Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross #1)(25)

“Good luck,” I called to him. “It’s Christmas. I hope you get a present.”

I got into a bathing suit, and wandered out to the hotel pool. I’ve come to believe that the key to health is exercising, so I exercise every day, no matter where I am. I also do a lot of stretching, which can be done anytime, anywhere.

The big swimming pool on the ocean side was closed, but that didn’t stop me. Policemen are notorious for jaywalking, double-parking, rule-breaking in general. It’s our only perk.

Someone else had the same idea. Somebody was swimming laps so smoothly and quietly that I hadn’t noticed until I was walking among the deck chairs, feeling the cool wetness under my feet.

The swimmer was a woman, in a black or dark blue swimsuit. She was slender and athletic, with long arms and longer legs. She was a pretty sight on a not-so-pretty day. Her stroke looked effortless, and it was strong and rhythmic. It seemed her private place, and I didn’t want to disturb it.

When she made her turn, I saw that it was Jezzie Flanagan. That surprised me. It seemed out of character for the Secret Service supervisor.

I finally climbed down very quietly into the opposite end of the pool and started my own laps. It was nothing beautiful or rhythmic, but my stroke gets the job done, and I can usually swim for a long time.

I did thirty-five laps easily. I felt as if I was loosened up for the first time in a few days. The cobwebs were beginning to go away. Maybe I’d do another twenty, then call it a night. Or maybe have a Christmas beer with Sampson.

When I stopped for a quick blow, Jezzie Flanagan was sitting right there on the edge of a lounger.

A fluffy white hotel towel was thrown casually over her bare shoulders. She was pretty in the moonlight over Miami. Willowy, very blond, bright blue eyes staring at me.

“Fifty laps, Detective Cross?”

She smiled, in a way that revealed a different person from the one I’d seen at work over the past few days. She seemed much more relaxed.

“Thirty-five. I’m not exactly in your league,” I said to her. “Not even close. I learned my stroke at the downtown Y.”

“You persevere.” She kept her smile turned on nicely. “You’re in good shape.”

“Whatever my stroke is called, it sure feels good tonight. After all those hours cooped up in that room. Those boxy little windows that don’t open.”

“If they had big windows, all anybody would think about is escaping to the beach. They’d never get any work done anywhere in the state of Florida.”

“Are we getting any work done?” I asked Jezzie.

She laughed. “I had a friend who believed in the ‘doing the best you can’ theory of police work. I’m doing the best I can. Under impossible circumstances. How about you?”

“I’m doing the best I can, too,” I said.

“Praise the Lord.” Jezzie Flanagan raised both her arms joyously. Her exuberance surprised me. It was funny, and it felt good to laugh for a change. Real good. Real necessary.

“Under the circumstances, I’m doing the best I can,” I added.

“Under the circumstances, praise the Lord!” Jezzie raised her voice again. She was funny, or it was late, or both of the above.

“You going to catch a bite?” I asked her. I wanted to hear her thoughts about the case. I hadn’t really talked to her before.

“I’d like to eat something,” she answered. “I’ve skipped two meals already today.”

We agreed to meet up in the hotel’s dining room, which was one of those slow-spinning affairs on the top floor.

She changed in about five minutes, which I found impressive. Baggy tan trousers, a V-necked T-shirt, black Chinese slippers. Her blond hair was still wet. She’d combed it back, and it looked good that way. She didn’t wear makeup, and didn’t need to. She seemed so different from the way she acted on the job—much looser and at ease.

“In all honesty and fairness, I have to tell you one thing.” She was laughing.

“What’s the one thing?”

“Well, you’re a strong but really clunky swimmer. On the other hand, you do look good in a bathing suit.”

Both of us laughed. Some of the long day’s tension began to drain away.

We were good at drawing each other out over beers and a snack. A lot of that was due to the peculiar circumstances, the stress and pressure of the past few days. It’s also part of my job to draw people out, and I like the challenge.

I got Jezzie Flanagan to admit that she’d once been Miss Washington, D.C., back when she was eighteen. She’d been in a sorority at the University of Virginia, but got kicked out for “inappropriate behavior,” a phrase that I loved.

As we talked, though, I was surprised that I was telling her much more than I’d expected to. She was easy to talk to.

Jezzie asked about my early days as a psychologist in Washington. “It was mostly a bad mistake,” I told her, without getting into how angry it had made me, still made me. “A whole lot of people didn’t want any part of a black shrink. Too many black people couldn’t afford one. There are no liberals on the psychiatrist’s couch.” She got me to talk about Maria, but only a little bit. She told me how it was to be a woman in the ninety-percent macho-male Secret Service. “They like to test me, oh, about once a day. They call me ‘the Man.’” She also had some entertaining war stories about the White House. She knew the Bushes and the Reagans. All in all, it was a comfortable hour that went by too quickly.