usually does.

  “You want some of this, old woman?” I said as I held Damon and lightly rubbed my chin against his head.

  “No, no. But you’re sure nervous as Rosie tonight,” Nana said and finally started to laugh herself. “Why, I haven’t seen you like this since you were around fourteen and off to see Jeanne Allen, if I remember the name correctly. Jannie’s right, though, you do look, let’s say, rather dashing.”

  I finally let Damon up off the floor. I stood and brushed off my snazzy dinner clothes. “Well, I just want to thank all of you for being so supportive in my time of need.” I said it with false solemnity and a hurt look on my face.

  “You’re welcome!” they all chorused. “Have a good time on your date! You look beautiful!”

  I headed out to the car, refusing to look back and give them the satisfaction of one final taunting grin or another rousing another rousing huzzah, I did feel better, though, strangely revived.

  I had promised my family, but also myself, that I was going to have some kind of normal life now. Not just a career, not a series of murder investigations. And yet as I drove away from the house, my last thought was, Gary Soneji is out there again. What are you going to do about it?

  For starters, I was going to have a terrific, peaceful, exciting dinner with Christine Johnson.

  I wasn’t going to give Gary Soneji another thought for the rest of the night.

  I was going to be dashing, if not downright beautiful.

  Chapter 16

  KINKEAD’S IN Foggy Bottom is one of the best restaurants in Washington or anywhere else I’ve ever eaten. The food there might even be better than home, though I’d never tell Nana that. I was pulling out the stops tonight, trying to, anyway, doing the best I could.

  Christine and I had agreed to meet at the bar around seven. I arrived a couple of minutes before seven, and she walked in right behind me. Soul mates. So began the first date.

  Hilton Felton was playing his usual seductive-as-hell jazz piano downstairs, as he did six nights a week. On the weekends, he was joined by Ephrain Woolfolk on bass. Bob Kinkead was in and out of the kitchen, garnishing and inspecting every dish. Everything seemed just right. Couldn’t be better.

  “This is a really terrific place. I’ve been wanting to come here for years,” Christine said as she looked around approvingly at the cherrywood bar, the sweeping staircase up to the main restaurant.

  I had never seen her like this, all dressed up, and she was even more beautiful than I had thought. She had on a long black slip dress that showed off nicely toned shoulders. A cream-colored shawl fringed in black lace was draped over one arm. She wore a necklace made from an old-fashioned brooch that I liked a lot. She had on black flat-heeled pumps, but she was still nearly six feet tall. She smelled of flowers.

  Her velvet brown eyes were wide and sparkling with the kind of delight I suspected she saw in her children at school, but which was absent on the faces of most adults. Her smile was effortless. She seemed happy to be here.

  I wanted to look like anything but a homicide detective, so I had picked out a black silk shirt given to me by Jannie for my birthday. She called it my “cool guy shirt.” I also wore black slacks, a snazzy black leather belt, black loafers. I already knew that I looked “beautiful.”

  We were escorted to a cozy little booth in the mezzanine section. I usually try to keep “physical allure” in its place, but heads turned as Christine and I walked across the dining room.

  I’d completely forgotten what it was like to be out with someone and have that happen. I must admit that I sort of liked the feeling. I was remembering what it was like to be with someone you want to be with. I was also remembering what it was like to feel whole, or almost whole, or at least on the way to being whole again.

  Our cozy booth overlooked Pennsylvania Avenue and also had a view of Hilton tinkering away at his piano. Kind of perfect.

  “So how was your day?” Christine asked after we settled into the booth.

  “Uneventful,” I said and shrugged. “Just another day in the life of the DCPD.”

  Christine shrugged right back at me. “I heard something on the radio about a shooting at Union Station. Weren’t you involved just a little bit with Gary Soneji at one point in your illustrious career?”

  “Sorry, I’m off-duty now,” I said to her. “I love your dress, by the way.” I also love that old brooch that you turned into a necklace. I like that you wore flats just in case I needed to be taller tonight, which I don’t.

  “Thirty-one dollars,” she said and smiled shyly, wonderfully. The dress looked like a million on her. I thought so anyway.

  I checked her eyes to see if she was all right. It had been more than six months since her husband’s death, but that isn’t really a lot of time. She seemed fine to me. I suspected she’d tell me if that changed.

  We picked out a nice bottle of merlot. Then we shared Ipswich clams, which were full belly and a little messy, but a good start to dinner at Kinkead’s. For a main dish, I had a velvety salmon stew.

  Christine made an even better choice. Lobster with buttery cabbage, bean puree, and truffle oil.

