Four Blind Mice (Alex Cross 8)

“Shhh.” Brownley Harris held a finger to his lips. “Nobody gets hurt. We don’t want that either. Trust me, my little Asian dolls.”

Starkey threw open the door at the rear of the living room. He surprised an older woman, probably the voice over the intercom, as well as a husky bouncer in a black T-shirt and gym shorts that had CRUNCH stenciled on it. They were greedily eating Chinese food out of cardboard containers.

“Nobody gets hurt,” Starkey said in Vietnamese as he shut the door behind him. “Hands up high.”

The man and woman slowly raised their hands, and Starkey shot them dead with the silenced revolver. He wandered over to some high-tech equipment and calmly removed a tape. The surveillance camera at the front entrance had recorded their arrival, of course.

Starkey left the slumped, bloody bodies and returned to the living room. The party had begun without him. Brownley Harris was kissing and fondling the pretty young girl who had answered the door. He had lifted Kym up and held her tiny mouth pressed against his. She was too frightened to resist.

“May cái này moi dem lai nhieu ky niem,” Starkey said, and smiled at his friends but also at the women.

Memories are made of this.

Chapter 66

THEY HAD DONE this many times before, and not just in New York. They’d “celebrated” victories in Hong Kong, Saigon, Frankfurt, Los Angeles, even London. It had all started in South Vietnam when they were just boys in their teens and early twenties, when the war was on and the madness was everywhere around them. Starkey called it “blood lust.”

The four Asian girls were terrified, and that was the thrill for Starkey. He totally got off on the look of fear in their eyes. Starkey believed that all men did, though few would admit it.

“BFn tao muGn liên hoan!” he shouted.

We want to party now!

“Chi liên hoan, the thôi.”

It’s a celebration.

Starkey found out the girls’ names: Kym, Lan, Susie, and Hoa. They were pretty, but Kym was truly beautiful. A slender body with small breasts, delicate features — the best of a complicated heritage that could be Chinese, French, and Indian.

Harris found bottles of scotch and champagne in a small kitchen. He passed the hootch around and made the girls drink too.

The alcohol calmed them, but Kym kept asking about the owner. Occasionally the bell rang downstairs. Kym’s English was the best, so she was told to say that the girls were busy for the night — a private party. “Come back another time, please. Thank you.”

Griffin took two of the girls upstairs to another floor. Starkey and Harris looked at each other and rolled their eyes. Starkey kept an ear cocked once Griffin was upstairs. At least he’d left two pretty ones for Brownley and him. Kym and Lan.

Starkey asked Kym to dance. Her eyes were gleaming slants of dark purple. Except for her three-inch heels, Kym was naked now. An old song by the Yardbirds played on the radio. As he danced, Starkey remembered that Vietnamese women had a thing about their height, at least when they were around American men. Or maybe it was American men who had a thing about height? Or length?

Harris was speaking in English to Lan. He handed her a bottle of champagne. “Drink,” he said. “No, drink it down there, babe.”

The girl understood, either the words or lewd gestures. She shrugged, then dropped onto the couch and inserted the champagne bottle in herself. She poured the champagne, then comically wiped her lips. “I was thirsty!” she said in English.

The joke got a good laugh. Broke the tension.

“Ban cung phai uong nua,” the girl said.

You drink too.

Harris laughed and passed the bottle to Kym. She lifted one leg and put it inside without sitting down. She kept it there while she danced with Starkey, spilling champagne all over the carpet and her shoes. Everybody was laughing now.

“The bubbles tickle,” Kym said, sitting down on the couch. “I have an itch inside me now. You want to scratch it?” she asked Starkey.

The switchblade seemed to come from nowhere. Kym jabbed it at Starkey without actually stabbing him. She screamed, “You go! Leave right now. Or I cut you bad!”

Then Starkey had his gun out. He was cool and calm. He reached over to the radio and shut off the loud music. Silence. And dread. Incredible tension in the room. Everywhere except on Thomas Starkey’s face.

“Dung, dung!” cried Kym. “Hay dep súng ong sang mot bên di bô.”

No, no! Put the gun away.