“Feel like we just landed on Mars,” Sampson said as we waited and watched Durham’s finest, watched complainants come and go. “Don’t like the feeling I get from the Martians. Don’t like their beady little Martian eyes. Don’t think I like the new South.”
“You think about it, we’d fit in the same anywhere,” I told Sampson. “We’d get the same reception, same cold stares, at Nairobi Police Headquarters.”
“Maybe.” Sampson nodded behind his dark glasses. “But at least they’d be black Martians. At least they’d know who John Coltrane is.”
Durham detectives Nick Ruskin and Davey Sikes finally came down to see us an hour and a quarter after we arrived.
Ruskin reminded me a little of Michael Douglas in his dark-hero cop roles. He wore a coordinated outfit: green-and-tan tweed jacket, stonewashed jeans, yellow pocket T. He was about my height, which would make him six three or so, a little bigger than life. His longish brown hair was slicked back and razor-cut.
Davey Sikes was well built. His head was a solid block that made sharp right angles with his shoulders. He had sleepy, oatmeal-brown eyes; almost no affect that I could discern. Sikes was a sidekick type, definitely not the leader. At least not if first appearances meant anything.
The two detectives shook hands with us, and acted as if all were forgiven, as if they were forgiving us for intruding. I had the feeling that Ruskin especially was used to getting his way inside the Durham PD. He seemed like the local star. The main man around these parts. Matinee idol at the Durham Triplex.
“Sorry about the wait, Detective Cross, Sampson. It’s been busy as a son of a bitch around here,” Nick Ruskin said. He had a 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.”