Alex Cross, Run Page 15

  She put her arms around me and we kissed. “Are you okay?” she said. I could see then how red her eyes were, and how long she’d been crying.

  “I’m fine,” I said. “Are you okay?”

  She clearly wasn’t. “I was going to try and get you home first, but—you have to know, Alex. They’re removing Ava from the house. Today.”

  “What? Who’s taking her?” I said.

  “Child and Family Services. Stephanie called first thing this morning. Given that Ava’s been using lately, and now these drug charges against you—”

  I went straight from disbelief to anger. “This is bullshit,” I said. “I’ve barely even been charged, much less convicted.”

  But it was just the anger talking. I knew better, and so did Bree.

  “They don’t have a choice. They have to err on the side of caution,” she said. “And they’re not waiting, either. Stephanie’s coming at five o’clock to get her.”

  In other words, the whole guilty until proven innocent thing was now reverberating into my personal life. My family life. And Ron Guidice was to blame for all of it.

  “Where’s she going?” I said.

  “For now? Into a group home, up in Northeast. They’re moving her in tonight.”

  It just got worse and worse. DC’s group homes are a random mix of kids who have nowhere else to go—orphans, thugs, bangers, all of it. Other than actually living on the street, a group home was the last place I’d want Ava to land.

  Bree told me we had an eleven o’clock appointment with our family attorney, Juliet Freeman. That was good. We’d already consulted with Juliet on some preliminary adoption issues for Ava, and Bree had gotten her up to speed on the current situation. Now I just wanted to get home so we could turn around and start doing something about this.

  The morning traffic was still aggravatingly thick. It took way too long to crawl up Constitution Avenue, past the white dome of the Capitol and into Southeast. By the time we were passing Seward Square, where we’d first found Ava, Bree and I had both fallen into a depressed silence.

  Nana wasn’t in any better shape, either. When I came into the house, she was tearing around the kitchen as fast as a ninety-year-old woman can do. She likes to keep busy when she’s upset, and it looked to me like she’d been cooking all morning. I could smell fresh bread baking in the oven.

  When she saw me, she stopped, and her arms dropped to her sides. I went over and hugged her tight.

  “We were just getting somewhere with her,” Nana said. “Just starting to crack that little shell of hers. And now—”

  “Now, we’re going to get Alex some breakfast,” Bree said. “We’re going to meet Juliet at eleven. And we’re going to fight this.”

  She’s a cop, all right. She knows how to shake off the stress and take charge of a situation when she has to. That included the eggs she’d already started whisking in a bowl.

  “What are you doing?” I said. “Don’t worry about that.”

  “You need a decent meal, after the night you just had,” Bree said. “What did they give you this morning, a doughnut? And I’m guessing you didn’t eat that, either.”

  “She’s right.” Nana patted my hand. “Go get cleaned up, and come back down here ready to eat.”

  “Yeah.” Bree’s whisk was going about a hundred angry miles a minute by now. “And ready to fight,” she said.

  CHAPTER

  64

  “COME IN, COME IN. PLEASE.”

  Juliet Freeman isn’t the kind of person you might tag as an attorney if you saw her walking down the street. She’s almost as short as Nana, is fairly big around the middle, and she doesn’t exactly dress to impress when she’s not in court.

  Likewise, the inside of her Pennsylvania Avenue law office feels more like it’s part of somebody’s home. I liked that she kept a laundry basket of toys in the corner for her clients’ kids, and that the books on her shelves covered everything from constitutional history to Green Eggs and Ham.

  Juliet doesn’t just know family law—she understands family, and what it takes to keep one together. As far as I’m concerned, she’s impressive in all the right ways.

  I got right to it, even as we were sitting down.

  “I have three questions,” I told her. “How do we get Ava back? What do we do in the meantime? And how does all of this play with the other charges I have hanging over my head?”

  Juliet poured tea from an old ornate samovar on her sideboard as she answered. “In a way, that’s really just one big question,” she said. “But a complicated one. I assume you want me to be blunt.”

