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  She shrugged, rolled her soft brown eyes, shifted her weight from one booted foot to the other. “I guess. We’ve gone this far, haven’t we?”

  “A thousand dollars,” Sullivan said. This was where you usually won or lost the game. Right . . . now.

  The Madonna’s smile disappeared—but she didn’t walk away. Sullivan’s heart started to pound. He had her going, leaning his way. Now he just had to close the sale.

  “Nothing funny. I promise,” Sullivan said quickly, pouring on the charm without being too obvious about it.

  The Madonna frowned. “You promise, huh?”

  “One hour,” Sullivan said. The trick here was how you said it. It had to sound like no big deal, nothing threatening, nothing out of the ordinary. Just an hour. Just a thousand dollars. Why not? What’s the harm?

  “Red light,” she said, and walked away from him in a huff, never even looked back. He could tell she was pissed too.

  Sullivan was mad, his heart still beating hard, and something else was rock hard as well. He wanted to grab the Madonna and strangle her in the middle of the mall. Really mess her up. But he loved this little game he’d invented. Red Light, Green Light.

  Half an hour later, he was trying his luck outside the Victoria’s Secret at the nearby Tysons Corner Mall—he got to “one hour” with a dreamy blonde in a “Jersey Girl” T-shirt and short shorts. No luck though, and he was really getting hot and bothered now. He needed a win, needed to get laid, needed an adrenaline hit.

  The next girl he approached had beautiful, shimmering red hair. Great body. Long legs and small, lively tits that moved around in rhythm when she talked. At the “one hour” prompt, she folded her slender arms over her chest. Talk about body language, wow! But Red didn’t walk away from him. Conflicted? Sure. He loved that in a woman.

  “You’re in control the whole time. You choose the hotel or your place. Whatever you want, whatever seems right. It’s all up to you.”

  She looked at him for a moment, silent, and he knew that she was sizing him up—they stared right into your eyes at this point. He could tell that this one trusted her instincts. It’s all up to you. Plus, she either wanted, or needed, the thousand dollars. And, of course, he was cute.

  Finally, Red spoke in a quiet voice, because nobody else was supposed to hear this, right? “You have the cash on you?”

  He showed her a roll of hundreds.

  “They all hundreds?” she asked.

  He showed her that they were hundreds. “You mind if I ask you your name?” he said.

  “Sherry.”

  “That your real name?”

  “Whatever, Jeff. Let’s go. The clock is running. Your hour’s already begun.”

  And off they went.

  After his hour with Sherry was over, closer to an hour and a half actually, Michael Sullivan didn’t have to give her any money. Not a thousand, not a nickel. All he had to do was show Sherry his picture collection—and a scalpel he had brought along.

  Red Light, Green Light.

  Hell of a game.

  Chapter 33

  TWO DAYS AFTER she walked out on us, Nana was back at the house, thank God and the heavenly choir, who had to be watching over us. The whole family, but especially me, had learned a lesson about how much we loved Nana and needed her; how many small, often unnoticed and thankless things she did for us every day; how totally indispensable she was, and the sacrifices she made.

  Not that Nana ever really let us forget her contributions under ordinary circumstances. It was just that she was even better than she thought she was.

  When she waltzed in the kitchen door that morning, she caught Jannie eating Cocoa Puffs and let her have it in her own inimitable style: “My name is Janelle Cross. I am a substance abuser,” Nana said.

  Jannie raised both arms over her head in surrender; then she went and emptied the chocolate cereal right into the trash. She looked Nana in the eye, said, “If you’re in a vehicle traveling at the speed of light, what happens when you switch on the headlights?” Then she hugged Nana before she could try to answer the unanswerable.

  I went and hugged Nana too and was smart enough to keep my mouth shut but my powder dry.

  When I got home from work that night, my grandmother was waiting for me in the kitchen. Uh-oh, I thought, but the second she saw me, Nana put her arms out for a hug, which surprised me. “Come,” she said.

  When I was in her arms, she continued, “I’m sorry, Alex. I had no right to run away and leave you all like that. I was in the wrong. I missed all of you as soon as I was in the cab with Abraham.”

