Criss Cross (Alex Cross #27)(12)

Mountebank didn’t move, but Daniels ambled over to us. The fabric of his suit made swishing sounds as he came closer, interested now.

I handed him the evidence bag. He looked at the tie, then flipped the bag over.

“Can I remove it?” he asked.

“Only if you wear gloves,” Sampson said, holding out a pair of disposables.

I made a note on the bag that we were opening it, put on my own gloves, pulled back the zipper closure, and handed him the tie, which was still knotted.

“Hmmmm,” Daniels said, peering at the tie. He dug out his reading glasses so he could look closer. “Jacquard and Italian, for certain. Very nice indeed. Bernard, I believe this is a Stefano Ricci.”

Mountebank seemed piqued when he said, “Are you sure?”

“No, I’m not,” Daniels said. “You have a better eye for this kind of thing.”

That seemed to please Mountebank no end and he quickly came over, giving Sampson a harsh glance as he passed. He donned gloves, studied the tie in some detail, noting the stitching and the weave.

“It would be easy to think this is a Ricci, but it’s not,” Mountebank said at last. “This is a limited-edition tie from Kiton in Naples, Italy. Very nice. Two, maybe three hundred, retail.”

“For a tie?” Sampson said.

“If fashion were your thing, Detective, you would understand.” He sniffed and returned the tie to me.

“Sell a lot of limited-edition Kitons?” I asked.

Daniels laughed. “That’s a rather niche market.”

“Did you carry this specific tie?”

Mountebank thought about that, then said, “You know, I believe we did. Last year. Sold it to one of our best customers.”

“Who was that?” Sampson asked.

“Oh, I’m not at liberty to say. He’s someone who values his privacy.”

Sampson looked ready to swat the twit but said, “This is a murder investigation. We can come back with a warrant to tear this place apart and seize your computers.”

Mountebank blanched. “Oh my. Well, Perry Singer, then.”

His partner looked confused. “Perry?”

“Most definitely,” Mountebank said, tilting his nose skyward. “He’s a tie fanatic. He just might be your man, Detectives.”





CHAPTER 14





NATHAN DANIELS LOOKED UP Perry Singer’s address and reluctantly gave it to us. He lived on Cambridge Place in Georgetown, which was only eight blocks away. The rain had let up, so we decided to walk it.

Mr. Singer lived in a beautiful old Georgian townhome. The sidewalk and stoop were brick, as was the facade of the house. There was no doorbell on the dark green door, just a polished brass knocker with a carving of a rising sun above it.

Sampson struck the door with the knocker a few times.

A maid soon opened the door. We told her that we wished to speak with Mr. Singer, and she said he’d just stepped out and that we were lucky that he was in Washington at all rather than Palm Beach or La Jolla, where he also had homes.

Given that the two other rape-and-murder victims had been found a short distance from those two cities, we were now very interested in talking to Mr. Singer.

His housekeeper said he’d decided to take a walk after the rain let up and had headed to Georgetown Cupcake on M Street.

We hustled south and then west to the shop, which was full of kids just out of school and moms with younger children, all of them eager for cupcakes. There were only two men besides us in the establishment, each sitting at a table. One was in his thirties, wearing a gray suit that didn’t fit him very well and a tie that looked like it might have been a clip-on. The other, who had his back to us, wore a sharply tailored blue sport jacket, khaki pants, and blue socks with white polka dots. His hair was jet-black and slicked back with some kind of pomade. This had to be Perry Singer.

When we got around the table, we discovered a man in his late eighties sipping an espresso and nibbling at a chocolate cupcake he held with shaky hands. He wore a starched white shirt and a bow tie that matched his socks. A fancy cane rested against his thigh.

He didn’t seem to notice us even when Sampson muttered, “This is supposed to be our suspect? I’ve taken an intense dislike to Bernard Mountebank.”

“The British have an odd sense of humor,” I said. “Mr. Singer? Perry Singer?”

The old man started. “Do I know you?” he asked in a soft Southern accent.

We showed him our badges and IDs and told him we were working on a homicide investigation.

“Just tying up some loose ends,” Sampson said. “Nothing to be alarmed about.”

Mr. Singer shrugged. “Okay. How can I help?”

After showing him the tie in the evidence bag, I said, “Do you own one of these ties? It’s a Kiton, the kind they sell at La Cravate.”

He fumbled in his breast pocket, found glasses, and put them on. The old man studied the tie and then nodded. “I do own one. Or did. I haven’t seen it in a while. Besides, this style of tie is almost out of fashion these days.”

“But you said you haven’t seen the tie in a while?” Sampson asked.

Mr. Singer seemed to find that confusing and then amusing.

“That’s right, but who knows, it might be in my closet here or in Palm Beach or La Jolla. I have at least four thousand ties in my collection.”