Cross My Heart Page 7

  “Newlywed and all,” the attorney said. “Not even used to being called Mrs. Francones.”

  Over the next half hour, the Widow Francones explained that she’d met the Mad Man by chance at a bar in Nashville where she was singing. Despite their twenty-year age difference, there’d been a strong, immediate attraction.

  “We’ve heard he had that effect on women,” Sampson said.

  Mandy Bell thought that was funny. “He did. And I know what you’re thinking, ’bout all those girls in his past. Tell you the truth, at the beginning I figured I’d just be one more gal to him, and decided to have some fun. He was a fun guy. That’s what I’ll miss most about him. M&M lived like his hair was on fire.”

  “Whose idea was it to get married?”

  “His,” she replied firmly. “We were down in Cancún, drinking a little tequila, and he just looked over at me and said that he hadn’t been happy like this ever and he wanted to marry me. So we did.”

  “Why not just announce it?” Sampson asked.

  “It would of broke my mama’s heart she didn’t get to have a big wedding for me,” Mandy Bell said, glancing at her attorney. “We just figured to marry twice, you know, before football started up and he had to go on the road.”

  “What about where he died?” I asked.

  “You don’t have to answer that,” her attorney said.

  “Why not, Timmy? He’s dead,” she said, and took a long sip of the bourbon. “If you’re asking if I knew M&M went to places like that, the answer is no. But I can understand why he did.”

  “Why?”

  “He was a sex addict,” she said. “Told me so himself.”

  Chapter

  24

  Mandy Bell Lee uncoiled off the couch in the Mad Man’s library, crossed to an open bottle of Maker’s Mark, and poured herself another two fingers. She had something about her, star quality, I guess. You couldn’t take your eyes off her.

  Sampson cleared his throat. “Sex addict, huh? How’d you react to that?”

  She sighed as she came back to the couch, sat with one leg pulled up under her. “I appreciated his honesty because he promised he was gonna change, be a one-woman man.” Her face rippled with pain. “Guess not.”

  “Tell us about his cocaine use.”

  Mandy Bell’s eyes shot to her attorney, who said, “She only recently discovered that.”

  “I flew up from Nashville the other day to surprise him and caught him snorting lines right on that table there,” she said, gesturing with her chin. “He said he used it like that Sherlock Holmes did.”

  “And how was that?” I asked.

  “M&M said he thought better when he did small amounts. I didn’t know what to think about that. Still don’t. Why?”

  “He was high at the time of death, and we found several grams in his pockets,” I said.

  Mandy Bell took a deep breath, shrugged. “I don’t know what to say.”

  “His business manager said he was spending a lot of cash in the past few months,” Sampson said.

  She drank and shrugged again. “Probably on me. He liked going out with lots of money and blowing it. Big tips. Anything we wanted.”

  “Where were you Thursday night?”

  She shook her head. “Nashville. I called Timmy the second I heard and we flew up last night.”

  “And called a press conference?” I asked, not understanding that fully.

  “That was Timmy’s idea,” she said.

  Her attorney looked uncomfortable but said, “I felt we needed to state her claim right away. That seemed the best way to do it. Get it out in the open.”

  “And how long have you known Timmy?” I asked Mandy Bell.

  “Fifteen years,” she said. “We went to the same high school. He was a senior when I was a freshman.”

  “You two an item back then?” Sampson asked, wagging his finger between them.

  Mandy Bell blushed, said softly, “That was a long time ago, Detective. I called him because these days he’s the best attorney in Nashville.”

  “Sure,” I said, smiling at them both. “Makes sense. But now I’m going to have to ask you both to vacate the premises for the time being.”

  “But the house is hers,” Jackson protested.

  “I’ve got an evidence team on the way, Counselor, and for the sake of finding out who killed Mr. Francones, I’d prefer you not be here.”

  The attorney looked ready to argue, but Mandy Bell drained her glass, said, “It’s okay, Timmy. We’ll just go get rooms at a hotel. Good one. Four stars. Five stars. Why not?”

