The People vs. Alex Cross (Alex Cross #25)(78)

“Those bullets flew my way first,” I said and stabbed the remote until the screen went black.

“The brass know that,” Bree said, coming out of the kitchen into our great room and setting a cup of coffee on the table beside me.

“Michaels put me on leave,” I said. “Again.”

“Department regulations,” Bree said, sitting beside me. “Sampson’s no better off than you.”

“Better ankle,” I said.

“Well, there’s that,” Bree said.

We fell into a silence that got longer. I stared at the blank screen, wondering for the hundredth time why the man impersonating Alden Lindel was fixated on me. Was he part of the crew that tried to frame me for murder? Picking up where Claude Watkins and Kimiko Binx left off?

And what about Lourdes Rodriguez? Was that even her real name?

In the wake of media uproar surrounding the shooting in Philly, Chief Michaels had been in no mood to seek a search warrant for her new apartment, even when we explained that she’d set us up to be assassinated.

“I’m beginning to wonder if this is worth it anymore,” I said, looking over at Bree. “Being a cop, I mean.”

Cocking her head, frowning, she set her coffee down. “You’re serious?”

“I’m serious enough to know that I want to stay being a psychologist, a counselor, at least part-time,” I said. “I enjoy it. It feels right and matters in a way hunting down bad guys just doesn’t anymore, Bree.”

She gazed at me, blinked. “You are serious.”

“I guess I am. Maybe it’s time. They say most people have five careers in their lives. Maybe this is how I’m supposed to be the best I can be in the future.”

“A higher calling?”

I sighed. “Is that so hard to believe?”

Bree smiled at me, but there was a tinge of sadness in it. “No, I could understand it. At least of an ordinary cop, who’d seen too much. But you’re no ordinary cop, Alex Cross.”

“That’s debatable.”

“Tell that to the awards and citations you have piled in your attic office. Tell that to all the families of victims you’ve helped just by being you, relentless, smart, and professional with a moral compass that is unwavering.”

“I’m impulsive,” I said. “I get shot at. A lot.”

“Because you have the God-given knack of getting close to bad guys and upsetting their plans. You actually do that on a regular basis, Alex. Very, very few detectives can say that.”

Before I could reply, Ali pounded through the kitchen and out to us.

“Dad!” he said. “I think I’ve finally found my sport!”

Of my three children, my youngest might be the brightest, but he is, shall we say, challenged athletically. Ali had tried various sports—basketball, baseball, and even lacrosse—but nothing ever clicked, and he seemed to trip over his own feet a lot.

“I’m hoping your sport’s not ice hockey,” I said.

“What?” Ali said, almost indignant. “No.”

“Horse jumping?”

“No. Darts.”

“Darts?”

“There’s a tournament coming up,” he said. “I’ve been playing a bunch at my friend Charley’s house after school, but I need my own board and a set of good darts if I’m going to have any chance of qualifying.”

Feeling a twinge in my ankle, I closed my eyes. I heard Bree say, “Where’s this tournament?”

“At a bar on Capitol Hill,” Ali said.

“A bar?” I said, opening my eyes.

“Technically, a tavern. I walk by there all the time after the bus drops me.”

“You’re not going to a bar or a tavern to play darts.”

“It’s a ten-thousand-dollar prize, Dad!”

“You’re too young to be playing darts where people are drinking alcohol.”

“No, I went in and asked. As long as you’re with me, they said I can play.”

The doorbell rang.

“I’ll get it,” Bree said.

“Let Ali,” I said.

“Can I get the dartboard?”

“Start by getting the door.”

He hesitated, then ran out.

“Darts?” Bree said, trying to hide her smile. “In a tavern?”

“Nana Mama is going to have a cow,” I said, laughing.

“She’s going to have two cows. Maybe an entire dairy farm if this becomes a regular thing.”

“Darts,” I said, and I shook my head at how quickly Ali went from a sharp and analytical adult-like person to a young boy attracted by the next shiny object.

I heard his footsteps pound back to us, and I thought for sure he was going to ask about the darts again.

Instead, he said breathlessly, “It’s Ned and Krazy Kat!”





CHAPTER


101


KEITH RAWLINS’S MOHAWK had been redyed flaming red and shellacked to jut off his head like a jaunty rooster’s comb. But the normally upbeat cybercrimes expert looked subdued when he came into the room.

“Dr. Cross, Chief Stone,” he said. “I need to show you something. With your permission, I’d like to connect my laptop to your television screen?”