  “Of course,” Nana Mama said, accepting a cup. “I’m an old lady, Juliet. I don’t have time for a lot of false hopes.”

  “Okay, then. The fact that Ava’s been using drugs, combined with these charges against Alex, makes this an uphill battle. And even without that, you still don’t have any superior rights to her, or any foster child.”

  “No, but we have a relationship with her,” Nana Mama said. “That has to be worth something, for a girl who has nobody else in the world. Ava’s part of our family now.”

  Juliet nodded, but only to acknowledge what Nana said, not to agree with her.

  “Legally speaking, she’s not. If they end up placing her with another family, and it sticks, then that’s it. She won’t be coming back to you.”

  That news settled heavily over all of us. Bree squeezed my hand in the silence. “What do you suggest?” I asked.

  “You need to make it clear to your social worker that whatever drugs Ava has been using, she hasn’t been getting them from you,” Juliet said.

  “I’ve been over that with her already,” Bree said.

  “She needs to hear it from Ava. If you can make that conversation happen, it’s a good first step.”

  I wasn’t so sure. “Couldn’t that be taken as some kind of tacit admission about my own drug use?” I said.

  “One thing at a time,” Juliet told me. “First and foremost, address Ava’s situation, and then your own charges. When’s your court date?”

  “A week from today.”

  She went to her desk and scribbled a note. “See what you can do. In the meantime, I understand you’ve got a restraining order against you?”

  “Yes, but I was set up,” I told her. “I can’t prove anything—not yet. I’ll countersue, if I have to. Whatever it takes.”

  Juliet leaned forward and caught my eye over the top of her red-framed glasses. “Alex, listen to me. If you’ve ever had a reason to stay above board, this is it. Whatever you do, don’t start bending the rules, or God forbid, breaking the law to expose this guy.” She knew me, maybe a little too well. It was good advice. Still, somewhere in the back of my mind, I was resolved to keeping my options open.

  That fact that Ron Guidice had injected me with the same class of drugs Ava had been taking was no coincidence. That much I knew. I had no idea how he’d found out about her—maybe by bribing someone for lab results, or chatting up the cop who had dropped her off at our house that day. In any case, it wasn’t the first time he’d dug up confidential information. Maybe Guidice was more of a reporter than I’d given him credit for.

  A reporter, and a vindictive son of a bitch.

  Now I just had to prove it. One way or another.

  CHAPTER

  65

  WHEN THE KIDS GOT HOME FROM SCHOOL, WE SAT THEM ALL DOWN FOR THE hardest talk I’ve ever had as a parent. We had to explain to Ava that she needed to pack her things, and we had to explain to all of them why.

  I didn’t go into details about the hot water I was in. I just told them that there had been some legal complications, and that we had to get those worked out before Ava could come back to live with us again.

  Stephanie held off for as long as she could, but they had to check Ava into the group home by six. When she showed up at five, Ava’s suitcase was next to the door, and our house was quiet as a morgue. We’d all settled into the living room, w
aiting for the inevitable.

  Even Stephanie was upset. She had tears in her eyes when I answered the door. We’d already spoken about the drug charge, and asked her to please interview Ava about it the first chance she got. Stephanie had promised she would. Meanwhile, there was a forty-eight-hour waiting period before we could visit Ava in her new place. That meant we wouldn’t know anything else for at least two days.

  “Ava, honey, you ready to go?” Stephanie asked, trying to stay upbeat.

  Ava just shrugged and shuffled over to the door. I could already see the hardness coming back into her eyes. It was like she’d been expecting this all along. The only constant in this girl’s life up to now had been impermanence itself. Why would she expect this situation to be any different?

  “Hold your horses there,” Nana said. She unclasped the silver locket from around her neck as she followed Ava to the door. Inside, I knew the locket had a tiny picture of the whole family on one side, and a goofy little baby picture of me on the other.

