Chapter 87
“DC POLICE! EVERYBODY PUT THE GUNS DOWN. Do it now! We’re police officers. Guns down on the ground.”
Sullivan saw the cops, and they looked like detectives, two buff-looking black guys in street clothes.
They were coming up behind the Mafia hoods who were standing near Thirty-first Street and trying to figure out what the hell to do next, their next move.
So was he.
What a sight the two cops were, though, and Sullivan wondered, Could they be part of the task force put into Georgetown to catch the rapist, to catch him?
Hell, he’d bet a bundle that’s what they were, and if it was true, he was the only one in the alleyway who had figured it out so far.
One of the cops was already calling in for help. Then the two mob guys near Wisconsin just turned around—and they walked away.
The detectives had their guns out, but what were they going to do? Realistically, what could they do?
Sullivan almost began to laugh as he turned slowly and walked toward Wisconsin too.
Then he began to run, a full-out sprint toward the busy street. Madman that he was, he started laughing his ass off. He’d decided to brazen it out, just run. Like in the old days back in Brooklyn when he was a kid making his bones in the game.
Run, Mikey, run. Run for your life.
What could the DC metro cops do? Shoot him in the back? For what? Running? Being the potential victim of four armed men in an alleyway?
The cops were yelling, threatening him, but all they could do was watch him get away. Funniest thing he’d seen in years, maybe ever. The cavalry had come to the rescue—his.
Huge mistake.
Theirs.
Chapter 88
HALF A DOZEN UNIFORMS WERE MOVING in and out of the station house on Wisconsin when Sampson and I got there that afternoon. A detective named Michael Wright had finally made the connection that he and his partner might have just missed capturing the Georgetown rapist, that he’d maybe missed the biggest deal of his career. Still, they were holding two men in the cage who might know what was going on. They needed a closer.
Sampson and I passed inside a ten-foot-high bulletproof partition and headed for the interrogation rooms, which were beyond the detectives’ cubicle area. The work space looked familiar—scarred, badly littered desks, old computers and phones from another era, overhead storage bins filled to overflowing.
Before we entered the interrogation room, Wright told us that the two men in there hadn’t said a word so far, but they’d been armed with Berettas, and he was sure they were killers. “Have fun,” Wright said; then John and I walked inside.
Sampson spoke up first. “I’m Detective John Sampson. This is Dr. Alex Cross. Dr. Cross is a forensic psychologist involved in the investigation of a series of rapes in the Georgetown area. I’m a detective on the case.”
Neither of the men said a word, not even a wisecrack, to break the ice. Both of them looked to be in their early thirties, bodybuilder types, with permanent smirks on their faces.
Sampson asked a couple more questions; then we just sat there in silence across the table from the two men.
Eventually an administrative assistant knocked on the door and entered. She handed Sampson a couple of faxes, hot from the machine.
He read the pages—then handed them to me.
“I didn’t think the Mafia was active in the DC area,” Sampson said. “Guess I was wrong. You’re both soldiers in the mob. Either of you have anything to say about what was going down in that alley?”
They didn’t, and they were annoyingly smug about not answering our questions and pretending we weren’t even there.
“Dr. Cross, maybe we can work this out without their help. What do you think?” Sampson asked me.
“We can try. It says here that John ‘Digger’ Antonelli and Joseph ‘Blade’ Lanugello work for Maggione out of New York Cit
y. That would be Maggione Jr. Maggione Sr. was the one who hired a man named Michael Sullivan, also known as the Butcher, to do a hit in DC several years back. You remember that one, John?”