Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(74)

“I can’t believe it’s still open,” Sampson said as he and Bree climbed out of his car opposite the diner, a shabby property with a blue neon sign that said dempsey’s in scrolled letters. “Last time I thought I got ptomaine eating here.”

“Positive about this tip?”

“Hundred percent?” he said. “No. It was a street rumor, but it came from a usually reliable source, so I figured we’d start here.”

There were two signs on the front door. The first said HOT-CAKES 24/7 and the second read SORRY, WE’RE STILL OPEN.

Sampson said, “Some things never change.”

“Good,” Bree said, opening the door.

“I’ll go around back.”

“Given the picture, I don’t think we’ll see a runner,” Bree said.

“Just the same.”

Bree went inside the diner and scanned the narrow, L-shaped room: A long counter on the left with ten chipped chrome and faded red vinyl stools. A pass-through to the kitchen. Six booths by the windows.

Two men, one in his thirties, the other about fifty, drank coffee at opposite ends of the counter. An older woman ate ice cream with two young boys in the nearest booth. The rest of the booths and stools were empty.

There was music playing; the Weekend, Bree thought. And the entire place smelled like frying bacon and onions. A ropy, intense man with lots of forearm tats wearing a stained apron came through the swinging doors at the far end of the diner and went behind the counter.

“Anywhere you like, ma’am,” the waiter said with a smile that seemed fake.

“Thanks,” Bree said and walked to the middle of the counter, directly opposite the pass-through to the kitchen.

There were two people working back there, an Asian man in his forties and a big, big African-American woman who seemed in charge.

The man behind the counter wore a name tag that said LARRY. He gave Bree a menu.

She showed him her badge.

“You the manager these days, Larry?” she asked quietly.

Larry’s expression hardened. “I’m clean. Everyone here is clean. Drug tests seven days a week. We all showed negative yesterday.”

“I’m not here about drug violations,” Bree said. “I’m looking for Mary Jo Nevis.”

He leaned over the counter, fuming. “She’s been through enough, and she’s the best cook we’ve got. Don’t do this!”

“I’m just here to ask a few questions,” Bree said.

Larry glared at her a beat, then turned and shouted, “The Man’s here to see you, Waffles!”

The shout startled Bree and everyone else. A pot crashed in the kitchen.

“Bad boy, Larry,” Bree said. She got up on the counter, jumped down behind it, and ran through the swinging doors.

The Asian cook was cursing in a language she didn’t recognize and looking down at a large prep bowl on the floor spilling flour and broken eggs. There was no one else in the kitchen.

Bree dodged past him, smelling bacon burning on the griddle, to a short hall that led to the back door. She yanked it open and found Sampson in the alley with his gun drawn, and the big, big African-American cook about ten feet away with her fingers interlaced behind her head.

“Whatever anyone said about me, it’s fake news,” she said.





CHAPTER 85





SAMPSON TOOK A STEP TOWARD her. “Do I have to put the cuffs on you, Mary Jo?”

She threw him a look. “Does this sister look like she’s running anywhere?”

Bree said, “Are we going to find a weapon on you, Ms. Nevis?”

For that, Bree received the sneer of the year. “Come close, little one. I’ll sit on you. Smother you. How’s that for a weapon?”

“Answer the question,” Sampson said.

“No,” Nevis said. “And I am clean. Squeaky.”

“Then why’d you run, or try to run?”

“You mistook my nicotine craving for quickness. Just out for a smoke. Check my apron. Front right pocket.”

“Left a heck of a mess for your buddy to clean up,” Bree said.

She shrugged. “Spilled milk happens. It’s just the meaning you give it. Learned that in Narcotics Anonymous.”

“Uh-huh,” Sampson said. “Well, here’s the meaning I give it, Waffles. By the way, where’d you get that name?”

Nevis laughed, wiggled her obese body, said, “Too many Eggos in adolescence. The name stuck.”

“In Chicago,” Bree said.

“You read my jacket?” she said.

“Why do you think we’re here?” Sampson said.

“I don’t know why — I’m waddling the straight and narrow. Ask my parole officer.”

Bree had to fight not to smile. “We did, and she’s concerned about rumors you’re back to your old tricks and trade.”

“No way, I did my time in Joliet,” Waffles said. “When I got out, I wanted a clean break from all that back on the South Side, so I came here. Heard you could find work, start a new life. I’m telling you, I wouldn’t mess that up. I got a six-year-old boy back home. I want to hold him someday soon.”

“Compelling story,” Sampson said. “But there’s an old cop saying: once a fence, always a fence.”