Pop Goes the Weasel (Alex Cross 5)

I pointed my Glock at Shafer. At the Weasel. I went up to him and bent down on one knee. My whole body was trembling. I examined the right leg of his trousers.

“What the hell are you doing?” he asked, pulling away from me. “This is completely absurd.

“I’m with the British Embassy,” Shafer then stated. “I repeat, I’m with the British Embassy. You have no rights here.”

“Officers,” I called to the two patrolmen who were still outside the door. I tried to act calm, but I wasn’t. “Come here and look. You see this?”

Both patrolmen moved closer to Shafer. They entered the living room.

“Stay out of this apartment!” The therapist raised her voice close to a scream.

“Remove your trousers,” I said to Shafer. “You’re under arrest.”

Shafer lifted his leg and gave a look. He saw a dark stain, Patsy Hampton’s blood, smudged on the cuff of his trousers. Fear shot through his eyes, and he lost his cool.

“You put that blood there! You did it,” he yelled at me. He pulled out an identification badge. “I am an official at the British Embassy. I don’t have to put up with this outrage. I have diplomatic immunity. I will not take off my trousers for you. Call the embassy immediately! I demand diplomatic immunity.”

“Get out of here now!” Dr. Cassady yelled loudly. Then she pushed one of the patrolmen.

It was just what Shafer needed. He broke free and ran back through the living room. He rushed into the first room down the hallway, slammed the door, and locked it.

The Weasel was trying to get away. It couldn’t happen; I couldn’t let it. I got to the door seconds behind him. “Come out of there, Shafer! You’re under arrest for the murder of Detective Patsy Hampton.”

Dr. Cassady came screaming down the hall after me.

I heard the toilet flush in the bathroom. No, no, no! I reared back powerfully and kicked in the door.

Shafer was pulling off his trousers, standing on one leg. I tackled him hard, knocked him over, then held him facedown against the tile floor. He screamed curses at me, flailed his arms, bucked his lower body. I pushed his face harder into the floor.

The therapist tried to pull me off Shafer. She was scratching my face, pounding my back with her fists. It took both policemen to restrain her.

“You can’t do this to me!” Shafer was yelling at the top of his voice, twisting and turning beneath me, a powerful stallion of a man.

“This is illegal. I have diplomatic immunity!”

I turned to one of the officers.

“Cuff him.”

Chapter 74

IT WAS A LONG AND VERY SAD NIGHT at the Farragut, and I didn’t leave until past three. I had never lost a partner before, though I had once come close with Sampson, in North Carolina. I realized that I’d already come to think of Patsy Hampton as a partner, and a friend. At least we had the Weasel in custody.

I slept in the next morning, allowing myself the small luxury of not setting the alarm. Still, I was wide awake by seven. I’d been dreaming about Patsy Hampton, and also about Christine—different, vivid scenes with each of them, the kind of frenetic dreams where you wake up feeling as tired as when you went to bed. I said a prayer for both of them before I finally rolled out of bed. We had the Weasel. Now I had to get the truth out of him.

I slipped on a somewhat worn white satin robe. Muhammad Ali had worn it in his training camp in Manila before the Joe Frazier fight. Sampson had given it to me for my fortieth birthday. He appreciated the fact that while most people would treat the robe as some kind of sacred exhibit in their house, I routinely wear it to breakfast.

I love the old robe, which is unusual for me since I’m not particularly into mementos and souvenirs. Maybe part of it is that I’m supposed to resemble Ali physically, or so people tell me. Maybe I’m a little better looking, but he’s definitely the better man.

When I got down to the kitchen, Nana and the kids were sitting at the table watching the small portable TV that she keeps there but doesn’t use very often. She prefers to read or chitchat and, of course, cook.

“Ali.” Jannie looked up at me and grinned, but then her eyes went back to the TV. “You should watch this, Daddy.”

Nana muttered into her cup of tea. “Your British murderer is all over the news this morning. TV and the newspaper, too. ‘Diplomatic Immunity May Bar Prosecution of British Embassy Suspect,’ ‘Spy Linked to Detective Slay.’ They already interviewed people in Union Station and on Pennsylvania Avenue. Everybody’s mad as a hatter about this diplomatic-immunity disgrace, as they call it. It’s just terrible.”

“I’m mad. It’s not right,” Damon said. “Not if he did it. Did he, Dad? Did he do it?”

I nodded. “He did it.” I poured milk into my coffee. I wasn’t quite ready to deal with Geoffrey Shafer, or the kids, or especially the horrible, senseless murder the night before. “Anything else on the news?”