He cruised around the block a couple of times, checking her out in the most obvious ways, playing at being a john.
He finally slowed the Cougar beside a petite black girl showing off her wares near the hot Nation nightclub. She wore a silver bustier, matching short skirt, and platform heels.
The very best part: he had been instructed to go hunting in Washington tonight. He was following orders from the Wolf. Just doing his job.
The young black girl thrust her chest forward provocatively as he leaned across the front seat to talk to her. She probably thought that her pert young nipples put her in control of the situation. This encounter will be interesting, he was thinking. Shafer had on a wig, and he had colored his face and hands black. A dumb old rock tune was playing inside his head: “The name of the song is I like it like that.”
“Those real?” he asked as the girl leaned in close.
“Last time I checked they were. Maybe you should find out for yourself? You interested in a feel? It could be arranged, you know. A private tour, just for you, darlin’.”
Shafer smiled pleasantly, playing the game, too, the street hustle. If the girl noticed he was wearing blackface, she wasn’t letting on. Nothing bothers this one, does it? Well, we’ll see about that.
“Hop in,” he said. “I’d like to check you out. Breast to toe, as it were.”
“It’s a hundred,” she said, and suddenly stood back from the car. “Y’okay with that? ’Cause if you’re not —”
Shafer continued to smile. “If they’re real, a hundred is fine. It won’t be a problem.”
The girl opened the door and hopped into the car. She was wearing way too much perfume. “See for yourself, sweetheart. They’re kind of small-like, but they’re soooo nice. And they’re all yours.”
Shafer laughed again. “You know, I like you a great deal. Remember what you said, though. I’ll hold you to it.” They’re all mine.
Chapter 39
I WAS ON DUTY again at midnight, and I felt as though I was back in Homicide. I arrived in a familiar neighborhood that was mostly white clapboard row houses, many of them deserted, on New Jersey Avenue in Southeast. A crowd had already gathered at the murder scene, including some local gangbangers and little kids on bikes still up at that late hour.
A man in a Rastafarian hat full of dreadlocks was shouting at the police from behind the yellow crime-scene tape. “Hey, ya hear dat music?” he called in a loopy, wheezy voice. “Ya like dat music? Dat mah people music.”
Sampson met me outside one of the dilapidated row houses, and we went in together.
“Just like bad old times,” John said, shaking his head. “That why you’re here, Dragonslayer? Are you nostalgic for the old days? Want to come back to the Washington PD?”
I nodded and gestured around. “Yeah. I missed this. Bad homicide scenes in the middle of the night.”
“Bet you do, too. I would.”
The building where the body had been found was boarded up in front, but it was easy enough for us to get inside. There was no front door.
“This is Alex Cross,” Sampson said to the patrolmen standing just outside the open doorway. “You heard of him? This is the Alex Cross, brother.”
“Dr. Cross,” said the man as he stepped aside to let us enter.
“Gone,” said John Sampson, “but not forgotten.”
Once we were in, the scene was sadly familiar and reprehensible. Garbage was strewn in the hallways, and the smell of decaying food and urine was overpowering. Maybe it was because I hadn’t been inside one of these vacated rattraps in a while, over a year now.
We were told that the body was on the top floor, the third, so Sampson and I began to climb.
“Dumping grounds,” he muttered.
“Yeah, I know. I remember the drill pretty well.”
“At least we don’t have to visit the goddamn basement,” Sampson grumped. “So, why did you say you’re here? I didn’t catch that part.”
“I just missed hanging with you. Nobody calls me Sugar anymore.”
“Uh-huh. You Feebies aren’t into nicknames? So why are you here, Sugar?”