Kiss the Girls Page 0,14
light Southern accent. Lots of confidence in himself.
He hadn’t mentioned Naomi by name yet. Detective Sikes was silent. Didn’t say a word.
“You two like to take a ride with Davey and me? I’ll explain the situation on the way. There’s been a homicide. That’s what had us all tied. Police found a woman’s body out in Efland. This is a real bad one.”
Chapter 12
THIS IS a real bad one. A woman’s body in Efland. What woman?
Sampson and I followed Ruskin and Sikes out to their car, a forest-green Saab Turbo. Ruskin got in the driver’s seat. I remembered Sergeant Esterhaus’s words in Hill Street Blues: “Let’s be careful out there.”
“You know anything at all about the murdered woman?” I asked Nick Ruskin as we headed onto West Chapel Hill Street. He had his siren screaming and he was already driving fast. He drove with a kind of brashness and cockiness.
“I don’t know enough,” Ruskin said. “That’s our problem, Davey’s and mine, with this investigation. We can’t get straight-dick information about much of anything. That’s probably why we’re in such a good mood today. You notice?”
“Yeah, we noticed,” Sampson said. I didn’t look over at him. I could feel the steam rising in the back seat, though. Heat coming off his skin.
Davey Sikes glanced back and frowned at Sampson. I got the feeling they weren’t going to become best buddies.
Ruskin continued talking. He seemed to like the spotlight, being on the Big Case. “This entire case is under the control of the FBI now. The DEA got in the act, too. I wouldn’t be surprised if the CIA was part of the ‘crisis team.’ They did send some kinky crackerjack down from their fancy outpost in Sanford.”
“What do you mean this entire case?” I asked Ruskin. Warning alarms were sounding in my head. I thought of Naomi again.
This is a real bad one.
Ruskin turned around quickly and looked at me. He had penetrating blue eyes and they seemed to be sizing me up. “Understand we’re not supposed to tell you anything. We’re not authorized to bring you out here either.”
“I hear what you’re saying,” I said. “I appreciate the help.”
Once again, Davey Sikes turned and looked at us. I felt as if Sampson and I were on the other team, looking over the line of scrimmage, waiting for the ball snap, the crunch of bodies.
“We’re on our way to the third murder site,” Ruskin went on. “I don’t know who the victim is. Goes without saying that I hope the victim isn’t your niece.”
“What’s this case all about? Why all the mystery?” Sampson asked. He sat forward in his seat. “We’re all cops here. Talk straight to us.”
The Durham homicide detective hesitated before he answered. “A few women, let’s say several, have disappeared in a three-county area—Durham, Chatham, and Orange, which you’re in now. The press has reported a couple of disappearances and two murders so far. Unrelated murders.”
“Don’t tell me the media is actually cooperating with an investigation?” I said.
Ruskin half smiled. “Not in your wildest wet dreams. They only know what the FBI’s decided to tell them. Nobody’s actually withholding information, but nothing’s being volunteered, either.”
“You mentioned that several young women have disappeared,” I said. “How many exactly? Tell me about them.”
Ruskin talked out of the side of his mouth. “We believe eight to ten women are missing. All young. Late teens and early twenties. All students in college or high school. Only two bodies have been found, though. The one we’re going to see could make three. All the bodies were discovered in the last five weeks. The Feebies think we’re in the middle of what could be one of the worst kidnapping and murder sprees ever in the South.”
“How many FBI in town?” Sampson asked. “Squad? Battalion?”
“They’re here in full force. They have ‘evidence’ that the disappearances extend beyond state lines—Virginia, South Carolina, Georgia, down into Florida. They think our friendly squirrel abducted a Florida State cheerleader at this year’s Orange Bowl. They call him ‘The Beast of the Southeast.’ It’s as if he’s invisible. He’s in control of the situation right now. Calls himself Casanova… believes he’s a great lover.”
“Did Casanova leave mash notes at the murder scenes?” I asked Ruskin.
“Just at the last one. He seems to be coming out of his shell. He wants to communicate now. Bond with us. He told us he was Casanova.”
“Were any of the victims black women?” I asked Ruskin. One trait of repeat killers was that they tended