Cross the Line: (Alex Cross 24) Read online

  No voice replied, but almost immediately I heard a bird squawking.

  “That’s Sylvia Plath,” I said, helping Bree and Muller inside. “His neurotic parakeet.”

  “Howard always had a twisted sense of humor,” Muller said.

  We moved deeper into the apartment, past a dining table buried in stacks of old newspapers to the parakeet that was pacing back and forth on its perch, screeching, bobbing its head, and pecking viciously at its featherless skin, clearly agitated.

  We stepped into the living area and saw why.

  Terry Howard sat in his easy chair facing the television; a film of blood and gore spattered the ceiling and walls around him. He had apparently put a gun in his mouth and shot himself. A sizable chunk of his skull was gone. A bloody, red Redskins cap was on the floor beside him.

  An empty bottle of Smirnoff and a Remington 1911 .45-caliber pistol, the same kind of gun that had killed Tom McGrath, lay in his old partner’s lap.

  On the floor beside him, there was a note scrawled in ink.

  Rot in hell, Tommy McG, it read. You and your lying bitch of a girlfriend.

  CHAPTER

  28

  “CASE CLOSED?” SAMPSON asked as we drove past the Wolf Trap National Park for the Performing Arts in Northern Virginia.

  “Bree thinks so,” I said. “So does Michaels. Tough one to swallow, but there it is.”

  “You’re not sold?”

  “Just trying to understand the entire situation before we declare it a revenge killing and a suicide. Take a right.”

  Sampson did, and then he made a left, and we were into big-money properties, sprawling estates, some with high walls and security gates. It was dusk and lights were blinking on.

  “Coming up on your right,” I said.

  Sampson slowed, put on a blinker. We drove up a narrow road maybe a hundred feet long with gardens on both sides. At the end of it was a guardhouse, a turnaround, and a steel security gate set in a high wall.

  The polished brass sign on the guardhouse read THE PHOENIX CLUB. PRIVATE. MEMBERS ONLY.

  We’d no sooner reached the turnaround than a big, muscular dude stepped out in a blue polo shirt with the Phoenix Club logo on the chest and a Glock pistol holstered at his waist.

  He held up his hand and came to the driver-side window.

  “Are you members?” he said in a thick Eastern European accent.

  “No,” Sampson said, and he showed his police badge and ID. “We need to talk to someone about Edita Kravic.”

  “I don’t know her,” the man said, seeming unimpressed that we were cops.

  “She worked here, and now she’s dead,” Sampson said. “So go inside and call whoever would know and tell them we’re not leaving until we speak with someone about her.”

  The guard stared at Sampson. Sampson glared back. Then the security guy bit his lip and went into the guardhouse.

  Twenty minutes later, the gates opened and out came a golf cart driven by a bald man in a finely tailored blue suit. He stopped the cart and got out. He was in his thirties, with slightly cauliflower ears, pale blue eyes, and extraordinarily large hands with knuckles that had been broken a few times.

  “I am Sergei Bogrov,” he said, taking my hand and then laying his other mitt-like hand on top of mine, swallowing it. “I help manage the club. How may I help?”

  “Edita Kravic,” I said. “She worked here.”

  Bogrov’s face fell and he let go of my hand. “Yes, we hear this. Very sad. She was well liked by the staff and members.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She taught a hybrid of yoga and Feldenkrais therapy.”

  “Level Two Certified Coach?” I asked.

  “That’s right,” Bogrov said. “She also worked in the spa as a masseuse. She was an excellent one.”

  “Good money in that?” Sampson asked.

  “If the member is a generous tipper, it can be,” he said.

  “So, what is the Phoenix Club?” I asked. “Health spa and …”

  “Pools, tennis courts, fitness center, an excellent private restaurant, an extensive wine cellar, the best bar in Virginia, and the company of others who have achieved much in life and deserve more,” Bogrov said.

  “You sound like you’re doing a marketing pitch,” Sampson said.