  Chapter

  25

  At a quarter to seven that evening, Marcus Sunday watched Mandy Bell Lee and her attorney spill out of a taxi in front of the new Mandarin Oriental Hotel overlooking the Tidal Basin.

  She must be a handful between the sheets, the writer thought, maybe as crazy as Acadia. He had been following the pair since they left Francones’s house, not quite sure why, relying on instinct rather than clear purpose in his decision to abandon his surveillance of Cross in favor of these two.

  He had the valet take his van.

  “Checking in, sir?” the doorman asked.

  “Going to the bar,” Sunday replied. “Heard it’s nice.”

  “Yes, sir. Empress Lounge, top of the stairs.”

  Given her wobbly state exiting the taxi, he figured the lobby bar as the most likely place to spot the pair, and he was right, or at least half right. While the attorney was checking in, Mandy Bell Lee was causing quite the stir in the sunken lounge area. She had every guy in the place gaping as she sashayed up to the bar, leaned over, and placed an order with one hip cocked provocatively.

  Sunday glanced back in the attorney’s direction and wondered for a moment about the connection. Were those two monkeying around? Did it matter?

  And right then he understood why his instincts had driven him here: it would matter to Alex Cross whether or not the singer and her lawyer were involved, because a love triangle is a proven motive for murder.

  But that’s nonsense, Sunday thought, taking a seat where he could see the entire bar. At least, in this case it seemed obvious to him from the news coverage that Francones should not be the focus of the Superior Spa investigation. Yes, the Mad Man was a celebrity, a lady-killer, a football god and all that. But those were just pegs for the news guys to hang on to, things they could worry to death for the sake of ratings.

  Everything he’d read about the slayings said “freak” to Sunday, even the way the killer had taken the hard drive that recorded the feeds from the interior security cameras. The Post story this morning had described that as “the shooter covering his tracks.” Nonsense again.

  This killer was not perfect. He believed in something—in this case, himself. In Sunday’s mind the murderer became a narcissist who wanted to see himself in action, wanted to relive every moment of mayhem again and again. At some level, the writer understood that compulsion, but he also realized that it was a terrible flaw, one that could easily get the killer caught and convicted.

  Watching Mandy Bell Lee eagerly tossing back a shot that set her body swaying to the lounge music, Sunday realized there was something else he knew about the killer in light of the missing surveillance tapes.

  The Superior Spa was not a one-time deal, the writer thought. He’s done this before! He could feel it: somewhere, somehow, this imperfect killer had left carnage and evidence behind him. He was also sure that Cross, blinded by the Mad Man’s celebrity, was not considering this angle.

  That got Sunday excited intellectually. He fervently believed he understood murder, crime, and violent chaos at a much deeper level than Alex Cross ever could. What did Cross know, really, about cold-blooded killing? The lust that rose in an active murderer? The addictive desire to end lives?

  He was certain that Dr. Alex had all sorts of half-baked theories, while he, Marcus Sunday, had insight, true insight into what made men kill.

  Then he had a though
t, a delicious thought. Wouldn’t it be enjoyable to see Cross one-upped before he was destroyed? Wouldn’t it be satisfying to see him groveling in failure just as his life began to disintegrate?

  Yes. Yes, it would. And in a flash, an impromptu plan developed quite organically in Sunday’s fertile mind. That’s it, he thought after several moments’ reflection, that would do it.

  Mandy Bell Lee’s attorney returned to the bar, spotting the country-western star ready to toss back another shot of Maker’s Mark. Jackson crossed to his client. They had an intense conversation. The attorney signaled to the bartender that she was cut off.

  He led her by her elbow out of the bar. The whole place was watching the scene. As they passed Sunday, who was acting interested in the drink menu, the singer said in a slurred voice, “You’re an asshole, Timmy. You always were. I don’t know why I called you. I must have been out of my mind to think you were my friend.”