  “You had every right—,” I started to say.

  Nana cut me off. “Now don’t argue with me, Alex. For once, quit while you’re ahead.”

  I did as I was told, and shut up.

  Chapter 34

  BIG STUFF—NOW HERE WE GO. On Friday morning of that week, at a few minutes past nine o’clock, I found myself all alone in the alcove outside Director Ron Burns’s office on the ninth floor of the Hoover Building, FBI headquarters.

  The director’s assistant, Tony Woods, peeked his round, deceptively cherubic face out of Burns’s outer office.

  “Hey, Alex, there you are. Why don’t you come on in. Good job the other day on Kentucky Avenue. Under the circumstances especially. The director’s been wanting to talk to you about it and some other things he has on his mind. I heard Ned Mahoney’s going to make a full recovery.”

  Terrific job—I almost got myself killed, I thought as I followed Woods into the inner office. Ned Mahoney got shot in the neck. He could have died too.

  The director was there waiting for me in his sanctum sanctorum. Ron Burns has a kind of funny way about him: He’s a hard-charging guy, but he’s learned to make meaningless small talk and smile a lot before he gets down to business. That’s pretty much a requirement in Washington, especially if you have to deal with as many sneaky politicians as he does. Like many type-A business-minded men, though, Burns is pretty awful at small talk. But we chatted about local sports and the weather for a good ninety seconds before we got into the real reason for my visit.

  “So what’s on your mind these days?” Burns asked. “Tony said you wanted to see me, so I take it this isn’t purely a social call.

  “I have a few things to go over with you too. A new assignment for starters: a serial up in Maine and Vermont of all places.”

  I nodded and let Burns rattle on. But suddenly I was feeling tense and a little unsure of myself. Finally, I had to cut him off. “There’s no good way to ease into this, Director, so I’ll just say it. I’m here to tell you that I’m going to be leaving the Bureau. This is very difficult, and it’s embarrassing. I appreciate everything you’ve done for me, but I’ve made a decision for my family. It’s final. I’m not going to change my mind.”

  “Shit,” Burns said, and he hit his desk hard with the palm of his hand. “Damn it all to hell, Alex. Why would you leave us now? It makes no sense to me. You’re on a very fast track at the Bureau. You know that, right? Tell you what, I’m not going to let you do it.”

  “Nothing you can do to stop me,” I told him. “I’m sorry, but I’m sure I’m doing the right thing. I’ve thought this through a hundred times in the last few days.”

  Burns stared into my eyes, and he must have seen something resolute there, because he stood up behind his desk. Then he came around it with his hand outstretched.

  “You’re making a terrible mistake, and an atrociously bad career move, but I can tell there’s no point in arguing with you. It’s been a real pleasure, Alex, and an education,” he said as we shook hands. We made some more uncomfortable chitchat for the next couple of minutes. Then I got up to leave his office.

  As I reached the door, Burns called, “Alex, I hope I can still call on you from time to time. I can, can’t I?”

  I laughed in spite of myself, because the remark was so typical of Burns’s never-say-die attitude. “You can call on me eventually. But why don’t yo
u give it a few months, okay?”

  “Couple of days anyway,” said Burns, and at least he winked when he said it.

  We both laughed, and suddenly it sunk in—my brief, somewhat illustrious career with the FBI was over and done with.

  Also, I was unemployed.

  Chapter 35

  I’M NOT A BIG FAN of looking back on the stages of my life with anything like regret, and anyway, my time at the FBI had been mostly very good and probably even valuable in the long run. I’d learned things, accomplished a fair amount—like stopping a Russian Mafia psycho called the Wolf. And I’d made some good friends—the head of Hostage Rescue, maybe even the director—which couldn’t hurt and might even help me out someday.

  Still, I wasn’t prepared for the incredible feeling of relief I experienced as I carried a cardboard box stuffed full of my possessions out of the FBI building that morning. It felt as if at least a couple of hundred pounds of dead weight had been lifted off my shoulders, a burden I hadn’t even known was there. I didn’t know for sure if I’d just made a good decision, but it sure felt like it.

