Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(43)

“What?” Bree asked, halfway through the door.

I turned the paper around and showed her the front page and the headline:


KAY WILLINGHAM SPENT TIME IN MENTAL HOSPITAL



“It quotes anonymous law enforcement sources as saying that Kay’s past history of mental illness has become quote ‘part of the investigation,’ ” I said angrily. “A part of the investigation? That is not true. What the hell does that mean? And how the hell did the Post get this? Willingham was adamant about us not — ”

“Alex,” Bree said, sounding stunned. “I think I know.”

“You know?” I said, almost shouting.

“Lower your voice and come upstairs, please.”

We could hear Nana Mama bustling around in the kitchen when we climbed the stairs and went into our bedroom. Bree closed the door and looked me straight in the eye.

“Yesterday I told Dennison about Kay spending time in a psychiatric facility.”

“What? Why? I told you Willingham wanted — ”

“I know. I just felt under pressure to give him something. And here he goes and tells some journalist! Why would he do that?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

“I’m at fault, but he did it to help himself, I’m sure.”

That made me think about Kelli Ann Higgins, the PR flack, and something she’d said about Clive Sparkman. “He’s groom-ing that reporter. Feeding him a story like this so he’ll get a flattering profile down the road.”

“That’s it exactly,” Bree said, disgusted. “That’s Dennison one hundred percent. Alex, again, I’m sorry, I should have known better.”

“Water under the bridge. Although I can’t imagine the vice president being very happy with me or Ned this morning.”

“Why is that?”

“Besides Willingham’s chief of staff and his Secret Service agents, I believe we were the only others who knew.”

Before she could reply, I heard the doorbell ring twice. I glanced at our bedside clock.

“Quarter to seven?” I said, going to the window over Fifth Street. A black Suburban was double-parked in front of our home.

I scrambled down the stairs before Nana Mama could get to the front door. I opened it and knew I was about to have a bad morning.

U.S. Secret Service Special Agent Lloyd Price was standing there. He grimaced as he looked me up and down. I was still drenched from my run.

“Take a shower and get dressed, Dr. Cross,” Price said. “My boss would like a word with you.”





CHAPTER 48





THIRTY MINUTES LATER, AFTER AN awkward car ride during which Special Agent Price refused to answer any of my questions, the Suburban turned into an alley in Alexandria, Virginia. Two Secret Service agents guarding the alley waved us through. We parked behind two other black Suburbans.

I followed Agent Price through a pair of unmarked industrial steel doors and down a hallway that smelled of flowers. Ned Mahoney was waiting there with Agent Donald Breit, who appeared as thrilled with us as his partner was.

“Inside, both of you,” Breit said, motioning to a door next to Ned.

Mahoney took a deep breath and went through it. I followed him into a well-appointed viewing room in a mortuary. The six rows of white chairs were empty. Beyond the chairs, bouquets of lilies and other funereal flowers surrounded the open casket in which the body of Kay Willingham lay in repose.

I stood there gaping for several moments. I had had no idea where Price was taking me, but I certainly didn’t expect this. But I recovered and walked toward the casket.

The last time I’d seen Kay, she was lying in the back seat of her convertible, shot to death. The luridness of that scene flickered deep in my brain, but it was soon gone because the socialite was as lovely in death as she had been in life.

Kay looked so natural, she could have been taking a nap, merely resting before the first doorbell chime of one of her legendary parties. And her dress? Was it the one she wore the night she’d broken her heel in front of her house? The night we were photographed?

My mind returned to that night, to when we’d gone inside her home and she’d spun away from me, a little tipsy on champagne and freer than any woman I’d ever known.

And now here you are, I thought as I knelt before her casket. I promise I will find out who did this to you.

Then I said a prayer for Kay’s soul, made the sign of the cross, got up, and turned around to find J. Walter Willingham walking down the aisle between the empty seats toward me and Mahoney.

“They’ve made her look quite beautiful, have they not, Dr. Cross? Agent Mahoney?”

“Yes, Mr. Vice President,” Mahoney said.

“Remarkable, sir,” I said.

“That’s because they are the best here,” Willingham said. “If a president dies in office, this is where they bring him. Since Lincoln.”

He paused to gaze at Kay in her casket, then his expression hardened and he fixed his angry attention on us. “I asked for her privacy and you leaked it to the press.”

“I most certainly did not, sir,” Mahoney said. “I hate the press.”

“I believe I am responsible, Mr. Vice President,” I said and explained that I’d relayed the information to my wife, Metro’s chief of detectives, who was pressured into revealing the information by the new commissioner of police.