“No light on the license plate,” Sampson said in disgust as we walked through the still-pouring rain back to the smoking Sebring. “Probably smashed when it got rear-ended.”
“There was enough light on the shooter, though,” I said, limping and feeling twisted and toyed with. “He likes to call himself Alden Lindel.”
Part Five
ALL BLONDES MUST DIE
CHAPTER
100
AT HOME THE next evening, I was on my back with my ankle elevated and iced, watching coverage of the shooting incident on a DC station.
“There Detective Cross goes again,” said assistant U.S. attorney Nathan Wills, peering in disgust at the camera from under an umbrella. “He’s not back on the job a week and already the bullets are flying.”
“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.