Along Came a Spider (Alex Cross #1)(35)

More than ever, I needed to know why Gary Soneji had picked me for the exchange in Florida. Why had I been a part of his plans? Why had I been chosen? Until I found that out, there was no way I was coming off the kidnapping. It didn’t matter what The Jefe said, thought, or did to me.

“Damon, you march right outside to the front porch,” I told my little boy. “Tell the reporters to beat it. Tell them to take a hike. Tell them to hit the road, Jack. Okay?”

“Yeah. Take a hike, Ike!” Damon said.

I grinned at Damon, who understood I was making the best of the situation. He smiled back. Janelle finally grinned, and she took Damon’s hand. I was getting up. They sensed that ACTION was coming. It sure was.

I moseyed outside to the front porch. I was going to speak to the newspeople.

I didn’t bother to put on my shoes. Or shirt. I thought of the immortal words of Tarzan—Aaeeyaayaayaa!

“How are you folks this fine winter morning?” I asked, standing there in some baggy chinos. “Anybody need more coffee or sweet rolls?”

“Detective Cross, Katherine Rose and Thomas Dunne are blaming you for the mistakes made in Florida. Mr. Dunne released another statement last night.” Someone gave me the morning news—free of charge, too. Yes, I was still the scapegoat of the week.

“I can understand the Dunnes’ disappointment at the results in Florida,” I said in an even tone. “Just drop your coffee containers anywhere on the lawn, like you’ve been doing. I’ll pick up later.”

“Then you agree you made a mistake,” someone said. “Handing over the ransom money without seeing Maggie Rose first?”

“No. I don’t agree at all. I had no choice down in Florida and South Carolina. The only choice I had was not to go with the contact man at all. See, when you’re handcuffed, and the other guy has the gun, you’re at a serious disadvantage. When your backup gets there late, that’s another problem.”

It was as if they didn’t hear a word I’d said. “Detective, our sources say it was your decision to pay the ransom in the first place,” someone suggested.

“Why do you come here and camp out on my lawn?” I said to that bullshit. “Why do you come here and scare my family? Disrupt this neighborhood? I don’t care what you print about me, but I will tell you this: you don’t have a clue as to what the hell is going on. You could be endangering the Dunne girl.”

“Is Maggie Rose Dunne alive?” someone shouted.

I turned away and went back inside the house. That would teach them, right. Now they understood all about respecting people’s privacy.

“Hey, Peanut Butter Man. Wuz up?”

A crowd of a different sort recognized me a little later that morning. Men and women were lined up three deep on 12th Street in front of St. Anthony’s Church. They were hungry and cold, and none of them had Nikons or Leicas hung around their necks.

“Hey, Peanut Butter Man, I seen you on the TV. You a movie star now?” I heard someone call out.

“Hell, yeah. Can’t you tell?”

For the past few years, Sampson and I have been working the soup kitchen at St. A’s. We do it two or three days a week. I started there because of Maria, who had done some of her casework through the parish. I kept on after her death for the most selfish of reasons: the work made me feel good. Sampson welcomes folks for lunch at the front door. He takes the numbered ticket they’re given when they get on line. He’s also a deterrent to people acting up.

I’m the physical deterrent inside the dinner hall. I’m called the Peanut Butter Man. Jimmy Moore, who runs the kitchen, believes in the nutritional power of peanut butter. Along with a full meal that usually consists of rolls, two vegetables, a meat or fish stew, and dessert, anyone who wants it gets a cup of peanut butter. Every day.

“Hey, Peanut Butter Man. You got some good peanut butter for us today? You got Skippy or that Peter Pan shit?”

I grinned at familiar, hangdog faces in the crowd. My nose filled with the familiar smells of body odor, bad breath, stale liquor. “Don’t know exactly what’s on the menu today.”

The regulars know Sampson and me. Most of them also know we’re police. Some of them know I’m a shrink, since I do counseling outside the kitchen, in a prefab trailer that says, “The Lord helps them what helps themselves. Come on the hell in.”

Jimmy Moore runs an efficient, beautiful place. He claims it’s the largest soup kitchen in the East, and we’ll do an average of over eleven hundred meals a day. The kitchen starts serving at ten-fifteen, and lunch is over by twelve-thirty. That means if you get there at exactly one minute past twelve-thirty, you go hungry that day. Discipline, be it ever so humble, is a big part of St. A’s program.

No one is admitted drunk or too obviously high. You’re expected to behave during your meal. You get about ten minutes to eat—other people are cold and hungry waiting on the long line outside. Everyone is treated with dignity and respect. No questions are asked of any of the guests. If you wait on line, you get fed. You’re addressed as either Sir or Ms., and the mostly volunteer staff is trained to be upbeat. “Smile checks” are actually done on the new volunteers working the serving line or the dining room.

Around noon there was a major disturbance outside. I could hear Sampson shouting. Something was going down.