Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(28)

No, they were each shot once within a moment of each other, little time for the second victim to move at all. Maybe as much as Kay’s shoulders had turned?

It looked that way to me. Christopher was shot first, then Kay. Not the other way around. Then they were shot a second time, impacts within four inches of the first hits, Kay, then Christopher.

It’s hard to shoot a pistol accurately like that, even at targets less than twenty feet away. In the heat of the moment, as I can attest, bullets tend to go far wide of the mark.

Looked at through this filter, I was seeing a highly skilled shooter who’d aimed first at Christopher, then at Kay. That suggested the charter school’s principal was the primary target.

Was Elaine Paulson an accomplished shot? Was she a member of one of those combat-shooting leagues around the country?

If so, given what she’d said to us earlier in the day, it was not out of the realm of possibility that she had shot her husband and then his lover.

I doubted it, but I intended to find out one way or another before —

My cell rang. Sampson. “How are you, John?”

He cleared his throat, said, “Unable to write Billie’s eulogy. I just can’t do it, and someone needs to speak for her on Saturday.”

“I’ll speak for her,” I said.

“You will?” he said, shocked.

“If you can’t do it, I’d be honored. Billie was an amazing person.”





CHAPTER 30





THE FOLLOWING MORNING, THURSDAY, Ned Mahoney and I presented passports, driver’s licenses, and official FBI identifications to Marines at the front gate of the U.S. Naval Observatory north of Georgetown.

Donald Breit and Lloyd Price, the two Secret Service agents who’d shown up at the murder scene of Kay Willingham and Randall Christopher, met us on the other side of the gate. Agent Breit, the lanky, buzz-cut agent, shook our hands.

“I know the VP appreciates you coming, Dr. Cross, Special Agent in Charge Mahoney.”

Agent Price, the short, stocky one, gestured to a black Suburban. “We’ll drive you up to the house. He’s just finishing his workout.”

“Thanks,” I said.

“We heard about your partner’s wife,” said Price, opening one rear door. “Please offer our condolences, Dr. Cross.”

“I’ll do that,” I said, climbing in. “Thank you.”

From the other side, Breit said, “And I know the boss made a call out to Quantico, Agent Mahoney.”

“Did he get anywhere?” Ned said, sliding in next to me.

Breit laughed. “I guess whoever answered didn’t believe it was him at first, but yeah. They’re on it.”

The Suburban’s rear doors sounded heavily armored when they were shut on us and the agents climbed up front.

“Bulletproof?” I said.

Breit said, “It’ll take an anti-tank round and shrug it off.”

We drove through the grounds to One Observatory Circle, a hundred-and-twenty-year-old white Queen Anne–style mansion that is known as the “temporary official residence” of the vice president of the United States of America.

“Why is it the temporary official residence?” Mahoney asked.

Price shrugged. “Congress was supposed to authorize the construction of a permanent residence for the VP. But that was decades ago.”

“Government in action,” Mahoney said.

Breit nodded. “Like Darwinism, only we seem to be regressing.”

“Don’t tell Willingham that,” Price said.

“Never,” Breit said. “Not a chance.”

I was half listening to the conversation. A bigger part of my attention lingered on the ripples of grief that had continued to roll out from Billie’s death.

The rest of our family had taken it hard, Nana Mama especially. She and Billie had shared a special relationship through their mutual interest in cooking.

“We just saw her recently,” my grandmother had said, shaking her head. “I gave Willow cookies.”

Jannie and Ali both cried and wondered about Sampson and Willow. Damon, my oldest, was working as a counselor at a basketball camp, but he said he was coming home for the funeral.

“Can a tick kill me?” Ali had asked as I put him to bed.

“I guess so, but we live in a city.”

“So, no ticks?”

“Nope,” I said, and I shut off his light.

Ali’s question was on my mind when Breit pulled up in front of the vice president’s residence because I had Googled it after talking to him and found cases where hikers deep in Rock Creek Park had been bitten by ticks and contracted Lyme disease.

“Okay,” Price said after listening to someone talk in his earbud. “He’ll be sitting down to breakfast in two minutes and expecting you. Let’s move, gentlemen.”

He got out of the Suburban and opened my door. Breit opened Ned’s.

“Any advice?” I asked Price.

“Don’t BS him. He has a BS detector like no one I’ve ever known.”





CHAPTER 31





I’D NEVER MET J. WALTER WILLINGHAM in person, but I’d observed him enough on various media formats to know the Secret Service agents were right. We would be dealing with a formidable mind.