Alex Cross, Run Page 12

BY TWO O’CLOCK THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I’D GRABBED THE FIRST APPOINTMENT I could get with the US Attorney’s Office. It’s not always the fastest-moving machine over there, and if they could do anything for me about Guidice, I wanted to find out sooner rather than later.

  At one forty-five, I left my office and made the quick walk from headquarters, up Fourth Street to the Judiciary Center Building. My meeting was with one of their line assistants, Larry Kim, in his third-floor office.

  Kim and I knew each other more by reputation than from actually working together. He was known as a solid prosecutor, with a good grasp of case law and a willingness to go to bat for something he believed in. We’d already spoken on the phone, and he knew the basics of why I was there.

  “Honestly, I’m not sure there’s much you can do,” he told me. “The fact is, citizens have every right to investigate government affairs and share what they learn with other people.”

  “What about the invasion of my own privacy? Or a public good mandate, for that matter? At some point he’s going to represent a threat to the investigation. I’m not just talking about murders already committed. I’m talking about a missing baby, and more than one killer still active out there.”

  Kim shook his head. “First Amendment, man. Freedom of the press. It’s a tough nut to crack—for good reason. And getting tougher all the time.”

  “He’s not the press,” I said. “He’s some guy with a computer, a cell phone, and a grudge.”

  “This is my point.” Kim set down the extra-large Starbucks he’d been drinking and leaned toward me, warming to the conversation. “It used to be major stories broke in the mainstream press first, and filtered down. Now, you’re just as likely to see some guy with a smartphone or a blog out in front of this stuff. The courts are recognizing that.

  “There was a national security blog out of Oregon last year. Same thing—just some guy operating off a laptop, with questionable sources. Well, guess what? His rights to privacy were upheld all the way to the state supreme court. If Oregon thought they had a case, they would have appealed to the Feds, but they let it drop.” Kim sat back and picked up his coffee. “That’s the new reality.”

  “That’s one case,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “One of several. I’m guessing this Guidice person knows it, and he’s taking full advantage. And frankly, the fact that he’s been coming after you personally doesn’t bolster your case. If anything, it muddies the water.”

  “I’m just asking you to run this up the flagpole,” I told him. The US Attorney’s Office had a full staff of legal research lawyers. I trusted Kim’s expertise, but maybe there was some alternate precedent out there. “If I could get as far as filing a motion in court, it might get Guidice to back off.”

  Larry nodded several times and started shuffling the files on his desk. It was a not-so-subtle indication that he was out of time for me.

  “I can do that,” he told me. “But it’s not much to work with. If you can find anything more specific on Guidice—if he’s broken any laws—you might have a better chance at getting some traction here.”

  “Believe me,” I said. “I’m working on it.”

  I just hoped nobody else wound up dead in the meantime.

  CHAPTER

  49

  I LEFT THE MEETING WITH KIM AND WENT STRAIGHT BACK TO MY CAR, IN the parking garage under the Daly Building. Sometimes there’s no better place to get some work done in private. Bree calls it my mobile office.

  Mostly, I had calls to make. I flipped open a pad on my knee and dialed the first of several names on my list—Ned Mahoney.

  Ned’s a good friend, a great FBI agent, and the person over at the Bureau who I most trust to give me a straight answer. He ran the Hostage and Rescue Team out of Quantico, but I’d also been hearing murmurs that Mahoney was on his way up at the Bureau. I’d believe it when I saw it.

  “Alex,” he answered. “How’s the hardest-working man in show business? Wait, don’t tell me. Up to your ass, am I right?”

  Ned also has a mouth that won’t quit. He comes across as sarcastic a lot of the time, but the truth is, there just aren’t many sacred cows in Ned’s world. It’s one of the things I like about him.

  “I need some info,” I told him. “It’s about a kidnapping down in Georgia,” I said. “The name’s Rebecca Reilly.”

  “Reilly,” he said. “Anything to do with that nasty windowsill action over on Vernon a few weeks ago?”

