Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(35)

“Coffee?” he said. “Breakfast? It’s on me.”

“I’ve got things to do, Mr. Sparkman,” I said. “A congresswoman was shot this morning, or hadn’t you heard?”

“You’re on that already? You do get around, don’t you?”

“Out with it. And by the way, I am talking to you off the record, and if you don’t like that, I’m walking, and you can write whatever you want. Which you’ll probably do anyway.”

Sparkman sat back, irritated. “You don’t think much of me, do you, Dr. Cross?”

“I rarely think of you at all.”

“I’m not who you think I am.”

“Is that right?”

“I’m not sleazy and I’m not second rate,” he said.

I didn’t reply.

Sparkman said, “I went to Yale, Dr. Cross.”

“Bully for you.”

“I have a master’s in economic and political journalism from Northwestern. I graduated at the top of my class.”

“And yet you peddle gossip.”

“I write about gossip with facts. Which is about as close as anyone can get to the heart of the matter these days. Don’t you feel it? Like everything is malleable, even the truth? In many cases, gossip is the story; how it moves and grows and influences the facts.”

“I believe you can find the truth if you dig hard enough.”

“And what is the truth to you, Doctor?” he said.

“An unassailable argument built on facts. The rest is conjecture or clickbait.”

Sparkman seemed to be enjoying himself. “Yes, in your world, you’re right. In your world, Dr. Cross, every action is designed to get the bad guys into court where just such an argument supported by facts will determine their fate.” I thought about that. “Not every action I take, but the majority, I’ll grant you.”

“And never — not once — has some snippet of gossip you’ve heard from a witness along the way turned out to be material, a seriously strong fact to be used?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You’re an honest man. Good. So, when you think about it, we’re kind of in the same line of business, Dr. Cross. You employ your investigative skills for various exalted government agencies, and I employ mine for the site and the blog.”

“Except I don’t throw around wild accusations and bogus innuendo in public to juice up a story.”

The enthusiasm drained out of Sparkman’s eyes and he put on what I took to be his game face. “Like I said, Dr. Cross, I don’t do that. I’m trained. I check things out, which is what I’m doing here.”

Before I could reply, the blogger reached into a leather messenger bag and pulled out a manila envelope. He opened the clasp, drew out a piece of glossy white paper, and turned it over, revealing a photograph. He slid it across the table to me.

It was upside down, so I spun it around and felt almost immediately nauseated, like I’d been caught in a carefully laid trap.





CHAPTER 39





THE PHOTOGRAPH HAD BEEN TAKEN years ago and through a long lens. It was a night scene, a diagonal view across a street toward a brick sidewalk, a low iron gate, and the green front door of Kay Willingham’s home. Just outside the gate, Kay and I were embracing; her right foot was raised behind her and her eyes were on mine. It looked like we’d just kissed.

“You told me you never had an affair with Kay Willingham,” Sparkman said.

For a long moment, I didn’t reply, just studied the picture and Kay. I remembered that moment, how she’d laughed.

“Cross. The affair.”

I looked at the blogger, who’d taken out a pencil and a notebook. “There was no affair.”

“The picture says otherwise.”

“No, the picture says that I was taking Kay Willingham home from a fundraiser because her ride was a no-show and she’d had a little too much champagne.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, sounding skeptical as he scribbled a note.

“Hey, Mr. Yale and Northwestern, Mr. Legit Journalist,” I said, spinning the picture toward him and tapping on it. “Take a closer look at her raised foot.”

The blogger blinked, set down his pen, and bent over to study the foot. “No shoe.”

“Because Mrs. Willingham’s heel went into a crack in the brick sidewalk and her shoe slipped off a moment before that picture was taken. I caught her before she could fall, and her shoe dropped into that puddle you can see there behind her. I was a helping hand. No affair.”

Sparkman studied the photograph and then me. I could see gears grinding in his head. “When was this taken?”

I thought about that. “It had to be April early in Willingham’s term as governor of Alabama.”

“Eight years ago?”

“Sounds right.”

“When she was estranged from her husband.”

“I don’t know about that.”

“She was. They spent nearly ten months apart that year. Her call.”

“If you say so.”

Sparkman flipped his pencil neatly between his fingers, studying his notes. “Did you go inside?”

“Yes,” I said. “She asked me to check the house, which is what her driver usually did before she set the alarm and went to bed.”