  “I’m your lawyer, dear,” Jackson said. “There’s a big, big difference.”

  As the pair disappeared toward the elevators, Sunday nodded with satisfaction at a new thought, a new plan, risky, reckless, but overwhelmingly attractive.

  This will completely throw Cross, the writer thought, fighting against a smile. He’ll never, ever see this one coming.

  Chapter

  26

  I finally got home around nine forty that Saturday evening. Ali was already asleep, but Jannie was still up, eating strawberry ice cream and watching The Colbert Report, her favorite show, on TiVo.

  “Hey, stranger,” I said, and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Hi, Daddy,” she said. “Don’t you think Stephen Colbert is the fastest thinker ever?”

  “He’s lightning quick with the comebacks,” I agreed. “But a guy named Johnny Carson could have given him a run for his money.”

  “Who’s Johnny Carson?”

  “Poor girl,” I said, feeling older by the minute.

  “I got an A on my history paper,” she boasted. “And Coach says my times are really dropping in the four hundred.”

  I bumped knuckles with her and said, “See? Good things do happen to people who work hard.”

  She rolled her head to one side as if she didn’t want to agree, but she nodded, said, “I’m going to do that with all my classes and sports now.”

  “Excellent move,” I said.

  Jannie was a freshman and the transition into high school life at Benjamin Banneker had been a little rough at first. She hadn’t known how to handle the workload. It was nice to hear she’d figured out that working harder might help.

  “Bree home yet?” I asked.

  “Taking a shower,” Jannie replied.

  “Ali and Nana?”

  “Gone to sleep. Dad?”

  “Yeah,” I said, going to one of the coolers that we were now using instead of a refrigerator and getting a beer.

  “Did you notice that Nana Mama seems sad these days? I thought she’d be happy about the new kitchen and the addition. But today when she found out they were going to cut out the back wall in a few days, I thought she was going to start crying.”

  “I think she will be happy once it’s all done, but this kind of thing, living in a construction site, and everything new and chaotic, it’s tough for a lady her age.”

  “I don’t like other people walking around in our house.”

  “Necessary evil,” I said, hearing Bree coming down the stairs.

  The Colbert Report came back on, seizing Jannie’s attention, and I went to my wife and wrapped her up in my arms.

  “You smell so good,” I said.

  “And you smell so bad,” she replied, giving me a peck on the lips and then pulling back to head into the dining room.

  “I’ll take a shower before bed,” I said, following. “Good day?”

  “Tough day,” she allowed, getting herself a beer. “But we made progress.”

  “You got hits on the AMBER alert?”

  “No, nothing that positive, unfortunately. But we’ve got an artist’s sketch of the woman based on the descriptions the two women at the day care center gave us.”

  “Got it with you?”

  “I do,” she said, crossing to her purse and pulling out a folded composite drawing of a woman I figured must be in her early thirties.

  “She’s got soft features in some ways, but her eyes and lips are hard-looking,” I observed.

  “I guess you’d have to have hard-looking eyes or lips to be brazen enough to steal a baby out of a day care center,” Bree replied before sighing. “Anyway, am I wrong to feel guilty about not going out to look for Ava tonight?”

  “I told you, we’ve got something solid with her sweater and the guy who hit me. Let’s give it another night for him to come back.”

  She made a puffing noise but then shrugged and nodded before gesturing at the plastic sheeting the contractors had put up to seal off the construction site. “Do we dare look?”

  “Why not?” I said, grabbed a second beer.

  Bree had already peeled back enough duct tape to slip through and turn on the lights. I followed her and got an immediate sense of why my grandmother was so upset.

  The appliances and fixtures were long gone. The linoleum had been torn out. The Sheetrock was gone, too, leaving only the skeleton of the load-bearing walls. Red chalk marked the area where the back wall would be cut out to accommodate the addition.

  “They’ll be kicking us out of our room before you know it,” I said.

  “Not tonight,” Bree said. “I’ve got plans.”