  “Off the record? Yeah,” I said. “Rebecca’s the vic’s baby. She was in her grandparents’ custody down south when she was taken. The grandparents were killed, too. I can’t get anyone in Atlanta or Savannah to talk to me about it.”

  Ned made a sound like he was sucking air through his teeth. “This business stinks, doesn’t it? Why didn’t we become accountants or something?”

  “’Cause we care, Ned.”

  “Oh, right. That,” he said. “Let me see what I can do. I’ll get you back as soon as I can.”

  It didn’t take him long, either. By the time I’d put in calls to Jarret Krause, Sampson, and Sergeant Huizenga, I had a voice mail waiting from Ned. He didn’t want to leave any specific information on my phone, so I called him back right away.

  “Not much to tell,” he said. “The Bureau’s still active with the case, so they probably have good reason to believe Rebecca was taken out of Georgia. But that’s as far as I got. They’re holding their cards pretty close.”

  “Thanks for trying,” I said. It was more than I’d had before.

  “How’re you doing, anyway?” Ned asked. “Seems like you’ve been getting spanked pretty bad in the press lately.”

  This was the one thing I didn’t want to talk about, but curiosity got the best of me. It often does.

  “Why?” I said. “What have you heard?”

  “That whole Real Deal thing,” Ned said. “Seems like I can’t turn around without reading about it these days. Or you. Is it true you threw that guy’s tape recorder into the woods?”

  “I’ll take the fifth,” I told him. It wasn’t like I thought Guidice’s blog was a secret anymore, but it was no fun to be reminded of the fact. The longer this went on, the more I’d become a part of the story myself—and that’s nowhere a self-respecting cop wants to be. “Bottom line, the guy’s a major tool,” I said.

  “Don’t sweat it too much,” Ned told me. “This stuff’s like herpes. It pops up, it goes away for a while, then it comes back. There’s nothing you can do but keep your head down and stick to what’s important.”

  I had to laugh. “Herpes, huh? Remind me to call you back the next time I need cheering up.”

  “Anytime, Alex. Meanwhile, just don’t read that crap. It’s only going to piss you off. Especially today.”

  It was probably good advice, but it was coming a little too late. As soon as I hung up with Ned, I opened the browser on my phone and went straight to The Real Deal.

  For better or worse.

  CHAPTER

  50

  A NEW LOW

  Posted by RG at 11:52 p.m.

  Sometimes I’m surprised at the depths to which the Metropolitan Police Department will sink. Yesterday evening was a good example. My own criticisms of Detective Alex Cross (see sidebar, here) are well known. Despite his reputation as a superior investigator—which he may well be—Dr. Cross is also a prime example of the kind of wolf in sheep’s clothing that pervades that department.

  Click here for an audio recording of my encounter with Detective Cross just yesterday. See what you think for yourself. I was attempting to report on the latest in a series of murders, of young hustlers in and around Georgetown—the so-called River Killer case (for which the MPD has no reported progress, by the way). At the time of the incident, I was in the parking lot at Lock Seven of the C&O Canal, off of Clara Barton Parkway. I’ve Google mapped it here, and marked the police perimeter as it was established, along with the spot where my encounter with Detective Cross took place. As you�
�ll see, I was well within the allowable area for press and other onlookers. There is no question of trespass in this case.

  I will, however, admit to having a concealed recording device during our conversation. It’s something I always do in my dealings with MPD, as a backup, but this was the first time it’s ever proven necessary. Click here to listen to the encounter. What you’ll hear is me interacting with Detective Cross, followed by a brief struggle in which he took the handheld recorder I was carrying and threw it deep into the woods, in the direction I’ve marked with an arrow on the above-mentioned map.

  What I hope is coming clear here is a growing—I’d say overwhelming—body of evidence that the MPD is badly in need of a little housecleaning. This is the kind of police behavior I’ve heard about in places like Egypt, and Libya, and China. Is it really what we want here at home?

