Four Blind Mice (Alex Cross 8)

Sampson shrugged as we watched the CID officer shuffle off. “Can’t say that I blame him too much. I wouldn’t want you and me messing around at my crime scene either.”

“So, let’s go mess around.”

I went over to see if I could get anything from the FBI people, the Evidence Response Team, also known as ERTs. They were being their usual thorough selves in the kitchen. Given the normal amount of dislike for the FBI, it’s remarkable how much respect is given to ERTs. The reason is, they’re very, very good.

Two members of the ERT were taking Polaroid shots in the kitchen. Another, wearing a white coverall called a “bunny suit,” was looking for fibers and hairs using an alternative light source. Everybody had on rubber gloves and paper booties over their shoes. The head man was named Michael Fescoe; I had already met him down on the Appalachian Trail, where he had supervised the crime scene investigation in the woods.

“CID giving you their full cooperation too?” I asked.

He scratched his light bro

wn crew cut. “I can tell you my version, and it’s a little different from Captain Conte’s.”

“Please,” I said.

Fescoe began, “The killers, whoever they were, did a thorough job with both the setup and the cleanup. They’ve done this before. They’re professionals through and through. Just like the killers in West Virginia.”

“How many of them?” I asked.

Fescoe held up three fingers. “Three men. They surprised the Bennetts at dinner. And then they murdered them. These men, they bring force to bear without conscience. You can quote me on that.”

Chapter 65

IT WAS TIME to celebrate! The war was over. Starkey, Harris, and Griffin ordered obscenely large, very rare porterhouse steaks topped with jumbo shrimp at Sparks restaurant on East Forty-sixth Street in Manhattan. For anyone with wads of the green stuff, there was no better place to get happy in a hurry than New York City.

“Three years, but it’s finally over,” said Harris, raising a glass of cognac, his fourth after-dinner drink of the evening.

“Unless our mysterious benefactor changes his mind,” cautioned Starkey. “It could happen. One more hit. Or maybe a complication that we didn’t plan on. Which doesn’t mean we shouldn’t party tonight.”

Brownley Harris finished his cheesecake and dabbed his mouth with a cloth napkin. “Tomorrow we go home to Rocky Mount. The good life. That’s not so terrible bad. We’re finally out of the game, undefeated and unscored upon. Nobody can touch us now.”

Warren Griffin just grinned. He was pretty well plowed. So was Harris. But not Starkey, who said, “But tonight, we party. We damn well deserve it. Just like the old days, Saigon and Bangkok, Hong Kong. The night is young, and we’re full of mischief, piss and vinegar.” He leaned in close to his friends. “I want to rape and pillage tonight. It’s our right.”

After they left the restaurant, the three friends strolled to East Fifty-second, between First and York. The brownstone they stopped at was a walk-up that had seen better days. Four stories. No doorman. Starkey knew it as Asia House.

He rang the front buzzer and waited for the intercom. He had been here before.

A woman answered in a sultry voice. “Hi. May I have your code please, gentlemen.”

Starkey gave it in Vietnamese. Silver. Mercedes 11.

They were buzzed inside. “Các em dang cho. Em dep het xay,” the female said in Vietnamese. The ladies are waiting, and they are stunning.

“So are we,” Thomas Starkey said, and laughed.

Starkey, Harris, and Griffin climbed the flight of red-carpeted stairs. As they reached the first landing, a plain gray door opened.

An Asian girl, slender and young, no more than eighteen and gorgeous, stood legs akimbo in the doorway. She had on a black bra and matching panties, thigh-high stockings, sling backs with high heels.

“Hi there,” she said in English. “I’m Kym. Welcome. You’re very good-looking men. This will be fun for us too.”

“You’re very beautiful too, Kym,” Starkey said in Vietnamese. “And your English is flawless.” He then pulled out a revolver and pointed it between the girl’s eyes. “Don’t say another word, or you die. Right here, right now, Kym. Your blood all over the carpet and those walls.”

He shoved the girl into a living room, where three other girls were seated on two small couches. They were also young, Asian, very pretty.

They wore silk negligees — lavender, red, and pink, with color-coordinated high heels and stockings. Victoria’s Secret.

“Don’t speak, ladies. Not a word,” Starkey said, pointing his gun at one then another.