I leaned back out of the Jeep. “Is anyone else hurt? Have you checked?”
The doorman shook his head. “No. I don’t think so. I’ll go look.”
Sirens finally screeched inside the garage. I saw red and blue lights flashing and whirling against the ceiling and walls. Some of the tenants had made it into the garage as well. Why did they have to come and gape at this terrible crime?
A very bad thought flashed in my head. I climbed out of the Jeep, grabbing Patsy’s keys out of the ignition. I hurried around to the back. I pushed the release, and the rear door came open. My heart was thundering again. I didn’t want to look inside, but when I did, there was nothing. Jesus, Jesus, Jesus. “We have her!” Is Christine here, too? Where?
I looked around the garage. Up near the entrance I spotted Geoffrey Shafer’s sports car, the black Jaguar. He was here at the Farragut. Patsy must have followed him.
I ran across the garage to the Jag. I felt the hood, then the exhaust pipe. Both were still warm. The car hadn’t been in the garage very long. The doors were locked. I couldn’t break in. I was all too aware of the search-and-seizure constraints.
I stared inside the Jaguar. In the backseat I could see dress shirts on wire hangers. The hangers were white, and I thought of the chips in Detective Hampton’s wounds. Had he strangled her with a hanger? Was Shafer the Weasel? Was he still in the building? What about Christine? Was she here, too?
I said a few words to the patrolmen who’d just arrived, the first on the scene after me. Then I took them with me.
The helpful doorman told me which floor Shafer’s therapist’s apartment was on. The number was 10D, the penthouse. Like all buildings in D.C., the Farragut was restricted to a height no greater than that of the Capitol dome.
I took the elevator with the two uniformed cops, both in their twenties and both scared shitless, I’d bet. I was close to rage. I knew I had to be careful; I had to act professionally, to control my emotions somehow. If there was an arrest, there would be questions to answer, such as what I was doing here in the first place. Pittman would be on my case in a second.
I talked to the policemen on the way up, more to calm myself than anything else.
“You okay, Detective?” one of them asked me.
“I’m fine. I’m all right. The killer might still be in the building. The victim was a detective, one of our own. She was on surveillance here. The suspect has a relationship with a woman upstairs.”
The faces of both young cops tightened. It was bad enough to have seen the murdered woman in her car, but to learn that she was a policewoman, a detective on surveillance, made it worse. Now they were about to confront a cop killer.
We hurried out of the elevator to apartment 10D. I led the way and pressed the bell. I saw what appeared to be drops of blood on the hallway carpet near the door. I noticed the blood on my hands, saw the two cops staring at the blood.
No answer from inside the apartment, so I pounded my fist on the door. Was everyone okay in there? “Police, open up! D.C. police!”
I could hear a woman shouting inside. I had my Glock out, the safety off. I was angry enough to kill Shafer. I didn’t know if I could hold myself back.
The uniformed patrolmen took their pistols out of their holsters, too. After
just a few seconds I was ready to kick down the door, search-and-seizure constraints or no. I kept seeing Patsy Hampton’s face, her dead, vacant eyes, the savage wounds in her crushed throat.
Finally, the door to the apartment slowly opened.
A blond woman was standing there—Dr. Cassady, I assumed. She wore an expensive-looking light-blue suit with lots of gold buttons, but she was barefoot. She looked frightened and angry.
“What do you want?” she demanded. “What the hell is going on here? Do you know what you’ve done? You’ve interrupted a therapy session.”
Chapter 73
GEOFFREY SHAFER stepped into the doorway and stood a few feet behind his irate therapist. He was tall and imposing and very blond. He’s the Weasel, isn’t he?
“What the hell’s the problem here? Who are you, sir, and what do you want?” he asked in a clipped English accent.
“There’s been a murder,” I said. “I’m Detective Cross.” I showed them my badge. I kept looking past Shafer and Dr. Cassady, trying to spot something that would give me probable cause to come inside the apartment. There were lots of plants on the sills and hanging in windows—philodendron, azalea, English ivy. Dhurrie rugs in light pastels, overstuffed furniture.
“No. There’s certainly no murderer here,” the therapist said. “Leave this instant.”
“You should do as the lady says,” Shafer said.
Shafer didn’t look like a murderer. He was dressed in a navy suit, a white shirt, a moiré tie, a pocket square. Impeccable taste. Completely unruffled and unafraid.
Then I glanced down at his shoes. I almost couldn’t believe it. The gods had finally smiled on me.