Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(6)

When I left, I noticed a gap in the school perimeter fence, and I went through it so I could skirt the media circus.

When I was almost to my car, a man called out, “Dr. Cross? I thought I’d find you somewhere about.”

I knew that whiny, nasal voice and waved my hand without slowing. “No comment, Sparkman.”

“No comment? I haven’t even asked a question.”

“See there?” I said, reaching my car. “I’m saving you the time and effort.”

“Oh, I think you’ll want to comment,” he said, and I finally looked at him.

Clive Sparkman was in his early forties, disheveled, and generally a rude pain in the ass who made a very comfortable living running a highly clicked-on website that spread news, gossip, rumors, and outright lies about power brokers of all persuasions in the nation’s capital. He also published lurid stories about murder cases, which was how we’d become acquainted.

“I know this case is a twofer for you, Sparkman, politics and homicide,” I said. “But I’m not answering any questions about an ongoing investigation. You want to know something new? Go listen to the FBI briefing in ten minutes.”

Sparkman cocked his head knowingly. “I’ll be there listening to every word, but I’ll know something no one else does, something I’m considering publishing on my site tomorrow morning — a little nasty sidebar about this case for the rabidly interested.”

I opened the car door, started to get in, said, “I’ve got places to be.”

Sparkman said, “Actually, it’s about you, Cross, and … Kay Willingham?”

I froze but looked at him dispassionately.

He took off his sunglasses and smiled. “Did you have an affair with the vice president’s wife, Alex? Were you the cause of the divorce? I’ve seen a photograph of you two together, and I must say, you’re awfully chummy. Care to comment now?”

“Go to hell, Sparkman, and write anything you want,” I said. “But make sure you’re accurate in that rumor or you will hear from my lawyer. His name is Craig Halligan. You remember him, don’t you? The guy who sued you for libel, took you for four million?”

Sparkman looked like he’d swallowed a parasite.

“Thought so,” I said. I shut the door and sped off.





CHAPTER 8





IT ACTUALLY TOOK A BIT of digging to figure out where Randall Christopher lived. The name on the lease of his rented home, it turned out, was Elaine Paulson, Christopher’s wife. I rang the front-porch bell on the left side of a duplex on Tenth Street between F and G Streets, but no one answered.

I rang the neighbor’s bell next, and a big woman, mid-forties, wearing hospital scrubs and looking weary, opened the door a few inches but left the chain on.

“Yes?” she said.

“I was looking for Elaine Paulson?”

She grimaced. “She’s gone.”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“No idea.”

“Who are you?” I asked.

“Who I am is none of your business,” she said, and she started to close the door.

I put my fingers on it, said, “I work for the FBI and Metro Homicide, ma’am. This is a murder investigation.”

That stopped her. “Murder? Who was murdered?”

“Ms. Paulson’s husband,” I said. “Randall Christopher.”

Her left hand lifted slowly to her mouth. “Oh God,” she moaned. “Oh God, don’t tell me that.”

“It’s all over the news. Or will be, and I need to talk to his wife sooner rather than later.”

“I think I’m gonna be sick. Can you come back?”

“Uh, no, this is a murder investigation, and we need your help.”

She didn’t appear pleased about it, but she slid back the chain and opened the door.

I held out my hand. “Alex Cross.”

Her eyebrows raised in interest, and she shook my hand. “I recognize you now. From the news. I’m sorry. I’m Barbara Taylor.”

“Nice to meet you, Barbara,” I said. “May I come in?”

Taylor closed her eyes for a moment. “I’m going to get sucked into this, aren’t I?”

“I just need to ask you a few questions.”

“My ex got me sucked into things I didn’t want any part of.”

“Mr. Christopher is dead. You can help.”

She hesitated, then stood aside. “Can I get you a cup of coffee? Some iced tea?”

“The iced tea sounds great, thanks,” I said, and I followed her through a tidy living area into a tidier kitchen.

We spoke for a good forty minutes. A surgical nurse at Georgetown Medical Center, divorced, and the mother of two college students, Taylor had befriended Randall Christopher and his wife the day they’d moved in. The twin girls were nine or ten then, and Elaine Paulson had her hands full while her husband founded and built the charter school from scratch. Taylor described Christopher as “single-minded and evangelically passionate” about his work, starting the school in a small building and then, as enrollment increased, taking over and refurbishing an existing school structure.

“What about the marriage?”