  “Here.” Nana put the chain around Ava’s neck. “This is a loan, so don’t you dare trade it or sell it. I’m going to want it back the minute you’re settled here again.”

  Ava raised and lowered one shoulder, staring at the ground. “Thanks for being nice to me,” she said, without any discernible emotion. “I’m sorry I wasn’t always so good.”

  At that, Nana’s expression went dark. She reached up and took Ava by the shoulders with her own small, bony hands.

  “Girl, you’ve got nothing to be sorry for,” she said, her voice starting to shake. “You are loved in this home, Miss Ava Williams. Do you hear me? Nothing you do is ever going to change that. Nothing!”

  She wrapped Ava up in a big hug, and we all gathered around. I could feel Ava there in the middle of us, as stiff as a board. It was like she was trying to feel as little as possible. The girl who had cried in my arms a week ago was now packed up and put away, just like the rest of her things. To me, that felt like a tragedy.

  “I’m sorry, everyone, but we really do have to get moving,” Stephanie said. “It’s getting late.”

  “Bye, Ava,” Jannie said. “We’re going to miss you so much!”

  “Bye, Ava!” Ali said, crying in my arms, as we followed her down the front stairs.

  By the time we got to the curb, where another woman from Child and Family Services was double-parked, Ava wasn’t even looking at us anymore. She climbed into the backseat and took her suitcase from Bree.

  “We love you, Ava,” Bree said. “And we’ll see you in two days.”

  Ava stared straight ahead, up Fifth Street, with dry eyes. “Bye,” was all she said.

  A moment later, they were gone.

  CHAPTER

  66

  RON GUIDICE WATCHED HIS REARVIEW MIRROR AS THE LADY FROM SOCIAL services walked Ava down the front steps. He hadn’t been able to overhear much from inside the Cross home. His listening mike on the first floor was in the kitchen. But still, this little scene spoke for itself.

  There was a time when he might have felt sorry for the Crosses on a day like this. Now, it felt more like a checkmark. If he needed any reminder about why, every glance in the mirror showed him the bandages across his broken nose. He had a black eye, too, and his jaw was as stiff as concrete.

  An undeniable line in the sand had been crossed. Alex was on the run now, and he knew Guidice was coming for him. But Guidice still had the upper hand. Anytime he felt compromised, all he had to do was pull the trigger—literally, and figuratively. That’s what the Kahr 9mm was doing under the seat. From here on out, he’d keep it with him at all times.

  Meanwhile, his thumbs jumped around the touchpad on his phone, finishing up a quick piece for The Real Deal. As Ava climbed into the tan minivan in front of Alex’s house, he jotted down his last few thoughts for the day.

  Then, as the car took off from the curb, and before Guidice pulled out to follow, he hit Send.

  UNFORTUNATE, AND INEVITABLE

  Posted by RG at 5:28 p.m.

  It seems that Detective Cross of the MPD has gone off the rails. Anyone who has been following this story might call the events of the last twenty-four hours unsurprising. I call it an unfortunate inevitability.

  Before anything else, let me reiterate that I am making this information available as a matter of public record. I have no intention to sell, package, or profit from my own story beyond what you see in this space.

  In a nutshell: Detective Cross beat the s**t out of me yesterday. This was not the first unprovoked confrontation I’ve had with the detective, but it was certainly the most violent. (Click here for an overview of Cross’s most recent lapses in judgment.)

  From the moment I encountered him, outside the Georgetown Ripper’s most recent crime scene, I suspected that Detective Cross was altered in some way—either drunk, high, or both. When I asked him about it, he quickly grew angry and belligerent.

  As I pressed the question, it sparked a reaction that surprised even me. After six years of reporting on police practices both in and out of the US, I’ve never experienced anything like this. I received one punch to the face, where I sustained a broken nose; one punch to the jaw; and one kick to the stomach while I was on the ground. Click here for pictures (warning—graphic content, not suitable for children). I will be using these images as evidence in my civil suit against Detective Cross, against whom I have already filed a restraining order.