  All the while we ate, the two of us never shut up. Not for a minute. I hadn’t felt so free and easy around someone in a long, long time.

  “Damon and Jannie say you’re the best principal ever. They paid me a dollar each to say that. What’s your secret?” I asked Christine at one point. I found that I was fighting off an urge simply to babble when I was around her.

  Christine was thoughtful for a moment before she answered. “Well, I guess the easiest and maybe the truest answer is that it just makes me feel good to teach. The other answer I like goes something like this. If you’re right-handed, it’s really hard to wr
ite with your left hand. Well, most kids are all left-handed at first. I try to always remember that. That’s my secret.”

  “Tell me about today at school,” I said, staring into her brown eyes, unable not to.

  She was surprised by my question. “You really want to hear about my day at school? Why?”

  “I absolutely do. I don’t even know why.” Except that I love the sound of your voice. Love the way your mind works.

  “Actually, today was a great day,” she said, and her eyes lit up again. “You sure you want to hear this, Alex? I don’t want to bore you with work stuff.”

  I nodded. “I’m sure. I don’t ask a whole lot of questions I don’t want to hear the answers to.”

  “Well then, I’ll tell you about my day. Today, all the kids had to pretend they were in their seventies and eighties. The kids had to move a little more slowly than they’re used to. They had to deal with infirmities, and being alone, and usually not being the center of attention. We call it ‘getting under other people’s skin,’ and we do it a lot at the Truth School. It’s a great program and I had a great day, Alex. Thanks for asking. That’s nice.”

  Christine asked me about my day again, and I told her at little as possible. I didn’t want to disturb her, and I didn’t need to relive the day myself. We talked about jazz, and classical music, and Amy Tan’s latest novel. She seemed to know about everything, and was surprised I had read The Hundred Secret Senses, and even more surprised that I liked it.

  She talked about what it was like for her growing up in Southeast, and she told me a big secret of hers: She told me about “Dumbo-Gumbo.”

  “All through grade-school days,” Christine said, “I was Dumbo-Gumbo. That’s what some of the other kids called me. I have big ears, you see. Like Dumbo the flying elephant.”

  She pulled back her hair. “Look.”

  “Very pretty,” I said to her.

  She laughed. “Don’t blow your credibility. I do have big ears. And I do have this big smile, lots of teeth and gums.”

  “So some smart-ass kid came up with Dumbo-Gumbo?”

  “My brother, Dwight, did it to me. He also came up with ‘Gumbo Din.’ He still hasn’t said he’s sorry.”

  “Well, I’m sorry for him. Your smile is dazzling, and your ears are just right.”

  She laughed again. I loved to hear her laugh. I loved everything about her actually. I couldn’t have been happier with our first night out.

  Chapter 17

  THE TIME flew by like nothing at all. We talked about charter schools, a national curriculum, a Gordon Parks exhibit at the Corcoran, lots of silly stuff, too. I would have guessed it was maybe nine-thirty when I happened to glance at my watch. It was actually ten to twelve.

  “It’s a school night,” Christine said. “I have to go, Alex. I really do. My coach will turn into a pumpkin and all that.”

  Her car was parked on Nineteenth Street and we walked there together. The streets were silent, empty, glittering under overhead lamps.

  I felt as if I’d had a little too much to drink, but I knew I hadn’t. I was feeling carefree, remembering what it was like to be that way.

  “I’d like to do this again sometime. How about tomorrow night?” I said and started to smile. God, I liked the way this was going.

  Suddenly, something was wrong. I saw a look I didn’t like — sadness and concern. Christine peered into my eyes.

  “I don’t think so, Alex. I’m sorry,” she said. “I’m really sorry. I thought I was ready, but I guess maybe I’m not. There’s a saying — scars grow with us.”

  I sucked in a breath. I wasn’t expecting that. In fact, I don’t remember ever having been so wrong about how I was getting along with someone. It was like a sudden punch to the chest.

  “Thanks for taking me to just about the nicest restaurant I’ve ever been to. I’m really, really sorry. It’s nothing that you did, Alex.”

  Christine continued to look into my eyes. She seemed to be searching for something, and I guess not finding it.

  She got into her car without saying another word. She seemed to efficient suddenly, so in control. She started it up and drove away. I stood in the empty street and watched until her car’s blazing brake lights disappeared.

  It’s nothing that you did, Alex. I could hear her words repeating in my head.

  Chapter 18

  BAD BOY was back in Wilmington, Delaware. He had work to do here. In some ways, this might even be best part.

  Gary Soneji strolled the well-lit streets of Wilmington, seemingly without care in the world. Why should he worry? He was skillful enough at makeup and disguises to fool the stiffs living here in Wilmington. He’d fooled them in Washington, hadn’t he?

