Criss Cross (Alex Cross) - James Patterson Page 0,13
struck the door with the knocker a few times.
A maid soon opened the door. We told her that we wished to speak with Mr. Singer, and she said he’d just stepped out and that we were lucky that he was in Washington at all rather than Palm Beach or La Jolla, where he also had homes.
Given that the two other rape-and-murder victims had been found a short distance from those two cities, we were now very interested in talking to Mr. Singer.
His housekeeper said he’d decided to take a walk after the rain let up and had headed to Georgetown Cupcake on M Street.
We hustled south and then west to the shop, which was full of kids just out of school and moms with younger children, all of them eager for cupcakes. There were only two men besides us in the establishment, each sitting at a table. One was in his thirties, wearing a gray suit that didn’t fit him very well and a tie that looked like it might have been a clip-on. The other, who had his back to us, wore a sharply tailored blue sport jacket, khaki pants, and blue socks with white polka dots. His hair was jet-black and slicked back with some kind of pomade. This had to be Perry Singer.
When we got around the table, we discovered a man in his late eighties sipping an espresso and nibbling at a chocolate cupcake he held with shaky hands. He wore a starched white shirt and a bow tie that matched his socks. A fancy cane rested against his thigh.
He didn’t seem to notice us even when Sampson muttered, “This is supposed to be our suspect? I’ve taken an intense dislike to Bernard Mountebank.”
“The British have an odd sense of humor,” I said. “Mr. Singer? Perry Singer?”
The old man started. “Do I know you?” he asked in a soft Southern accent.
We showed him our badges and IDs and told him we were working on a homicide investigation.
“Just tying up some loose ends,” Sampson said. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”
Mr. Singer shrugged. “Okay. How can I help?”
After showing him the tie in the evidence bag, I said, “Do you own one of these ties? It’s a Kiton, the kind they sell at La Cravate.”
He fumbled in his breast pocket, found glasses, and put them on. The old man studied the tie and then nodded. “I do own one. Or did. I haven’t seen it in a while. Besides, this style of tie is almost out of fashion these days.”
“But you said you haven’t seen the tie in a while?” Sampson asked.
Mr. Singer seemed to find that confusing and then amusing.
“That’s right, but who knows, it might be in my closet here or in Palm Beach or La Jolla. I have at least four thousand ties in my collection.”
“So this could be your tie?” I asked.
“Well, I suppose it could have been stolen from me. But I most certainly did not tie that knot. It’s a four-in-hand, and I’ve always preferred a Pratt or, if I’m feeling particularly jaunty, a Van Wijk.”
Before I could reply, I happened to glance up to see FBI special agent Kyle Craig coming through the door. He spotted me and appeared taken aback.
I excused myself and went over. “Kyle?”
“What are you doing here, Alex?”
“Interviewing an octogenarian about his ties.”
Craig curled his lip. “Perry Singer?”
That surprised me. “Yes.”
“You sent over by the British guy?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t like that one, that Bernard.”
“Neither does John. How are you involved?”
“Behavioral picked up the case now that there are three,” he said quickly. “I was looking at pics of the ties and decided to go to the only tie store that was local.”
“Great minds think alike.”
“There anything to him being involved?”
I shook my head. “Mr. Singer owns a tie that matches the one used to kill Kissy Raider but says he hasn’t seen it in a while. Although that doesn’t mean anything; he evidently has four thousand ties spread across closets in three homes.” I also told him about the knots. “Are the other knots four-in-hand?”
Craig shrugged. “I don’t know the difference. I just do the one my dad taught me.”
“The one Nana Mama taught me is a Windsor knot, I think.”
“Dead end, then?”
I glanced over at Sampson and saw him shake Mr. Singer’s feeble hand and then pick up the evidence bag.
“Sure looks that way,” I said.
CHAPTER 15
WE WERE STALLED IN THE Kissy Raider investigation for another week, and then files and reports came back from labs and