  As always, I encourage you NOT to take my word on any of this. Look into it for yourself. See what other people are saying. See what you think. If you’d like to share a comment or observation about the work MPD is doing, click here.

  And remember—the police work for you. Not the other way around.

  CHAPTER

  51

  WHEN I GOT HOME JUST BEFORE SEVEN THAT NIGHT, THE HOUSE WAS disconcertingly quiet. There was no Wii from the living room. No Nikki Minaj playing behind some closed door. No pounding feet on the stairs.

  Instead, what I found was Bree sitting in the kitchen with Stephanie Gethmann, our social worker. Stephanie was the one from Child and Family Services assigned to Ava’s case. Usually we saw her once a month for home visits, but the last visit had been just a week before.

  Something was up.

  “Alex, come sit down,” Bree said. She looked tense, and touched my hand as I pulled out a chair to join them.

  “What’s going on? Where are the kids?” I said.

  “Jannie and Ali are with Aunt Tia,” Bree told me.

  “What about Ava?” I said. “Is she okay?”

  “A patrol cop brought her home this afternoon,” Bree said. “He found her in Seward Square, passed out on a park bench.”

  The news hit me like a punch in the gut, but one that I was already half expecting.

  “Passed out?” I said.

  “With pupils like pin dots.”

  That meant opiates. OxyContin, possibly, although Ava didn’t have that kind of money. Maybe fentanyl, which was cheaper and easier to get but also harder to control. My cop’s mind couldn’t help running down a list of possibilities.

  “Nana’s upstairs with her now,” Bree went on. “She’s just sleeping. We’ll have to do a urine test in the morning.”

  I nodded and looked down at the table. All of a sudden, it felt like July 1989 all over again. That was the last time drugs had haunted this house.

  My brother Blake had been an addict. He’d shown up on Nana’s doorstep one night, dope sick and begging for help. Nana called me in my dorm at Georgetown and asked me to come home, which I did. It was a long, sweaty twelve hours, but we got through it. Nana was like an angel of mercy. I just helped out where I could.

  What I didn’t know then was that it would be the last time all three of us were together. Blake promised to stick with the rehab program Nana found for him, but he quickly skipped out and disappeared. The next we heard was on the morning of September 2—another cop at the front door. Blake had been found in an Anacostia flophouse, dead from a heroin overdose.

  Now, sitting here, I couldn’t help feeling terrified for Ava. She wasn’t Blake, obviously. But it was also true that Nana and I had done all we could for my brother, and it still wasn’t enough.

  “So, what now?” I asked Stephanie.

  “Counseling, for sure,” she said. “Maybe treatment. It depends on what Ava has to say for herself. We need to find out how long this has been going on, and if she’s dealing with an addiction here. Also, if you can find out where she’s getting her drugs, that could be a good step toward doing something about it.”

  “We’ve had her on a short leash,” Bree said. “There’s been a little trouble lately.”

  “Drug trouble?” Stephanie asked.

  Bree and I looked at each other. “We weren’t sure,” she said. “But I guess we are now.”

  “Well, as long as you’ll have her, Ava’s best off staying right here. I’ll let her rest tonight, but I’d like to see her tomorrow. And I’ll be making more frequent visits to the house. How are Wednesdays and Saturdays for you?”

  “Fine,” Bree said.

  I felt like I was still trying to catch up. My head was too crowded. When I looked up again, Stephanie and Bree were both looking back at me.

  “I’m sorry—what?” I said.

  “Wednesdays and Saturdays,” Stephanie repeated. “Is that okay for you, Alex?”

  “Yes. Of course,” I said. “Whatever it takes. We’ll make it work.”

  CHAPTER

  52

  “YES. OF COURSE. WHATEVER IT TAKES. WE’LL MAKE IT WORK.”

  Ron Guidice slid the headphones off his ears and sat back. He’d heard all he needed to. The rest of the conversation could go to the hard drive.

  In the meantime, it sounded like Alex was getting it coming and going these days. This was exactly what the electronic surveillance was for. There was only so much of a story Guidice could build without some kind of inside line on Alex’s home life. It was working out perfectly, in fact.

