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I shook my head. “I think you do. Actually, Colonel Handler was in charge of the MACV Recondo School when you were there being trained as a scout.”
Luu smiled for the first time. “Believe it or not, Detective Cross, the scouts didn’t usually get to meet the man in charge.”
“But you met Colonel Handler. He remembered you to the day he was killed. Can you help me stop the murders?” I asked Luu. “You know what happened over there, don’t you? Why did you agree to see me?”
He gave another indifferent shrug. “I agreed to see you . . . because my good friend asked me to. My friend is Kyle Craig.”
Chapter 73
I COULD FEEL a cold spot where my heart was supposed to be. This couldn’t all be leading to Kyle Craig. I had put him here in Florence for all the murders he had committed — and now, somehow, he’d gotten me to come and visit.
“Hello, Alex. I thought you’d forgotten all about me,” Kyle said when he saw me. We met in a small interview room near his cellblock. My head was full of paranoid thoughts about the “coincidence” of seeing him again. He couldn’t have set this up. Not even he could do that.
Kyle had changed physically, so much so that he resembled one of his older brothers, or maybe his father, more than his previous self. When I had been pursuing him, I’d met everyone in Kyle’s family. He’d always been gaunt, but in prison he had lost at least twenty pounds. His head was shaved and he had a tattoo on one side of his skull: it was part dragon, part snake. He actually looked like a killer now.
“Sit down, Alex. I missed you even more than I thought I would. Sit, please. Let’s talk the talk. Catch up with the catch-up.”
“I’ll stand, thanks. I’m not here to make small talk, Kyle. What do you know about these murders?”
“They’ve all been solved by the police or the army, Alex. The guilty have been charged, and in some cases executed. Just as I will be eventually. Why waste your time on them? I’m a hundred times more interesting. You should be studying me.”
His words were delivered in a low-key manner, but they went through me like a powerful electric current. Was Kyle the missing goddamn connection? He couldn’t be behind the murders. They had started long before he’d been arrested. But did that really matter?
“So, you don’t know anything that can help me? Then I’m leaving. Have a nice life.”
Kyle raised a hand. “I’d like to help, Alex. I mean that sincerely. Just like the old days. I miss it. The chase. What if I could help?” he asked.
“If you can, then do it, Kyle. Do it right now. We’ll see where it goes from there.”
Kyle leaned back in his chair. Finally, he smiled — or maybe he was laughing at me? “Well, since you didn’t ask. . . . It’s better here in prison than I could have hoped. Believe it or not, I’m a minor celebrity. And not just among my peers. Even the kick-ass guards cater to my wishes. I have lots of visitors. I’m writing a book, Alex. And, of course, I’m figuring out some way to get out of here. Trust me, I will someday. It’s just a matter of time. It almost happened a month ago. This close. I would have come to visit, of course. You and Nana and those sweet children.”
“Does Luu know anything?” I asked.
“Oh, absolutely. He’s very well read. Speaks three languages fluently. I like Luu very much. We’re dear friends. I also like Ted Kaczynski; Yu Kikimura, the Japanese terrorist; and Ramon Matta, formerly with the Medellín cartel. Interesting inmates, fascinating lives, though more conservative than I would have expected. Not Ted, but the others.”
I’d had enough. Of Kyle Craig. Luu. Florence.
“I’m going,” I said. I started to walk away.
“You’ll be back,” Kyle whispered. “Or maybe I’ll come and visit you next time. At any rate, best of luck with your fascinating murder case.”
I turned back. “You’ll be in here for the rest of your life. Not too long, I hope.”
Kyle Craig laughed heartily in his cell. More than ever, he gave me the creeps.
Chapter 74
AS JOHN SAMPSON drove into Bay Head, New Jersey, he felt his spirits rise dramatically, and the very pleasant sensation inside made him smile to himself. He was doing a lot of that lately. Hell, he was going to ruin his tough-guy image if he kept this shit up much longer.
He drove along Route 35, past sprawling beach houses, Central Market, and a couple of picturesque, whitewashed churches. This part of the Jersey Shore was quiet and undeniably pretty. He couldn’t help but appreciate the serenity and the well-preserved beauty. A slight breeze from the ocean blew through the open windows of his Cougar. Geraniums and rose hips bloomed along the side of the road, obviously planted by the village itself.
What was not to like? He was glad to be here again.
Long ways from D.C., he found himself thinking. And it’s not all bad. For a change of pace anyway. For a break from all the murders.
During the drive up from D.C., Sampson had tried to convince himself that this excursion to the Jersey Shore was all about Ellis Cooper and the other murders, but that wasn’t the whole truth. Coop was definitely a big part of it, but this was also about
Billie Houston.