  Bogrov smiled. “You caught me.”

  “Can we get a tour?” I asked.

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible,” Bogrov said. “Our members belong to the club as much for its strict privacy as for its amenities.”

  “We could get a warrant,” Sampson said.

  Bogrov dropped the facade of friendliness and said, “On what basis, Detective?”

  “The murder of a DC police chief and his confidential informant.”

  Bogrov’s eyes narrowed. “I ask again, on what basis? Yes, I know who Edita was killed with, but where do you connect this to my club?”

  “At the moment, I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “This means you have nothing,” Bogrov said with a dismissive flap of a giant hand. “And since you are from the District of Columbia and not the Commonwealth of Virginia, you have no jurisdiction here. So I ask you politely but firmly to leave the property.”

  CHAPTER

  29

  I WOKE OUT of a dead sleep to find Jannie standing by the bed holding her running shoes.

  Dazed, I glanced at the clock. Ten minutes to six. Then I remembered I’d told her to wake me and we’d run together. I’d been working so much I wasn’t getting in my normal workouts and had put on five pounds I didn’t need.

  So I nodded and got up, leaving Bree blissfully snoozing. I dressed in the bathroom, went into the kitchen, and made a cup of instant coffee. As I sat there drinking it, I tried to muster up the will to tie my shoelaces. This wasn’t going to be a fun run. More like torture.

  “Dad?”

  Stifling a yawn, I looked up and saw Ali standing there, rubbing his eyes.

  “What are you doing up so early, kiddo?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” he said, coming over to snuggle with me, which didn’t help my workout plans. I could have drifted off right then and there with my little boy in my arms.

  But I said, “You couldn’t fall asleep? Or you couldn’t stay asleep?”

  “Both,” he said. “I had too much to think about.”

  “Really?” I said, closing my eyes. “Like what?”

  “Time,” Ali said. “And how it, like, curves at the speed of light. Neil deGrasse Tyson said that’s what happens, so it has to be true.”

  I opened my eyes, thinking how strange it was to be having this conversation with a seven-year-old. “I think Einstein figured that out.”

  “I know that,” Ali said. “Which makes it doubly true, and that’s the problem, and that’s why I can’t sleep.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I can’t see it in my head—you know, time curving.”

  “And that’s why you fell asleep late and woke up early?”

  “Yes,” he said, snuggling deeper into my lap. “Can you explain it to me?”

  I had to fight not to laugh.

  “Uh, no,” I said. “Physics isn’t one of my strengths even when I’m well rested.”

  “Oh,” Ali said. “I was thinking that maybe it was like when you’re dreaming and time seems like it goes on forever, but scientists studying your brain say you’re only dreaming for three to eight minutes. Does that make sense?”

  That woke me up for good, and I looked down at my son and wondered what he would become. I’d told all my kids that they could be anything their hearts desired as long as they were willing to work for it. But at that moment, Ali seemed limitless.

  “Dad? Does that make sense?”

  “I’ve never heard Einstein’s theory of relativity explained that way, and I honestly can’t tell you if it makes sense, but you certainly showed imagination coming up with that idea.”

  Ali smiled and the
n chewed on his lip. “You think Neil deGrasse Tyson would know if that’s how dreams work? You know, at the speed of light and bending time?”

  “I would imagine that if anyone knows, it would be Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

  “He’s not here,” Ali said. “At the Smithsonian, I mean.”

  “No, he’s in New York. At the Natural History Museum, I believe.”

  “Think I could call him up and ask him?”

  I laughed. “You want to call Dr. Tyson up and tell him about your theory?”

  “That’s right. Can I, Dad?”

  “I don’t have his number.”

  “Oh,” Ali said. “Who would?”

  Jannie appeared in the doorway. “Dad, do you even have your shoes on?”

  “They’re on, just not tied,” I said, giving Ali a nudge.

  He got off my lap grudgingly and said, “Dad?”

  “I’ll look into it and get back to you. Okay?”

