Double Cross - James Patterson [9]
A team of white-suited techs was still going over the ruined van where she’d landed. It was parked near the entrance. To my eye, the technicians looked like ghosts in the bright lights. Across the street, well over a hundred people stood crowded behind a double line of police barriers. None of the faces jumped out at me, but that didn’t mean anything. This isn’t your case, I reminded myself.
Bree got out of the car and walked around to my side. “Why don’t you go sleep at my place? Please go, Alex. No one’s expecting you home, anyway, right? Maybe we can pick up later where we left off.”
“Or I could wait here and get you back ASAP,” I said, and reclined the driver’s seat for her benefit. “See? Nice and comfortable, sleeps five. I’ll be fine here in the car.”
“You sure?” I knew Bree had to be feeling guilty about to-night. I had been there before, many, many times, only maybe now I knew how my family felt.
“You’d better get going. You’ve probably got half the MPD up there, drooling all over your crime scene.”
A couple of uniformed officers stared our way as Bree leaned in and gave me a good-bye kiss. “What I said before?” she whispered. “I meant it.”
Then she wheeled around on the uniforms. “What the hell are you two doing? Get back to work. Wait! Scratch that. Somebody show me where to go. Where’s my crime scene?”
The transformation in Bree was a thing to behold. Even her posture changed as she strode toward the murder scene. She looked in charge, reminded me of myself, but she was still the sexiest woman I’d ever met.
Chapter 10
THAT NIGHT, a man and a woman in jogging outfits were hidden deep in the crowd gathered on Connecticut Avenue, across from the Riverwalk apartments. As police cars continued to arrive, they were there, admiring their handiwork.
The brilliant creation, Yousef Qasim, was no more. Poof—gone but not forgotten. The male had played Yousef brilliantly, and the audience had been held spellbound from the moment he stepped out on the terrace, his stage. Apparently, many of these onlookers were still in awe of the bravura performance, still talking about it in hushed whispers.
What a fitting encore this was. Hours and hours after the show, all these looky-loos remained outside the luxury apartment building. New admirers arrived every few minutes. The press was all over it—CNN, the other majors, newspapers, radio, video artists, bloggers.
The man nudged the woman with his elbow. “You see what I see?”
She craned her neck, looking left, then right. “Where? There’s so much to look at. Help me out, here.”
“Four o’clock. Now do you see? That’s Detective Bree Stone getting out of the car. And the other one—that’s Alex Cross. I’m certain it is. Cross has come, and it’s only our first show. We’re a hit!”
Chapter 11
FOR THE FIRST HALF HOUR, I tried to convince myself that I was content just sitting in the car, staying on the sidelines. The Mercedes, half station wagon, half SUV, was as comfortable as the easy chair in my living room. A copy of The History of Love by Nicole Krauss sat on my lap while I flipped through various stations on satellite radio, then listened to the local news. I had been savoring the Krauss, because it reminded me of how it was when I first fell in love with fiction. I had another good one at home, Winter’s Bone by Daniel Woodrell, that I was equally enthralled with.
Plenty of time for reading now that I was out of the game. But was I out of the game?
Listening with one ear, I picked up on a few obvious inaccuracies in the news coverage, the worst being a report that the killer at the Riverwalk was some sort of terrorist. It was too early to jump to that kind of conclusion. Every news outlet in town was on this story, though, the nationals too, all scrambling for a unique angle. That usually led to mistakes, but the media didn’t seem to care as long as they could attribute a theory to some kind of “expert,” or even another news outlet.
Not that the killer would