Criss Cross (Alex Cross #27)(89)

Mrs. Evans said, “Let me pass, young man. I have to see my babies.” She wasn’t loud. She wasn’t hysterical. She was determined.

So was I.

I said, “Ma’am, I’m not in charge. But I do have kids. I know loss. You don’t want what you see inside that apartment to be your final memory of your daughter and granddaughter. Please, I swear to God, you’ll get your chance to say good-bye.”

She stared me down as hard as any drug dealer ever had. But I was resolute. I’d already seen the horror behind the door. I wasn’t about to let this elegant, retired teacher see it, too. Her daughter, still in her nurse’s uniform from the Bronx-Lebanon Hospital. The left side of her face missing from a single, devastating gunshot. Lying over her daughter. A nine-year-old with a hole in the side of her head. This time, too, the girl reminded me of my Shawna. Just a little bit older.

The whole scene had shaken me to the core. Never believe a cop when he or she tells you they’ve seen it all. Nobody ever sees it all.

Mrs. Evans cracked. Tears started to flow. It’d finally hit her with full force. Two of her greatest treasures had been taken from her. Her watery eyes looked up at me again. She simply asked, “Why?”

She started to weep. I put a tentative arm around her. She fell into me and I hugged her. I remembered how I’d felt when Maeve, my wife, died. That was a slow death from cancer. It still tore me to pieces.

This poor woman had been blindsided.

I eased her onto one of the cheap plastic chairs a detective had set up in the apartment’s hallway. A little African American girl peeked out of one of the doorways down the hall. The light at the end of the hall near the stairs flickered.

Why would someone shoot a nurse and her little girl? Why did someone like Mrs. Evans have to suffer through this? How would I hold it all together?

I had to. It was my job.





CHAPTER 2





THE UNIFORMED CAPTAIN from the Fortieth Precinct erupted into the hallway from the stairs. I knew the tall captain from my days on patrol. He yelled down the hall to the NYPD officers working diligently, “Let’s move this along, shall we, people?” Then he saw me.

I had just gotten Mrs. Evans seated. A young patrol officer stepped over and offered her a cup of cold water. She was starting to get that glazed look family members have after a murder.

The captain marched toward me and said, “This ain’t Manhattan North. What are you doing here? Trying to steal a stat?”

Sometimes cops embarrass me. Yeah, it’s a job, but it involves people. People with feelings. I kept it professional and said, “Just helping out, Captain Ramirez.”

The captain was almost as tall as me. He wore his dark hair slicked tightly against his scalp. There were definite cliques inside the NYPD. Divisions happened in all large organizations. The simple old Irish-versus-Italian rivalry had given way to a much more complicated system. Ramirez identified strongly with the Hispanic clique and didn’t give a crap if I was Irish, Italian, or black. I wasn’t Hispanic so he didn’t cut me any slack.

The captain barked, “Then help clear this scene. We got shit breaking all over the Bronx. There’s a goddamn protest about the price of housing. In New York. You think they’d realize housing prices are going to be crazy.”

I motioned toward Mrs. Evans, hoping this moron would get the hint. It was a foolish hope.

The captain said, “How much longer will this take?”

I eased us away from Mrs. Evans. When I leaned in close to the captain, I said, “This lady’s daughter and granddaughter are in that apartment. It’ll take as long as it takes. We gotta grab the asshole who did this. Don’t you agree?” I’d spoken very slowly so nothing I said could be misunderstood.

The old-school captain locked me in his gaze. It was nothing compared to Mrs. Evans stare down. Then he said, “Okay, hotshot. I’ll get the manpower from somewhere else.”

When I stepped back to Mrs. Evans, she said, “Oh, dear Lord. I have to tell my sons.”

I decided to walk her the two blocks to where they lived. I needed the break.





CHAPTER 3





IN A SIMILAR apartment to that of their sister and niece, I helped Mrs. Evans break the news to her two adult sons, who both worked for the city and seemed like sharp young men. They took the news like anyone would. They were shocked.

The larger of the men, a good six feet five inches and close to three hundred pounds, started to wail and put his head on his mother’s shoulder. She stroked his neck and spoke to him like she would to a toddler, in a soft, soothing voice. A mom’s power never really diminishes, no matter how big a child grows.

I told them the lead detective would be down to talk to them at some point. They’d have questions about why someone might do this.

The oldest of the two brothers, a bus mechanic, said, “This is not a bad neighborhood. Not too bad. Who would do something like this?” He had the distant stare of a man in over his head. That’s the way it should be. No one should be used to tragedy like this. Not even a cop.

I gave them a card in case they needed anything. I felt confident Mrs. Evans would be most comfortable if she stayed here with them tonight.

The clear, cloudless skies and afternoon sun did little to lift my spirits. I barely noted passing cars or the other normal rhythms of the city. I walked with a measured pace, trying to give myself a little time before I went back to the crime scene. All I could see in my head was a mother lying on top of her little girl. The left side of her face a massive hole leaking blood. The apartment a shambles.