Deadly Cross (Alex Cross #28)(9)

He went inside the bodega and regretted it the moment he did, finding it packed with scruffy types buying provisions for the media people camped out around the crime scene. Thankfully, none of them seemed to recognize him as they chatted and traded unsubstantiated rumors about the case.

“Kay knew too much,” he heard one kid say. “Mark my words, she knew too much.”

“I dunno,” said another. “Randall rubbed a lot of folks hard. Especially in this neighborhood. Drug dealers and such.”

Sampson listened without judgment. He pressed his hand against his jacket to cover the badge on his hip, picked up a Diet Coke and a bag of kettle potato chips—his secret vices — and got in line to pay for them. Two people were working the registers: a grinning, homely, redheaded guy in his late forties and a girl in her late teens with green hair, tats, and piercings, all of which went well with her miserable mood.

When Sampson reached the front of the line, he got the Goth; her name tag read LUCY. He set the chips and the soda down.

“That makes no sense unless your goal is blimpdom,” she said, managing to sound bored, mildly disgusted, and sarcastic at the same time. She gestured at the chips and soda.

“Excuse me?” Sampson said.

“The combo. The diet soda’s supposed to make you lean, but it actually makes you fat. The chips are supposed to make you fat, and they do it double time.”

Irritated, Sampson opened his jacket to show her his badge and gun. “Do I look fat?” he asked quietly as he leaned forward.

“No,” Lucy said, drawing back. “This about — ”

“It is,” Sampson said, still talking low. “Who’s the owner?”

Lucy pointed her thumb at the other cashier, who was engaged in pleasant chitchat with a woman from the neighborhood. “Mr. Peters.”

Sampson paid for the chips and soda. “Lucy, after I leave, tell Mr. Peters quietly that I am a detective and I would like to speak to him outside.”

Lucy looked indignant. “I’ll be swamped.”

“Better than having me lock the doors and Mr. Peters and you making no money,” Sampson said. “I’ll be outside.”

A few minutes later, Peters came out, looked around, saw Sampson, and beamed. He rushed over, extending his hand. “Ronald Peters, Detective …”

“Sampson,” he said, showing him his credentials. “Metro Homicide.”

Peters’s smile faded, but his gaze stayed steady on Sampson. “I heard. Mostly from the reporters. Is it true? Randall Christopher? And the vice president’s ex-wife?”

Sampson nodded.

“Jesus,” Peters said, shaking his head. “You never know, do you?”

“You knew Christopher?”

“Yup,” he said. “Came in every so often to pick up a few things, make sure I wasn’t having any problems with his students.”

“Did you have problems with his students?”

“Not one,” Peters said, nodding. “That guy ran a tight ship. His kids were always polite. Not even a shoplifting attempt, which is a miracle.”

“That’s saying something.”

“It is, which is a shame,” Peters said, looking toward the high school. “Randall Christopher had it, you know? It? I mean, the way he helped organize the searches for those missing girls, it made you want to be part of it.”

“You helped search?”

“As much as I could,” he said. “Mostly I worked the phones. I’m a busy guy. I own four other small businesses besides the store and the laundromat. What’s going to become of them, the students? The school?”

“Questions I can’t answer, sir,” Sampson said, then gestured up at the security cameras mounted high above the bodega. “We’re going to need the feeds from those.”

“Last night’s?”

“Midnight on, for now,” Sampson said.

Peters nodded. “Megan, my store manager, is out sick, but I think I can get it for you. Can I copy it to a thumb drive? Will that work?”

“If it’s time-stamped.”

“By the second,” Peters said, then he looked over as two more customers entered his store. “Need it now?”

“I’m standing here,” Sampson said.

Five minutes later, the bodega owner came out and handed him a thumb drive. “From midnight up to when you entered the store,” he said.

“When will I see you arrive?” Sampson said.

“Five forty-five,” Peters said. “On the dot. I usually get here before Megan to help out before we open at six fifteen.”

“Appreciate it, sir.”

“Anytime, Detective. Believe it or not, with all the bad press lately, we’re a neighborhood of good people here. Or trying to be.”





CHAPTER 11





THAT EVENING, IN OUR KITCHEN at home on Fifth Street, Bree peered at my phone and a picture of Elaine Paulson that Barbara Taylor had sent me. She’d taken it right before the twins boarded the bus to camp.

In the picture, Randall Christopher’s wife had her arms around her daughters. The three of them were smiling, but their grins looked forced, as if they all had other things on their minds.