  He stopped and stared at a huge, red-type-on-white poster near the train station. “Wilmington — A Place to Be Somebody,” it read. What a terrific, unintentional joke, he thought.

  So was a three-story mural of bloated whales and dolphins that looked as if it had been stolen from some beach town in Southern California. Somebody ought to hire the Wilmington town council to work on Saturday Night Live. They were good, real good.

  He carried a duffel bag, but didn’t draw any attention to himself. The people he saw on his little walk looked as if they had outfitted themselves from the pages of the Sears catalog, circa 1961. Lots of twill that didn’t exactly flatter girth; putrid-colored plaid; comfortable brown shoes on everybody.

  He heard the grating mid-Atlantic accent a few times, too. “I’ve got to phewn heum” (“I’ve got to phone home”). A plain and ugly dialect for plain and ugly thoughts.

  Jesus, what a place to have lived. How the hell had he survived during those sterile years? Why had he bothered to come back now? Well, he knew the answer to that question. Soneji knew why he’d come back.

  Revenge.

  Payback time.

  He turned off North Street and onto his old street, Central Avenue. He stopped across from a whitepainted brick house. He stared at the house for a long time. It was a modest Colonial, two stories. It had belonged to Missy’s grandparents originally, and that was why she hadn’t moved.

  Click your heels together, Gary. Jesus, there’s no place like home.

  He opened his duffel bag and took out his weapon of choice. He was especially proud of this one. He’d been waiting for a long time to use it.

  Gary Soneji finally crossed the street. He marched up to the front door as if he owned the place, just as he had four years ago, the last time he’d been here, the day Alex Cross had barged into his life along with his partner, John Sampson.

  The door was unlocked — how sweet — his wife and daughter were waiting up for him, eating Poppycock and watching Friends on television.

  “Hi. Remember me?” Soneji said in a soft voice.

  They both started to scream.

  His own sweet wife, Missy.

  His darling little girl, Roni.

  Screaming like strangers, because they knew him so well, and because they had seen his weapon.

  Chapter 19

  IF YOU ever began to face all the facts, you probably wouldn’t get up in the morning. The war room inside police headquarters was filled beyond capacity with ringing telephones, percolating computers, state-of-the-art surveillance equipment. I wasn’t fooled by all the activity or the noise. We were still nowhere on the shootings.

  First thing, I was asked to give a briefing on Soneji. I was supposed to know him better than anyone else, yet somehow I felt that I didn’t know enough, especially now. We had what’s called a roundtable. Over the course of an hour, I shorthanded the details of his kidnapping of two children a few years earlier in Georgetown, his eventual capture, the dozens of interviews we’d had at Lorton Prison prior to his escape.

  Once everybody on the task force was up to speed, I got back to work myself. I needed to find out who Soneji was, who he really was; and why he had decided to come back now; why he had returned to Washington.

  I worked throug
h lunch and never noticed the time. It look that long just to retrieve the mountain of data we had collected on Soneji. Around two in the afternoon, I found myself painfully aware of pushpins on the “big board,” where we were collecting “important” information.

  A war room just isn’t war room without pushpin maps and a large bulletin board. At the very top of our board was the name that had been given to the case by the chief of detectives. He had chosen “Web,” since Soneji had already picked up the nickname “Spider” in police circles. Actually, I’d coined the nickname. It came out of the complex webs he was always able to spin.

  One section of the big board was devoted to “civilian leads.” These were mostly reliable eyewitness accounts from the previous morning at Union Station. Another section was “police leads,” most of which were the detective’s reports from the train terminal.

  Civilian leads are “untrained eye” reports; police leads are “trained eye.” The thread in all of the reports so far was that no one had a good description of what Gary Soneji looked like now. Since Soneji had demonstrated unusual skill with disguises in the past, the news wasn’t surprising, but it was disturbing to all of us.

  Soneji’s personal history was displayed on another part of the board. A long, curling computer printout listed every jurisdiction where he had ever been charged with a crime, as well as several unsolved homicides that overlapped his early years in Princeton, New Jersey.

  Polaroid pictures depicting the evidence we had so far were also pinned up. Captions had been written in marker on the photos. The captions read: “known skills, Gary Soneji”; “hiding locations, Gary Soneji”; “physical characteristics, Gary Soneji”; “preferred weapons, Gary Soneji.”

  There was a category for “Known associates” on the board, but this was still bare. It was likely to remain that way. To my knowledge, Soneji had always worked alone. Was that assumption still accurate? I wondered. Had he changed since our last run-in?