Cross the Line (Alex Cross #24)(53)

“Me too, then. Best to the chief.”

“And to Billie,” I said and climbed up the porch steps.

When I went inside, I was blasted by the smell of curry and the sounds of home. Jannie was in the television room, her foot up and on ice.

“How’s it feel?”

“Like I could run on it,” she said.

“Don’t you dare. You heard the doctor.”

“I know.” She sighed. “But my legs are starting to ache from inactivity.”

“They said you can start pool therapy on Monday and the bike on Tuesday. In the meantime, stretch. Where is everyone?”

“Bree’s upstairs taking a shower,” she said. “Nana Mama’s in the kitchen with Ali. They’re working on a letter to Neil deGrasse Tyson.”

“He’s not going to give this up, is he?”

Jannie grinned. “He’s like someone else I know once he gets something going in his brain.”

“Ditto,” I said. I winked at her and went through the dining room to the new kitchen and great room we’d had put on the year before.

“God, it smells good in here,” I said, giving my grandmother a kiss as she stirred a simmering pot on the stove.

“Bangalore lamb,” she said, tapping her wooden spoon and replacing the lid. “A new recipe.”

“Can’t wait,” I said, and then I crossed to Ali. “How’s the letter coming?”

“It’s hard,” he said, head down, studying his iPad. “You really have to think about what you want to say, you know?”

“Keep at it,” I said, tousling his hair. “I have time for a shower?” I asked Nana Mama.

“Dinner’s on the table in exactly half an hour,” she said.

I hoofed it up the stairs, knocked twice on our bedroom door, and went in. Bree sat on the bed in her robe, studying a document on her lap. She didn’t look up until I was almost at her side.

“Hey,” she said softly and with some sadness.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

“Muller and I went to Howard’s storage unit to take a look through his things on behalf of his ex-wife and daughter. We found two envelopes and … here, draw your own conclusions.”

She held out the envelopes. “First one’s a will and an explanation of his investing theory.”

“Terry Howard had an investing theory?” I said, taking the documents.

“It’s all there,” she said, and she turned toward the closet. “Take five minutes to read, if that.”

I read the pages while she dressed. When I was done, I looked up. Bree had those sad eyes about her again.

“So I might be right,” I said.

“Looks that way,” she replied. “Which is why I’m beginning to think I am a pretty shitty chief of detectives.”





CHAPTER


61


BREE PUT HER hand to her mouth and tears welled in her eyes.

I got up off the bed fast and went to her. “You know that’s not true.”

“It is,” she choked out, coming into my arms. “I was playing politics when I said Howard was good for Tommy’s death, trying to clear a murder so I could get the chief and the mayor off my back.”

“Is that what you were doing?”

“Well, I definitely wasn’t making sure Tommy McGrath’s killer was caught.”

“Then the most you’re guilty of is being human,” I said, rubbing her back. “You were caught between a rock and a hard place, and Howard looked good for a suicide. The chief agreed.”

“But you didn’t,” she said.

“I thought it warranted further investigation. And guess what? You further investigated. You found documents we should have looked at weeks ago, but you found them none theless. You made a mistake, but you corrected it. You’re back on track, Chief Stone.”

“Am I?” she said, unconvinced.

“I have faith in you,” I said.

“Thank you. It means everything.”

We kissed.

She scrunched up her nose afterward and said, “You are the love of my life, Alex, but you need a shower.”

“On it now,” I said and headed into the bathroom.

Letting the hot water beat on my neck, I thought back on the two documents Terry Howard had left behind. The first was a simple will that the disgraced detective wrote himself and had had notarized in duplicate. The will awarded all of Howard’s property, including his shotgun collection, to his nine-year-old daughter, Cecilia.

Attached to the will was a letter explaining that he’d started investing in fine shotguns after learning that they tended to appreciate fast and were a safer bet than the stock market. Beginning with a small inheritance he’d received in his early twenties, he had been buying and trading shotguns for many years. He recommended a gun buyer in Dallas who could determine the collection’s value after his death.

The second document was a brief letter to Tommy McGrath, Howard’s ex-partner. In it, Howard said he bore no ill will toward McGrath and that he knew his disgrace was the result of his own actions.

And now the cancer’s got me, Tommy, or you wouldn’t be reading this, Howard wrote. I couldn’t tell you because I did not want you to pity me. I saw you with your young lady friend—you dog—and realized things were going better for you. You deserve better. May your life be long and fantastic. Remember me fondly—T.