  I arched an eyebrow. “That right?”

  She smiled. “I’ve been thinking about you all day, baby. So why don’t you get upstairs and take that shower already?”

  I saluted her, did an about-face, and headed quickly back into the house.

  Chapter

  27

  Nearing midnight, Marcus Sunday roamed the bars of Old Town Alexandria, across the Potomac from DC. After a quick trip to the apartment, where Acadia was already asleep, he’d retrieved Preston Elliot’s chilled condom and come here, where single young professionals gathered in search of anonymous hookups on Saturday night.

  The writer had spotted several likely candidates, all of them in their late twenties, early thirties. But when he’d slipped past them and sniffed the trailing air, he’d failed to catch the specific aroma he was seeking.

  Sunday was about to give up and return to the apartment for a few hours, when he spotted a prospect leaving Bilbo Baggins pub on Queen Street. Long, willowy, with pale skin and sandy hair that hung well down her back, she wore a tight black skirt and was laughing and hanging on to one of those long-jawed, sculpted-haircut types who seemed to populate the DC area.

  The writer walked at them, head down, a man with places to be, as she said, “Let’s walk to my place, Richie. It’s not that far.”

  Sunday went past without eye contact and caught her scent. It smelled of sweat, lilacs, and fertility. In an instant, he knew she was the one. Walking on twenty more yards, he jogged across the street and ambled in the other direction, watching the couple take a right off the main drag onto North Lee Street.

  Tailing them six blocks to a brick-faced town house with steep stairs that climbed off a sidewalk shadowed by old oak trees, Sunday timed his approach almost perfectly.

  As she fumbled for her keys, her hookup nuzzled her ear, causing her to giggle and say, “Give me a chance, Richie.”

  Sunday bounded up the stairs, drawing a small Colt pistol, which he jammed against the back of the young man’s head.

  “If either of you so much as thinks of turning to look at me, I’m going to blow poor little Richie’s head off,” he growled in a thick accent.

  “Rich?” the woman cried softly.

  “Claudia, please,” Richie said, shaking now. “Do what he says.”

  “Go inside, now, Claudia,” the writer ordered.

  Claudia pulled open the front door.

  Keeping t
he brim of his cap and his face pointed at the floor in case there were cameras, Sunday pushed them inside a small vestibule with three mailboxes and three buzzers.

  That makes things more manageable, Sunday thought. Unless…

  “Roommates?” he demanded as Claudia put her key into the second door.

  “What? N-no,” she stammered as she pushed the door open. “I live alone.”

  “Where?”

  “Right here,” Richie said, nodding at the door at the bottom of the stairs.

  “Go inside,” the writer ordered.

  “What are you going to do?” Claudia whimpered.

  “It’s a surprise,” Sunday said.

  Trembling now, the woman opened her apartment door, stepped in, and flipped on a light switch.

  The writer pushed Richie forward and then hit him hard behind the ear with the butt of his pistol, watched his knees go to quicksand as he buckled to the floor. The writer turned off the light. He could see the woman’s silhouette starting to turn, held up the gun, and said, “Freeze.”

  She did. Sunday stepped up directly behind her and set the gun to the back of her head.

  “Please,” she said.

  “I am pleased,” Sunday said, and he moved her toward a couch. “Very Mulch pleased at how you smell tonight, Claudia.”

  “Oh, God,” she whined.

  “So you understand you are ovulating,” he said appreciatively as he kicked her feet apart and wrenched up her skirt. “There’s only one thing you can’t deny about the absurdity of life—it’s meant to go on and on.”

  “Please,” Claudia sobbed softly.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Mulch won’t hurt you,” Sunday soothed as he got out Preston’s used condom and turned it inside out. Unzipping his pants, he slid the open end of the condom over his penis, leaving the stutterer’s DNA exposed.

  “Mulch will steal something from you so you don’t have to tell Richie what we’ve done. But afterward, Mulch will know what’s in your womb, Claudia, because he will be watching you.”