Alex Cross, Run (Alex Cross 20)

Still, Sampson had been hoping for something he could run with. He took another twenty minutes or so, checking the closets, the floorboards, and the air vents, just in case. But there was nothing.

Back outside, he was halfway to his car when he spotted one of the neighbors. He was an older man in golf pastels, wheeling his garbage out to the curb. It seemed worth a shot, anyway. Sampson stopped to take an empty interoffice envelope off his backseat, and headed over.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for Ron Guidice. Can you tell me if this is where he lives?”

The old man regarded the little blue Cape house and shook his head.

“Sorry. I know he’s a tall fellow with a beard, but I don’t know his name.”

“That sounds like him,” Sampson said. He held up the envelope. “He’s got to sign for this. Any idea when he tends to be home?”

“Hard to say.” The man stopped to lean on his mini-dumpster. He had lonely bachelor written all over him—the kind who liked to talk. “Ever since the old lady and that little girl moved out, he just kind of comes and goes. Mostly goes.”

Sampson nodded, keeping a poker face. Old lady? Little girl? Why hadn’t there been any mention of that in the background checks? And why didn’t they live here anymore?

“So, I guess that’s his family, huh?” he asked.

The man shrugged. “I think she was the grandma. Big fat lady, anyway. The little girl was cute as a bug, though. Same age as my granddaughter, just about. Five, maybe six, I’d say.”

Sampson’s mind was turning it all over while the neighbor talked. It explained a thing or two—like why Guidice might choose a place like this.

“I don’t suppose you know where I could find them,” he said, but now the man stepped back.

“Son, I don’t even know who they are. How am I going to know where they got to?”

“Fair enough,” Sampson said. “I’ll just try back.”

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking for him. What’s your name?” the man called out as Sampson headed to his car.

“Joe Smith,” he said. “But don’t worry about it. I’m pretty good at finding someone when I want to.”

CHAPTER

82

ABOUT HALFWAY THROUGH THE AFTERNOON, I GOT A SECOND CALL FROM Detective Penner down in Palm Beach.

I’d already passed Elijah Creem’s information on to Penner, and for all I knew Creem’s alibi for the night of the Florida murders had checked out. So what was this?

“What can I do for you?” I said.

“Actually, I might have something for you,” he said. “We’ve been seeing some of the coverage on your Georgetown serial cases up there. Sounds like some pretty crazy stuff.”

“To say the least,” I told him.

“So, these masks your perp is using. What can you tell me about them?” he asked.

Penner had no way of knowing about my restricted work status, and I wasn’t in any hurry to clue him in. I wanted to see what he had to say. For that, I was going to have to share a little information.

“They seem to be fabricated from latex,” I said. “Definitely high-grade, and convincing enough to pass on the street. If you look closely, you can pick up on a little bit of stiffness in the footage we’ve got, but not much.”

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” he said. “We’ve got a little security footage of our own down here. We picked up a guy getting into a dark sedan, a quarter mile north of our double homicide, and about half an hour after the estimated time of death for our two victims. There was just something about him—”

Penner hadn’t gotten all the way through what he had to say, but I saw it coming.

“Older white guy? Maybe six feet, and a hundred and eighty, two hundred pounds?”

“So you know what I’m talking about,” he said.