Cross the Line (Alex Cross #24)(51)

Condon looked over his shoulder, saw me coming two cars back, waved, and then goosed the accelerator on the Harley a split second before the light turned green again. He squealed out onto 404 heading west.

Sampson slowed as he came past and I jumped in.

“I’ve got to run more,” I said, gasping, as the squad car swung after Condon.

“We all do,” Sampson said. “Desk jockeys can’t move.”

Traffic heading east was heavier, but Condon was driving the Harley like a professional, roaring out and passing cars whenever he got the chance as we tried to follow him through Hillsboro and Queen Anne.

He was ten cars ahead of us when he took the ramp onto U.S. 50, a four-lane. He seemed fully aware of us, and every time we’d close the gap he’d make some crazy-ass move and put more space between us.

Condon got off at the 301, heading west again across the bay bridge. We lost him for a minute but then spotted him getting off the exit to 450 South toward the Severn River. Ahead of us entering Annapolis, he cruised down the middle of the street while we sat stalled in traffic. But by opening the door and standing up on the car frame, I was able to see him take a left on Decatur Avenue. Three minutes passed until we could do the same.

“He’s heading toward the Naval Academy,” Sampson said. “It’s straight ahead there.”

“Academy alumnus,” I said. “He’s going home.”

“Yeah, but where, exactly?”

I scanned the street, looking for Condon or his Harley. I wasn’t spotting—

“Got him,” Sampson said, pointing into a triangular parking lot at the corner of Decatur and McNair, right next to College Creek. “That’s his ride, sitting there with the other motorcycles.”

We pulled into the lot. A Marine Corps officer was just getting onto his bike, a midnight-blue Honda Blackbird with a partial windshield. We stopped beside him. I got out.

“Excuse me?” I said.

The officer turned, helmet in hand. He appeared to be in his late forties with the rugged build of a lifelong member of the Corps. I glanced at the nameplate: Colonel Jeb Whitaker.

“Colonel Whitaker, I’m Detective Alex Cross with DC Metro.”

“Yes?” he said, frowning and looking at my identification and badge. “How can I help?”

“Did you see the man on that Harley-Davidson come in?”

Colonel Whitaker blinked and then nodded in exasperation. “Nick Condon. What’s he done now beyond parking where he’s not supposed to again?”

“Nothing that we’re aware of,” Sampson said. “But he’s been avoiding having a conversation with us.”

“Regarding?”

“An investigation that we are not at liberty to talk about, sir,” I said.

The colonel thought about that. “This isn’t going to reflect badly on the Naval Academy, is it?”

“I have no idea,” I said. “What’s Condon to the academy these days?”

“He teaches shooting. On a contract basis, which means he’s supposed to park in a visitors’ lot, not here where you need an academy parking sticker.”

He gestured to a light blue sticker with an anchor and rope on it stuck to the lower right corner of his windshield.

“So we can’t park here?”

Whitaker said, “I suppose if you put something on the dash that said Police, you could get around it.”

I glanced at Sampson, who shrugged and pulled into a space.

“Where would we go to find Mr. Condon?” I asked.

“The indoor range?” Whitaker said, and he told me how to get there.

“Thank you, Colonel,” I said, shaking his hand.

“Anytime, Detective Cross,” Whitaker said. “You know, now that I think about it, I’ve seen you on the nightly news with those shootings of the drug dealers. Is this about that?”

I smiled. “Again, Colonel, I’m not at liberty to say.”

“Oh, right, of course,” Whitaker said. “Well, have a nice day, Detectives.”

The colonel put his helmet on and started to get on his bike, but then he stopped, patting at his pockets.

“Forgot my keys again,” he said, hurrying by us. “You’d think someone who teaches military strategy could at least remember his keys.”

“Age happens to the best of us,” I said.

Whitaker waved his hand and trotted stiffly toward the heart of the Naval Academy. He’d disappeared from sight by the time we passed a sign saying god bless america and reached Radford Terrace, a lush, green quadrangle bustling with midshipmen and plebes during this, the first real week of classes.

“Stop,” Sampson said, and he gestured across Blake Road. “Isn’t that Condon right over there?”





CHAPTER


59


I CAUGHT A fleeting glimpse of the sniper before he slipped inside the Naval Academy’s chapel, an imposing limestone structure with a weathered copper dome. We hurried across the street and followed Condon in.

The interior of the chapel was spectacular, with a towering arched ceiling, balconies, and brilliant stained-glass windows depicting maritime themes. There were at least fifty people inside, some plebes, others tourists taking in the sights. We didn’t spot Condon until he crossed below the dome and went through a door to the far right of the altar.