  The story doesn’t end there, either. Immediately following this incident, the detective was seen passing out, and was then taken away in an ambulance. (I know this because MPD attended to his medical needs before mine.) Given that I never hit him, or even touched him, I feel more certain than ever that he was, in fact, under the influence of some illicit substance.

  The city seems to agree with me, too. Just this evening, the foster child in Detective Cross’s care was removed from his home. Hopefully, that child will now be living in a safer and healthier environment.

  Lastly, for the record, I fully admit to using this platform for making an example of Detective Cross over the past several weeks. After what happened yesterday, I wonder if anyone could blame me. If even one corrupt police officer is taken off the streets as a result of my investigations, then this work (and yes, my recently sustained injuries) will have been worth it.

  Comments? Thoughts? Share them here.

  Part Three

  DROP DEAD, GORGEOUS

  CHAPTER

  67

  ELIJAH CREEM STOOD ON A DARK STRETCH OF PALM BEACH, ADMIRING HIS OWN house from a distance.

  “You know, I’m actually going to miss this place?” he said to Bergman over the phone.

  “Don’t worry about it. It’s just a house,” Bergman told him.

  “Yeah, but it’s a nice goddamn house, and I paid for it. Not her.”

  Even at night, and all closed up, the place fairly glowed from the pearlescent white finish on the sleek modern exterior. Miranda had insisted it be reclad that way when they bought it, to the tune of three hundred thousand dollars. It was a ridiculous bit of real estate vanity, but she’d been right in the end.

  The bitch had good taste. There was no denying that.

  She’d also made it clear through her mouthpiece of a lawyer that she was coming after the Palm Beach place in the divorce. Absent a thriving private practice, and the cash flow that went with it, Miranda was taking her revenge in real estate. Creem wouldn’t have expected anything less.

  “Ah, well,” he said. “I guess I’ll have to make it up to myself somehow.”

  “You’re wearing one of those crazy masks again, aren’t you?” Bergman asked. “I can hear it in your voice.”

  They’d been talking for a full five minutes before Josh even noticed the slight aspiration that followed Creem’s consonants, as they tripped over his latex lips. That was a good sign. These masks were an outstanding bit of business.

  Even if someone did take notice of him down here, what would they see?
An elderly white gentleman in a Members Only jacket. Not exactly a stellar lead, in a place like southern Florida.

  This would be the last time Creem was using the old man prototype. Now that the DC police had gotten wise to the whole mask thing, they were running with it in the media—which was fine. All he had to do was change the template. Just be someone else the next time. Simple as that.

  In the meantime, he realized, Josh was still talking.

  “. . . not sure I like you running off like this,” he said. His own voice was low and slow, and fairly soaked in Scotch. “This little field trip of yours wasn’t part of the plan.”

  “What plan?” Creem answered. “You said it yourself. This can be whatever we want it to be. Hell, I haven’t felt this free since—”

  “Fort Lauderdale. Yeah, I know. That’s the whole point. I thought we were in this together,” Josh said.

  Creem took a deep breath. He loved Bergman, but the man could be a bit needy.

  “We are, Josh. All the way to the end, I promise. Just don’t start getting all vaginal on me. The last thing I need right now is another wife.”

  “Tha’s funny,” he half slurred. “Oh, and PS, I’ve already figured out how you can make this up to me. When are you coming back?”

  “Soon,” Creem said. “We’ll talk then. But right now, I’ve got to get busy.”

  “Can I listen? Please? Pretty please?”

  Creem smiled down at the sand in the dark. He would have been surprised if Josh hadn’t asked.

  “Of course,” he said. “Just keep your mouth shut until I’m done.”

  CHAPTER

  68

  CREEM WATCHED THE BEACH AS A SHADOWED COUPLE WORKED THEIR WAY along the shore, arm in arm. Once they’d passed off into the dark, he crossed the sand and cut through the high grass to the back of his own property.