Cat & Mouse

The train ride was quiet and comfortable, and I had the opportunity to think about Soneji for much of the trip. What I couldn’t reconcile was why Soneji was committing crimes that appeared to be acts of desperation. They seemed suicidal to me.

I had interviewed Soneji dozens of times after I had apprehended him a few years ago. That was the Dunne-Goldberg case. I certainly didn’t believe he was suicidal then. He was too much of an egomaniac, even a megalomaniac.

Maybe these were copycat crimes. Whatever he was doing now didn’t track. What had changed? Was it Soneji who was doing the killings? Was he pulling some kind of trick or stunt? Could this be a clever trap? How in hell had he gotten my blood on the sniper’s rifle in Union Station?

What kind of trap? For what reason? Soneji obsessed on his crimes. Everything had a purpose with him.

So why kill strangers in Union and Penn Stations? Why choose railroad stations?

“Oh ho, smoke’s curling out of your forehead, Sugar. You aware of that?” Sampson looked over at me and made an announcement to the nice folks seated around us in the train car.

“Little wisps of white smoke! See? Right here. And here.”

He leaned in close and started hitting me with his newspaper as if he were trying to put out a small fire.

Sampson usually favors a cool deadpan delivery to slapstick. The change of pace was effective. We both started to laugh. Even the people sitting around us smiled, looking up from their newspapers, coffees, laptop computers.

“Phew. Fire seems to be out,” Sampson said and chuckled deeply. “Man, your head is hot as Hades to the touch. You must have been brainstorming some powerful ideas. Am I right about that?”

“No, I was thinking about Christine,” I told Sampson.

“You lying sack. You should have been thinking about Christine Johnson. Then I would have had to beat the fire out someplace else. How you two doing? If I might be so bold as to ask.”

“She’s great, she’s the best, John. Really something else. She’s smart and she’s funny. Ho ho, ha ha.”

“And she’s almost as good-looking as Whitney Houston, and she’s sexy as hell. But none of that answers my question. What’s happening with you two? You trying to hide your love on me? My spy, Ms. Jannie, told me you had a date the other night. Did you have a big date and not tell me about it?”

“We went to Kinkead’s for dinner. Had a good time. Good food, great company. One little minor problem, though: She’s afraid I’m going to get myself killed, so she doesn’t want to see me anymore. Christine’s still mourning her husband.”

Sampson nodded, slid down his shades to check me out sans light filtration. “That’s interesting. Still mourning, huh? Proves she’s a good lady. By the by, since you brought up the forbidden topic, something I should tell you, all-star. You ever get capped in action, your family will mourn you for an indecent length of time. Myself, I would carry the torch of grief up to and through the funeral services. That’s it, though. Thought you should know. So, are you two star-crossed lovers going to have another date?”

Sampson liked to talk as if we were girlfriends in a Terry McMillan novel. We could be like that sometimes, which is unusual for men, especially two tough guys like us. He was on a roll now. “I think you two are so cute together. Everybody does. Whole town is talking. The kids, Nana, your aunties.”

“They are, are they?”

I got up and sat down across the aisle from him. Both seats were empty. I spread out my notes on Gary Soneji and started to read them again.

“Thought you would never get the hint,” Sampson said as he stretched his wide body across both seats.

As always, there was nothing like working a job with him. Christine was wrong about my getting hurt. Sampson and I were going to live forever. We wouldn’t even need DHEA or melatonin to help.

“We’re going to get Gary Soneji’s ass in a sling. Christine’s going to fall hard for you, like you obviously already fell for her. Everything will be beautiful, Sugar. Way it has to be.”

I don’t know why, but I couldn’t quite make myself believe that.

“I know you’re thinking negative shit already,” Sampson said without even looking over at me, “but just watch. Nothing but happy endings this time.”

Chapter 25

SAMPSON AND I arrived in New York City around nine o’clock in the morning. I vividly remembered an old Stevie Wonder tune about getting off the bus in New York for the first time. The mixture of hopes and fears and expectations most people associate with the city seems a universal reaction.

As we climbed the steep stone steps from the underground tracks in Penn Station, I had an insight about the case. If it was right, it would definitely tie Soneji to both train-station massacres.

“I might have something on Soneji,” I told Sampson as we approached the bright lights gleaming at the top of the stairs. He turned his head toward me but kept on climbing.