  Guidice marked the time on a legal pad next to his computer and had just started typing up some thoughts when a knock came from the hall.

  “Ronald, honey?”

  “Come in,” he said, flipping the laptop closed.

  When his mother opened the door, she had baby Grace held in the crook of one arm. A white cloth diaper was draped over her shoulder. The nipple of a small Evenflo bottle showed over the top of her housecoat pocket.

  “Emma Lee says she wants daddy to tuck her in tonight.”

  “No problem,” Guidice said.

  When he got to the door, though, Lydia didn’t move. She just stood there, filling the frame with her considerable girth. It was her own version of passive-aggressive, putting herself in the way like a cow on the tracks. She obviously had something on her mind.

  Guidice steeled his patience. It wasn’t clear yet whether his mother was going to need a little stick, or a little carrot. Maybe both.

  “What is it, Mom?” he asked.

  “Did you call the police yet?”

  “No,” he said. “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Well, I do worry about it,” she said, absently rocking the baby. “I mean . . .” Now she dropped her voice to a whisper, as if anyone else were listening. “How do you even know she’s yours?”

  Guidice reached over and stroked his daughter’s rosy cheek with one finger. Her little half-lidded eyes made him smile.

  “Look at her,” he said. “She looks just like me.”

  “Still. This is the baby’s mother we’re talking about,” Lydia insisted.

  “She was just some slut, Mom. A one-night stand.”

  His mother half turned her head and held up a hand. “Too much information, thank you. I’m just saying, it’s not right what she did.”

  “Exactly,” he said. “Think about it, Mom. This is someone who leaves a baby in a car with a note and walks away. Do you really want that kind of person in Grace’s life?”

  Lydia held the baby a little closer. “Well, no, but—”

  “That’s why we moved. I didn’t want her finding us. And frankly, I don’t want to find her, either. I say Grace deserves better than that.”

  “I suppose,” Lydia answered tentatively—either because she agreed with him, or because her tenth-grade education hadn’t armed her for any kind of substantive debate in life.

  “Don’t suppose, Mom. Think about it,” he told her. “Do you really want someone like that raising your granddaughter?”

  “No,” she answered, more resolutely this time.
<
br />   “No,” he said. “You don’t. And neither do I.”

  He let it all sink in for a moment, and then softened his tone as he went on. Time for a little carrot.

  “Believe me,” he said. “You’re a way better mother than she’d ever be. No contest, Mom.”

  Lydia Guidice was always easily flattered. She smiled as she blushed, and then finally stepped out of the way.

  “Go on,” she said. “Emma Lee’s waiting.”

  Guidice kissed his mother on the cheek before he headed up the hall.

  There were other solutions, of course. Lydia could be eliminated just as easily as anyone else, physically speaking. It would even be a relief to put the ultimate gag order on that incessant nagging.

  But it was basically a cost-benefit situation at this point. Lydia played a vital role in the family. Like it or not, he needed her right now. It would be shortsighted to take her out just to shut her up.

  No, Guidice thought. He couldn’t do that. Couldn’t even think about it.

  Not unless it became absolutely necessary.

  CHAPTER

  53

  I TRIED TO STAY FOCUSED AT THE NEXT MORNING’S BRIEFING, BUT IT WAS HARD to keep my mind in the room.

  I was starting to wonder if I’d overextended myself. It’s a question that comes up a lot. I had three cases on the books—plus Ava. She was the fourth case. Later in the day, we had a meeting at Child and Family Services. In the meantime, I had more than enough to keep me busy.

  Too much, in fact, but how do you say no to something when the stakes are people’s lives? We had nine dead so far, one missing, and, with three unknown suspects at large, the looming promise of more to come.

  There’s a good amount of disagreement about clusters, as they’re called in serial homicide. Some people say they’re nothing more than coincidence, and that we’re bound to see concurrent activity from time to time. The United States is the world capital of serial murder, with somewhere between twenty-five and fifty active killers at any given time.