  Ali brightened, said, “I’m going to watch Origins until Nana Mama gets up to make breakfast.”

  “An excellent idea.” I grunted and tied my shoes.

  CHAPTER

  30

  “FINALLY,” JANNIE SAID when I walked out onto the front porch and found her stretching.

  “Your brother had lots of questions.”

  “As usual,” Jannie said, sounding slightly miffed. “Where does he come up with that stuff? Dreams and time and, I don’t know, the universe?”

  “Those shows he watches,” I said, trying to stretch my hips and failing miserably. “And the Internet.”

  “He’s the only kid I know who thinks like that,” she said.

  “It’s a good thing.”

  “I guess,” she said. “But it’s like guaranteed now he’s going to be a nerd.”

  “Nerds rule the world these days, or hadn’t you noticed?”

  Jannie thought about that, said, “Well, I guess it would be okay if my little brother grew up to rule the world.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Right.” She grinned. “Now, are we going to run or not?”

  “To be honest, I would vote for not.”

  “Do I need to remind you about the ten pounds you need to lose?”

  “Ouch,” I said. “And it’s five.”

  Jannie crossed her arms and raised her eyebrow skeptically.

  “Okay, seven,” I said. “And let’s go before I decide to get doughnuts.”

  Jannie turned, started to move, and became someone else. It was a very strange thing, I thought as she started to lope down the sidewalk with me puffing already. There was my daughter, Jannie, who had to struggle to sit still and succeed in school. And there was Jannie Cross, who ran so effortlessly.

  She picked up her pace all the way to the end of the block and then glided back to me.

  “Show-off,” I said.

  “You’re breaking a sweat,” she said. “This is good.”

  “How far are we going?” I asked.

  “Three miles,” she said.

  “Thank you for being merciful.”

  “The idea is to make you want to show up again tomorrow.”

  “Right,” I said without enthusiasm.

  We ran past the Marine barracks and heard them doing PT. We ran past Chung Sun Chung’s convenience store, the best around. It was doing a brisk business, as usual. In the window, the Powerball sign said the pot was nearing fifty million dollars.

  “Remind me to stop and get Nana Mama’s tickets on the way back,” I said.

  “You ever won anything?”

  “No.”

  “Nana Mama?”

  “Twice. Once ten thousand dollars and once twenty-five thousand.”

  “When was that?”

  “Before I went to college.”

  “So a long time ago.”

  “Paleolithic era,” I said.

  “Must be why you run like a mastodon.”

  She laughed and took off in a burst of speed, ran all the way to the end of the block, then jogged back to me again.

  “Mastodon?” I said, trying to act offended.

  “Saber-toothed tiger trying to get back in shape?”

  “Much better.”

  We ran on for several minutes before Jannie said, “So why were you and Bree fighting last night?”

  “We weren’t fighting,” I said. “We were arguing.”

  “Loud argument.”

  “Passionate subject,” I said. “And Bree’s under a lot of pressure from the top brass to make something happen, something that shows the public that DC Metro is still on top of things.”

  “Like what?” Jannie asked as we ran past the armory.

  “Like clearing a major murder case. The Tommy McGrath murder case.”

  “Are you close to making an arrest?”

  “No, because the prime suspect shot himself yesterday.”

  Jannie shook her head. “I don’t know how you deal with that kind of stuff.”

  “Like anything, it takes practice.”

  “So why did he shoot himself? Because you suspected him and he knew you were after him?”

  “That’s what Bree thinks,” I said. “It’s also what Chief Michaels thinks.”

  “But you don’t?”

  I struggled with how much to tell her. “There are other explanations of why the suspect would want to commit suicide.”

  “Like what?”

  “I can’t tell you.”

  “Oh.”

  “And no more questions about that, okay?”

  “Sure, Dad. I was just interested.”

  “And I appreciate your interest in that and in getting me out of bed this morning.”

