Cross Fire - James Patterson [4]
Denny counted out the day’s take. Forty-five — not bad for a short shift. He gave Mitch ten singles and a handful of quarters.
“So what do you think, Denny? Am I ready or what? I think I’m ready.”
Denny sat back and lit one of the half-smoked butts in the ashtray. He handed it to Mitch and then lit another for himself. While he was at it, he lit the orange envelope with the parking ticket inside and dropped it, burning, onto the cement.
“Yeah, Mitch, I think maybe you are ready. The question is, are they ready for us?”
Mitch’s knees started to jackhammer up and down. “When do we start? Tonight? What about tonight? What about it, huh, Denny?”
Denny shrugged and leaned back. “Just enjoy the peace and quiet while you can, ’cause you’re going to be famous as shit soon enough.” He blew a smoke ring, then another, which passed right through the first. “You ready to be famous?”
Mitch was looking out the window at a couple of cute, short-skirted coeds crossing the parking lot. His knees were still bouncing. “I’m ready to start this thing, that’s what.”
“Good boy. And what’s the mission, Mitchie?”
“Clean up this mess in Washington, just like the politicians always say.”
“That’s right. They talk about it —”
“But we gonna do something about it. No doubt. No doubt.”
Denny extended his fist for a bump, then started up the car. He backed out the long way to get a good look at the ladies from behind.
“Speaking of tacos,” he said, and Mitch laughed. “Where you want to eat? We’ve got paper to burn today.”
“Taco Bell, man,” Mitch said without even having to think.
Denny pulled hard on the gearshift to get it into drive and took off. “Why am I not surprised?”
Chapter 3
THE LEAD STORY in my life these days was Bree — Brianna Stone, known as the Rock at Metro Police. And, yes, she was all of that — solid, profound, lovely. She’d become a part of my life to the point where I couldn’t imagine it without her anymore. Things hadn’t been this sane and balanced for me in years.
Of course, it didn’t hurt that Homicide at Metro was so quiet lately. As a cop, you can’t help but wonder when that next ton of bricks is going to fall, but in the meantime, Bree and I had an unheard-of two-hour lunch that Thursday afternoon. Usually the only way we see each other during the day is if we’re working the same murder case.
We sat in the back at Ben’s Chili Bowl, under all the signed celeb photos. Ben’s isn’t exactly the world capital of romance, but it is an institution in Washington. The half-smokes alone are worth the trip.
“So you know what they’re calling us around the office these days?” Bree said, halfway through a coffee milk shake. “Breelex.”
“Breelex? Like Brad and Angelina? That’s awful.”
She laughed; she couldn’t even keep a straight face at that. “I’m telling you, cops have no imagination.”
“Hmm.” I put a hand lightly on her leg under the table. “With exceptions, of course.”
“Of course.”
Any more than that would have to wait, and not just because the bathrooms at Ben’s Chili Bowl were definitely not an option. We did in fact have somewhere important we had to be that day.
After lunch, we strolled hand in hand up U Street to Sharita Williams’s jewelry store. Sharita was an old friend from high school, and she also happened to do outstanding work on antique pieces.
A dozen tiny bells tinkled over our heads as we breezed in the door.
“Well, don’t you two look in love.” Sharita smiled from behind the counter.
“That’s ’cause we are, Sharita,” I said. “And I highly recommend it.”
“Just find me a good man, Alex. I’m in.”
She knew why we were there, and she removed a small black velvet box from under the case. “It came out beautifully,” she said. “I love this piece.”
The ring used to belong to my grandmother, Nana Mama, she of the impossibly small hands. We’d had it resized for Bree. It was a platinum deco setting with three diamonds across, which struck me as perfect — one for each of the kids. Maybe it’s corny, but it was like that ring represented everything Bree and