  No more monsters, human or otherwise, I was thinking to myself.

  No more monsters ever.

  I headed toward home at a little before noon. Free at last. I had the car windows open and was listening to Bob Marley’s “No Woman, No Cry,” the words “everything’s gonna be all right” blasting from the radio. I was singing along. I didn’t have a plan for what I was going to do next, not even for the rest of the day—and it felt pretty terrific. Actually, I liked the idea of doing nothing for a while, and I was beginning to think I might be pretty good at it too.

  There was something I needed to do right now, while I was in the mood. I drove out to the Mercedes dealership and found the salesperson Laurie Berger. I took a test drive in the R350, and all that leg room was even more fun on the open highway than it had been in the showroom. I liked the vehicle’s zip and also the dual-dash zone climate control, which would keep everybody happy, even Nana Mama.

  But even more important, it was time for the family and me to move away from Maria’s old car. It was time, I had money from my books in savings, and so I bought the R350 and felt wonderful about it.

  When I got home, I found a note from Nana on the kitchen table. It was meant for Jannie and Damon, but I read it anyway.

  Go out and get some fresh air, you two. There’s coq au vin in the Crock-Pot. Delicious! Set the table for me, please. And get a start on your homework before dinner. Damon has choir tonight. Remember to “support your breath,” young man. Aunt Tia and I have taken Ali to the zoo, and WE’RE LOVING IT.

  Your Nana isn’t here, but I’m watching you anyway!

  I couldn’t help smiling. This woman had saved me a long time ago, and now she was saving my kids.

  I’d been hoping to hang out with Ali, but there would be plenty of time for that in the near future. So I fixed myself a leftover pork and coleslaw sandwich, and then for some strange reason I made popcorn for one.

  Why? Why not! I don’t even like popcorn that much, but suddenly I was in the mood for some hot, buttered junk food. Free to be me; free to be stupid if I wanted to.

  I ate the freshly popped popcorn and played the piano for a couple of hours that afternoon—Duke Ellington, Jelly Roll Morton, Al Green. I read several chapters from a book called The Shadow of the Wind. And then I did the truly unthinkable—I took a nap in the middle of the day. Before I drifted off, I thought about Maria again, the best of times, our honeymoon at Sandy Lane in Barbados. What a blast that had been. How much I still missed her and wished she was here right now to hear my news.

  For the rest of the afternoon, the phone never rang once. I didn’t have a pager anymore, and in the words of Nana Mama—I was loving it.

  Nana and Ali came home together, then came Jannie, and finally Damon. Their staggered arrivals gave me the chance to show off our new car three times, and to get their praise and applause three times. What a fine, fine day this was turning out to be.

  That night at dinner we chowed down on Nana’s delicious Frenchified chicken, and I kept the big news to myself until the end of the meal—pumpkin ice cream and café au lait.

  Jannie and Damon wanted to eat and run, but I kept everybody sitting at the table. Jannie wanted to get back to her book. She was tripping out on Eragon these days, which was okay, I guess, but I didn’t understand why it is that kids have to read the same book half a dozen times.

  “What now?” she rolled her eyes and asked, as though she already knew the answer.

  “I have some news,” I said to her, and to everybody else.

  The kids looked at one another, and Jannie and Damon shared a frown and a head shake. They all thought they knew what was coming next—that I was leaving town on a new murder investigation, probably a serial. Maybe even tonight, just like I always did.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I said, and grinned broadly. “Quite the opposite actually. In fact, I’m going to attend Damon’s choir practice tonight. I want to listen to that joyful noise. I want to see how well he supports his breath these days.”

  “You’re going to choir practice?” Damon exclaimed. “What, is there some killer in our singing group?”

  I was purposely stretching it out some, my eyes methodically going from face to face. I could tell that none of them had a clue what was coming next. Not even our crafty, know-it-all Nana had figured it out yet.

  Jannie finally looked down at Ali. “Make him tell us what’s going on, Ali. Make him talk.”