  We ran to the National Arboretum, and on the way back, the running wasn’t half the torture I’d expected. When we passed Chung Sun Chung’s store, the line for lottery tickets was ten-deep, so I skipped it and we went home.

  Nana Mama was up cooking scrambled eggs and bacon, and Ali was engrossed in Origins. I went upstairs; Bree was in the shower.

  “Hey,” she said when I climbed in.

  “Sorry we argued last night.”

  Bree nodded, hugged me, and said, “I still think Howard did it, shot Tom, Edita, and then himself.”

  “Or Howard shot himself because he had stage four lung cancer. Or he was telling you the truth about not owning a Remington 1911.”

  “Or he was lying about it.”

  “Or he was lying about it. Or he didn’t kill anyone, and someone associated with the Phoenix Club did. Truce until we know more?”

  Bree hugged me tighter. “Being chief of detectives is hard.”

  “I think you’re doing a great job.”

  “Chief Michaels doesn’t think so.”

  “Sure he does. He’s just getting heat from the mayor and the city council.”

  “I am going to get through this, right?”

  “We are going to get through this.”

  CHAPTER

  31

  THE BALLISTICS REPORT on the .45-caliber Remington 1911 that killed Terry Howard came back around ten fifteen that morning. It was the same pistol that had been used to kill Tom McGrath and Edita Kravic.

  “Case closed?” Chief Michaels asked. “We can tell the media that?”

  “Yes,” Bree said.

  I said nothing.

  The chief noticed, said, “Alex?”

  “You might want to say there’s strong evidence that Howard did it, but there are still some loose ends to take care of before we put the file in boxes.”

  “What loose ends?”

  “The car used in McGrath’s murder. It wasn’t Howard’s. And I’d like to see a bill of sale saying Howard actually owned a Remington 1911. All records I’ve checked say he was a Smith and Wesson guy.”

  Chief Michaels looked at Bree, said, “You’re confident?”

  “Terry Howard hated Tom,” she said. “Howard had lost his job and had cancer. Tom was chief of detectives with a younger girlfrien
d. So Howard’s bitterness built into rage, and he shot Tom and Edita. Then he shot himself, figuring we’d eventually put two and two together.”

  “Kind of convenient.”

  “Or true.”

  “Sorry, Alex,” Chief Michaels said. “I agree with Chief Stone.”

  “Not my call, but I can live with it,” I said.

  “Good. And the drug-lab massacre?”

  “We’ve had everyone pressuring informants, but there’s no talk on the streets about the hired gunmen. Just the victims.”

  “Which means?”

  “They’re an outside force,” I said. “Highly trained. Probably ex-military.”

  “Probably hired by a rival drug interest,” Bree said.

  “Or they’re vigilantes,” I said.

  “Alex,” Bree said with a sigh.

  “Vigilantes?” the chief said, eyes narrowing. “Where do you see that?”

  “No drugs were taken in the three attacks. No money was taken in the three attacks. If you think about it, a message was being sent loud and clear.”

  “What message?”

  “Stop making meth or we’ll kill you too.”

  Chief Michaels thought about that for several moments before he looked at Bree. “No talk about vigilantes until we have something more solid.”

  Bree glanced at me, then said, “Done, sir.”

  Sampson and I watched Bree’s press conference in our office. Even though Bree and I disagreed on both cases, I thought she handled the situation skillfully, and I was grateful when she said that the evidence indicated Howard killed his former partner but that there were loose ends that had to be dealt with before the investigation could be considered closed.

  When discussing the mass murder at the drug factory, however, she made no mention of vigilantes and supported the theory that we were dealing with a drug gang war and mercenaries.

  “I hope she’s right,” Sampson said.

  “I do too, actually,” I said.

  “No attack in days.”

  “It is possible that there won’t be any more, that what needed to be done has been done.”

  “Uh-huh,” Sampson said. “What’s your Spider-Man sense telling you?”

  “I don’t have a Spider-Man sense. I can’t even pick a good lottery number.”