Criss Cross (Alex Cross #27)(90)

No witnesses. No suspects. No hope.

I looked up at the sky and spoke to Maeve. I did that quite a bit. This time I said, “I hate that you saw stuff like this, too. A nurse’s job is harder than a cop’s in some respects. I miss you, Maeve.”

Sometimes I swear I can hear a faint answer. It’s easy and convenient to claim it was the wind or a distant radio. But it happens occasionally. Today I thought I heard, “Love you.” And no one can tell me I didn’t hear it.

I swung into a bodega and grabbed an ice-cold grape Gatorade. I’d briefly considered buying a beer, but they still needed me at the apartment. The radio behind the counter was broadcasting a news brief about the murders. That would attract more curious onlookers. The day was not getting any better.

The clerk looked at me and said, “Tough day?”

“Does it show?”

“Gatorade is on me.”

I thanked him, more for a quick jolt of humanity. Then dropped two dollars on the scarred and nicked counter before I headed back out.

I was still a block away from the apartment building and the growing crowd of onlookers. I had parked my city-issued Impala over here in case I needed to get away quickly. Experience has taught me that if you park too close to a scene, you can get boxed in.

Suddenly I had an uncontrollable urge to speak to Mary Catherine and the kids. As many of them as I could get on the phone. They were what kept me sane. If I ever needed a connection to my real life, it was right now.

Leaning against my car, I took a swig of the Gatorade and set it on the roof. I fumbled with my phone.

While I considered whether I should call Mary Catherine’s cell or the home phone, someone said, “Let’s make this quick.”

I looked up into the barrel of a pistol.





CHAPTER 4





THE YOUNG BLACK man’s hand trembled ever so slightly. There was no doubt the barrel was still pointed at my face. But he was new to this kind of stuff. That made him more dangerous. He had no idea what could happen.

He repeated, “Let’s make this quick.”

I didn’t hesitate. I immediately reached into my sport coat for my personal wallet. My police ID was in my back pocket. At the moment, he thought I was just a citizen out for a stroll. I’d be happy to let him keep thinking that.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve heard the wife of a murdered robbery victim say, “A lousy wallet wasn’t worth his life.” No way I was going to put Mary Catherine in that position.

I held up my wallet to show it to him and said, “Here, it’s yours.” I’d seen enough bloodshed today. I just wanted him to walk away. A few bucks and some credit cards aren’t worth anyone’s life. I figured this was over. There was no one on the street near us. He had no reason to hang around. Everyone could have another day on Earth.

Then I heard a second voice from across the narrow street. A tall, skinny man came out of an alley between an empty store-front and a ninety-nine-cent store. He wore a crazy heavy jacket with an odd, fur-trimmed collar. The man had an angry tinge to his voice when he said, “What chu doin’, RJ?” He glanced at me. “You finally joinin’ up? Good man.”

The second man was about thirty. His pupils were black circles covering most of his eyes. But drugs were the least of his issues. His head swung in wide arcs as he glanced in every direction. His left hand had a constant, jittery movement. His tongue played with the gold grill across his front teeth. He was a walking advertisement for one of the antipsychotic pharmaceuticals advertised on news channels and ESPN.

The man said, “Lookee here, dressy.” He stayed in the street, on the driver’s side of the car. He stared straight at me and said, “You going out, Pops? Nice jacket. Not too hot, nice dark blue. Too bad you’re too wide. Jacket would never fit me.”

Why did he have to come and stir shit up?

The younger man, RJ, who still held me at gunpoint, turned to his friend and said, “I got his wallet. Let’s go.”

The man in the fur-trimmed coat said, “Somethin’s not right about him. He’s taller than us. That’s enough to shoot his ass right there.”

RJ said, “I got money, cards. It’s cool.”

“It ain’t cool, RJ. It’s a lot of things, but it ain’t cool. He don’t care nothin’ about us. And he don’t mean nothin’ to us. Go ahead, show him how little he means to us.”

RJ was torn. I could see it in his face. He wanted to leave. But this new guy, he wanted to see something happen. He wanted some excitement on a weekday afternoon.

The new man stepped to the front of the car and let his coat fall open. I could see the Colt stuck in his waistband. I thought about the head wounds at the crime scene I was just at. It was a big caliber. Probably a .45. That was not a common gun in the Bronx. I wanted to fix his face in my brain.

The man snapped, “What chu starin’ at?”

I didn’t answer. I did a quick scan to see if I could find any blood spatter on the cuffs or collar of the heavy coat he was wearing.

But that was the least of my worries at the moment. Now the man leaned in close to RJ and said, “Shoot this cracker in the face. You feel me, RJ?”

The younger man kept his eyes on me. He raised the gun slightly so he could sight more accurately. He mumbled, “Okay, Tight, okay. Give me a second.”