  “C’mon, Daddy,” said the little man, who was already a skillful manipulator. “Tell us. Before Janelle goes crazy.”

  “All right, all right, all right. Here’s the deal. I’m afraid I have to tell you that I’m now unemployed, and that we’re practically destitute. Well, not really. Anyway, this morning I resigned from the FBI. For the rest of the day I did nothing. Tonight, it’s the rehearsal of ‘Cantante Domino’ for me.”

  Nana Mama and the kids went wild with applause. “Des-ti-tute! Des-ti-tute!” the kids began to chant.

  And you know what? It had a nice ring to it.

  So did no more monsters.

  Chapter 36

  THE NEXT BEAT in the story went like this. John Sampson was a star in the Washington PD these days. Ever since Alex left the department and moved over to the FBI, Sampson’s reputation had been rising, not that it hadn’t been on a high level before, not that Sampson didn’t get a lot of respect for all sorts of reasons. The curious thing, though, was that Sampson couldn’t have given a rat’s ass. Peer approval had never meant much of anything to the Big Man. Unless maybe it was Alex’s, and even that was a hit-and-miss thing.

  His latest case was definitely a challenge. Maybe because he hated the bad actor he was trying to bring down. The scum in question, Gino “Greaseball” Giametti, operated strip joints and massage parlors as far south as Fort Lauderdale and Miami. His “sideline” was catering to pervs who needed adolescent girls, sometimes prepubescent ones. Giametti himself was obsessed with the so-called Lolita complex.

  “Capo,” Sampson muttered under his breath as he drove up Giametti’s street in the ritzy Kalorama section of DC. The self-important term referred to capitano, a captain in the Mafia. Gino Giametti had been a significant earner for years. He’d been one of the first mobsters to figure out that big money could be made bringing in pretty young girls from the former Soviet bloc, especially Russia, Poland, and Czechoslovakia. That was his specialty, and it was the reason Sampson was riding his ass now. His one regret was that Alex couldn’t be with him on this bust. This was going to be a sweet takedown.

  At a little past midnight, he pulled up in front of Giametti’s house. The mobster didn’t live too extravagantly, but all his needs were met. That was how the Mafia took care of its own.

  Sampson peered into his rearview and saw two more cars ease up against the curb directly behind him. He spoke into a mike sticking out from his shirt collar. “Go
od evening, gents. I think this is going to be a fine night. I can feel it in my bones. Let’s go wake up the Greaseball.”

  Chapter 37

  SAMPSON’S PARTNER THESE DAYS was a twenty-eight-year-old detective named Marion Handler, who was almost as big as Sampson was. Handler was certainly no Alex Cross, though. He was currently living with a large-breasted but small-minded cheerleader for the Washington Redskins, and he was looking to make a name for himself in Homicide. “I’m fast-tracking, dude,” he liked to say to Sampson, without a hint of humor or self-effacement.

  Just being around the cocky detective was exhausting, and also depressing. The man was plain stupid; worse, he was arrogant about it, flaunting his frequent logic lapses.

  “I’ll take the point on this one,” Handler announced as they reached the front porch of Giametti’s house. Four other detectives, one holding a battering ram, were already waiting at the door. They looked to Sampson for direction.

  “Take the lead? No problem, Marion. Be my guest,” he said to Handler. Then he added, “First in, first to the morgue.” He spoke to the detective holding the battering ram: “Take it down! Detective Handler goes in first.”

  The front door collapsed in two powerful strikes with the ram. The house alarm system began to wail, and the detectives hurried inside.

  Sampson’s eyes took in the darkened kitchen. Nobody there. New appliances everywhere. An iPod and CDs scattered on the floor. Kids in the house.

  “He’s downstairs,” Sampson told the others. “Giametti doesn’t sleep with his wife anymore.”

  The detectives hurried down steep wooden stairs on the far side of the kitchen. They hadn’t been inside more than twenty seconds. In the basement, they burst in the first door they came to. “Metro Police! Hands up. Now, Giametti,” Marion Handler’s voice boomed.