Cross the Line (Alex Cross #24)(29)

“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 girlfriend. 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.”

“Okay, what are your years of experience telling you?”

I thought about that, said, “This isn’t over. Not by a long shot.”

Detective Lincoln knocked, said, “McGrath had serious encryption on his computer. We’re going to have to send it out.”

“Send it to Quantico,” I said. “I’ll try to get it moved to the front of the line.”

“Right away,” Lincoln said, and he left.

Sampson said, “I feel like we’re banging our heads against a wall on every aspect of every case we’ve got.”

“You’ve got a hard head; you’ll break us through.”

“No match between Howard’s gun and the Rock Creek shooter.”

“I saw that. You talk with Aaron Peters’s fellow lobbyists? Family?”

Sampson nodded, said the Maserati’s driver had been divorced for five years. No kids. Played the field. He had a reputation for ruthlessness, but not in a way that provoked animosity or revenge.

“His partners said Peters could make you smile while he was cutting your throat,” Sampson said.