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Authors: James Patterson
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Alex. Just like I know you.”
“Did Cooper kill in combat?” I asked.
Sampson shook his head. “That was war. A lot of our people got killed too. You know what it’s like. You’ve killed men,” he said. “Doesn’t make you a murderer, does it?”
“I don’t know. Does it?”
I couldn’t help overhearing a man and woman who were sitting next to us at the bar. “Police found poor Vanessa in the woods near I-95. Only disappeared two nights ago. Now she’s dead, she’s gone. Some freaks killed her. Probably army trash,” the woman was saying. She had a thick southern accent and sounded angry, but also frightened.
I turned and saw a florid-faced, redheaded woman in a bright blue halter top and white slacks. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing. What happened?” I asked. “Somebody was murdered outside of town?”
“Girl who comes in here sometimes. Vanessa. Somebody shot her,” the redhead said, and shook her head back and forth. The man she was with wore a black silk shirt, cowboy hat, and looked like a failed country-and-western singer. He didn’t like it that the woman was talking to me.
“My name is Cross. I’m a homicide detective from Washington. My partner and I are working a case down here.”
The woman’s head shot back. “I don’t talk to cops,” she said, and turned away. “Mind your own business.”
I looked at Sampson, then spoke in a lowered voice. “If it’s the same killer, he’s not being too careful.”
“Or the same
three
killers,” he said.
Someone elbowed me hard in the back. I whirled around and saw a heavyset, well-muscled blond man in a checkered sport shirt and khakis. He had a “high and tight.” Definitely military.
“Time you two got the hell out of Dodge,” he said. Two other men stood behind him.
Three of them.
They were dressed up in civilian clothes, but they sure looked like army. “Time you stopped causing trouble. You hear me?”
“We’re talking here. Don’t interrupt us again,” Sampson said. “You hear
me?
”
“You’re a big load, aren’t you? Think you’re a real tough guy?” the front man asked.
Sampson broke into a slow smile that I’d seen before. “Yeah, I do. He’s a tough guy too.”
The muscular blonde tried to shove Sampson off his stool. John didn’t budge. One of the blonde’s buddies came at me. I moved quickly, and he swung and missed. I hit him hard in the gut, and he went down on all fours.
Suddenly, all three men were on us. “Your asshole friend’s a killer,” the blonde yelled. “He killed women!”
Sampson hit him on the chin, and he sank down on one knee. Unfortunately, these guys didn’t stay down once they were hit. Another bruiser joined in, making it four against two.
A shrill whistle sounded inside the bar. I whirled around and looked toward the door. The military police had arrived. So had a couple of eager-looking deputies from the Fayetteville police. They all had batons at the ready. I wondered how they’d gotten here so fast.
They waded in and arrested everybody involved in the bar fight, including Sampson and me. They weren’t interested in who’d started it. Our heads bowed, we were escorted out to a black-and-white in handcuffs. We were shoved down into a squad car.
“First time for everything,” Sampson said.
Chapter 26
WE DIDN’T NEED this crap — especially not now. We were taken to the Cumberland County jail in a small blue bus that sat ten. Apparently there were only a couple of cells at the jail in Fayetteville. At no time were we offered any professional courtesy because we were homicide detectives from Washington, who just happened to be working on behalf of Sergeant Ellis Cooper.
In case you’re ever looking for it, the booking facility at the county jail is located in the basement. It took about half an hour for the local police to do our paperwork, fingerprint us, and take our photographs. We were given a cold shower, then “put in the pumpkin patch.” That
“Did Cooper kill in combat?” I asked.
Sampson shook his head. “That was war. A lot of our people got killed too. You know what it’s like. You’ve killed men,” he said. “Doesn’t make you a murderer, does it?”
“I don’t know. Does it?”
I couldn’t help overhearing a man and woman who were sitting next to us at the bar. “Police found poor Vanessa in the woods near I-95. Only disappeared two nights ago. Now she’s dead, she’s gone. Some freaks killed her. Probably army trash,” the woman was saying. She had a thick southern accent and sounded angry, but also frightened.
I turned and saw a florid-faced, redheaded woman in a bright blue halter top and white slacks. “Sorry, I couldn’t help overhearing. What happened?” I asked. “Somebody was murdered outside of town?”
“Girl who comes in here sometimes. Vanessa. Somebody shot her,” the redhead said, and shook her head back and forth. The man she was with wore a black silk shirt, cowboy hat, and looked like a failed country-and-western singer. He didn’t like it that the woman was talking to me.
“My name is Cross. I’m a homicide detective from Washington. My partner and I are working a case down here.”
The woman’s head shot back. “I don’t talk to cops,” she said, and turned away. “Mind your own business.”
I looked at Sampson, then spoke in a lowered voice. “If it’s the same killer, he’s not being too careful.”
“Or the same
three
killers,” he said.
Someone elbowed me hard in the back. I whirled around and saw a heavyset, well-muscled blond man in a checkered sport shirt and khakis. He had a “high and tight.” Definitely military.
“Time you two got the hell out of Dodge,” he said. Two other men stood behind him.
Three of them.
They were dressed up in civilian clothes, but they sure looked like army. “Time you stopped causing trouble. You hear me?”
“We’re talking here. Don’t interrupt us again,” Sampson said. “You hear
me?
”
“You’re a big load, aren’t you? Think you’re a real tough guy?” the front man asked.
Sampson broke into a slow smile that I’d seen before. “Yeah, I do. He’s a tough guy too.”
The muscular blonde tried to shove Sampson off his stool. John didn’t budge. One of the blonde’s buddies came at me. I moved quickly, and he swung and missed. I hit him hard in the gut, and he went down on all fours.
Suddenly, all three men were on us. “Your asshole friend’s a killer,” the blonde yelled. “He killed women!”
Sampson hit him on the chin, and he sank down on one knee. Unfortunately, these guys didn’t stay down once they were hit. Another bruiser joined in, making it four against two.
A shrill whistle sounded inside the bar. I whirled around and looked toward the door. The military police had arrived. So had a couple of eager-looking deputies from the Fayetteville police. They all had batons at the ready. I wondered how they’d gotten here so fast.
They waded in and arrested everybody involved in the bar fight, including Sampson and me. They weren’t interested in who’d started it. Our heads bowed, we were escorted out to a black-and-white in handcuffs. We were shoved down into a squad car.
“First time for everything,” Sampson said.
Chapter 26
WE DIDN’T NEED this crap — especially not now. We were taken to the Cumberland County jail in a small blue bus that sat ten. Apparently there were only a couple of cells at the jail in Fayetteville. At no time were we offered any professional courtesy because we were homicide detectives from Washington, who just happened to be working on behalf of Sergeant Ellis Cooper.
In case you’re ever looking for it, the booking facility at the county jail is located in the basement. It took about half an hour for the local police to do our paperwork, fingerprint us, and take our photographs. We were given a cold shower, then “put in the pumpkin patch.” That
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