Triple Cross (Alex Cross #30)(13)

“That’s unclear and part of why the anonymous client has asked us to investigate. I’ll put in calls this morning to the attorney who sued and see what she remembers about the case.”

“At least you’ll have a better idea of what to believe,” I said. “What else?”

“I’m going up to New York this evening,” Bree said as we took a right on Fourth Street and looped toward the north side of Capitol Hill. “I figure five days to do what I need to do, which means I’ll probably miss Jannie’s big race.”

“I’ll film it,” I said. “Or I can FaceTime you and you can see the whole thing.”

She grinned. “I like that idea better. Ready?”

“Never,” I said, seeing the sidewalk starting to climb ahead of us.

We’ve been doing this route for years, and Capitol Hill still beats me up. My calves were screaming, and I had a stitch in my side when we crested the hill and slowed to a walk at First Street.

“God, that’s steep.” I groaned.

“Never gets easier,” Bree said, panting.

We walked to Second Street and had just started to jog home slowly when my cell rang. Ned Mahoney. We slowed to a walk again.

“We’re out for a run and almost home, Ned,” I said. “Can I call you back in ten?”

“Afraid not, Alex,” Mahoney said. “Family Man struck last night in Alexandria. I need you there, pronto.”

My stomach soured as it had before I’d entered the Carpenters’ home. I hated going into the Family Man’s crime scenes—I feared the multiple victims would be too much for me to process, which meant they’d soon haunt my daydreams and my nightmares.

But I said, “I’ll be there in forty.”

“Make it thirty. I’m calling Sampson,” Ned said and hung up.

“Another one?” Bree asked in concern as I lowered the phone from my ear.

“In Alexandria,” I said, and we broke into a run toward home.





CHAPTER 13


THE FOLLOWING MORNING AROUND ten, I was at the desk I use when I’m working at Metro PD, forcing myself to study the crime scene photographs from the Elliott family home. Sampson sat at the desk opposite me, writing up the case for the murder book that would help us in our part of the overall investigation.

I was able to look at the pictures of forty-three-year-old Tristan Elliott and his thirty-nine-year-old wife, Madonna, with relative dispassion. But those of the children made me want to close my eyes and banish them from my memory.

It was clear from my first moments inside the Elliott house that the crime scene was different. Not only were the Elliotts the first family of color to die by the Family Man’s hand, but these murders had not gone as smoothly as the others.

In the first three cases, the Family Man had managed to sneak in and execute his victims as they slept. But not at the Elliotts’, where we’d found lights on and bodies strewn about the second floor. After Ned, John, and I thoroughly inspected the scene, we came to believe that Tristan Elliott had been in the main bathroom and had surprised the Family Man, who shot him from across the landing, probably right next to the staircase.

Madonna must have heard something because she had turned on the lights in the master bedroom and seemed to have been getting out of bed when she was shot. She’d thrown up her right hand; the bullet that killed her had gone through her palm before hitting her high in the forehead.

We believed the Elliott kids, fourteen-year-old Marisa and eleven-year-old Zach, who slept in adjoining rooms, must have heard their father fall or their mother scream, because they were both out of bed.

Marisa had opened her door and been shot at near point-blank range. We found her lying on her back staring upward with unseeing eyes.

Her younger brother seemed to have tried to hide. We found him dead in his closet, curled up. That was the one that really got me, the one that had festered in my brain as I slept the night before, the one driving me to action now.

“Remember Paladin?” I said to Sampson.

“The needle-in-a-haystack people?”

“The same. They pulled it off for us in the Alejandro and Maestro killings. Let’s see what they can do with this case.”

“Worth a try. But you’ll probably have to do the formal request through Mahoney and the FBI director’s office.”

“I’ll alert Paladin that a request is coming,” I said; I found the main phone number in my list of contacts and called.

A receptionist answered. I identified myself and asked to speak with Steven Vance, the CEO of Paladin Inc. Vance had been our point person the year before.

“I’m sorry,” the receptionist said. “Mr. Vance is in Italy on vacation and won’t be back until early next week.”

“What about Mr. Malcomb? This is a big murder investigation.”

“I’ll see if he’s available.”

A few moments later, there was a click. The cofounder of and coding genius behind Paladin said in a soft voice, “Dr. Cross, what a pleasure. This is Ryan Malcomb. Steven speaks highly of you.”

“And we speak highly of him and your company. Paladin was a big help to us last year, and I wanted to tell you I’m going through formal channels to get approval for one of your precision data sifts.”